Page 79 of Dark Shaman: The Lost Treasure
He relaxed in his chair. "There was a market in Samarkand. Not the grand bazaar the tourists visit, but a smaller one in the old quarter. A woman there made these dumplings—manti, she called them. Lamb and onions and spices that I couldn't identify, steamed in a metal contraption that looked like it had been serving the same purpose for centuries."
"When was this?" she asked casually.
His eyes became shuttered like they usually did when he lied to her or told her half-truths. "Years ago. But I'm sure the market is still there. Places like that endure."
Another deflection, but she let it pass, content to listen as he painted pictures with words. A sunrise over Mount Ararat, the sound of evening prayers echoing across Constantinople—he caught himself and said Istanbul. The taste of tea so perfect that it had made him understand why ceremonies had been built around the simple act of steeping leaves in water.
With each story, she felt she understood him better and less. The depth of his experience, the poetry in his observations, the gravity of memory he carried—it all spoke of a life lived fully but alone. Whatever he was, wherever he'd come from, he'd been searching for something. She wondered if he'd found it here, in this underground prison that was her world.
"I love listening to you," she said when he paused. "You make me feel like I've traveled alongside you."
"Maybe someday—" He cut himself off, shaking his head.
"What?" she pressed. "Maybe someday what?"
"Nothing. Foolish thoughts."
"Tell me your foolish thoughts. I'll share mine in return."
He looked at her for a long moment, and she saw the war in his eyes—the desire to trust battling against habits of secrecy that seemed carved into his bones.
"I can imagine showing you the world," he said. "All the places I've been to, seen through your eyes. The way the light would catch in your hair at sunset over the Bosphorus. How you'd laugh at the chaos of a bazaar. The expression on your face whiletasting your first real kebab from a street vendor who's been perfecting his recipe for forty years."
Tears pricked her eyes. "That's a beautiful but foolish thought."
"What's yours?"
"Sometimes I imagine waking up beside you somewhere else. A house with a window, the real kind that shows the sky. No guards, no schedules, no one to answer to but us, living an ordinary life."
"Tamira..." His voice sounded rough with emotion.
"I know," she said. "Impossible dreams. But isn't that what makes them precious?"
He stood, and for a moment she thought he would leave. Instead, he pulled her to her feet and into his arms, kissing her with a desperation that made her heart race. She could taste longing on his lips, could feel the barely leashed control in the way his hands gripped her waist.
When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers. "You're going to destroy me," he whispered.
"You'll destroy me first," she whispered back.
When he left, she returned to her book, but the words blurred before her eyes.
In just seven days, he'd cracked open the shell she'd built around herself. She felt exposed, vulnerable in a way she hadn't allowed herself to be in centuries. The smart thing would be to rebuild her walls, to treat this as a pleasant interlude and nothing more.
But it seemed like she hadn't been smart after all, and she had been negligent in protecting her heart. It would cost her, she knew that, but it was too late to do anything about it.
26
HILDEGARD
"'The thing about being a bastard is that everyone expects it,'" Hildegard read aloud, adjusting her position in the chair she'd sat in for far too many hours over the past week. "'Deliver a cutting remark? That's just Marcus being Marcus. Destroy someone's carefully laid plans with a few well-placed observations? Classic Marcus. Show an ounce of human kindness? Now that throws people off their game.'"
She glanced at Tim's unconscious form, looking for any sign that her reading was getting through. His face remained peaceful, almost serene in a way she'd never seen when he was awake. The perpetual scowl that had carved lines around his mouth had smoothed out, making him look younger, less like a badger ready to attack.
"I thought you'd appreciate this one." She found her place in the book again. "The protagonist is almost as big of an asshole as you are. Almost."
The steady beep of monitors provided a rhythmic backdrop to her reading. Tim's vitals remained strong. His heart rate hadstabilized at a steady sixty beats per minute, his blood pressure was perfect, and his oxygen levels were optimal. If she didn't know better, she'd think he was taking a very long nap.
But the physical changes told a different story.
