Prince of Shadows by Nancy Gideon Page B

sections in the woods. It was just his father, Bull, Martine, who had looked him over carefully but had yet to offer an opinion, and Kendra, who stood back, removed from the others. He was surprised that she’d been allowed to be there at all. More surprised that she’d want to be.
    Cale glanced her way, and her quick evasion enlightened him cruelly. She thought he’d killed Derrick. They all did.
    “He was alive when I left him,” he told Bram, his flat voice reflecting how stunned he was by the news. “We talked. He gave me . . . water.”
    “Did he drink any of it?” Martine asked sharply.
    “He drank first. I took a little and spat out the rest. He—he had a lot. What was in it?”
    Martine’s dark stare pierced his. “You are very, very lucky to be alive.”
    Cale set down his coffee to put his hands over his face and scrubbed hard. “Why would anyone hurt that boy just to get to me?” He leaped out of the chair and stalked to the wall of windows, staring out blindly. Another soul to weigh upon his. He flinched at the light touch on his arm, at the quiet voice that followed, tearing that heavy soul to shreds.
    “Cale, it’s not your fault.”
    He stared down into those big, seemingly sincere eyes. “Since when?” He pulled away from Kendra’s tardy sympathy to address his father. “Let’s get things finished here. I’m ready.”
    Bram hesitated. “Perhaps under the circumstances—”
    “No. Now. If they’re so anxious to see me bleed, I don’t want to disappoint them.” He crossed the room, waving Bull off as he stepped forward to give escort. “Don’t need your help,” Cale spat at him. “I know the way.”

    If he could stand it, so could she.
    The long tails of the whip hissed through the cold evening air, slapping across bared skin, coming away with chunks of flesh in taloned barbs. Cale’s hands gripped the straps binding his wrists, but no emotion shifted the hard set of his face.
    Kendra clenched the muscles of her stomach, struggling to hold on to composure. She was very aware of Bram Terriot beside her, gauging her reactions just as he did his son’s.
    Don’t scream. Don’t cry. Don’t beg. She could hear Silas speaking those words to her and his sister. She clung to them the way Cale did the pieces of sweat-soaked leather, as if they were the only things that could save her. The way he’d saved her. Thank him with your strength, in a way he’ll understand. But it grew harder as the glittering bits of silver trailed strings of blood.
    “Hang on, brother,” Wesley muttered from the other side of her as the count passed a half dozen.
    How had it suddenly gotten so hot? Her face burned. Sweat trickled down her neck, dampening her hair at the nape. Nausea became roiling waves of dizziness as the brutality narrowed into one solid focus: Cale’s unwavering stare holding hers.
    Nine. The strokes of the whip grew labored. A ripple of quiet murmurs went through the gathering of brothers.
    “Almost there. Stay strong.”
    “C’mon, Cale. You’ve got it.”
    “What don’t kill you, brother.”
    The encouragement seemed to displease their father, but Cale’s stance strengthened until he no longer swayed with the fierce blows. He released the straps, his gaze leaving hers to lock on to his father’s. Not in defiance but with a humbling contrition, as if to say, I’ve killed my brother. I can’t bring him back. Forgive me for my crime.
    Because he couldn’t forgive himself.
    The silence after the last blow fell was deafening. Bram gave a single nod and then told her, “Go to him.”
    The straps had been cut free, leaving raw circles about his wrists. Cale watched her approach, standing still and straight and steady. With all eyes upon them, she tucked in beside him, easing his arm across her shoulders as he spoke softly. “Don’t let me fall.”
    This time .
    She hooked her fingers beneath his belt and held on tight. His ordeal wasn’t over until he’d walked away