Black and Orange by Benjamin Kane Ethridge Read Free Book Online Page B

that he’d merely spoken to Melissa; he’d remarked how lovely her watch was and actually touched the band. Never the mind that the man’s flamboyant demeanor suggested he may have been gay; Cole didn’t balk at any threat. At the time Melissa hadn’t said much about past relationships, although he’d pressed her on the issue to the point of driving her crazy. After this blow up, it made sense to erase any old entanglements and become an innocent, awkward person—like Cole was. She especially had to keep her brief involvement with Paul Quintana close to the vest. Even if Paul fit into his plans, Cole couldn’t even say his name without sneering.
    With most of the Inner Circle packing belongings for this year’s hunt, the archive stacks felt like a dusty leather-bound tomb; every sound heightened the chance of discovery. She and Cole silently had focused, unrelenting intercourse. He trembled and she gripped his arm tightly to show him how powerful he was. He liked that, bought into it. The chair thumped the shelves, making too-loud thwacks and unsettling dust in gray dervishes. She tried to close her stance, make him retreat, and then—he spilled inside her.
    “Sorry,” he panted , “didn’t have the chance.”
    “That’s fine,” she lied. But she wasn’t going to tell him she liked how it felt. She’d done enough for his ego. Pretending he hurt her the first time, that he’d broken her hymen, that there’d been blood, which she’d known would be a safe lie because his disinterest in afterglow became immediately apparent as soon as he came.
    Cole pulled out a hanky from his colorless suit. The warm comfort she felt was replaced with disappointment. Weird scarring and creases flexed through the broad, toady face. Hard years of unloading Church supply trucks and scuffles with other acolytes had made those creases. The scarring, however, was anyone’s guess. He never spoke of it. Not to her at least. The impressions sunk into the flesh like third degree burns made by a red hot pickax. Around his temples, around his throat, around his ears, the scars always looked fresh; she easily imagined smoke rising off them and the spicy odor of gristle.
    Cole cleaned off. When he was finished he folded the soiled linen and returned it to his pocket, not offering it to her. Melissa frowned and wiped herself with the already damp bridge of her underwear. A moment later, they were dressed and the chair pushed back against the rock wall.
    “Traven should be back by now,” he said.
    “You know he’s passed out somewhere.”
    “Never again.” Cole shook his head. “Not trusting that lush ever again.”
    “How long do you think Quintana will be down there with the Archbishop?”
    Cole’s gray eyes glowed. “Interested in Paul now?”
    “Don’t start that, Bishop.”
    He pulled her close to his bank vault of a chest. “The thought of you and him—”
    Her regret in that drunken event with Paul was so deep that no acting was required. Her desire for it to be untrue was mightier. Cole gently released her; he’d never be satisfied with her performance, no matter how convincing.
    Cautiously, Melissa pressed on, “So, again—how long will the trials last? We’ve got a lot of work to do before Chaplain Cloth returns.”
    Cole folded his arms and his suit lifted, too small on him. He needed a new one, badly. “It took me a day before the effect of the seeds wore off. Then my garden grew. Balance of the blossoms could take most men their entire life—like with that poor dead son of a bitch Margrave, it may never happen.” Cole leaned his gigantic shoulder against the wall. His face was tragically tired, and clearly not from sex. “Justin Margrave was a waste—we won’t have to worry about that with Quintana. He can achieve balance in time for the Heralding.”
    “Will Chaplain Cloth accept someone so new?”
    “If Quintana fails then he’ll make me take his place. I can’t go through another Heralding and