Underneath the hood, Cormia was in a state of desperation. The air she breathed was hot and wet and smothering, worse in that regard than having nothing at all to inhale. Her knees were loose as blades of grass, her palms wringing wet. If not for the restraints, she would have crumpled.

Following her panicked bid for escape in the baths, and her eventual capture, a bitter drink had been forced down her throat at the Directrix's command. It had calmed her for a time, but the elixir was now wearing weak, and her fear was spiking once again.

As was the degradation. When she'd felt hands going down the front of the robing to free the golden toggles, she'd wept for the violation of a stranger's gaze upon her private skin. Then the two heavy halves of the robe had been pulled apart from her body and she'd felt coolness on her skin, something that was in no way a relief from the weight of what had been draped all over her.

The Primale's eyes had been upon her as the Scribe Virgin's voice had called out: "Is she to your liking?"

Cormia had waited for the Brother's response, praying for some warmth within it.

There was absolutely none: "Whatever."

"Perhaps you shall choose your words anew?"

"She'll do."

Upon hearing the words, Cormia's heart stopped beating, fear replaced by terror. Vishous, son of the Bloodletter, had a cold voice, one that suggested proclivities far worse than even his father's reputation had detailed.

How would she survive the mating, much less represent well the venerable Chosen during the course of it? In the bath, the Directrix had been brutal in her wording of all that Cormia would disgrace if she did not comport herself with appropriate dignity. If she didn't carry out her responsibility. If she was not the proper representative of the whole.

How could she bear this all?

Cormia heard the Scribe Virgin speak again: "Vishous, your stead has not tendered his gaze. Phury, son of Ahgony, you must view the Chosen that is offered as the Primale's witness."

Cormia trembled, afeared of yet another set of unknown male eyes upon her form. She felt unclean though she had been so carefully washed; dirty, though no filth dripped from her. Under the hood she wished she were small, so small she would shame the head of a pin.

For if she were small, their eyes wouldn't find her. If she were tiny, she could hide amongst larger things… disappear from all of this.

Phury's eyes were glued to the back of the golden throne, and he really didn't want them anywhere else. This whole thing was wrong. All wrong.

"Phury, son of Ahgony?" The Scribe Virgin pronounced his father's name as if the weight of the family's entire lineage rested on whether Phury got with the program.

He flipped his lids up to the female-

Every one of his mental processes ground to a halt.

His body was what responded. Instantly. He thickened in his silk pants, his erection popping up fast as a breath even as he was utterly ashamed of himself. How could he be so cruel? He dropped his lids, crossed his arms over his chest, and tried to figure out how he could manage to kick his own ass and still remain standing.

"How find you her, warrior?"

"Resplendent." The word came out of his mouth from nowhere. Then he added, "Worth of the fairest tradition of the Chosen."

"Ah, now, that is the proper response. As acceptance has been made, I pronounce this female as the Primale's selection. Complete the incense bathing."

In his peripheral vision, Phury was aware of two Chosen coming out with staffs that had smoky white trails drifting from them. As they began to sing in high, crystal voices, he breathed in deep, sifting through a garden's bloom of female scents.

He found the intended's. Had to be hers, because it was the only one in the whole place that was spelling out pure terror-

"Stop the ceremony," V said in a hard voice.

The Scribe Virgin's head twisted over to him. "They shall finish it."

"The hell they will." The brother got up out of his throne and marched onto the stage, having obviously caught the scent as well. As he came forward, the Chosen let out squeaks of alarm and broke ranks. While the females scattered and their white robes whipped around, Phury thought of a stack of paper napkins at a picnic, blowing away all willy-nilly, skipping along the grass.

Except this was no Sunday in the park.

Vishous yanked the intended's jeweled robing back together, then tore free the binds. As she sagged, he caught her by the arm and held her up. "Phury, I'll meet you back home."

Wind began to rip around, emanating from the Scribe Virgin, but V held his own, facing off with his… well, his mother, apparently.

Mother, Christ, never saw that one coming.

V had a death grip on the poor female and a face full of hatred as he stared at the Scribe Virgin. "Phury, get the fuck out of here."

Even though Phury was a peacekeeper at heart, he knew better than to intercede in this kind of family squabble. The best he could to was pray his brother didn't come back in an urn.

Before he took off, he had one last look at the female's hooded form. V was now holding her with both hands, as she appeared to have passed out. Jesus Christ… What a mess.

Phury turned and beat feet back down the white silk runner toward the Scribe Virgin's Courtyard. First stop? Wrath's study. The king was going to have to know what went down. Even though clearly the biggest part of the story had yet to play out.

Chapter Thirty-five

When Cormia came to, she was stretched out flat on her back, the robing still on, the hood in place. She didn't think she was on that board she'd been strapped to, however. No… she wasn't on-

It all came back to her: The Primale stopping the ceremony and freeing her. A vast wind blowing through the amphitheater. The Brother and the Scribe Virgin starting to argue.

Cormia had passed out at that point, missing what ensued. What had happened to the Primale? Surely he had not survived, as no one defied the Scribe Virgin.

"You want any of that off?" a hard male voice said.

Fear shot up her spine. Merciful Virgin, he remained herein.

Instinctively she curled into a ball to protect herself.

"Relax. I'm not going to do anything to you."

Going by his harsh tone of voice, she could not trust the words: Anger marked the syllables he spoke, turning them into verbal blades, and though she could not see his form, she could sense the awesome power in him. He was indeed the warrior son of the Bloodletter.

"Look, I'm going to take the hood off so you can breathe, okay?"

She tried to get away from him, tried to crawl from wherever she lay, but the robing tangled and trapped her.

"Hold up, female. I'm just trying to give you a break here."

She went dead still as his hands fell upon her, sure she would be beaten. Instead he merely loosened the top two fastenings and lifted the hood.

Sweet, clean air swept onto her face through the thin veil, a luxury like food to the hungry, but she couldn't draw much in. She was tight all over, her eyes squeezed shut, her mouth drawn in a grimace as she braced herself for only the Virgin knew what.

Except nothing happened. He was with her still… she could catch his fearsome scent… and yet he touched her not, spoke no other words.

She heard a rasping sound and an inhale. Then she smelled something tangy and smoky. Like incense.

"Open your eyes." His voice was all command as it came from behind her.

She lifted her lids and blinked a number of times. She was on the stage at the amphitheater, facing outward toward an empty golden throne and a white silk runner that led up the hilly rise.

Heavy footsteps came around.