Free Sorcerer's Legacy by Caroline Spear

just listen. She’s lost her sense of who she is. And I suspect you’re feeling a bit the same. You think you’re protecting her, but by taking away her knowledge of the scroll and the ring, you stole a part of her.”
    Trixie easily rose to her feet and pinned him with a pitying look. “The thing is, you need her.”
    He shook his head. His inner voice—or maybe Myrddin—called him a liar.
    She frowned at him. “You need her to ground you. As an empath, emotions are electrical impulses that can overload your system. Strong feelings are like lightning, but when you are grounded, you can channel the power into the earth safely.”
    He could not deny the truth of her statement. He’d hoped the experience of being with Becca would carry him through the worst onslaughts of fury, passion, and anxiety. In fact, sending her away decreased his ability to control his reactions tenfold.
    “You need her as your mate, too. You’re meant for each other. I see it. I feel it. Make it right.”
    “I can’t.” He hated the helplessness smothering him. Fuck.
    “Sarka can.” Trixie shrugged. Nobody liked asking Sarka Rowan for help. With her razor-sharp tongue and acidic attitude, nobody liked asking her anything.
    As Trixie ran off down the trail back to the Haus, he considered her observations. She’d nailed him on every point. The answer was simple yet hard to swallow. Prostrating himself before Sarka, the Dark One, tore at his pride, yet he must.
    He dragged himself to his feet and shuffled along the trail in Trixie’s wake.
    A stiff drink—or three—would give him liquid courage before facing the dark sorceress in her lair.
    May the gods take pity on me.
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Here we go.
    “So you made a huge fecking mess, did you, Chairman?”
    Ian detested needing help. He especially hated to petition Sarka Rowan for it. The staff called her the Dark Sister or simply the Dark One not only for her black hair and olive skin. Her soul and personality exuded an ominous edge, like a rabid wolf hiding in a cave ready to attack. Though the Syndicate members appreciated Cyrus’s service and sacrifice, none truly trusted Sarka. Her mighty powers raised concerns within the ruling body, as she refused to socialize with or participate in any committees. Naturally, the Syndicate feared the unknown.
    He swallowed against a tiny frisson of uneasiness threatening to lodge in his throat.
    Clothed in a black dress that emphasized her long, lean body, she stood from her chair and one of her eyebrows winged up. With one hand on her hip and the haughty raise of her chin, she personified the strength and grace of a prima ballerina about to take the stage as the black swan. And the danger of a coiled, hissing cobra.
    Frustration and desperation roiling inside his stomach, he dug his nails into the palm of one hand and pushed the door shut with the other. His control frayed with each passing second.
    “I need your help.” His voice trembled. She’d heard it; her smirk confirmed it. Her glee at his situation irritated him, infuriated him.
    “What is the problem?”
    There she stood, so smug in her safe little world.
    He reined back his anger. She had not caused his problem. He hadn’t caused it either.
    “I need to regain my center, my focus.”
    After a careless shrug, she glided to the desk and rested her hip against it. “I understood you’d taken care of that.”
    He clamped his eyes shut and muttered a string of multilingual curses. The crystal ball in the corner caught his attention, the gray mist within swirling around like a tempest in the storm. How much had she seen of his visit in the telling orb?
    She laughed. “That’s your problem, Chairman. You can’t control everything. You can’t control what’s happening inside you.”
    His jaw hurt from the pressure he exerted holding back his furious words, or, worse, spells. It wouldn’t do to loose his magick on Sarka. Dark, beautiful, and as powerful as he was, she’d