Stroke of Midnight (Nightcreature #1.5)(35)

It was only when he reached for the robe draped over her arm that she remembered to be embarrassed by his nudity. With a gasp, she put her back to him, but by then it was too late. She had seen all there was to see.

"Why did you come here?" he asked, his voice sharp with disapproval.

"I… because…" She frowned. Why had she come?

"Because you wanted to see the monster?" he asked quietly, but she heard the bitterness in his voice.

"Is that how you see yourself?" she asked, her back still toward him. "As a monster?"

"Do you not?"

She turned to face him. "I see only a man who is being made to suffer for something that happened before he was born."

His gaze searched hers as if seeking to know the truth of her words. Unable to help himself, he took a step forward, his hand stroking her cheek. When she didn't recoil from his touch, he moved closer. And then he lowered his head and claimed her lips with his. As he had the first time he kissed her, he expected her to resist, but once again her response took him by surprise. Her eyelids fluttered down and then she was kissing him back, her innocence and her eagerness more powerful than any aphrodisiac. Her lips were sweeter than a honeycomb, more intoxicating than spring wine. Putting his arms around her, he drank from her lips like a man dying for sustenance. He plunged one hand into her hair, his fingers delving into the thick mass. Her scent filled his nostrils, the heat of her body turned away the chill of the night. She was the reason he had never married, he thought, the reason he had shunned the wagons of the camp followers.

He kissed her again, reveling in her sweet response. For a moment, he let himself pretend he was a normal man, let himself believe that she could be his, that he could take her as his wife and safely spill his seed within her womb. He imagined children born of their joining—strong sons and beautiful daughters, imagined the sound of their laughter filling his dreary keep. He would stop seeking battles to fight and spend his days in peaceful pursuits, and his nights… ah, his nights would be spent in Shanara's arms… Shanara. She was here, in his arms, and yet forever out of reach.

With a low growl, he released her and turned away.

Shanara stared at his back. "Reyes?"

"Go back to the keep."

"Have I displeased you?"

"Displeased me?" An anguished laugh rose in his throat. "Go from me, Shanara, now, before it is too late for both of us."

She started to reach out for him, needing to comfort him, and then lowered her arm. She didn't know what madness possessed her to let him kiss her but there could never be anything between them. He was going to kill her or her father. How could she have forgotten that?

Wrapping her arms around her waist, she ran back to the keep, grateful for the darkness that hid her tears.



She woke to the sound of shouts and harsh curses. Rising, she went to the window overlooking the courtyard. A number of men surrounded a horse. Reyes was easy to pick from the crowd. He stood head and shoulders above the others.

Curious to know what had caused such a tumult at such an early hour, she donned a robe and hurried down the stairs and out the door.

As though sensing her approach, Reyes turned to face her, his expression grim, his eyes hard.

She slowed her steps as she drew near, then came to an abrupt halt when she saw the source of the commotion. The horse she had seen from her window carried a burden on its back. She stopped, one hand covering her mouth, when she saw the headless body draped across the saddle.

She looked up at Reyes. "Who… who was he?"

"The messenger I sent to your father."

His words sent a shiver through her. Caught up in the horror of what she was seeing, she hadn't realized that Reyes had come to stand beside her.

She looked up at him. He had sent her plea for help to her father and this was her father's reply. Coldness settled over her, leaving her numb. Her father would not save her. She had known all along that he would not, yet she had clung to some small scrap of hope, and now that, too, was gone.

As he had been the first time she had seen him, Reyes was clad all in black. He had reminded her of Death on that day not so long ago. And now that her father had abandoned her, Reyes would, indeed, be her death. Because her father would not take her place, her life would be forfeit, and then there would be another war, with more death and more killing.

"How soon?" she asked, her voice a choked whisper. She didn't want to die. She wanted to live, to marry and bear children, to watch them grow, to hear their laughter and dry their tears.

He frowned at her. "How soon? How soon for what?"

"Until you… until you…"

"Speak, woman, what are you trying to say?"

"How soon until you… you take my head in exchange for his?"

Reyes blinked at her. "Is that what you think I'm going to do?"

"Are you not? You said my life would be forfeit if my father did not surrender to you."

Reyes snorted. "I may be a monster but it is not my habit to slay women or children."

She stared at him, feeling suddenly dizzy with relief.

Reyes pulled her into his arms to steady her. Had she truly thought he would take her life if her miserable cur of a father refused to surrender? Reyes knew he would as soon cut off his own hand before he raised it in violence against her. He spat into the dirt. He had known all along that Montiori would never sacrifice his own life for that of his daughter, or for any of his children. Still, he had hoped that Montiori would fall for his bluff, that some spark of fatherly devotion existed in the man. He should have known better. His bluff had failed. To his regret, the finger that his physician had amputated from the diseased hand of one of the serving women had not fooled Shanara's father.