Page 132 of The Seeker
The unveiling was last of the formal rituals he had to perform before he could claim his mate. The linen veil represented division between singer and scribe. Letting it fall when his mate stood before him was not only symbolic of union between male and female but led to many a foolish-looking scribe. Everyone loved taking pictures of the tongue-tied man in awe of a beautiful woman.
Rhys refused to be that scribe.
He had seen Meera looking sultry in a jazz club, sweaty and bug-covered in the middle of the bayou, and just plain naked more than once. As beautiful as he found the woman, he wasn’t mating with her for her looks. He wasn’t a scribe to be struck dumb by beauty.
They came to stop on the gold-petaled path. He could hear whispers and laughter beyond the veil.
“Brother, are you ready to behold heaven’s beauty?” Damien asked quietly.
“Of course.” Rhys smiled indulgently as the veil Maarut and Damien held before his face fell away.
And he froze.
Heaven above, I am not worthy.
Rhys ignored the chuckles and whispers. They no longer existed in his world. Meera did, and she had rendered him speechless.
She was adorned in rich red silk that hugged her curves and fell to her toes. Her hair was twisted in an intricate halo and threaded with gold. Gold dusted the lids of her eyes and painted intricate patterns over her hands, arms, and shoulders.
And her eyes.
Heaven above, he was not worthy of the emotion he saw in them. She watched him with dark, kohl-lined eyes, a soft smile on her lips.
She loves me. She lovesme.
“Reshon.” Meera reached up and touched the corner of his eye. “There is only joy tonight.”
Rhys blinked away the tears, too happy to be embarrassed. “I am in awe,sha ne’ev reshon.”
“Take my hand, Rhys,” she whispered. “We have a banquet to attend.”
“And then you’re mine,” he said. “For three days, you are mine alone.”
A dark blush touched Meera’s cheeks. “For three days, you are mine.”
He bent down and whispered, “But there are at least forty more scrolls. We have our research cut out for us.”
“In only three days? Are you sure you’re up for the task?”
“I am. Uncomfortably so.”
Meera threw back her head, and her joyful laughter led them into the banqueting tent.
“You’re staring at me again.”
“Yes.” He would stare at her forever. Nothing in the pageantry before them even remotely competed with a single fold of his beloved’s dress.
Meera’s cheeks warmed with color. “You have to watch, Rhys. They went to so much trouble for this.”
A line of a dozen singers danced lightly over a carpet of bright yellow flower petals as Patiala sang a soaring anthem praising Uriel for long and blessed life. Patiala’s own mating marks glowed with power as she sang the traditional song woven with personal touches only a mother would add for her daughter. A few moments were funny. A few were sad. All were unique, and Rhys couldn’t help but be thankful that Meera had pressed him to wait for this.
He would remember this night for eternity.
They sat on a platform covered with flowers while singers played beautiful music and scribes danced. The contingent of Tomir warriors Maarut had called bowed to them before performing a dangerously beautiful spear dance that set Rhys’s warrior heart racing.
There were speeches and songs, toasts and dances. The meal started with delicate bites that Meera and Rhys fed each other while guests came up to the platform to visit and bring gifts.
Damien draped around their shoulders a long silk scarf embroidered with blessings from the scribes at Rekaves. Sari brought an intricately carved wood and mother-of-pearl chest from Istanbul filled with a dozen different teas and another similar chest filled with spices.
