3 MONTHS LATER
Leawyn was lying to her.
When Namoriee had gone to collect her to begin their travel to the sacred grounds where the Warrior Choosing was taking place, she had heard her. Leawyn was throwing up, and she sounded . . . off.
But remembering how she had been snapped at before, Namoriee hadn’t mentioned her concerns and instead had taken the bags her lady mentioned and loaded them up on the horse she would be riding. That was two days ago. The Izayges had merged with the other tribes, Asori and Siraces, as it was custom for them to travel together, and Namoriee’s concern for Leawyn grew when she became sicklier with each day that passed.
“What’s going on up ahead?”
The question brought Namoriee out of her musings. She looked to Castic, who had asked the question, and followed his line of sight to the crowd that was gathered a few yards in front of them. Her brows knitted together, and dread slithered through her. She didn’t know how, but she knew that the crowd had to do with Leawyn.
“Stay here,” she ordered to Castic before she took off with hurried steps.
“Evil!”
“Possessed!”
“Witchcraft!”
Those were only a few things Namoriee heard as she pushed her way through the gathered crowd standing and looking down at something on the ground, their faces a mixture of concern and apprehension.
Even fear.
Shouldering her way past a particularly obtuse form, she finally pushed her way up to the front to see what all the fuss was about. She gasped at what she saw.
With a panicked cry, Namoriee threw herself down onto her knees and cradled Leawyn’s head as her body convulsed violently on the ground.
“Get a healer!” Namoriee shouted at the crowd, who continued to just stare at them both.
“What are you waiting for?” Namoriee cried, her voice thick with tears of frustration and panic. Helplessness filled her as she tried to keep Leawyn’s head protected as her body thrashed around. Leawyn’s body gave a particularly sharp jerk that made her back bow, and a low growl ripped through her clenched teeth. The crowd gasped and pushed themselves farther away, like Leawyn was going to spring at them at any moment.
“Possessed,” someone in the crowd hissed in alarm.
“She’s not! Don’t you see who this is?” she cried. “Please, get help!”
In the back of her mind, she realized that she wasn’t stuttering for some reason. Was it because she knew that it was vital that she gets the crowd to listen to her?
“She’s a darkling, that’s what she is!”
She watched as the obtuse man pushed forward, his expression locked in anger. Dimly, she was aware that he bore Siraces armor as he unsheathed his sword at his hip and stalked towards them. “She needs to be put down before she dispels her dark magic on us all!”
“No, you’re making a mistake,” Namoriee said fearfully. She clutched Leawyn’s head tighter to her chest when he continued to stalk forward. “She’s not evil, she’s—”
“Get out of the way, slave,” the man sneered, now upon them so that he could look down his nose at them both. “Or you perish as well.”
She shook her head, her body jostling with both Leawyn’s tremors and her own. “Please,” she begged, close to tears. “Please don’t . . . Let me explain first. Help us!”
“Last chance,” the man warned dangerously.
She shook her head and held on to Leawyn tighter. Even if she were somehow able to leave Leawyn to get help, she knew that by the time she arrived, the man would have taken Leawyn’s life anyways.
“If you dare to risk your life for that evil doer, you deserve to die.” The man sneered, raising his sword high above his head. She threw herself completely on top of Leawyn’s thrashing body, shielding her as best as her sixteen-year-old form could to try and take the brunt of the killing blow.
She squeezed her eyes shut tightly against the pain . . . but it never came.
There was a scuffle, and the shocked gasps that followed made Namoriee look up right as the sharp clang of a blade meeting a blade echoed.
She stared dumbly at the two locked swords hovering in front of her, mere inches from her neck. Her gaze traveled up the length of the steel that was underneath the first, past the tan muscled arm, and straight into the face of Tristan. His face was the picture of masked fury as he stared coldly at the man who had nearly ended Namoriee’s and Leawyn’s lives.
“Tristan . . .” the Siraces man said, obviously in shock. She could hear the fear in his tone. His eyes widened further when, with a quick flick of his wrist, Tristan twirled their locked swords away from Namoriee and Leawyn. The force of the shove caused the man to stumble back a few paces.
She flinched when a hand rested on her shoulder before Tyronian kneeled beside her, his eyes hard and his lips pressed in a firm line as he looked at her.
“Let her go.”
“Help her,” she whimpered, and if anything, Tyronian’s expression grew stormier. Shooting a thunderous glare at the man with whom Tristan still had locked in a heated stare-down, he seemed to collect himself and returned his attention back to her.
“I will, my sweet, but you need to let go of her first.”
She realized with a jolt that Leawyn was no longer convulsing in her grasp and was now lying still on the ground. Namoriee lifted her arms, scooting back so that Tyronian could slide his hands under Leawyn and lift her up. They both stood and turned their attention to Tristan as he confronted their would-be attacker.
“What is your name?” Tristan asked in a flinty tone.
“Ati’yer.” The hitch in Ati’yer’s voice was a sign of his growing unease.
“Ati’yer, explain to me,” Tristan started coolly. “just what you were planning on doing to my brother’s wife?”
The look Tristan speared Ati’yer with instantly brought a chill down Namoriee’s spine.
“I . . . C-Chief Xavier’s wife . . . !” Ati’yer clearly didn’t know what to say, sweat gathering across his brow and temples. “I-I didn’t know . . .” Ati’yer trailed off, shooting a look to Leawyn. “She was possessed!” he said desperately, jabbing a finger to where Tyronian had Leawyn cradled in his arms. “Evil claimed her body! I was only doing what was expected—what was right!”
It became deathly silent as everyone held their breath at Ati’yer’s words. Ati’yer—sensing that his words of wisdom probably did more harm than good—gulped in fear.
“It didn’t occur to you,” Tristan growled out to Ati’yer, “to come to me instead of raising your sword? Did it not occur to you to listen to her handmaiden instead of so quickly going into action purely fueled by your fear and cowardice?”
Tristan had been advancing on Ati’yer with each word until the Siraces warrior stumbled to a stop when he bumped someone. Shooting a panicked look behind him, Ati’yer’s face paled further when he was met with the cold eyes of another Izayges, clearly blocking his escape purposely.
Ati’yer’s attention went back to Tristan, who now stood in front of him.
“Sir, I—”
“Silence,” Tristan snarled right before grasping Ati’yer’s shoulder and jerking him forward, right onto his sword.
Namoriee gasped with the rest of the crowd, staring in shock at the steel protruding from Ati’yer’s back. Ati’yer made a wet, gurgling noise as blood pooled inside his mouth, and a pained grunt escaped him when Tristan yanked his blade out and stepped back, letting Ati’yer fall face forward.
Dead.
Tristan swept his bloody blade around at the horrified people who surrounded him.
“If any of you touch, or threaten, my brother’s wife again,” Tristan pointed his sword down to Ati’yer’s body, “then you will meet the same fate as him.”
He didn’t spare the corpse another glance and marched over to Tyronian, taking Leawyn from his arms and settling her into his own.
“What happened?” he barked at Namoriee, setting a brisk pace over to his horse.
“I-I don’t k-know. I was farther down when it happened, but w-when I got h-here she was on the ground, c-c-con-convulsing,” Namoriee said, frustrated that she couldn’t control her stutter like before. Tristan handed Leawyn over to Tyronian long enough to mount his horse before reaching down and taking her into his arms again. Using one hand, Tristan turned his steed around and met Tyronian’s stare.
“Send word to Xavier,” he ordered.
“Understood.” Tyronian nodded, and no sooner than he did, Tristan was kicking his horse’s sides, and they took off.
“Tell me she’s going to be okay,” Namoriee whispered, staring after Tristan as he galloped away, people giving him a wide berth. Tyronian draped his arm around her shoulders; she leaned into him, eager to accept his comfort.
“She’s going to be okay.”
She closed her eyes. She knew that he had no way of knowing that, but the pure conviction in his voice was enough for Namoriee to believe him.
Xavier was losing it.
Tyronian watched as he paced around in quick, angry motions as the healer, Aggod, tried to explain what was wrong with Leawyn. It had been one day since she’d collapsed, the other tribes having already continued their travel to the sacred grounds. They were breaking tradition by staying behind, but Xavier refused to move in Leawyn’s condition. Tyronian was starting to think that Xavier cared more for his wife than he allowed himself to admit.
When he had alerted Xavier that Leawyn had fainted, and how Tristan had managed to save her from being beheaded . . . well, never had he seen his cousin so rattled.
Xavier’s shout broke him out of his musings. “You’re a healer; you’re supposed to fix her!”
“Chief Xavier, I assure you—”
“You assure me nothing!” Xavier snarled. “Do your job, or I’ll find someone else who can!”
They all watched as Xavier stormed out, knocking over a pricket in his anger. Namoriee rushed over to stomp out the flames before it had the chance to catch on anything.
“Why hasn’t she woken up?” Tristan asked, disrupting the silence that had befallen them.
“Why are we whispering?” Tyronian asked in confusion. “Don’t we want her to wake up?”
Tristan smacked him upside the head.
“As I’ve told the chief, with Leawyn unconscious, it is hard for me to determine anything substantial, but it is my belief Lady Leawyn needs rest, and her body made it so.”
Tyronian blinked. That kind of sounded like she was suggesting . . .”So, basically, she’s been having too much sex?”
Aggod gasped at his crude (but valid) question, which made him snicker. It was cut off when Tristan punched him in the stomach.
“Idiot,” Tristan muttered to him as he doubled over, groaning.
“Be that as it may,” Aggod said once recovered, “we must leave the lady to her rest. I will linger until my chief retires, should she awaken before then.”
“I will take over, should y-y-you need a break,” Namoriee offered.
Tyronian frowned. When Leawyn woke up, it would be likely that they would continue their travel, which Namoriee would make by foot. She needed her rest—something she wouldn’t get if she were to stay with Leawyn.
“Aggod will keep watch until Xavier comes back,” he said, resolute. Namoriee tensed at the order, but she didn’t try and protest. “Let’s leave Aggod to it.”
He led Namoriee out by the crook of her elbow. She tried to shake his hand off once they reached outside, but his grip held firm. Only when they were far enough from everyone did he release her.
She squeaked in surprise when he hauled her up by the back of her thighs, her dainty hands bracing his shoulders. He caught sight of her wide eyes a second before he slammed his lips onto hers.
Her lips were unmoving against his until he reached up and grabbed her hair in his fist, squeezing tight enough for her to gasp, which he used to thrust his tongue inside.
He ravaged her mouth, keeping her exactly where he wanted as he controlled the kiss. His tongue stroked in long, sure strokes against her inexperienced and timid one. He groaned at the sensation.
“You drive me crazy,” he rasped against her as he trailed kisses down her neck and collarbone. “I’ve been dying to feel your lips on mine again for days. You’ve been avoiding me, my sweet.”
“I haven’t,” she tried to lie.
“You have,” he growled. “But now I have you in my grasp, and I’m not letting you go until I have what I need.”
He placed her on the ground and kneeled. Placing her leg over his shoulder, he dove under her skirt.
He needed to taste her again.
“No!” she squealed, trying to remove her leg once she realized his intent, but his hand had clamped down, holding her limb hostage. Fingers parted her slick folds, then a warm tongue brushed against her, bringing a sensation so divine, she was afraid she would buckle from the force of it.
“You taste good,” he murmured against her.
“Tyronian!”
He moaned in response, the vibrations adding to the act and making her slicker. He lapped at her like a man starved, using his teeth and tongue in equal force and measures until soon, her legs were quivering, and she felt her womb coil at the onslaught of pleasure his mouth was evoking.
She wasn’t aware that her fingers found purchase in his hair or when she started to rock her hips, trying to push her mound to his mouth as he lapped at her wetness. She could feel herself start to unravel, and pleasure shot from the highly sensitive flesh that he was devouring. She writhed when he dipped lower, dragging his tongue down from her nub straight to her slit before shoving it inside her at the exact moment he pressed down on her nerve-center. She choked as her body stiffened with the paroxysm of pleasure that hit her, mouth open in a silent scream.
Tyronian exhaled roughly against her, and she whimpered when he greedily lapped up her release, groaning as if the taste of her was the greatest of desserts.
When he started to lick her again, it was too much. She weakly pushed his head away, unable to bear anymore. He moved out from under her skirt, catching her before she could fall—her legs too shaky to hold her up—and claimed her mouth once again. Unlike previously, this kiss was tender, gentle. Like she bestowed him a gift and he was thanking her.
She blinked blearily up at him when he pulled away and brushed a tendril away from her cheek.
“This is my favorite look on you,” he told her huskily. “Sated, and flushed.” His eyes darkened with a dangerously possessive hue. “I’m the only one that can make you look like this, my sweet.”
“I’m not a p-possession.”
He chuckled, more patronizing than amused. “Oh, Namoriee. You have no idea how wrong you are.”
He pressed her closer to him, until her chest was flush against his. “I’m going to be the man who claims you, even if I have to kill every other who tries to stand in my way.”
“You’re scaring me,” Namoriee whispered unsteadily. His expression lost some of its hardness.
“Scaring you is the last thing I’d want to do, Namoriee,” he replied, caressing her cheek. “But I need you to understand what fate awaits you.”
“Do I not have the right to choose my own fate?”
“No, my sweet,” he said, his tone gently derisive. “You don’t.”
Her breath hitched when he brought her hand up between them. “You have until your eighteenth winter,” he said quietly, darkly sensuous. He stayed fixated on her hand as he trailed a finger down her palm before clasping their hands together. He lifted his gaze, eyes half-mast as they met her own. “And then, I’m coming for you.”
He dropped her hand, and she stared at his back as he walked away. Later that night, as she lay in bed staring at her palm, she realized what he had mimicked.
With a shaking finger, she traced the same path along her palm that he had made earlier that day.
There were only two acts that would require two people to slice their flesh like that.
A blood bond . . . and marriage.