Page 82 of Beloved Sacrifice

Chapter Fourteen

Weston woke before the others. He usually slept with a pillow under his right knee, but hadn’t last night, and a dull throbbing in the joint intruded into what was otherwise one of the best nights of sleep he’d had in a while.

He eased Rose’s head off his shoulder and slipped out of bed. She rolled, one hand sliding across the sheets where his body had been. A faint line appeared between her eyebrows. He grabbed a pillow and flipped it ninety degrees, tucking it under the blankets where he’d just been. Rose pulled it close and rested her head on the corner, the frown line between her brows evening out. Behind her, Marek shifted in his sleep, smoothing one hand down her back under the covers.

Weston held still until they’d settled back into sleep and then slid out of the room, snatching up his pants as he went. The upper floor of the house was murky, with only a tiny bit of light leaking in from around the heavy blackout drapes covering the window at the top of the stairs.

He went to the bathroom, using the toilet then jumping into the shower for less than two minutes. With a towel wrapped around his waist, he faced himself in the mirror. He didn’t look any different, which was surprising. After last night, everything had changed.

Weston pulled down his right eyelid and slid a finger under the bottom of his prosthetic, removing it from his eye socket. He blinked, his eyelid sliding over the orbital implant that had replaced his eyeball.

Turning on the tap, he waited until the water got warm and then gently cleaned the prosthetic with his fingers. The prosthetic was a good one—custom made to look like his other eye—but the implant was a cheaper one. There were newer-style implants, ones that allowed the ocular muscles to grow and attach to the implant, which would make the prosthetic move in sync with his good eye. The biggest giveaway that he had only one functional eye was that his false one didn’t move.

Five years ago, he’d had his original prosthetic replaced, and the ocularist had talked to him about changing out the implant—upgrading to something that would look and maybe even feel more natural.

He’d declined. The surgery would be expensive and he’d have to take time away from his work to recover. He hadn’t been willing to spend the money or time on himself.

Maybe…maybe if they made it through this, he’d get one of the newer implants. It was time for a new prosthetic too—the damned things only lasted five or six years.

Weston pulled his eyelids apart and tipped his head back, sliding the clean, lubricated prosthetic into place. He blinked a few times, then dried his face and pulled on his pants.

Naked except for the pants, he left the bathroom and went in search of Tristan.

Weston had to pause at the top of the stairs. One eye meant basically no depth perception and shit night vision. He had to rely on his brain to compensate for the lack, and it was always better to take his time with something like stairs.

By the time he was at the bottom, Tristan was there, sword in hand.

“Knight,” Weston said coldly.

Tristan sighed. “This is a right fucking mess, Anderson.”

“You are not making it any less messy.”

Tristan turned on a heel, heading down the hall toward the back door, where they’d entered last night. Weston followed.

Bright sunlight spilled in the kitchen window, and Weston had to blink to adjust to the brightness. Tristan’s phone lay on the small eat-in table, beside a bowl of cereal and a cup of tea so dark in color it resembled coffee.

Weston fought to unclench his jaw as Tristan set a bowl and spoon at one of the empty chairs. Weston sat and a mug of hot tea appeared before him, carefully placed within his line of sight.

Weston stared at the bowl. “So we’re pretending yesterday didn’t happen?”

“Not an option. I meant everything I said. But I’m not a damned animal. Have some tea.” Tristan pushed a little jug of milk toward him.

Weston poured milk first into his tea, then over his cereal. He dug into it with gusto. He was hungry—Marek had brought food for them last night, but after what he’d learned, he hadn’t been able to eat anything. Instead he’d been hungry for something very different—hungry for her touch. And for Marek’s touch.

Tristan spooned up some food, chewing methodically, then set his utensil down before speaking. “I meant what I said, Wes.”

“Which part?” Weston asked carefully.

“All of it. You have to be gone in three days. Closer to two days now.”

“What do you mean gone?”

“Outside the Admiralty’s territory.”

“You can’t do that.”

Tristan’s words were firm, but his eyes were pinched with what might have been sorrow. “I can and I will. Your identification is all false, and it wouldn’t take much to make that known.”

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