CHAPTER 24 #2
I hadn’t seen anyone with that mark and hadn’t really expected them here, especially since Reagan had said they hadn’t been spotted in Mountheim for quite some time.
But now, with a human living in the castle .
. . It would have nothing to do with the attack.
What would be the purpose of harming citizens as well?
Reagan squeezed my hand, pulling me from my thoughts as the others continued to debate.
His eyes studied me, his upper body leaning a few inches in my direction, lips set into a hard line, as if his mind had wandered to the same place mine had, wondering what might have happened if I had crossed paths with them.
Our chairs were already close, making it easy for him to take my hand, lift it, and brush his lips over my knuckles. And he did. All of it. In front of his entire staff.
I watched, both enthralled and curious, helpless against the heat that surged through me and the aching need that followed his touch. His lips curled as if he had sensed my reaction.
“We’ll need to follow up on that,” Cerridwen remarked, eyeing Reagan and me keenly. “Maybe even check for sympathisers, see if they’ve got ties here.”
From the corner of my eye, I noticed them all watching us, while Reagan seemed completely oblivious to where we were, still nodding, still brushing his lips over the top of my hand.
“What do we do about Varian, brother?” Gwinifer asked, amusement lacing her tone.
Reagan smiled at me knowingly, tilting his head with a satisfied look.
Someone cleared their throat. Finn. I kept my eyes on the Mage Lord as he turned my hand over and brought my palm to his mouth.
Oh, gods.
I forced back the ghost of a smile. They were all staring, waiting for his answer, including me, stunned by the blatant display.
A distraction, perhaps. Reagan dragged my thumb lazily across his lips, then pressed all the others, grazing his teeth along my forefinger. My toes curled at the near bite.
Cerridwen’s chin dropped slightly, her arms crossed against her maroon blouse, but I could have sworn I saw a hint of a twitch in the corner of her lip.
Reagan said at last, “We may or may not uncover proof of his hand in the attack, but I won’t wait to be sure before addressing what he did at the Rite.”
His gaze swept over the faces gathered at the table, his grip still firm around mine.
“He spoke deliberate slander against an emissary of this estate. Against a member of the staff of Mountheim Hall. We don’t tolerate that.
A decree will be issued forbidding Varian Ilya from setting foot in Mountheim.
From this moment forward, he is an enemy of the estate, and should he dare cross our borders, he will be treated as a threat and dealt with accordingly. ”
Across the table, Gwin’s smile was a baleful show of teeth.
◆◆◆
I’d been scouring my mind, trying to remember the name of the symbols adorning people’s robes at the Aurora Rite. They were runes.
The book I found described them as remnants of an ancient language. Symbols imbued with power when written on a surface. Impressive, really. That explained why they were embroidered on the clothes. Each rune had a singular purpose.
I sank into the chair in the study, a sheet of parchment before me, along with a vial of ink and a waiting quill. My gaze flicked between the book and the empty page, centring on my intent.
The Algiz rune was a guardian. Not against something as monstrous as a Grim, but against spells, influence, harm. A shield. And if it could be drawn, then perhaps its power could be harnessed. Perhaps even by a human.
Dipping the quill into ink, I traced the symbol with deliberate precision, each stroke measured.
When I finished, I lifted the parchment and carried it to the mantel, feeding it to the spell-bound fire, the one never kindled, never extinguished, because its flames were sustained by an enduring charm. Exactly the kind of threat I needed.
Minutes passed. Then, with the long iron poker, I searched between the flames, squinting through the brightness. As soon as I saw it, a smile spread across my face.
The paper lay intact. Unscathed. Untouched by the flames.
I took a deep breath. It was protection, and now I could claim a fraction of that safety. At all times.
I gathered the books, setting them aside before retreating to my chamber. My throat worked as I swallowed, my mind fixed on the task ahead.
With the door closed, I stepped into the washroom, eased out of my trousers, and sank onto the floor.
My thoughts latched onto the smallest dagger resting before me, its sharp edge glinting like a terrible idea.
It had to be precise, just like the parchment.
If I could manage it a few times, I would get a perfect, clear scar in an area easily concealed with clothing, where very few blood vessels ran. A warding scar.
With a steady breath, my fingers tightened around the dagger’s hilt, and I pressed the blade to my upper thigh.
◆◆◆
A few days later, Reagan sat alone in the dining room, a sheet of parchment spread out before him. He was focused on the letter.
There was an idea brewing in my mind, a foolish one that I wasn’t sure would work. Still, my growing need to know was outweighing my doubts quickly.
We hadn’t had much time to see each other in the past few days.
Reagan had been consumed with security meetings and rushing off to the borders to test the wards that had failed.
I was either training with Gwin or reading anything that might help me defend myself.
What happened in Erisea still haunted me.
The staff knew that our relationship had developed, but if they had any questions, they kept them to themselves.
Yesterday, he’d returned, and we spent another night together, indulging a need that made my blood heat, my mind blanking each time Reagan drove into me. I could still feel his chest pressed to my back, his teeth grazing my shoulder, my neck.
Afterward, he held me in his arms until I drifted off to sleep.
When sunlight spilled across the sky, I woke to his lips trailing across my neck. We tumbled together once more before he pulled away to go for a run.
I’d noticed he liked to run. The movement helped him, he’d said, just as he’d been willing to share a great deal more with me.
Were you really suspicious of me, like you said you were in Erisea? I’d asked, my fingers idly tracing the line of his sentence mark, gliding over the gleaming gemstone that never failed to startle me.
Reagan tilted his head on the pillow, his hand continuing its steady, soothing path up and down my spine. I had questions. You not running didn’t make sense with your behaviour. Dare I say you were already fond of me then?
I snorted. Hardly. I debated letting one of the most powerful mageborn in the country get himself out of that.
A chuckle. A kiss.
While he jogged, I trained, my focus still on self-defence. Especially now, with talks of meeting sympathisers of the Order.
Reagan and Finnegan had already tracked down a small faction near Ashenagth Estate’s border. As they expected, the group denied any involvement in the Rite attack, claiming they followed only the permitted channels sanctioned by magisters and the Order leader, Gideon Madden.
Reagan shared the little he knew about the man. According to him, Madden came from a lineage that had long opposed the Shroud, as they had once profited from human labour and their lands.
His bloodline had endured significant losses, both in lives and status, since the war.
They had once possessed the wealth and influence to lay claim to half the country.
The Order of Scions had been founded by one of his ancestors, and they had long perpetuated the lowest opinions about the human born.
That morning, I knew he was drafting a letter to the Order, requesting an audience with their leader to learn their agenda and, unofficially, uncover their activities in Mountheim.
But I wanted to ask him about a different topic.
He lounged on the edge of the table, leaning back in his chair when he spotted me approaching. His mouth opened, but whatever he was about to say died in his throat the moment I swung a leg over him and settled onto his lap.
A chuckle rumbled from him as his hands instinctively fell to the leather leggings I wore. “Not waiting for later, are we?”
I answered with a soft, noncommittal hum, pressing a trail of glossy kisses along the side of his neck, the kind I knew he liked. His low groan was answer enough, especially when I shifted deliberately, making the tight leather of my pants brush against his cotton trousers.
“Grimoire,” he breathed, his voice rougher. “You’re greedy today. After this morning, I thought you’d at least be satisfied until the afternoon.”
Memories of this morning flashed through my mind—what we had done in my bed, on the rug. Where I had licked him, and he had groaned, a tortured sound I could still hear.
I forced them aside, not letting him distract me. My voice was too serious for the way my lips brushed his ear. “Not sure what you mean, Caedmon. I just want to talk.”
He tilted his head, offering more space for my assault on his neck, an amused grin curving his lips. “Interesting. Do you usually talk with your ass to others or just me?”
I gave him a coy smile. “Just when I need their attention, like I need yours now,” I replied smoothly, knowing full well I had it. And perhaps blur your rational thinking just enough for my questions.
It wasn’t manipulation. It was a tactic. An emissary tactic, as Finn had called it. He hadn’t suggested this exact approach, but he had said that if I wanted information, I should start by giving the other person something they wanted first.
“I’m listening,” Reagan said, his head leaning back against the chair as I pulled away. My hands drifted to stroke the hair at the nape of his neck, slightly mussed.
I started with something trivial, aiming to lower his guard. “You never told me what you think about me calling you Caedmon.”