Trial by Thrall (Trial #2) Read online

  If you haven’t found them, they’re in the bottom left drawer of my desk.

  I love you, Leslie.

  Love,

  Daddy”

  His pain is palpable. Is this fae magic that allows me to feel the emotions of a letter, or is this me? I’m not sure where I start and this magic ends. I tuck the letter back into its envelope and replace it in the damn Book of Secrets before circling his desk.

  Pulling out the chair where he used to sit, I stare at it.

  “Do it, Leslie,” I dare myself.

  My insides seize up and tighten when I rest a hand on the back of the chair. I can’t do it. I can’t sit in his seat. I can’t let go of the unrealistic hope he’s still coming back. Somehow.

  “It’s just a stupid chair!” I argue in a heated whisper.

  Inanimate object or potential seat for my father, I can’t do it. I shove it back under the desk angrily then bend over and yank open the sticky drawer of his desk. Inside is a small, wooden chest with brass fittings. It’s heavy, and I heft it onto the top of the desk. It’s gotta be an antique. The wood is worn, its color rich and dark, and a greenish patina has formed over much of the brass.

  I’m both hoping the secret to everything I don’t know is within and also doubting there’s anything useful in here, if the Book of Secrets is any indication of how these trials are meant to go.

  With a deep breath, I open the lid of the small trunk and frown. It’s filled with … weird stuff. Odds and ends. An ivory flute, several coins of various sizes, beads, a chunk of silver, a ruby amulet, a wooden carving … treasures of only moderate value, if any.

  “What the hell?” I reach into the box and pause.

  At least one of them is humming with magic. My gaze is drawn to the flute. It’s the size of my hand and appears to be as ancient as the box. But when I touch it, I feel …

  Tristan.

  It’s his. Or was. I pick it up without understanding what it means. Another hum of magic, this one stronger, reverberates inside the box. I sift through the odds and ends until I locate the wolf fang as long as my pinky and pluck it up.

  Ben, it tells me.

  The rest of the items are silent except for … the amulet on my necklace. It’s grown warm suddenly, and I pull it out from under my t-shirt, so it has no direct contact with my skin.

  I count the items in the box. There are twelve, one for each clan, and an extra whose purpose I don’t know. Since I can’t determine any other clan’s magic outside of Ben’s and Tristan’s, I can’t tell which of the items might not belong to anyone at all.

  “I found it,” I tell my father. “Now what?”

  I pick up Tristan’s flute. Like him, it has a calming draw. Stretching for the Book of Secrets, I open it with reluctance and resentment. I hate this book. HATE it.

  I sense Tristan’s nearness before I hear the floorboard in front of the study creak. My eyes go up, but I don’t bother to hide the book or trunk of random treasures. The Book may not want the candidates to see it, but I know for a fact no one but me can read it. And if one of them sets it on fire, I’ll probably breathe easier.

  “Morning,” Tristan says with a faint smile.

  At once, my focus is riveted to his green gaze. The rocking within me is stronger whenever I see him, the compulsion to be in his arms an ache of longing, even if he’s a few feet from me.

  Realizing I’m staring again, I respond. “Morning.” I silently will him not to mention anything about my meltdown last night.

  His eyes go down my body with warm appreciation. At least, until he sees the flute in my hand.

  Everything about him changes – fast. The open channel we have is suddenly closed, but not before I sense something very, very dark, something very unlike the Tristan I know. The warmth in his features goes cold, and his expression becomes unreadable. The sudden choking off of our bond hurts.

  “Do you know what that is yet?” he asks in a calm, controlled voice.

  “Whatever you’re doing …” I hug myself. I feel his loss like there’s a hole in my chest.

  At once, the pain subsides. The rocking is faint, nowhere near what it was before, and Tristan’s form tenses for the first time since we met. Breathing a sigh, I frown. I had no idea he could open and close our connection.

  I lift the flute. His eyes are glued to it, even when I wave it above my head.

  How can something so small and old warrant this level of a response from him, when he had little-to-no reaction discussing how he accidentally murdered seven hundred of his own people?

  “No,” I answer his question. “What is it?”

  For a moment, he’s still, and then he navigates the book-strewn floor to reach the desk. His eyes won’t leave the flute. It means something to him, but I have no idea what.

  I hold it out to him.

  He takes it without responding and holds it in the center of his palms. “It’s everything. And nothing,” he whispers, transfixed by the simple ivory flute. “You should not play with power you don’t understand.”

  “Explain it to me,” I tell him.

  “I can’t.” He lifts his gaze to mine. “There are rules, Leslie. I don’t like them, but they’re necessary.”

  “Because I’m a Kingmaker.”

  “Because you are caught up in something far greater than either of us. No matter what we share, I can’t risk the penalty for breaking certain rules.”

  Another rebuke, spoken with gentleness. Tristan is the only person in the history of the world who can tell me no and I don’t feel like defying him.

  I have a sneaking suspicion that penalty involves a threat to his clan. Thus far, Tristan has only set his foot down when it comes to his people.

  “Just don’t lose it, okay?” he says with a forced smile. I can’t place the note in his voice except that he’s restraining a great deal of emotion. He replaces the flute in the trunk and closes it.

  The rocking begins again, stronger, yet not quite where it was before he saw the flute. Whatever darkness I sensed in him is going away.

  But I can’t forget it, or how little I actually know him. When I learned Ben kills those of his wolves who betray him, I was horrified. For the first time, I sense the same resolve in Tristan, the same streak of channeled violence required to murder someone. From Ben, who was more wolf than man, it was almost expected. From empathic Tristan, who would feel it intimately if he hurt someone else, it’s a surprise.

  What’s worse: it almost seems to be directed at me. I’ve never felt endangered being around him until now.

  Self-conscious of his intent gaze, I put the trunk away wordlessly and close the Book of Secrets.

  He relaxes further. I circle the desk and throw my arms around him. Whenever we touch, we both melt, and this time is no different.

  Tristan sighs and hugs me. The thrum of magic between us eats away at his guard.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, not understanding what happened.

  “You really don’t know what that was? You weren’t teasing me?”

  Puzzled, I lift my head and gaze at him. “Tristan, I have no idea why there’s a bunch of junk squirreled away in the bottom of my father’s desk. When I touched the flute, it felt like your magic calling to me, so I picked it up.”

  His laugh is genuine, and warmth softens the skin around his eyes. “Then I’m fine,” he says.

  I don’t ask what I’m thinking, namely, what if I had been teasing him? What if I knew why the flute was so important?

  “Don’t venture down that road,” he advises, reading my uncertainty. “In truth, I’ve been waiting for you to turn into a typical Kingmaker even though I can feel who and what you are.”

  “What is a typical Kingmaker?” I ask.

  “It’s not you.” He kisses me on the forehead. “You’re the fifth Kingmaker I’ve known in my lifetime. I’m sorry I doubted you and sorrier I scared you.”

  “It’s okay.” I gaze up at him, comfortable in his embrace. Today, I learned
something about Tristan, peeled back another of his layers and sneaked a peek at a side of him I never thought possible. “Whatever my family did to piss off the world, I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  He smiles.

  “I can help you,” I say hopefully, thoughts on the fae-bies.

  “I know.” He rests his forehead against mine. “But my answer is still no.”

  And it still hurts.

  Taking his cheeks in my hands, I kiss him deeply in an attempt to distract him from his darkness and my pain. His hot tongue explores my mouth with fervor, and his hands slide down to my ass, squeeze, and then travel up my sides. He pushes the t-shirt up my body and over my head.

  Our combined emotions fuel our passion, and within seconds, I’m on my back on the desk, his dick inside me, his hot mouth suckling one of my breasts and my fingers intertwined in his hair. This fuck is desperate, rife with emotion, and brimming with desire that ricochets back and forth between us with such force, even Tristan can’t go slow.

  I love a good quickie, and this one is explosive. I last a minute, tops, before I’m clawing at him, and he makes it maybe ten more before we erupt together into the most powerful combined orgasm yet, strong enough he has to hold my bucking body down. Panting and sweating, he rests on top of me. I wrap my legs around his hips to keep his cock securely in my pussy and shudder with each of the shared tremors of climaxing that sweeps through our bodies.

  “It shouldn’t be this … strong,” he whispers and kisses my neck. “I shouldn’t need you this much.”

  Breathless, I wrap my arms around him, utterly intoxicated by the feel of his hard body and hot skin against mine. Tristan’s lovemaking is consuming. I lose myself in him, and he guides my wild emotions with gentle control, as he does my body.

  “I’m going to ask you something quite inappropriate,” he says.

  I’m happy to hear the humor in his voice. When I open my eyes, I see that his are sparkling one more. All traces of his darkness, and the freaky sense he was wishing he dropped me out of midair the other day, are gone.

  “Ask,” I say and trace one finger around his face, down his aquiline nose, and to his full, soft lips.

  He nips me first. “Was it this strong for Ben?”

  I laugh.

  “I know.” He smiles. “Nothing less romantic than discussing the ex during sex. This feels … incredible. And very real.”

  “Yeah. He was surprised, too,” I answer. “Does that bother you?”

  “Not at all. You feel like a real partner. I’ve never known what I was missing.”

  I search his features, a little less uneasy with his vulnerability than I was before. It’s becoming easier to accept this bond, to accept complete intimacy with someone I can’t ever fully know and may never see again in a couple of weeks.

  “Run away with me today,” he says.

  “Don’t you have to work?”

  “I can take one day off every twenty years or so.”

  “Then definitely!” I agree. “We’ll have an adventure?”

  “I’ve got a private jet. Wherever you want to go, we’ll go.”

  I’m quiet, pensive. We have a day, and can go as far as his jet will fly. Which means … where? Anywhere?

  “Think about it. I’m going to have breakfast.” He winks and withdraws his dick from my body. Straightening, he slides his hands down my body and presses my knees apart.

  I laugh, understanding his meaning. When his lips touch my clit, however, I can barely breathe let alone laugh or think.

  Wherever we’re going, there’s going to be a bed and room service.

  Chapter Eight

  I suspect how this day is going to go and doubt we’re going to have any time to see the sights, wherever we end up. But I still choose Hawaii, because I’ve never been and always wanted to go.

  We fuck in the limo ride to the airport, in the helicopter, and a few hours later, in the foyer of our bungalow before we even make it to the bed, where we spend the rest of the day. Tristan’s hands never leave my body, and when we’re not naked, his skin is in direct contact with mine. He’s an incredible lover: considerate, giving, obsessive – and determined to wear down the fear and anxiety I have about intimacy. Where Ben crushed those walls with his intensity, Tristan is all about attrition, about fucking me until I’m too tired to throw up those barriers between us and accept the warm thrum of magic that’s quickly becoming part of me.

  Long after I fade into a nap, he holds me in silence and is awake when my eyes open once more. I’m lying on top of him, too comfortable to move, while his hands lightly trace down my body. The warm breeze off the ocean rustles the leaves of palm trees and grazes my skin. It smells of sand and beach. Dusk descends upon the private stretch of white sand outside our bungalow, and I watch the foam-crested waves race toward shore.

  It’s perfect, or should be, if we were normal. I sense his mood and lift my cheek from his chest to see his chiseled features.

  “Stop it!” I order him and shift into a sit, straddling him. “You brought us here to escape, remember?” Tossing my loose curls over one shoulder, I trace fingernails over his rock hard abs.

  He folds his hands behind his head, smiling. “You’re beautiful, Leslie.”

  “Whatever.” I roll my eyes at him. “Beautiful one minute, a fucking Kingmaker the next.”

  “Exactly.” He laughs.

  “Asshole!”

  “I think I owe you a walk on the beach. Isn’t that why we came here?” Even as he speaks, I can feel how hard he is.

  “Maybe.” I swing one leg off him and gaze down at his long cock. “But first, let me take care of this for you.” I offer with a wicked smile.

  He doesn’t object. I suck him off, with a combination of my mouth and hands, and am thrilled to return the favor of rendering him a quaking puddle. Sitting back, I watch his body shudder and listen to the last of his moans. It’s not possible to be near him without touching, so I rest a hand on his warm thigh and wait until he’s ready for the promised walk.

  We dress leisurely and stroll, hand-in-hand, to the beach and pause when our toes are met by the cold waters of the Pacific. The night and ocean stretch out before us, and I sigh and wrap my arms around Tristan.

  “Do you ever wish you were normal?” I ask quietly.

  “Not anymore. The first two hundred years or so, I did daily.”

  “But there’s normal for fae, right? I mean your people take vacations, don’t they?”

  He’s quiet, and I look up at his noble features. He squeezes me. Tristan motions to the sand a few feet back from the ocean’s path. We sit, sides pressed together, and watch the water. His subtle mood shift warns me he never really did take his mind off whatever is troubling him, despite my attempt at distracting him with a blowjob.

  “No,” he says softly. “There will never be normal for me.” His words are careful. There’s too much he’s not saying. “Or for you, Leslie.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” I reply staunchly. “When this is over, I’m making my own life and traveling to see the world.”

  “I hope that happens.” But by his tone, he doesn’t believe it will.

  It kind of scares me acknowledging he knows so much more about my fate, and me, than I do. My father’s claim about me being the last Kingmaker returns to me, and my mind travels back down the paths that put me into meltdown mode last night. “Tristan, can I ask you a hypothetical question?” I ask.

  “Sure.”

  “If you found out there was a cure for your people, but it required sacrificing say, a fifth of them to save the rest, what would you do?” Am I vague enough? Because I suck at discretion.

  “I’d need more details,” he says after a moment’s thought.

  “Assume you have to exile them to somewhere far away, and they basically just disappear.”

  “They’re not dead?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, troubled. “I guess, worst case scenario, yes.”

  “Th
ere’s a huge difference between exile and killing them, Leslie.”

  “I know.”

  “Is there any more information?” Feeling my turmoil, he squeezes me again. “Is it a guaranteed cure? If they’re exiled, will they have a chance at survival? If they’re killed, do they suffer? What happens to their souls if they’re murdered?”

  “What if you didn’t know anything else, except that a lot of people had to go away, whatever that entails?” I shift so I can see his features. “There’s no right answer, is there?”

  “There’s no perfect solution, no,” he agrees and cups my face with one hand. The compassion in his gaze makes me wonder if he sees right through what I’m trying not to ask directly. But I need the advice from someone who understands what’s at stake and more importantly, who has already had to have made complicated decisions involving a great number of people. “Am I to assume these details are all I’ll ever have to make this decision?”

  I nod.

  “It’s a risk. My first instinct would be to wait as long as possible, to find another way that doesn’t involve mass loss of life. Whether or not that segment dies or disappears, they’ll leave an incredibly detrimental impact on the society as a whole, one that could rip the rest of the clan apart and destroy it,” he explains. “Only if this was the only way, and I would lose my entire clan if I didn’t take the risk, would I consider it a viable solution.”

  “And then what? You would do a lottery where the winners are banished?”

  “I’d explain the situation to my people and ask for volunteers.”

  “Volunteers,” I repeat. I never considered this a possibility. “Would people really volunteer, even if they didn’t know their fates?”

  “You were willing to sacrifice yourself in order to save the fae-bies, weren’t you?”

  “Fae-bies! That’s my pun!” I exclaim.

  “Not unless you were born three hundred years ago when I came up with it!” He laughs.