Page 43 of Darkness Bound (Night Prowler 5)
Her eyes filled with moisture. A lone tear tracked a zigzag path down her cheek, and before he knew what he was doing, Hawk had lifted his hand and brushed it away with his thumb.
“No one could break you,” he said vehemently. “You’re too goddamn strong.”
She blinked. “You cursed,” she whispered, staring at him wide-eyed.
“And you didn’t,” he replied, his voice strangely hoarse. In fact, he realized, she hadn’t cursed at all in the last two days.
Since he’d asked her not to.
They stood there like that in silence, his hand on her face, her gaze locked to his, until the sudden screech of a howler monkey brought them both abruptly back to Earth.
Jack took a step away, and dropped her gaze to the ground. She sat back down on the mossy rock, shoved her feet into her boots, then rose and walked away.
“Waterfall,” she said stiffly over her shoulder. “Bath.”
She disappeared into the trees, leaving Hawk alone in the clearing, his heart twisting like a wild animal inside his chest.
If pressed, Viscount Weymouth would have to say he first began to hate the Queen the day she stopped him from killing Morgan Montgomery.
It was several years ago, but the memory of it still rankled him, doubly so because Morgan was supposed to be executed for plotting to kill him.
He was Keeper of the Bloodlines of the Sommerley colony, and prior to the Queen’s arrival, he’d been an important member of the tribe. He might even go so far as to say revered. His position wasn’t only ancient and respected, it was necessary to the continued survival of their species. Without him and the Matchmaker, couples would woo and wed willy-nilly, and what would become of them then?
Nothing, that’s what. The purity of their Bloodlines would be lost, and so, most likely, would their Gifts. Eventually they’d be no better than humans.
And now that the new half-Blood Queen had decided to abolish the Law of arranged matches and allow young couples to let “love” be their guide, Viscount Weymouth had been effectively neutered, and hated the Queen even more.
Love. Such quaint, plebeian folly.
Though he shouldn’t be surprised; the Queen’s own father had been executed for falling prey to its grasp. As for himself, he’d never been touched by love’s dangerous whims. His own wife of thirty years was an outlet for the base urges of his body and a valued breeder—she’d given him two strong sons—but nothing more. It was a peculiarity of Ikati nature that they mated for life, but that didn’t always mean they mated for love. In fact, Viscount Weymouth was convinced love was a concept some long-ago female had devised during the throes of a forbidden passion in order to feel absolved from guilt.
Females, he thought with contempt, staring at his reflection in the floor standing mirror as he adjusted his mustard velvet cravat beneath his florid jowls. Always more trouble than they’re worth.
Satisfied his old-fashioned neckwear was in perfect order, the viscount patted the lapels of his matching silk vest and turned to and fro before the mirror. He sucked in his paunch, for a brief moment envisioning the slender young man he’d once been long ago, then released it with a gusty exhalation that strained the waistband of his custom-made Italian trousers. This was, in all likelihood, the last time he’d admire his formidable figure in the oval polished glass of his bedroom, and he was in no great hurry to move along.
God only knew what those savages in the rainforest in Brazil would be wearing. The thought of himself clad in a loincloth made him shudder.
“They’re ready for you, My Lord,” his valet said, bowing from the bedroom door.
“Yes, I imagine they are,” replied the viscount absently, donning his jacket. He didn’t move from the mirror.
Behind him, his valet raised his brows, but the viscount only smiled.
Let the Queen and her lapdog Alpha wait a while longer. He was in no rush to comply. Though outwardly he remained a loyal servant, inwardly he’d stopped complying long ago.
Case in point: the Plan.
Devised by that madman Caesar Cardinalis—a creature as equally devious as he was insane, neither of which, in the viscount’s opinion, negated the soundness of his stance on the correct way to handle both humans and the liberal new Queen—the Plan was simple. The rewards he’d reap if he carried it off successfully, however, would be extravagant indeed.
Deliver the message to the Brazilian colony that their destruction was imminent and they could either join Caesar or die. Lead everyone to Morocco. Kill the Queen.
Not necessarily in that order, of course.
He’d already been quietly assisting the more vocally dissatisfied members of the colonies to join Caesar for months. He had only to read the weekly reports of the names of the attempted deserters to know where to look. It was an unfortunate fact of colony life that some couldn’t bear the weight of their burden to stay secret and silent from the rest of the world, and tried to run. They were always caught, always severely punished—oftentimes put to death—but that didn’t stop the random attempt.
Only now that Caesar had decided to fast-track his plan for Ikati world domination and had spread the word that all deserters were welcome with him, the attempts were no longer quite so random.
His valet cleared his throat. Viscount Weymouth rolled his eyes, and gave himself one final once-over.
