longer be free to
breathe.
When the ivy had won out over the image, Phury wadded up the paper and tossed it into the
brass wastepaper basket across his bedroom.
What month was it now . . . August? Yeah, August. Which would be . . . She had a good year left
of the pregnancy, assuming she could hold it. Like a lot of females, she was already on bed rest
because preterm labor was a big concern.
Stabbing out the tail end of his blunt, he reached for one of the two he’d just made and
realized he’d smoked them.
Stretching out his one whole leg, he put his lap easel to the side and brought his survival kit
back over: a plastic Baggie of red smoke, a thin packet of rolling papers, and his chunky gold
lighter. It was the work of a moment to roll up a freshie, and as he drew in the first hit, he
measured his stash.
Shit, it was thin. Very thin.
The steel shutters rising from the windows calmed him out. Night, in all its sunless glory, had
fallen, the arrival bringing freedom from the Brotherhood’s mansion . . . and the ability to get
to his dealer, Rehvenge.
Shifting the leg that had no foot or calf off the bed, he reached for his prosthesis, plugged it on
below his right knee, and stood up. He was toasted enough so the air around him felt like
something he had to wade through and the window he headed toward seemed miles away.
But it was all good. He was comforted by the familiar haze, eased by the sensation of floating
as he walked naked across his room.
The garden down below was resplendent, lit by the glow from the library’s bank of French
doors.
This was what a back vista should look like, he thought. All the flowers blooming with health,
the fruit trees fat with pears and apples, the pathways clear, the boxwood clipped.
It was not like the one he had grown up with. Not at all.
Right beneath his window, the tea roses were in full bloom, their fat, rainbow-hued heads held
up proudly on their thorned spines. The roses brought his train of thought to another female.
As Phury inhaled again, he pictured his female, the one who he rightfully should be drawing . . .
the one who, according to law and custom, he should be doing a hell of a lot more to than
sketching.
The Chosen Cormia. His First Mate.
Among forty.
Man, how the hell had he ended up Primale to the Chosen?
I told you, the wizard answered. You’re going to have children beyond measure, all of whom
shall have the enduring joy of looking up to a father whose only accomplishment has been letting
everyone around him down.
Okay, nasty as the bastard could be, that was a hard point to argue. He hadn’t mated with
Cormia as ritual required. He hadn’t been back to the Other Side to see the Directrix. He hadn’t
met the other thirty-nine females he was supposed to lay with and impregnate.
Phury smoked harder, the weight of those big-ass nothings landing on his head, flaming
boulders launched by the wizard.
The wizard had excellent trajectory. Then again, he’d had a lot of practice.
Well, now, mate, you’re an easy target. That’s all there is about that.
At least Cormia wasn’t complaining about the dereliction of duties. She hadn’t wanted to be
First Mate, had been forced into the role: On the day of the ritual, she’d had to be tied down on
the ceremonial bed, splayed out for his use like an animal, utterly terrified.
The moment he’d seen her he’d gone into his default setting, which was full savior mode. He’d
brought her here to the Black Dagger Brotherhood’s mansion and put her in the bedroom next
to his. Tradition or not, there was no way in hell he was forcing himself on a female, and he
figured that if they had some space and time to get to know each other it would be easier.
Yeah . . . no. Cormia had kept to herself, while he went about his daily business of trying to
keep from imploding. Over the last five months, they were no closer to each other or a bed.
Cormia rarely spoke and showed her face only at meals. If she went outside of her room, it
was just to the library for books.
In her long white robe, she was more like a jasmine-scented shadow than anything made of
flesh and bone.
The shameful truth of it was, though, he was okay with the way things were. He’d thought he’d
been fully aware of the sexual commitment he was making when he took Vishous’s place as
the Primale,
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