Page 71 of Beloved Sacrifice

Marek stopped poking the fire and returned to the couch, sitting beside Weston.

Weston was aware of the other man in a way that unsettled him. Marek was an unknown factor at best, and an enemy at worst. He was an agent of the Grand Master.

Yet, he felt something for Marek. He’d accepted a cup of tea, and, if his stomach hadn’t been in knots, he would have eaten the food Marek had brought up. Weston trusted Marek. He’d wept on his shoulder.

The memory made Weston wince in embarrassment and he turned his head away, so Marek couldn’t see his flushed cheeks.

The door opened, a bare hint of sound, following by a small draft of cold air from the hall.

Beside him, Marek made a startled noise. Weston had to turn completely, sliding one knee onto the couch in order to see the door.

Rose stood in the doorway wearing a long white dress. For a moment, her stillness combined with the light—the firelight flickered over her body, but the light from the hall backlit her head and shoulders, hiding her face—made her seem unreal. She was, in that moment, every beautiful ghost from every tragic tale of death and suffering. An ethereal figure in white, too lovely to be mortal, radiating sadness, tragic loneliness, and a sort of quiet menace.

Marek rose to his feet. “Rose. You look lovely. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Marek’s body blocked his view, so Weston assumed she nodded, since Marek walked over to the tea cart. Rose came to stand in front of the fire, hands outstretched.

The light from the flames rendered the white gown completely sheer. He looked away, but not before the image of her lovely body had been burned into his memory.

Marek brought over her tea, and Rose took a seat in the armchair closest to Marek’s end of the couch. The softer feelings he’d developed for Marek faded.

Rose held her tea, but like Weston, she didn’t drink.

Marek’s head swiveled as he looked at first Rose, then Weston, and back again.

He cleared his throat. “I’m not a relationship expert by any means, but I do know that the two of you need to talk, before we can move on to the problem at hand.”

Rose brought her cup to her mouth, touching the rim to her bottom lip, but didn’t sip. She held that pose then lowered the mug, balancing it on one knee. “I’m done talking about my past.”

“And after what you told me, I can respect that,” Marek replied.

That surprised Weston. She’d talked to him? What had she told him? He looked at her, frowning.

Rose raised her chin, as if daring him to reprimand her. But the cup trembled in her hands.

“I think,” Marek said in his firm, reasonable voice, “that you are each operating under a misapprehension about the other.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Instead of answering directly, Marek asked, “Weston, is what Tristan said true? Are you in love with Rose?”

Weston clenched his jaw. Damn it, he didn’t want to be this pathetic. He didn’t want to be the half-blind cripple nursing a decade-long case of unrequited love. He felt like fucking Quasimodo pining for Esmeralda.

“Of course he isn’t,” Rose said in that same wry tone she’d been using all day. “He’s spent the last twelve years fighting the purists, and I am one. He probably hates me.”

“For fuck’s sake, Rose. I don’t hate you. And I know you’re not like them.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Why are you being like this? They forced you and Caden to work with them by threatening Tabby.” He snorted. “And I know exactly how dangerous they can be.” He gestured to his missing right eye.

“How were you injured?” Marek asked.

Weston gave him a brief run down, leaving out the part about the apartment belonging to his parents’ mistress. He didn’t like to dwell on that night, so he kept the description short.

“Wait,” Rose said. Her tone had lost some of the wry, almost mocking quality. “Who got you out? You didn’t tell me.”

“Members of the Masters’ Admiralty. In particular, Tristan. Before he died, Grandfather Prosser—Victoria’s father—got a bit senile, and when I would go visit, he’d tell me stories about the other secret society. The Trinity Masters’ counterpart in England. He told me they were larger, older, and more powerful than the Trinity Masters. He told me to beware, and never trust anyone from England.”

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