TWENTY-FOUR
Holding Angela’s small hand was a war Zarek had never trained for.
He had faced battlefields, ambushes, centuries of blood and strategy—but this? Her palms, pressing against his, had never felt more comfortable. Along with the steady eye contact, he wanted to examine each eye to find out what made one a bright blue and the other such a vivid green.
Not to mention the negotiation with a mortal female who had overturned his chamber like a storm. If anyone else had dared lay waste to his quarters in a rage, he would have thrown them against the wall.
And yet she had not burned, and her mind did not fracture for staring at his eyes for too long.
All of this unattainable by anyone in his entire existence—until her.
The Claiming, they called it. The thing to blame for all of this.
He hated the word, and the implication that this thing could not only alter his judgment but also hijack his magick.
Over a female full of grit and grace, filled with fire and the scent of flowers, who held both strength and softness to make him place her first over his brothers.
Without hesitation.
That was what had unsettled him. How did this stranger become so important? He had sworn to protect her, even if it meant breaking the Accords, breaking from his brothers, for the fire-breathing dragon within his blood that somehow beat down the captain he was on the outside.
His magick was so dangerous that to lose control was catastrophic. She had no idea that she was holding the hand of a beast.
Zarek kept his breathing measured as he guided Angela down the corridors of the Vanguard’s Keep, where stone walls rose around them, lined with portraits of warriors long gone.
Beside him, she moved like some myth, a mortal who was already reshaping the axis of his world by bending the Accords just to have her here.
He felt her fear through that impossible link between them, where emotion brushed against emotion, not thoughts or memories but feelings. He didn’t do feelings. And vulnerability was never his thing, either. Yet her feelings flooded his normally stoic system.
This wasn’t magick the way he understood it. This Claiming tugged at his instincts and made his self-control become impossibly thin around her.
But as he approached the dining area to meet the warriors who had fought beside him for centuries, those who had trusted him to lead, that if any of them harmed her, he would respond.
He knew it.
They knew it.
And that was the problem.
The Claiming bent loyalties and shifted priorities without permission in a way he despised. It placed a woman he had known mere days on the same scale as brothers he had bled alongside, across battlefields and realms, for centuries.
He detested it, loathed the magick that stirred beneath his control and how it made him unpredictable and as undisciplined as a neophyte soldier yet to wield a sword.
He knew bringing her before them was necessary. If positions were reversed, he would demand to see the anomaly disrupting their order, whose presence altered magick itself.
The doors to the officers’ dining chamber loomed ahead.
Thankfully, no other soldiers or males were in sight.
He opened the door.
The last surviving members of the Sworn Exarchs waited.
Five men who carried the power of the Vanguard.
Lord Gellar sat at the head of the table.
Martar, their Sergeant at Arms, stopped polishing his buckles, to share his usual amused grin.
Bellus, their historian, peered over the rims of his glasses with an open notebook in front of him.
The only blessed thing was Condorr eating like normal and Rocharde fidgeting with his gold earring.
Zarek stepped in first, placing himself between Angela and every threat in the room—real or imagined. “Angela, this is Lord Gellar, the Commander.”
Gellar’s gaze landed on Angela then dropped to Zarek’s hand, holding hers. Surprise flickered for just a second before the Commander quickly masked it.
“This is Angela Duboise,” Zarek said.
“Welcome, Angela Duboise.” Gellar bowed with formal restraint. “Meet the Vanguard’s highest officers. The Sworn Exarchs.”
One by one they rose, and one by one they bowed. Wary eyes moved over her with the careful assessment of men trained to read a threat in a heartbeat.
“You may ask for anything you require while you are under our protection.” Gellar’s eyes ran over her clothing, jeans and a shirt, with the smooth diplomacy of a man who had navigated worse. “We ask one thing of you, that you refrain from mentioning that you are from the mortal realm.”
Angela looked at Zarek.
He leaned in close to her. “The ancestors voted for an amendment in the Accords that allows you to be here.”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “So, not breaking the rules, but a sanctioned exception.”
The intelligence of this woman was stunning.
“We don’t share Sworn Exarch business with those outside.”
She held his gaze for one measured beat. “Understood.”
He didn’t want to look away, but he did, allowing his attention to drop to her belt. The leather was of good quality. Mortal-made, worn at the buckle, and marked near the center with the unmistakable impression of his own teeth.
He’d done that.
In her bed.
While her hands worked on his wounds. This mortal woman had saved him, stopped him dying in the alley where she’d kneeled beside him in the dark, and held him together without any hesitation.
Her mismatched eyes moved across the room with the calm assessment of a woman looking for exits. With her hair falling loosely over her shoulders, she was simply—unavoidably, inconveniently, devastatingly—herself.
And that was the problem. She had every male watching her.
The Claiming hit like a low and steady tide before he could brace against it. He wanted to growl at them to tell them to back off.
But she squeezed his hand while peering up at him, with an It’s okay.
She could feel him.
He’d heard people connected to each other in some way, but he’d never expected to connect like this.
“She’ll need different clothes,” Martar said.
“Clothes that don’t announce where she’s from the moment anyone looks at her,” Gellar agreed.
Angela rolled her shoulders. “You know, I’m standing right here.”
“We’re aware,” said Martar, and in better circumstances, he may have thrown in that smile the women loved.
“Tamarr,” Zarek called.
A younger woman stepped forward from the servants’ doorway, uncertainty flickered across her face.
“Take Miss Duboise to the housekeeper. Then open the adjoining chamber in my wing, and ensure it is prepared for Miss Duboise.”
“Tell the housekeeper that the remaining officers in the west corridor will need to be relocated,” Gellar ordered calmly. “For operational discretion.”
Zarek nodded. It wasn’t for him, but for the stupidity of this Claiming’s territorial streak, which curled low and unwelcome inside him.
He trusted his brothers. With his life. Sadly, his instinct was not governed by logic when it came to her. Giving Angela’s hand a squeeze, he said, “This is Tamarr. She will assist you with anything you require.”
“My lady,” Tamarr said, bowing.
“Oh, please don’t bow,” Angela blurted, clearly overwhelmed.
“It is our custom,” Tamarr replied, startled.
“I’m no lady. I’m just Angela.” She laughed awkwardly.
“Tamarr, a moment.” Lord Gellar motioned the maid to one side of their private dining room.
Zarek didn’t need to be a mind reader to know Gellar was telling Tamarr to keep whatever she learned or heard in the company of Miss Duboise a secret. The servant already proven trustworthy in her years of service.
Tamarr gave a single nod. “I understand, Commander.” She then faced them, carrying herself differently. “How can I be of service, Miss?” Again, Tamarr bowed, her eyes shining brighter.
“Can you show me where I can get a drink, please?”
“Come with me, Miss.”
Angela hesitated to look at Zarek—and there it was, the thing he had no adequate response to… Unwanted, impossible trust.
Not that long ago, she wanted to swing that fire poker at him, and now he was the only thing in Paradox she trusted.
He didn’t deserve that.
Yet, he was pretty sure it didn’t matter to the Claiming, or to her, or to the part of him that tightened his grip. By the realms, he did not want her to leave or let go of his hand. But he had to. Angela wasn’t his. She was a mortal who was complicating his entirety.
“Tamarr will take care of you.” He gave her hand a squeeze, then let her go, watching Angela follow Tamarr. Only when the door closed behind her did the room exhale.
Gellar’s eyes narrowed at Zarek. “Did she tell you what she could do?”
Zarek shook his head as he sighed heavily to rid the tension from his chest. “My guess is that Angela doesn’t know what she can do as she’s never been allowed to test her powers.”
“Then she has hidden her potential.”
“Yes.” An anger burred under his skin that wasn’t for Katarra, or the war. It was for the people who’d convinced Angela she was broken or had made her so scared of finding out what made her so unique.
“She also fears being used. So I won’t allow it.” The warning spread like ripple of warmth coming from his magick. What’s worse, he caught the slight glow in the staves on his armor. The Claiming did that. Not him, but that dragon he wanted to pummel into oblivion.
“We won’t, I give you my word,” said Gellar. “But we need to assess her. You know this.”
“Aye. You have her consent.” And that was the only one that mattered. Even if he did snatch her from her world without permission, he did that for her safety. But this, he would only do if she allowed.
Gellar stepped closer, his voice softening from that of a commander to that of a friend. “Are you going to be able to contain yourself?”
“I will not harm her,” Zarek said as an oath. But if his own brothers… “Find a way to end this Claiming, Bellus.”
Bellus pushed up his glasses to rub his tired eyes. “I’m trying. My wife thinks I live in the Hidden Hall of Histories.”
“Good.” Gellar then said to Zarek, “Sit. The meeting continues. Hunting schedules. Plans. We need every advantage.”
Zarek sat, but his awareness remained fixated on the door Angela had walked through, because for the first time in centuries, there was something in this war he might personally lose.