Page 64 of Beloved Sacrifice

“Of course.”

“Do you have the faintest fucking idea what’s going on?” Her tone was casual, almost light, but threaded with a rueful note.

He grinned and waved for her to proceed him. “An idea, but no more than that. Perhaps we can have a cup of tea and a chat.”

Rose halted, looked down at herself, and Marek took stock of her appearance too—her mangled pants, her bare feet. “Of course. A cup of tea.”

By that time, Weston and Tristan Knight were inside, and light spilling out the back door guided them along the flagstones set into the earth, soft moss growing up between them. Marek and Rose hurried now, and two steps up brought them to the door. They stepped through into a narrow hall, dark paneled wainscoting on the bottom half with white-painted walls above. The place smelled of wax and slightly stale air. On the right, there was a partially open door showing a toilet tucked into the space under the stairs, which were steeper than modern-day staircases. Tristan and Weston were waiting for them, standing near the front door. Light came from three sconces along the hall.

“Upstairs,” Tristan said, motioning with one hand. His sword was back on his belt.

“Where are we?” Marek asked.

“A safe house.”

Weston whirled on Tristan. “Give me an hour to explain and then I have to go.”

“I can’t let you leave.”

“Damn it, Tristan!”

“No, damn you. You’ve abused my hospitality.”

“No, I haven’t.”

Tristan braced the heel of his hand on his sword and Marek took a step forward, standing at Weston’s back. He felt protective of the other man. Maybe it was because of what Rose had told him. Marek laid a hand on Weston’s shoulder to let him know he was there.

Weston stiffened, and then relaxed.

“We’re going to talk in the morning,” Tristan insisted. “Upstairs, there’s a bedroom and a bathroom. I’m fairly certain your female companion would like to shower.”

“I’m moving up in the world,” Rose said caustically. “I’m no longer a token pawn—”

Marek was close enough to see and feel Weston flinch at her words.

“—now I’m a convenient excuse for you to get them to do what you want them to do. I have an idea, Blondie, why don’t you ask what my name is?” Rose’s voice was acidic.

Marek expected Tristan to react, but he only shifted to face her. “I don’t need to ask who you are. I recognize you.”

Rose stiffened as Tristan went on.

“You’re Rose Hancock, the woman he’s stupidly in love with. You’re the reason he’s here, being a pain in my arse, trying to find a way to ‘free’ you from those Trinity Masters morons.”

“Shut up, Knight,” Weston whispered.

Tristan stared Rose down. “I’ve seen your picture. It’s the bloody wallpaper on his phone. A pint or two in and he’ll go on and on about you. You’re the reason he kept bouncing around looking at different cottages, until we finally found ‘your’ cottage.”

Rose made a soft sound, her gaze on Weston. His shoulders were hunched. As if to protect himself from a blow.

“You’re an asshole, Knight.” Weston’s words were rough and gravelly.

Tristan didn’t answer. He looked over each of them in turn, his golden eyes piercing, like that of a cat.

Weston grabbed the railing of the stairs with one hand, pulling himself forward. He started pounding up the stairs. Rose glanced at Marek, then she headed up.

“There may be spare clothes in the wardrobe,” Knight said to her retreating back. In response, she raised one hand, her middle finger extended as she climbed.

Marek looked at Tristan. “May I borrow your phone?”

---