Dominic (11 page)

He was neither.

Carlo must know his family needed him now. Where was he? Out there somewhere, sulking or asleep in a drunken fog? Regardless there was no

way to locate him in time. He squared his shoulders to do what must be done.

Carlo’s bed was a shambles by now. He went to the door that adjoined this room to another like it. The bedchamber beyond was done in pale

colors of yel ow and sage.

He cocked his head toward the feminine room. “Yours?” he asked.

Emma’s sleepy gaze fol owed his, and she gave a single, almost imperceptible nod, as if her head were too heavy to move a second time.

But she frowned as he hoisted her and the child as one into his arms, heading for her chamber. “No, Dominic, where are you going? We mustn’t.”

Standing in the doorway that connected the rooms, he gritted, “Carlo isn’t here. Shal I leave you to the Bonding on your own?”

When she made no reply, he let her feet slide to the floor. Her legs were wobbly, and she stood in the circle of his arms, holding her precious

bundle and looking forlorn. She could barely stand. Yet he stepped away from her, cruel, leaving her to try.

Almost immediately she slumped forward, her child cradled between them against his chest.

His arms remained at his sides. “Ask me to stay.”

He felt her lips move at his breast, and her soft words fel into the morning silence. “Stay. Please. Though it’s unwise. You know it is.”

“Yes.” He swung her into his arms again and carried her to the bed where he lay her and her daughter amid fresh, butter-colored sheets smel ing of

fragrant soap and tantalizing perfume. He paused there, staring down at the two of them. They were soft, innocent, feminine. The antithesis of everything

that was his life.

Her hand brushed his bel y, and he took it in his. Her lashes fluttered but didn’t open. “Thank you for this,” she whispered. “I—we do need you.”

As Dominic joined her on the bed, he took stock of his own mood. In spite of her understandable reluctance, he was exhilarated. Foolishly eager.

He rested his dark head on crisp, ruffled pil ows and pul ed her across his body so her back lay upon his chest and her legs fel between his. A

lace-edged handkerchief embroidered with her initials lay on the pil ow next to him, and he lifted it, sniffing. It smel ed like her.

He was al too aware of how wel the room’s furnishings suited her and how il they suited him. Accustomed as he was to the grim realities of war,

such fril y linens seemed delicate and foreign. And too easily ruined by men like him.

Tired as she was, Emma was mal eable and al owed him to position her as he pleased. He encircled her in his embrace so her buttocks nestled

comfortably in the cradle of his thighs. Her head was pil owed on his breast, and she dozed.

His eyes roved her, noting the bruised shadows under the sweep of her lashes, the chafing his beard had left on her pretty neck, the heavy swel s

of her breasts marked by his mouth.

He smoothed curls of luxuriant hair back from her face and throat and simply lay there a minute, feeling at peace with her lying warm against his

nakedness. And then, as was necessary before the Bonding could begin, he slowly let his heart open toward this woman and this girl who were not his.

At his side, the infant was beginning to stir. In moments she would be crying for sustenance.

Gently he cupped Emma’s breast. It was heavy with the weight of a mother’s milk. He began a slow massage, drawing his hand outward toward

its pebbled nipple in a motion designed to bring on lactation. He continued the motion over and over until he felt the first drop seep from her.

She shifted weakly when he placed the child to her nipple and coaxed it to nurse. She murmured in discomfort as smal greedy lips latched on to

her and commenced suckling.

He winced, imagining how tender her breasts must be this morning after his rough handling of them during the night. But the child was hungry and

would no doubt require more breakfast. He began working Emma’s other breast, bringing her milk down there as wel .

His touch was easy on her, betraying none of his anger and deep concern. She’d been right. Carlo should be here, doing this with her. It was

dangerous and forbidden that he performed this function in his stead.

The Bonding time was a crucial finale of every Satyr Birthing ritual. It brought mates closer, binding their hearts and minds. By bonding with Emma

and her child as he was now, he did them al irreparable harm. After this, deep in their souls and in the very marrow of their bones, the three of them would

forever feel a familial connection. When Carlo returned to take his rightful place as husband to Emma and as father to his own child, he’d find it

impossible to negate Dominic’s hold on them.

The baby began to fuss, so he repositioned it at Emma’s other breast. She didn’t wake. She was exhausted, as women always were after a

Cal ing Birth. Most slept through this ritual.

The fierce, insistent pul of the Bonding tugged at him, and he fought the need to run soothing hands over the woman in his arms. But bonds were

forming between them nevertheless. Irrevocable ones that would be troublesome in the future. He fisted a hand on his thigh and forced his gaze away

from the child nursing at Emma’s pale breast. The sounds of exuberant feeding reassured him Carlo’s daughter was healthy and that his wife was wel

able to provide nourishment. That was al that mattered.

He’d heard other men in Else World speak of the joy they felt at the Bonding. After a night of intense physical satiation fol owed by the thril of

attending to the sunrise Birthing, men played an important role in this final rite. With every fiber of his being, he knew it was wrong that he was attending to

Emma now in her husband’s place. He would pay for this fol y, and so would she.

Then why did it feel so right?

In her sleep, Emma caressed her child with a gentle hand. Dominic’s heart twisted. It was an organ that had never before affected him in any

remotely similar way, and therefore this was deeply troubling.

Her right hand fel to his thigh, palm up, alongside his own. The twining of delicate blue veins on the underside of her wrist was so feminine, so

vulnerable. Without warning, her fingers found and threaded his gloved hand in a gesture that both offered and took comfort.

His eyes flew to hers. She was sleeping, unaware of what she was doing.

But, Gods! The sensation of her touching him there was indescribable. Unexpected emotion choked him. No one had touched that hand since he

was a boy. Not wil ingly.

His fingers folded over hers, and he looked toward the pinkening sky, wil ing time to slow.

Where was Carlo?

10

C
arlo tore through the night. Rushing toward the gate, he fled the horror of what had just been revealed to him in his own bedchamber.

A month! He’d known Dominic an entire month. Ever since he’d come to serve in the regiment. They’d fought side by side. Kil ed to protect one

another. Stitched each other’s wounds. And al the while Dominic had somehow hidden the truth of what he was from everyone.

He must’ve bespel ed his hand in order to hide the glove. That was the only explanation.

It stil seemed impossible! But there could be no doubt. He’d seen for himself. When the palm of Dominic’s right hand had cupped Emma’s bel y,

the spel had faltered. The glove and the glow of the powerful mirror that shimmered beneath it had become visible.

And that’s when Carlo had realized the terrible truth—that Dominic was the infamous repository of evil souls.

The demonhand.

“Gods, why him?” he sobbed, his anguished cry ripping the ebony silence.

He lifted his face to the moon overhead, seeking its light. But the bright, luminous face, whose smile had heretofore always been a balm to him,

now eyed him without recognition. Without sympathy or interest. His connection to it had been severed, along with his ability to perform the carnal rituals it

demanded of the Satyr.

His fingers wove themselves into the hair on both sides of his head, wrenching until his scalp ached. Images of the couple he’d left behind

moments ago tortured him, luring him to the brink of madness.

Emma had pitied him. He’d seen it in her eyes. She’d thought him jealous. And he was, but not in the way she assumed.

She would be shocked to know the secrets he’d kept hidden from her and his family.

For in her world, it was a disgrace for any freeborn male to consent to penetration by another male. However, Else World society took a different,

more lenient perspective, and he had long ago discovered in himself a craving for such things.

A craving that had recently focused itself on Dominic. From the instant they’d met a few weeks ago, he’d quietly lusted after him. He’d yearned for

his touch, basked in his every glance, cherished his every word. And though Dominic hadn’t encouraged him, he hadn’t spurned him either.

So he’d remained hopeful.

After he was injured, it had seemed natural to turn to Dominic for help in his predicament. And there were those who’d urged him in that direction.

When Dom had agreed to come today to save the life of his child, Carlo had taken it as a hopeful sign.

But, just now, his comrade’s interest in Emma had been al too blatant. Dominic hadn’t been thinking of anyone else tonight. Hadn’t wanted anyone

else. Only her.

Carlo staggered on, his boots thumping in time with his tormented thoughts.

Dominic. Emma. Entwined. Mating. Bringing forth
his
child.

Had Dominic even noticed he’d gone? Did he care?

Shards of jealousy pierced his heart, shattering the rosy image he’d envisioned when he’d invited Dominic here. Foolishly he’d imagined that the

carnal ritual between his wife and his friend might stretch to include him. At least to the extent he could stil participate in it in view of his condition.

He stil had fingers, did he not? And a mouth? An asshole? Al skil ed at providing carnal pleasure.

A downed branch caught his boot and tripped him. He fel to the ground, swearing. Something sharp bruised his thigh. He reached into his pocket

and found the coin. The one Emma had employed last month in an attempt block his seed.

Kurr had given it to him, tel ing him to safeguard it and that it would bring luck. And last Moonful it had. He’d fathered a child in spite of his wife’s

attempts to deny him. And the fol owing day Dominic had entered his life.

But tonight the luck it had brought had been anything but good.

Kicking the branch away, he got to his feet in a swirl of silvery green olive leaves. With a vicious swing of his arm, he hurled the coin into the

distance. It fel silently, he knew not where, for he tromped on, snapping twigs and crushing ivy underfoot.

What would Nicholas and his brothers think of him, once they discovered he’d deserted Emma? Had left her with a fucking
demonhand.

Would Dominic tel them what else he knew?

What would they think if they learned the true details of the service Carlo performed in the war? For he didn’t only carry arms in battle, as they

believed. If they found out, the precariously constructed fabric of his life would begin to unravel.

He would never be able to return to this world again. In a smal way this would be a relief, for he’d always felt unworthy of his Satyr brethren. Had

never been able to live up to their reputations as notorious lovers. His life must only be in Else World now, though that prospect wasn’t without its own

difficulties.

He hesitated, standing on the gnarled roots of oak, ash, and hawthorn that grew at the entrance to the cave in which the sacred gate lay, trying to

decide what to do.

Kurr would be waiting for him at their home a few miles beyond the other side of the gate. He’d be mightily displeased when he learned that Carlo

hadn’t kept his bargain.

So great was Carlo’s disil usionment that he considered going back to steal the child and kil Emma so he could blame Dominic. It was no more

than Dominic deserved for not loving him. And then he could deliver the child to Kurr, as promised.

But, no, he was too much the coward for such an awful task.

Stepping through the gate, he entered the tunnel and fol owed its gloomy length until it expel ed him into daylight. Here in his world, night and day

were of shorter duration than in Earth-World and were more or less reversed.

At the tunnel’s end, idling guards sprang to attention. They were of the Feroce faction, currently al ies of the Satyr, though that circumstance

changed almost daily.

Carlo spread his legs and arms, proffering himself for search. Hands patted him down, rummaging over his shoulders and along his arms, chest,

bel y, thighs, boots, between his legs.

“Where is your companion?” one of them asked, looking beyond him toward the gate.

“He comes later.” His expression crumpled at his own words, for it was a certainty that Dominic was coming inside
his
wife this very moment. A

fresh bolt of agony shot through him.

“Your insignia?” one of them demanded, nudging him with the barrel of his weapon. “Where is it?”

Carlo fumbled in his pocket for the smal metal rectangle that designated his rank and pinned it to his uniform.

“You’re
cinaedi
?” the man asked, noting the symbol on his pin.

He nodded.

Overhearing, another soldier cal ed out to him, “Service!”

Released by the guardsman, Carlo went, wanting to be used. Wanting to feel needed—by someone. Wanting to feel something other than this

awful pain of betrayal.

He’d joined the ranks of the
cinaedi
shortly after coming here, and as such, had been trained in the art of sexual submission. It was his duty to