Read Online When Passion Lies: A Shadow Keepers Novel by J. K. Beck - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: J. K. Beck
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seen that look on his own face—the knowledge of a love so pure it could never be shattered.
It had been, though. Misfortune and circumstance had conspired against them, and at the end of the day, he’d hurt her. And in turn, she’d hurt him.
And both of those events were something he’d once thought impossible, especially since he’d been honorbound to help her even before they’d met, an obligation placed on him when an old man had saved him from dying in the streets.
Tiberius had been human then, a prince ripped from his mother. A future king sold into slavery so that his cousin would inherit the throne instead of him.
Tiberius had remembered none of that, though. He knew only pain and abuse and hours in a ring, made to fight his friends. Made to kill.
It had been the only life he knew, the years before he’d been pulled away from his mother at the tender age of four nothing but a vague memory, replaced by pain and torment and the horrific knowledge that he had no self. That he was the property of the man who owned him, a vile creature named Claudius.
They’d expected him to die quickly, but he’d surprised them. He’d been forced to work first in the mines, then removed to the ring as he gained age and strength. He killed his first man at the age of eleven, and that kill had earned him his life.
His master had decided to train him, and for years he had lived in the training ring, beaten when he did poorly, beaten less brutally when he didn’t. He learned Claudius’s secret when he was fifteen—the master was a werewolf, and a damn brutal one at that.
In truth, Tiberius wasn’t surprised or shocked. By then, all emotion had been stripped from him. He knew only that Claudius was a monster. The new revelation that he was a werewolf didn’t really change anything. The beatings grew bolder, more fierce, more excruciating as Tiberius grew older, as if Claudius and the trainers feared Tiberius’s growing strength, and yet so wantedthe coin that his presence could command in the ring that they simply wouldn’t kill him.
When freedom finally came, it was wrapped in its own kind of nightmare. Claudius came to him in the night—this time not to beat him, but to use him. And
that
Tiberius would not abide. He fought, not caring that Claudius’s guards would surely gut him. He lost his mind in the melee, knowing only that he could not allow Claudius to take that one, final part of him. To rape him. To taint him. If he did, Tiberius knew his humanity would be lost, and he would become as much the monster as his master.
He threw himself into a frenzy, battling and fighting and hitting and kicking. No practiced moves there, just a wild beast chained too long in a cage. And when he exploded out, it was with rare fury.
How he made it out of the compound he didn’t know. Even more, how he was not discovered as he lay passed out in a ditch was as much a mystery as it was a miracle. But escape he did, though not into the warm arms of safety. He’d escaped one fate only to die of starvation and thirst, and though he wandered down a sand-covered road for three days, he saw no travelers who could offer him comfort.
He lay down on the ground and prepared to die. And the next thing he saw was those eyes—
Caris’s eyes
, though he had no way of knowing that yet.
The old man who knelt in front of him was her ancestor, and though Tiberius at first believed him to be a mirage, the old man proved to be quite human. His name was Horatius, and he tended to Tiberius’s wounds as best he could, but Tiberius hadn’t been restored. Instead, he lay dying, his head in the old man’s lap, hisstory on his parched lips. He told Horatius everything, including his lust for revenge, and how it had kept him alive well past another man’s breaking point.
When he was finished, he believed that his time on this earth was done. But blood still coursed through his veins and his lungs still drew breath, though ragged and
It had been, though. Misfortune and circumstance had conspired against them, and at the end of the day, he’d hurt her. And in turn, she’d hurt him.
And both of those events were something he’d once thought impossible, especially since he’d been honorbound to help her even before they’d met, an obligation placed on him when an old man had saved him from dying in the streets.
Tiberius had been human then, a prince ripped from his mother. A future king sold into slavery so that his cousin would inherit the throne instead of him.
Tiberius had remembered none of that, though. He knew only pain and abuse and hours in a ring, made to fight his friends. Made to kill.
It had been the only life he knew, the years before he’d been pulled away from his mother at the tender age of four nothing but a vague memory, replaced by pain and torment and the horrific knowledge that he had no self. That he was the property of the man who owned him, a vile creature named Claudius.
They’d expected him to die quickly, but he’d surprised them. He’d been forced to work first in the mines, then removed to the ring as he gained age and strength. He killed his first man at the age of eleven, and that kill had earned him his life.
His master had decided to train him, and for years he had lived in the training ring, beaten when he did poorly, beaten less brutally when he didn’t. He learned Claudius’s secret when he was fifteen—the master was a werewolf, and a damn brutal one at that.
In truth, Tiberius wasn’t surprised or shocked. By then, all emotion had been stripped from him. He knew only that Claudius was a monster. The new revelation that he was a werewolf didn’t really change anything. The beatings grew bolder, more fierce, more excruciating as Tiberius grew older, as if Claudius and the trainers feared Tiberius’s growing strength, and yet so wantedthe coin that his presence could command in the ring that they simply wouldn’t kill him.
When freedom finally came, it was wrapped in its own kind of nightmare. Claudius came to him in the night—this time not to beat him, but to use him. And
that
Tiberius would not abide. He fought, not caring that Claudius’s guards would surely gut him. He lost his mind in the melee, knowing only that he could not allow Claudius to take that one, final part of him. To rape him. To taint him. If he did, Tiberius knew his humanity would be lost, and he would become as much the monster as his master.
He threw himself into a frenzy, battling and fighting and hitting and kicking. No practiced moves there, just a wild beast chained too long in a cage. And when he exploded out, it was with rare fury.
How he made it out of the compound he didn’t know. Even more, how he was not discovered as he lay passed out in a ditch was as much a mystery as it was a miracle. But escape he did, though not into the warm arms of safety. He’d escaped one fate only to die of starvation and thirst, and though he wandered down a sand-covered road for three days, he saw no travelers who could offer him comfort.
He lay down on the ground and prepared to die. And the next thing he saw was those eyes—
Caris’s eyes
, though he had no way of knowing that yet.
The old man who knelt in front of him was her ancestor, and though Tiberius at first believed him to be a mirage, the old man proved to be quite human. His name was Horatius, and he tended to Tiberius’s wounds as best he could, but Tiberius hadn’t been restored. Instead, he lay dying, his head in the old man’s lap, hisstory on his parched lips. He told Horatius everything, including his lust for revenge, and how it had kept him alive well past another man’s breaking point.
When he was finished, he believed that his time on this earth was done. But blood still coursed through his veins and his lungs still drew breath, though ragged and
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