Chapter 4
SABA
Seven years ago, upon news of the engagement, celebrations sparked across the AkkadianLight Nautilusgeneration ship, with holo calls and messages flooding their airwaves.
Shiloh’s name became the talk of the clan as her uncle and aunt eagerly planned the wedding, knowing it would change their family’s fortune.
Now the entire Akkadian community ululated for Saba.
Not Shiloh.
Relatives, neighbors, and friends stood behind Don Lisade and his family; their felicitations and congratulations filling the air.
However, her uncle Tewa’s glare and red face told her he was not happy with the turn of events.
Her aunt Sylvana sported her usual permanent scowl, and Saba envisioned her thoughts to be sour, dipped in self-pity at her imagined loss of face.
Their daughter, Zsófia’s lips twisted, eyes raking over Saba in a dark storm of jealousy.
Saba suspected the reason was that she, the most unlikely of the Lisades to get married, had done so before Zsófia.
Not that Saba cared; she had enough troubles of her own.
Her mind spun.
Once more, anxiety flooded her, along with gut-wrenching regret.
She was not meant to be here.
She was not supposed to behisbride.
Her family’s and Shiloh’s lives depended on how she explained her secret.
Worse, a freakin’ sachem assassin had just attempted to murder her and her groom.
As her husband led her away from the altar, dread gripped her.
How in sweet, sullied hell had she fallen into this miasma?
It was then that a scent hit her, emanating from the man prowling by her side, coming from his muscled body.
It was masculine, earthy, spicy, accented with notes of pine, bergamot, clove, and amber.
The raw, rugged, alluring cologne was intoxicating, all-consuming, with a primal allure.
Her veil fluttered around her and snagged on her heels, causing her to totter.
He steadied her with a firm grip, and Saba glanced down at his hand in surprise.
It was calloused, with lean, long fingers, and flesh inked with intricate lines.
Branching off from a spiral at the spine, the elaborate ink ran along the arms and down to the fingertips.
At the end of every finger was a small star, symbolizing that their touch was to bring light to the world, even in the darkest moments.
However, it was the scorching, sinewed hold of that hand that claimed her.
She drew strength from his heated grip, accepting the bows and curtsies from their guests in rows flowing from the bloom-festooned altar.
