Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [86]
“I didn’t sell it. I sank the barge.” His voice was low. “This was not long after I was shot, after I was infected by nanoagents, was affected by the tower. My emotions were a wreck—and Temür was shipping war machines to the Liberé.”
She opened her eyes, stared blindly past his neck to the porthole. That sort of power would have ended the conflict quickly. But, no—he’d changed his name six months after Bart had stabbed her, she remembered. “But the war was over by then—the Liberé had already won.”
“Aside from a few skirmishes, yes. The Liberé said they wanted to have the machines, just to make certain the French weren’t a threat again. But I was convinced they’d use them, and war machines on any side tipped the scales too far. So I sank them.”
While his emotions had been in turmoil. “And now what do you feel?”
His hands lazily stroked up to her shoulders. “I don’t regret it.”
“Despite all of this trouble now with your debt, the search for the sketch.”
“Yes.”
“My crew is dead, my ship gone.”
His hands froze. Obviously, he’d never put it together like that. “God, Yasmeen. I can’t . . .”
Lifting her cheek from his shoulder, she shook her head. “I don’t blame anyone but the person responsible—and the person who gave the order.”
Fingers gliding down her sides, he asked softly, “And if it’s Nasrin, how will we kill her?”
We. She liked the sound of that too well. “We don’t have to kill her. If we kill Temür, she’ll die. Of course, getting past her to Temür is another problem entirely.” She smiled when his brow furrowed in confusion. “You cannot release a weapon like Nasrin without some tether. When she was altered and the royal she served was chosen, her nanoagents were aligned to his. Even if duty failed, she would save his life simply because hers is also at stake.”
“So if he dies, she dies.”
“Yes.”
“That’s . . . barbaric.”
Perhaps. “But to her, it’s beautiful.”
“And to you?”
“It’s both.” To the gan tsetseg, whose very existence was created to honor an act of love and protection, those bonds of loyalty and duty were life—and there was nothing else. Yasmeen couldn’t believe the same, not anymore, but she couldn’t shed everything from her upbringing, and there were memories and stories that she held close. So, too, would the other women. “I’d never wish it for myself. I’d have hated it. But I’ve also recently thought that there are some bonds that I do welcome, because I receive something that makes the burden worth bearing in return. So I understand her a little better.”
“Perhaps you do. But even if you loved me, I wouldn’t want you to do that. I would rather you never loved me at all than to know my death killed you.”
Such a romantic. Sitting up, she cupped his strong jaw. His gaze locked with hers. She lowered her head, breathing his breath. Yes. He was right: This was almost better than a kiss. When he whispered her name, she pressed her face into his neck, smelled his incredible scent.
How could she know what this bond between them was? Friendship, yes. A common purpose. Perhaps the rest was only lust. Perhaps it was more.
Right now, lust was enough.
Dropping her right hand between them, she loosened her breeches, slipped her fingers inside. By the lady, he made her so wet.
“Yasmeen.”
She loved the sound of his voice, the need in it as he rasped her name. She loved the boldness of his fingers replacing hers. She loved his heavy groan when he found her, slick and hot, loved the tension in his lean body. Purring when his fingers pushed deeper, she rose and fell against him, and he shook with agonized restraint.
“You torture yourself so well.” Panting, she licked his throat, felt him shiver. “Come, Archimedes Fox. Torture me, too. Make me scream.”
But the only real torture would have been stopping. He explored instead, discovering what gave her the most pleasure, his fingers clever and adventurous. He learned her quickly. Writhing against his hand, Yasmeen hovered over him, lips all but touching his, breathing his breath—until she did finally scream, muffling her cries against his neck.