Page 67 of Beloved Sacrifice

“Technically?” Wes asked.

“My mother’s parents, my grandparents, were members. My mother declined her membership.”

“Why?” Weston’s voice was colored with suspicion.

“Because she fell in love. She chose to marry for love, rather than accept the trinity marriage.”

Rose tried to make a derisive sound, but it came out weak—more a sound of longing than derision.

“I am also a legacy to the Masters’ Admiralty.”

At that, Weston’s head snapped up. Rose’s shoulder muscles tensed into hard knots, more in response to Weston’s reaction than to Marek’s words.

“My father’s parents are members of the Admiralty. He too declined his membership and chose to marry for love.”

“Tristan mentioned your grandmother.” Weston’s voice was quiet. “I thought it was some sort of code.”

“No.” Marek flashed smile. “He means my grandmother. When I was trying to find you, I reached out to my grandmother for help. She called contacts in Sussex.”

“I was careful. Covered our tracks.”

Marek inclined his head to Weston. “You did. But an American who has one bad eye is distinctive. People in the area remember you.”

Weston clenched his teeth, speaking through them. “All that work, for nothing.”

“Not for nothing,” Marek insisted, but he didn’t elaborate further.

When the silence stretched on, Rose decided it was time to get some answers. “What is the Masters’ Admiralty?”

Marek looked at her. “It’s late, why don’t we each shower? I’ll check with Tristan to see if there’s any food in the house.”

“You’re acting like this is a vacation,” Weston snapped. “We’re prisoners.”

“Really? Not even a hint of irony as you say that?” Rose replied with the same snapping irritation that had been present in Weston’s words.

Weston hung his head, rubbing his good eye with the heel on his left hand. “I was so close,” he murmured.

“Perhaps we should talk first,” Marek said. “It’s late, but I have a feeling no one will rest easy until we talk.”

Rose looked at Marek. He was strong, handsome, somehow noble.

In comparison, she was covered in filth, tainted by years spent obeying the purists. Years of feeling her soul and heart first wither, then dry to husks, then flake off, leaving her hollow inside.

And Weston was…dedicated. He’d spent years preparing, working behind the curtain and in the shadows.

If this were a western, Marek would be the new sheriff in town, clean and well groomed, with a white hat, and his spurs would sparkle in the sunlight. Weston would be the dusty, battered gun slinger who rode into town just as everything was going to hell, his once white hat gone gray, with a black band, his morals murky at best. And she’d be the jaded, haggard hooker, too-red lips pulled up in a sneer.

“Whose side are you on, Marek?” Weston asked.

“I’m not on anyone’s side.” He relaxed his posture, resting one hand on the post at the top of the stairs. “I’m here to save Rose. And, if what Tristan said is—”

“Tristan is an ass,” Weston cut in sharply.

Rose flinched, her body reacting to the words almost as fast as her mind processed them.

Weston must have seen her move, because he took a half step forward. “Rose, I’m…”

“You’re what, Weston?” She meant it as a snarl, a challenge, but the words came out pleading.

---