Chapter 28
twenty-eight
George has a bad time.
George padded across her silent sitting room. Without friends to distract her from wallowing, she did just that. Soft and sad, her footsteps rustled against the bedroom rug as she began her nightly routine.
She’d asked Wynnie to start staying at Villa Senone three nights prior for two reasons: First, Georgie needed alone time, even if it was spent in relative misery.
She was a firm believer in feeling her feelings.
Second, she decided a message from Hildy was more and more likely to arrive with each passing day. It was basic logic.
Routine complete, George climbed into bed and snuggled up against her Isahn stand-in.
Embarrassingly, with Wynnie no longer around, she’d taken to stuffing a trio of bed pillows inside one of Isahn’s previously worn tunics.
He’d already left most of his things, expecting his trip to be a few short weeks.
Now she had everything but the clothes on his back.
She’d already used up his first shirt, and it no longer smelled like him.
But there were at least two others she could make use of, and George desperately hoped her love would be back—both physically and mentally—by the time his clothes lost their Isahn-ly scent.
Hopeful that one of the notes she’d penned reached Hildy on their journey south, hopeful that the trip was going according to plan, George hugged pillow-Isahn tightly.
With a bit of sight magic, a dash of touch magic, and a lot of imagination, she could probably do a pretty good job of pretending he was there beside her. .. if she wanted to.
He would be there beside her, soon. She could wait. She’d survive.
Stop wallowing, George commanded herself. He wouldn’t want you to feel this way.
How would he want me to feel?
You know the answer to that, she thought back saucily, as she tossed her thigh over the area where his erection would have been, if he were actually there.
“Deiwa hathemi, I’m losing it,” George mumbled into the tunic-covered pillow.
She inhaled deeply, and his masculine scent was the last straw.
Her magic hardened the pillows beneath her body into his firm chest and muscled thighs.
Keeping her eyes closed, she didn’t bother creating a mirage.
She wanted to focus on the physical sensations rather than trying to replicate his beautiful face.
With a groan at her ridiculousness, she bid her magic to slip between their bodies, recreating Isahn’s big hands pushing apart her thighs. His ghostly fingertip ran the length of her seam, opening her for him.
It felt magnificent.
For the first time in over a week, she relaxed. Her magical Isahn brought comfort, pleasure, and security—however false.
George lost herself to the private moment, in the escape from reality, moaning softly into his tunic.
Imaginary Isahn grabbed her around the waist, tugging her onto him.
One of his hands slipped firmly between her legs, and she gasped, arching her back and ripping off her nightdress like he was really there to appreciate her.
He stroked her with gentle intensity, and she moaned, unbidden, allowing her subconscious to have its way with her, allowing her magical Isahn to lead wherever he wanted to take them.
Fingers explored the most sensitive areas of her body as she bucked and mewed.
Pressure against her entrance, then inside of her, brought George to the edge of ecstasy.
She rode harder, afloat with the sensation of his hands grasping her, squeezing, rubbing, entering her.
An imaginary thumb found her center again, and she squeaked out a final gasp before collapsing on the pretend man, panting.
Waves of pleasure rippled through her, shivering electricity coated her skin, and George snuggled against the chest she’d created for her own enjoyment.
Her breathing eventually settled, and she trailed along the edge of peace, until cold, hard reality stomped down hard, crumpling her heart in her chest. Hands balling into fists, she sucked in a single breath, froze, then burst into tears.
She missed him. Gods, she missed him so fucking much.
Isahn’s imaginary arms wrapped her in a tight embrace, holding on while she gulped for air between sobs and slowly drifted off to sleep. The magic would stop then, but it was what she needed for the time being.
“PGeorgie, Georgie.” Ean’s voice was far too close.
Her eyes shot open to blinding morning light, and she flailed wildly, accidentally slapping the faerie and sending him flying across the room.
“I’m fine!” He buzzed over while George yanked her blanket over pillow-Isahn, hoping the boy hadn’t seen the evidence.
“What are you doing in here?”
“We need to go. Or ye need to go.”
“Go where, why?”
“Yer da has Dunstan.”
Terror numbed her toes. “What?” She launched herself out of bed.
“Come on, get up and put somethin’ on. Please,” he squeaked.
“Deiwa, sorry, Ean.” George grabbed her tunic from the floor and yanked it over her head before racing toward the closet. “Where does he have Dunstan?”
“In his tablinium.”
Nodding as she pulled a stola over her tunic, George wished her breasts were bound, but didn’t have time to find strophium to wrap herself.
She sprinted into the washroom and grabbed the key to the secret passage.
As she raced toward the sitting room door, holding her bouncing chest in place, Ean caught up to her.
“Can I come with ye?”
“Sorry, Ean.” She paused before the panel to pull aside her macrame hanging. “I need a cover. You have to get out in the hall. Pretend I’m in the bath if anyone comes by.”
“Aye.”
With the key in one hand and a lantern in the other, George ducked into the passageway. Once she’d made it through the private door, she braced her arm across her chest and took off running.
There was only one reason why King Gasparo would have taken a sudden interest in Dunstan. He must have learned that Gianis and Marinos were dead.
The king sniffed deeply and dramatically, twisting his beard to a point. “I smell bullshit, Morelli,” he hissed.
George’s stomach soured as she watched through the peephole. Dunstan’s arm was wrenched behind his back, his face contorted in pain.
Father was in his usual position, tucked behind his desk with several feet of wood between him and his victim, whom he tortured with magic alone.
“Tell me again, boy,” the king spat. “Where did you last see Gianis and Marinos?”
“Here, sir. On the third level.”
“What day was that?”
“Eight days ago, sir.”
“Try again!” Gasparo cackled as he yanked Dunstan’s arms high above his head.
Though his shoulders popped audibly, he didn’t make a sound.
“When. Did. You. Last. See. Gianis. And. Marinos?” Her father pelted her poor friend with every word, likely forcing horrendous images to enter his mind with each beat of the phrase.
This time, Dunstan shouted.
George nearly cried out as a crack rent the air, leaving Dunstan’s left arm hanging limply by his side and silent tears streaming down his cheeks.
Suddenly she was thirteen again, watching, frozen as Mamma was battered and bruised, slammed into the floor. Bile reached George’s mouth and she spat quietly.
She would not sit idly by. But she could not reveal her hiding spot. Not yet.
Doing what she could, George applied calming touch magic to Dunstan’s writhing body in an effort to reduce his pain. She pushed visions into his mind, placid, happy scenes, vainly trying to overwrite whatever horrors her father was showing him.
It was horrible, seeing him flung around and pulled apart by the king.
A crack accompanied Dunstan’s leg bending at an unnatural angle. He screamed, and a single plea escaped his lips before he devolved into whimpers.
Gasparo only laughed harder.
Panic raged in George’s chest at the realization that her magic wasn’t accomplishing much of anything. It was like she wasn’t getting through to Dunstan at all. Her father was too strong.
George yanked back her vision magic, fearing she’d taint the joy of watching sunsets if her mirage blended with whatever terrors Gasparo was sending his way. She continued pushing calming touches, in hopes that they played some small part in easing his pain.
King Gasparo changed tactics, hoisting Dunstan several feet into the air and dangling him there, helpless. Face contorting, he tried to close his eyes, but his lids were pried open unnaturally wide. George recognized her father’s handiwork.
“Please, no, not my mother,” Dunstan begged, and she knew he was seeing something gut-wrenching.
The king questioned him again as he hung there, limp and barely moving. A well-trained legionary, he didn’t answer a single prompt, not honestly, at least.
“I grow weary of you,” Gasparo finally barked.
George nearly vomited again as her father released his hold on Dunstan and dropped him to the ground. The fall forced his weight onto his broken leg, and Dunstan screamed, crumpling. With his weight on his good knee and unbroken arm, he struggled not to collapse entirely.
Deiwa nekami.
At that moment she wished Ean were there; she should’ve allowed him to come. Maybe he could summon a full amphorae to land directly on her father’s head, or something of the sort.
“Get out of my sight,” the king commanded.
Bowing his head and unable to stand, Dunstan crawled pitifully toward the door.
“Faster!” her father screamed.
Terrified that he would draw the king’s wrath again, she offered Dunstan support by way of her magic.
He clearly wasn’t in any state to do it himself.
With her touch magic giving her more strength than her physical form could ever manage, George wrapped an invisible arm around Dunstan’s waist. Struggling, he got to his feet and limped from the tablinium.
As much as she wanted to stick around and suss out her father’s next move, she was far more concerned with her friend’s well-being. She raced back to her chambers.