Stroke of Midnight Page 3

  “Romantic?” Sera scoffed. “What’s romantic about a truce struck after years of bloodshed resulting from the kidnap of a virgin Breedmate from our tribe by a barbarian Breed male from theirs six-hundred years ago?”

  Leila let out a sigh. “Things were different back then. And it’s romantic because they fell in love.”

  Sera arched her brows in challenge. “Tragic, because despite their blood bond, they both died in the end and set off a long, violent war.”

  Sera knew the whole, tragic story as well as her sister did. It was practically legend in the Sanhaja family. And if she was being honest, there was a part of her that ached for that long-dead couple and their doomed love.

  But it didn’t change the fact that centuries later, here she was, standing in a locked bathroom in a borrowed dress and high-heeled sandals, while just down the hall, a Breed male she’d never even met before was expecting her to go away with him for eight long nights—all in their parents’ shared hopes that they might come back madly in love and bound by blood for eternity.

  Ridiculous.

  Sera shook her head. “It might’ve been true centuries ago that the best way to guarantee peace was to turn an enemy into family,” she conceded. “But that was then and this is now. There hasn’t been conflict between the Mafakhirs and our family for decades.”

  Leila tilted her head. “And how do you know that’s not because the pact was in place all that time? Since it first began, there’s never been a time when there wasn’t at least one mated pair between our families. Until now. What if the pact really is the only thing keeping the peace? It’s never been broken or tested, Sera. Do you really want to be the first one to try?”

  For a moment, hearing her sister’s emphatic reply, Seraphina almost bought into the whole myth. At twenty-seven, she was a practical, independent woman who knew her own mind as well as her own worth, but there was a small part of her—maybe a part of every woman—who still wanted to believe in fairy tales and romance stories.

  She wanted to believe in eternal love and happy endings, but that’s not what awaited her on the other side of the powder room door.

  “The pact isn’t magic. And the handfast isn’t romantic. It’s all a bunch of silly, outdated nonsense.”

  “Well, call it what you will,” Leila murmured. “I think it’s charming.”

  “I doubt you’d be so enthusiastic if you were the one being yanked out of your world and all the things that matter to you, only to be dropped into some strange male’s lap as his captive plaything.” Sera considered her dreamy-eyed younger sister. “Or maybe you would.”

  Leila laughed and shook her head. “The handfast is only for a week. And you won’t be dropped into anyone’s lap or held against your will. You’re meant to get to know each other away from the distractions of the outside world. That’s all. Handfasting at the oasis retreat is symbolic more than anything else. Besides, I can think of worse things than spending a week in beautiful surroundings, getting to know a handsome Breed male. One who also happens to be a prince.”

  Sera scoffed. “A prince in name only. The old tribes of this region aren’t any more royal than you or me.” Which they weren’t. Adopted by Omar and Amina Sanhaja as infants from orphanages for the indigent, there was no chance of that. Sera cocked a curious look on her sister. “How do you know Jehan’s handsome? I thought you’ve never met him.”

  “I haven’t. But being Breed, he’s sure to have his mother’s chestnut brown hair and incredible blue eyes. The same as his brother, Marcel.”

  Sara rolled her eyes. “Well, I don’t care what he looks like and I don’t care about his pedigree either. I’m not looking for a mate, and if I was, I certainly wouldn’t be going about it this way.”

  Yet despite all of that—despite her unwillingness to be part of some antiquated agreement that had long outlived its expiration date as far as she was concerned—she knew she couldn’t walk away from her obligation to her family.

  Honoring the pact was important to her parents, which made it important to her as well.

  And there was another, more selfish reason she had finally conceded to come.

  Several hundred thousand reasons. The amount of her trust fund, which her father had agreed to release to her early. She would have it all at the end of the week—after her handfast with Jehan Mafakhir was over.

  Sera needed that money.

  As much as her father loved her, he knew she wouldn’t be able to turn away from what he had offered. Not when there was so much she could do with that kind of gift.

  That didn’t mean she had to like it.

  Nor did it mean she had to like Jehan Mafakhir.

  In fact, she was determined to avoid him as much as possible for the duration of their confinement together. If she was lucky, maybe they wouldn’t even need to speak to each other.

  Miserable with the whole idea, she exhaled a slow, defeated sigh. “It’s only for eight nights, right?”

  Leila nodded, then her eyes went wide at the sound of measured footsteps and deep voices in the hallway. Putting a finger to her lips, she cracked open the door and peered out. She reported to Sera in a hushed whisper. “Jehan just walked into the salon with his father and Marcel. You can’t leave him waiting. We have to get out of here right now!”

  The bubble of anxiety Sera had been fighting suddenly spiked into hot panic. “So soon? I thought I’d have a few more minutes before—”

  “Now, Sera! Let’s go!” Grabbing her by the arm, Leila opened the door and ushered her outside. As they moved toward the salon, Leila leaned in close to whisper next to Sera’s ear. “And I was right, by the way. He’s beyond handsome.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Jehan wasn’t sure what had presented the most convincing argument for his consenting to take part in the handfasting: his brother’s earnest persuasion on the ride to the Darkhaven, or his father’s stoic greeting and his resulting obvious, if unspoken, expectation that his eldest son would shirk his obligation to the family.

  If he’d been met with furious demands that he must pick up the mantle of responsibility concerning the pact with the Sanhajas, it would have been the easiest thing for Jehan to pivot on his heels and hoof his way back to Casablanca to catch the earliest flight back to Rome.

  But his father hadn’t blown up or slammed his fists into his desk when Jehan arrived in his study a few minutes ago to explain that he wanted no part in the duty waiting for him in the salon. Rahim Mafakhir had listened in thoughtful silence. Then he’d simply stood up and walked toward the door of his study without a word.

  Not that he’d needed to speak. His lack of reaction spoke volumes.

  He’d been anticipating Jehan’s refusal.

  He’d been fully prepared for his prodigal son to let him and the rest of the family down.

  And as much as Jehan had wanted to pretend he was okay with that, the fact was, it had stung.

  It had been at that precise moment—his father’s strong hand wrapped around the doorknob, his stern face grim with disappointment—that Jehan had blurted out words he was certain he’d live to regret.

  “I’ll do it,” he’d said. “Eight nights with the Sanhaja female, as the pact requires. Nothing more. Then, after the handfast is over and my duty is fulfilled, I’ll go back to Rome and the pact can move on to the next of our kin in line to heed the call.”

  Now, as Jehan entered the salon with his father and Marcel, he felt a small spark of hope.

  She wasn’t there. Only his mother and an anxious-looking couple he assumed was Omar and Amina Sanhaja. No sign of the unmated Breedmate he was supposed to formally meet tonight.

  Holy shit. Dare he hope the Sanhajas’ daughter had called a stop to this farce?

  “Here we are!” An exuberant voice sounded brightly from behind him, killing his hope before it had a chance to fully catch fire.

  The voice belonged to a leggy blonde with a megawatt smile and pretty, pale green eyes. Attractive. Certainly cheerful
and energetic. As far as temporary housemates went, Marcel was right—there were worse sentences he could endure.

  The blonde paused to glance behind her, and that was when Jehan realized his error.

  “Come on, Seraphina!” She grabbed the hand of a tall, curvy brunette who’d hesitated momentarily just outside the threshold. “Don’t be shy. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

  The blonde was lovely, as Marcel had assured him. But her reserved, darker-haired sister was something far more than that.

  Blessed with the figure of a goddess and the face of an angel, when she appeared in the doorway, Jehan could barely keep from gaping. He glanced briefly to his brother and met Marcel’s I-told-you-so grin.

  Damn.

  Seraphina Sanhaja was, in a word, extraordinary.

  Framed by a mane of cascading brown curls, a pair of long-lashed eyes the color of rich sandalwood flecked with gold lifted to meet Jehan’s arrested gaze. Her face was heart-shaped and delicate, an exotic artistry of fine bones and smooth, sun-kissed olive skin that glowed with rising pink color as she stared at him.

  How this stunning woman had managed to get past the age of twenty without some other Breed male locking her into a blood bond, Jehan couldn’t even imagine.

  His pulse stirred at the sight of her, sending heat into his veins. Even though he wasn’t in the market for a mate, as a hot-blooded Breed male, it was impossible to deny his body’s intense reaction to the female. He drew in a slow breath, his acute senses taking in the cinnamon-sweet scent of her and the subtle uptick of her heartbeat as he held her in his unblinking gaze.

  For a moment, he was sorry he didn’t have any use for tribal laws or ancient pacts that would put Seraphina Sanhaja in his company—better yet, in his bed—for the next eight nights.

  Her sister tugged her forward on a light giggle. “Isn’t this exciting?”

  Where Leila crackled with unbridled enthusiasm, Seraphina was nearly impossible to read. Her lush lips pursed a bit as she made a silent study of him, her expression carefully schooled, inscrutable.

  Standing before him, she was reticent and aloof.

  Assessing and...unimpressed?

  Jehan’s brows lifted. He didn’t want to admit the jab his ego took at her apparent lack of interest in him. With his thick, shoulder-length dark hair, tawny skin and light blue eyes, he’d never been at a loss for female attention.

  Oh, hell. What did he care if she didn’t like what she saw? The week ahead was going to pass a hell of a lot faster if he didn’t have to spend it with a blushing, eyelash-batting Breedmate who couldn’t wait to surrender her carotid to him.

  Jehan stared her down ruthlessly as the formal introductions were made.

  He was still trying to figure her out after what seemed like endless polite, if awkward conversation in the salon. Their parents made pleasant small talk together. Marcel and Leila fell into easy chatter about books and music and current events, both of them clearly striving to bring Jehan and Seraphina into the discussion.

  It wasn’t working.

  Jehan’s thoughts were back with his team in Rome. When he’d spoken earlier tonight with Lazaro Archer, he’d learned that rumors were circulating about Opus Nostrum moving weapons across Europe and possibly into Africa.

  Even though he was only going to be delayed from his missions with the Order for a week, he already itched to be suited up in his patrol gear and weapons, not stuffed into the white button-down, dark trousers, and gleaming black dress shoes he’d worn from the airport.

  As for Seraphina, Jehan got the feeling she was only seconds away from making a break for the nearest exit.

  The otherwise cool and collected female jumped when the clock struck twelve. Smiled wanly as her mother erupted into excited applause.

  “It’s time!” Amina Sanhaja crowed from across the room. “Go on now, you two. Go on!”

  As their families began to urge them out of the salon together, Jehan slanted a questioning look on Seraphina.

  “The midnight garden stroll,” she murmured under her breath, the first thing she’d said to him directly all night. She stared at him as if annoyed that she needed to explain. “It’s part of the tradition.”

  Ah, right. Marcel had mentioned something about that in the car when Jehan was only half-listening. He’d much rather watch Seraphina’s mouth explaining it to him again.

  She softly cleared her throat. “At midnight, we’re supposed to walk together privately to mark the turning of the hourglass and the beginning of our—”

  “Sentence?” he prompted wryly.

  Surprise arched her fine brows.

  Jehan smirked and gestured for her to walk ahead of him. “Please, after you.”

  With their parents and siblings crowding the salon doorway behind them, he and Seraphina left the room and headed down the hallway, toward a pair of arched glass doors leading out to the moonlit gardens behind the Darkhaven estate.

  The night was cool and crisp in the desert, and infinitely dark. Above them stars glittered and a half-moon glowed milky white against an endless black velvet sky.

  It might have been romantic, if the woman walking alongside him didn’t take each delicate step as if she was being led to the gallows. She glanced behind them for about the sixth time in as many minutes.

  “Are they still there?” Jehan asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “All of them are standing in front of the glass, watching us.”

  He could fix that. “Come with me.”

  Taking her elbow in a loose hold, he ducked off the main garden path with her to one of the many winding paths that crisscrossed the manicured topiary and flowering, fragrant hedges.

  The sweet perfume of jasmine and roses laced the night air, but it was another scent—cinnamon and something far more exotic—that made him inhale a bit deeper as he brought Seraphina to a more private section of the gardens.

  She hung back a few paces, following him almost hitchingly in her strappy high heels. When he glanced over his shoulder, he found her pretty face pinched in a frown. Then she stopped completely and shook her head. “This is far enough.”

  “Relax, Seraphina. I’m not going to push you into the hibiscus and ravish you.”

  Her eyes widened for a second, but then her frown narrowed into an affronted scowl. “That’s not why I stopped. These shoes...they’re killing my feet.”

  Jehan walked back to her. Eyeing the tall spikes, he exhaled a low curse. “I don’t doubt they’re killing you. In the right hands, those things could be deadly weapons.”

  She smiled—a genuine, heart-stopping smile that was there and gone in an instant.

  “Hold on to my shoulder.”

  Her fingers came to rest on him, generating a swift, unexpected electricity in his veins. Jehan tried to ignore the feel of her touch as he reached down and lifted her left foot into his hands. He unfastened the pretty, but impractical, shoe and slipped it off.

  Her satisfied sigh as he freed her bare foot went through him even more powerfully than her touch. Gritting his teeth to discourage his fangs from punching out of his gums in heated response, Jehan made quick work of her other shoe, then stepped away from her.

  “Better?” His voice had thickened. Along with another part of his anatomy.

  “Much better.” She was looking at him cautiously as she took the pair of sandals from where they dangled off his fingertips. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” And it was. More than he might have wanted to admit. He cocked his head at her. “How old are you, Seraphina?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He immediately felt rude for asking, but there was a part of him that wanted to know. Needed to know. “We’re supposed to be getting to know each other, aren’t we?”

  The reminder seemed to calm some of her indignation. “I’m twenty-seven. Why do you want to know?”

  “I just wonder why you aren’t already mated and blood-bonded. You were raised in a Darkhaven, so you must know many Breed ma
les. If any of the ones I know ever saw you, there’d be at least a hundred of them beating a path to your door.”

  She stared at him for a moment in uncertain silence, then shrugged. “Maybe I prefer human men.”

  Shit. He hadn’t even considered that. “Do you?”

  “To be honest, I haven’t given the idea of a blood bond a lot of thought. My life is full and I keep busy enough with other things.”

  She started walking away from him, her bare feet moving softly, fluidly, along the bricked path. And he couldn’t help noticing she hadn’t really answered his question.

  He strode up next to her. “What kind of things have kept you so busy that you’re still unmated and nearing the ripe old age of thirty?”

  She scoffed, but there was humor in her tone. “Important things.”

  “Such as?”

  “I volunteer at some of the border camps, taking care of people who’ve been displaced by wars and other disasters. I guess you could say it’s been something of a calling for me.”

  Well, he hadn’t been expecting that. Granted, she didn’t seem the type to flutter around in fancy dresses and high-heeled sandals all day, but he also wouldn’t have imagined a stunning woman like her spending her time covered in dust and sweat. Or putting herself in harm’s way in those turbulent areas that had never known peace, even before the wars between the humans and the Breed.

  “What about you, Jehan?”

  “What about me?”

  “For starters, how old are you?”

  “Thirty-three.”

  She glanced at him. “Younger than I expected. But then it’s impossible to guess a Breed male’s age. It’s always seemed unfair to me that your kind never looks older than thirty, even the Gen Ones who’ve been around for centuries.”

  Jehan lifted his shoulder. “A small consolation for the fact that we can never put our faces in the sunlight. Unlike your kind.”

  “Hm. I guess that’s true.” She tilted her head at him. “What exactly do you do in Rome?”