Page 33 of Rogue's Possession (Covenant of Thorns 2)

“Well—they kind of mark you.”

“Yeah. That’s what Rogue said. Proof.”

“Exactly!” She nodded vigorously in relief. “So youdoknow.”

“Not so fast. Proof of what?”

“Um.” She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows in what should have been a cheerful, innocent look, but instead gave her a manic chipmunk cast. “I don’t know how things worked in your old world. But here there’s married—which is official and all—and then there’s, well, other kinds of relationships.”

“So, you’re saying that these earrings mark me as, what, Rogue’s concubine? Mistress—that kind of thing?”

She clasped her hands together. “Um. Yeah.”

I savored the wine—so much better than the alcoholic Kool-Aid Falcon served—and considered. “I don’t think I care.”

“You don’t? It’s not an, um, flattering status. Not as if you were his lady.”

“Yeah. That much is parallel in my old world. But I imagine marrying Rogue would bring a whole raft of obligations and rules, yes? Whereas, if the analogy continues, being a mistressy sort gives you social freedoms that wives don’t enjoy. This place is so feudal in some ways, I’m betting that’s true here too.” I raised my glass in a little toast. “Here’s to being Rogue’s official concubine—much good may it do him.”

“Oh, it may do me more good than you think.”

Chapter 7

In Which I Embark Upon a Quest with My BraveCompanions

‡

It’s an inescapable conclusion that Rogue and the Black Dog are one and the same. But somehow it runs deeper than simple shapeshifting. If shapeshifting can be calledsimple.

~Big Book of Fairyland, “The BlackDog”

Iwhirled aroundto find Rogue lounging on his silken nest of a bed, boots crossed at the heels and his hair loose, spread enticingly over the pillows.

“You just love to do that, don’t you?”

His lips curved in a satisfied smile. “I do, yes. Taking you by surprise, Concubine Gwynn, is always rewarding.”

He infused the words with sexual intent, embarrassing Starling into a flutter of activity. She stammered something about sending dinner in later and dashed out. I studied Rogue. He was relaxed now in a way he hadn’t been before. The restless anger had dissipated, leaving behind the playful version of himself. Sated, rested. Refueled.

I moved over to the workbench and flipped open my grimoire. The pen I’d made lurked somewhere under a few trinkets—undoubtedly batted there by Darling. I flipped to the section on the Black Dog and made a note.

“What are you doing?” Rogue’s hand stroked down my arm with warm affection, his voice amused as he peered over my shoulder.

“Special human magic,” I replied in a lofty tone. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“May I?”

I obligingly moved aside and let him bend over the page, nearly full of notes and comments about the Dog. I’d had proper note-keeping rammed into my head by an OCD chemistry professor once upon a time, and my handwriting was as neat as an engineer’s. Rogue absently pushed the fall of his hair over his shoulder and touched the page with a careful finger, following the line of the characters, as if he expected the texture to change. It put me in mind of the way I touched his skin, searching for the boundaries of the black lines and thorns embedded within.

“This is strange indeed. Yet, I don’t feel your magic, beyond what you used to create it. What does it do?”

It still boggled me that their whole society had no concept of books or writing. Perhaps the hive mind made it unnecessary. But why hadn’t the humans developed something? Too busy slaving away for their overlords, probably.

“It’s a way of…leaving messages for myself. Things I want to remember and think about.”

He turned his head, midnight-blue eyes sparkling. “I doubt you need to remember to think about things, saucy Gwynn.”

“You’d be surprised,” I answered in a dry tone, lacing my fingers together to resist the urge to run them through the silky black hair spilling over his shoulder.

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