Page 106 of Beloved Sacrifice

Marek leaned forward. “We will try. And if we aren’t able to access what we need, I’ll approach the Grand Master directly.”

Rose considered that, her head tipped in a posture reminiscent of a bird of prey.

“You could take me with you. Return me to her.”

“No,” Weston ground out. “Too dangerous.”

“She won’t kill me right away.” Rose’s lips curled in a snarl. “I have things to say to her.”

Weston took a thoughtful bite. “You two provide the distraction. That could work.”

Marek’s brows went up in alarm. “That isn’t what I meant.”

They ignored him. Rose turned to stare out the window, but closed her eyes. “There’s something,” she said, voice barely audible because she was facing away from them. “Something that I keep thinking of and forgetting.”

“About what?” Marek asked.

“About…” She whirled to face them. “About something that Caden hid. We had to go with them one time, to help clear out the tunnels. It was after you,” she looked at Weston, “after you were hurt and disappeared. They were cleaning out the tunnels. And there was something, a folder, an old-fashioned kind of folder, that Barton particularly wanted to make sure they took. Caden took it. Hid it in the tunnels. While I provided the distraction.”

She smiled as she said it, but there was haunting pain in her eyes.

“What was in it?” Marek asked.

“I never saw it, but Caden told me later that there was a name on the front.” Her eyes lost their haunted look and glittered with excitement. “It said Admiralty.”

Weston pushed his plate away. “Describe it.”

“It was dark leather—blue, black. That’s it. That’s all I saw. But Barton wanted it.”

“All right. Then we find the diaries, or we find that folder.”

“Agreed,” Rose said.

Marek had a fairly good instinct for when things were about to go wrong. And right now, he most definitely had a feeling that the—he paused, then allowed himself to think the word—shit was about to hit the fan.

Weston dropped his bag onto the bed at the hotel. Tristan had booked them rooms at the Hyatt Regency overlooking the Boston Harbor. Tristan said it was only to keep an eye on Weston, but having the room booked in his names with his cards meant they didn’t set off any flags. The knight would never say it, but he was doing his best to help.

Weston was relieved when the car that picked them up at the airport brought them here. He didn’t mind keeping some distance between them and the Trinity Masters headquarters until they solidified their plans, figured out how to ditch Tristan.

When Rose had raised her brows at the seamlessness of their travel, Weston had given her a wry smile. He’d been in awe of what the Masters’ Admiralty could do since the start. It only took one instance of having people pull you, quite literally, out of a fire and get you to a hospital in time for you to not die, before you developed a reverence for their powers.

Weston had devoted nearly half of his life to defeating the purists. He’d let Rose and Caden be hurt because he’d stayed away, dedicating himself to finding out their secrets. That choice had killed his brother. It ended now. For the first time in his life, Wes had a sense that karma was on his side.

Rose walked out of the bathroom, running a brush through her lovely dark hair. “Marek back yet?”

He shook his head. Marek had stopped by the hotel’s elegant and expensive shop to pick up a few things, including more clothes for Rose. All Tristan had gotten her was what she was wearing and toiletries.

Rose leaned back into the bathroom to set the brush down, then walked across the room to the window. When she passed by him, he reached out a hand and she grasped it briefly, before letting her fingers slip from his as she kept moving. Even that small moment of contact made him feel better.

Whole.

Weston watched her walk—the way her hips moved, the confident tilt of her chin. He knew that though she looked and acted like a femme fatale, inside she was the walking wounded.

Knight had booked them a suite, putting Weston, Marek, and Rose in one room with a king bed, while claiming the other for himself. The window looked out onto the narrow streets of Boston. Even on the eighth floor, he could hear the sound of traffic—particularly, horns honking.

The suite, while practical and great because it kept their names off the registered guest list, was proof that Tristan didn’t intend to help more than he wanted which was going to be problematic. Though Tristan was in part helping, he was, after all, a Knight. He would want to stay in the loop. To gather information. Information was the most valuable currency to the Admiralty. They had plenty of money and connection. What they craved was information. If the Admiralty found out what had really happened to the Esperanza there would be hell to pay, and they’d lose their all-important leverage.

“We need to come up with a timeline,” Weston said softly, aware that Tristan was in the living area adjoining their rooms, flipping through the television stations on the big screen. “We don’t dare stay in Boston too long without acting. The best thing we have on our side is the element of surprise—even if they have contacts with the airport or customs, they won’t be able to find us immediately.”

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