Page 33 of Honey Cut
I nod at the chessboard sitting on a small table by the window, suddenly feeling shy. I’ve never dated, never been courted, have no idea how gifts work when given to someone who knows what your body tastes like. It’s strangely vulnerable. “It’s for you.”
“And here I am, unable to give you your present until we’re at Lyonesse.” Mark is already walking over to it, his stride eager. The city lights sparkle on the pieces lined up along the sides—one set obsidian, the other crystal. He runs his fingers along the board, clear and milky quartz cleverly joined together in squares, and his fingertips twitch in the same way they twitched against my ribboned throat earlier tonight.
“The quartz on the board is from Maine, near where you and Melody grew up,” I say softly. “And the obsidian is from Carpathia.”
The place where he first served as a soldier. The place that made him into the former killer and present-day deviant he is.
“And the crystal?” he asks, still looking at the board.
“Ireland.”
He lifts his eyes to me, and I fight off the urge to shiver, his gaze is so intense. “So it’s you and me on the board,” he says.
“Yes. Do you like it?”
A wide, almost boyish grin spreads across his face, and I’m nearly knocked back onto my heels. The white teeth, the lines around his eyes, the unabashed glee.
It’s a good thing my husband is rarely happy, because a smile like this could stop my heart.
I look away as a knock sounds at the door, and I take the opportunity to flee. I’m infected enough already, besotted against my will, and I don’t need any more candles burning at my private altar. I open the door, and a quick prayer flits across my thoughts.
God help me.
It’s Tristan, still buttoned and knotted and earpieced, exhaustion smudged under his eyes and stubble peppering his jaw. When his gaze meets mine, I see a misery so profound that it makes my bones hurt just to see.
No, not misery.
Grief.
For the loss of me or for the loss of Mark, I don’t know. Probably the latter, given that Tristan and I only met two months ago, which shouldn’t make my bones hurt even more, but there’s a selfishness inside me that I can’t seem to root out. A selfishness that refuses to be the only one craving kisses and broken confessions.
I need this so much.
I’m obsessed.
It’s a dream where nothing matters but you.
I am never more grateful for my unique upbringing as both a socialite and a future saint of the Church because I know my body betrays nothing. I know I’m still standing with straight shoulders and a lifted chin, that my breathing appears even, that my face is as still and emotionless as a doll’s.
But then Tristan sees my dress, sees my bodythroughthe dress, and his face shows everything. Shock and longing and the same grief as earlier, but magnified into flat-out torture now.
“Isolde,” he exhales. “I?—”
“Is that Tristan?” Mark calls from the window. “Tell him to come in.”
I open the door even wider, and Tristan steps in, mouth sealed against whatever he’d been about to say. Together we walk toward Mark, who is currently unknotting his bow tie while looking down at his new chessboard.
“I’ve checked the suite and liaised with the hotel security, Mr. Trevena,” Tristan says, his voice and face mostly under control. I can’t forget that he was a soldier, that discipline is second nature to him. However, deception is not, and no matter how much he wants to perform the role of stoic, unaffected bodyguard right now, unhappiness is seeping into his voice and bleeding into his features. “We should be set for the night. Goran, Sedge, and Dinah have already left for Lyonesse, and Jago will be here at ten tomorrow morning to take us to the airport.”
“Wonderful,” Mark says. He’s unbuttoning the top button of his shirt now, exposing a notch of strong, suntanned throat. “Would you like to stay and watch us play a game of chess? My wife has given me a new chessboard.”
Tristan’s eyes flick to the board and then to me. “It’s a beautiful board, but I should get to bed, Mr. Trevena. It’s been a long day.”
It has been a long day. A long day of him watching his two former lovers pledge, marry, and now stand in the suite where they’ll have their wedding night. I hate the thought of him lying awake in his room later, wondering if Mark is touching me, fucking me.
“You could play too,” I offer. “You don’t only have to watch.”
“Thank you, but no,” Tristan says quickly, and Mark gives a snort.
