Page 75 of The Dead Saint

“First light,” Adrian said. “We’ll collect these last two pieces and send a messenger to Prince Eine telling him to meet us in the Wastes.”

“How far south is the Traveling City coming?” Domenico asked.

“As far as it can get. But with time running out, they might come by ship. It’s quicker by sea, and the remains of a city and port are along the coast.”

“Who will take the message to the prince once we have the skull?”

“Wes. He has the fastest horse. It will still take a while, but he’s the best option. You two get some rest.”

Adrian stood and turned away, his back aching, muscles sore. He wanted to sleep without dreams—without any doubt creeping into his mind, no second guesses lodging in his gut. He caught sight of Sorcha across the campfire, light playing across her delicate features, shadows gathering behind her. She stood wordlessly and moved to the tent they shared, avoiding the relic tent as if it were alive and hungry for her.

With one more glance to make sure everything was organized—Revenant was nowhere in sight, Cas and Magnus were keeping the first watch, and there was a line of water buckets waiting to be boiled in the morning—the only thing he could do now was sleep.

The tents they’d set up were small and compact versions of what they traveled with before. There was just enough room to crawl in and sleep. He paused outside his tent, wondering if Sorcha would feign sleep or if he’d find her facing him in the dark.

What did he want to find when he went inside?

With an internal sigh, he knelt and parted the tent flap, then crawled inside and removed his boots. He placed them beside Sorcha’s, keeping his back to her for as long as possible. When he turned, he saw that she was a lump in the dark, facing away from him on her side.

But she wasn’t asleep. He could tell by the way she breathed, the tenseness in the space around them, that she was waiting for him to say something. Quietly, he moved to his bedroll beside her and lay flat on his back, keeping his eyes closed. He fought the urge to speak, counting silently until he fell asleep.

* * *

Sorcha awoke abruptly, throat sore and ears ringing. The dream—the vision—had been vivid, clearer than the others. The Saint had been seated on a throne in a red room, surrounded by creatures. Lacus had been there. A werewolf. The white beast from the meadow. There had been others as well—horrible figures and beautiful demons. Ahigh-pitched hum, not unpleasant but insistent, filled the space. And Sorcha had been covered in rubies standing beside the Saint.

The vision released her, fading even as she fought to remember the exact details. But what would she do with them? Who would she tell? A rustle caught her attention. Adrian was awake, sitting up across from her, but she couldn’t make out his features in the dimness. He didn’t speak. Neither did she. The tent was cold. The only warmth here came from them.

So many nights, he’d woken her without speaking—a gentle nudge on her shoulder or leg. So impersonal even as he touched her. Sorcha wanted the warmth of his hands, his skin to her skin—body to body. She wanted whatever comfort he might offer in the dark. If any. What did it mean for her soul, for her, that she’d made room for this man in her life? A killer. A monster. Yet she’d stopped thinking of him that way weeks ago now. Even as she watched him maim and kill. Even understanding that he served the empire and it would always come first.

But Adrian was different with her. She hadn’t seen it at first. But he displayed a softness she never could have imagined. The Tomeis were careful to keep their expressions flat. But they saw it as well.

Sorcha went to him. It was like crossing the world and falling joyfully into hell. With a shaky breath, she reached for the hem of the dress she’d fallen asleep in and began to pull it upward.

* * *

Sorcha dropped her furs and began to remove her clothing. In the dim tent, the colors were muted, but in daylight, they would be a deep red. A color he would associate with her for the rest of his life. Not as a follower of the dead Saint. Only and forever, Sorcha.

He knew what was expected of him, understood what he should do. Accepting what she offered now would be a betrayal. It couldn’t happen. If he touched her now, it would change everything. In the morning, in the revealing light of day, things would be clear, and they would both be thankful if he stopped this now.

The dress fell to the ground, and Sorcha paused, breathing rapidly, as she waited to see what he would do.

Adrian reached for her, fingers digging into her hips—the contact shuddering through him. He ran his hands up her waist, enjoying the way she closed her eyes and shivered, and jerked her into his lap. She straddled him, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders.

She was so beautiful, it made his heart ache. Did he still have one?

Slowly, he caressed her face, sliding his fingers down her throat and over her collarbones. Her eyes were wide, mouth parted with expectation—desire and trepidation. He wanted to touch her everywhere. Every inch of skin. He wanted everything she was, all she would be, in his bed and inside his soul.

The thought startled him, and he stopped before reaching her breasts, listening to the rush of blood in his ears.

A mistake. He’d already let so much of her in, bending his world to contain this woman. He was already damned. If this happened now, how much worse could it be?

“Adrian,” she whispered, her voice thick with desire.

Sorcha reached for the hem of his tunic, helping him pull it over his head. She hummed in satisfaction as she ran her hands over his bare shoulders and chest, sliding down his muscled abdomen to the hard ridge of his cock. Palming him, rocking forward slowly, she moaned softly and rested her forehead against his shoulder.

Adrian buried his face in her neck, breathing her in—a mix of citrus soap and the sweetness of her skin. Pulling her closer, tight against his body, he wove his fingers into her hair and tugged, tilting her face to his.

She smiled—the curve of her perfect mouth stealing his breath.

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