by Frost Kay
Her gaze strayed to the lounging felines on either side of him, and she barely contained a gasp. Leren: the man-eaters. Their golden eyes latched onto her as they flicked their tails in her direction. With her head still held high she surveyed the Scythian court; they were every bit as beautiful and cold as she expected. They eyed her with shock and disgust, but also a flicker of fear. Why did they fear her?
“What have you brought me?”
Her eyes snapped back to the warlord, who had sat up from his lazy sprawl, now leaning forward, one elbow resting on his knee.
Hell, he was flawless.
She’d spent time surrounded by handsome men—Tehl, Sam, Gavriel, and Rafe—but this man was regal in a way that left her in awe, rather like a fine painting or well-carved statue.
Rhys tugged her close, pulling her from her gawking, but when he tried to brush a tangled strand out of her face, something inside her snapped. She slapped his hand away and jerked out of his grasp. In an instant, both man-eaters sprang from the dais and to the floor, growling in a way that had fear clawing at her belly. Her instincts told her to run, but she knew that would only sign her death warrant. She reached for her belt and clasped air. Again, she cursed Rhys for taking her weapons. She was now completely defenseless. Slowly, so as to not startle the beasts, she settled into a defensive position, hands held out in front of her.
“Who’s this?” the deep voice purred.
She shivered, but didn’t pull her gaze from the giant midnight felines.
“This is Sage Blackwell, the rebellion’s blade, and…princess of Aermia.”
“Princess?”
“Yes,” Rhys replied, pride in his tone.
There was a beat of silence, and then, “Sage, I’m so happy you’re able to visit my court.”
Visit? What a joke. “It wasn’t much of an invitation, my lord.” It took all her energy to hold still and remain calm. In reality, she couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of her pulse and the ringing inside her head.
More curses and murmurs erupted around them. Inwardly, she winced. Probably not the best idea to disrespect the warlord. She felt his gaze hot on her face, but she still didn’t look away from the beast that had just licked its lips.
“She’s feisty.”
“More than you know, my lord.”
“Why are you limping?”
She swore she could almost hear Rhys’ teeth grinding.
“She fought me and landed a blow,” Rhys rushed out.
“Interesting,” the warlord drawled. “And her injuries?”
“Earned.”
She bit her lip to keep herself from lashing out, but still kept her eyes on the beasts stalking back and forth in front of the immense throne.
“My loves, come back,” the warlord cooed.
She studied the felines as their ears flicked back and forth before slinking back to his side, settling like shadowy pools that stained the white dais. Her hands trembled, and she had to clench them to hide it. At least she would not be torn apart by beasts. For now.
The warlord stood from his throne made of stone and thorns. She blinked at his bare, chiseled chest, which also seemed to be carved from stone, and again wondered why he didn’t wear clothes. In her mind, a warrior would want as much protection as possible. Sage studied him as he glided down from the dais and toward her. He truly did glide, each movement of his body flowing into the next. She shivered. Only highly trained warriors and assassins moved like that.
Tipping back her head, she maintained eye contact as he approached, halting less than an arm’s length away. Stars above, the man was enormous. He had to be well over six feet tall, maybe close to seven.
He completely threw her off balance when he bowed slightly, murmuring, “My lady.”
She dipped her chin in acknowledgement. The Scythian warlord straightened, and raised a black brow like he was waiting for something. If he expected her to curtsey, he would be sorely disappointed. She’d crash to the ground if she attempted such a thing.
Rhys stormed to her side and jerked her arm, crushing her skin in his hand. She winced as pain shot through her arm. Black eyes caught hers, and she masked her expression. But he’d seen it.
“Kneel,” Rhys demanded.
She locked her knees, not losing eye contact with the warlord. “No.”
Before she knew what happening, her knees cracked against the stone, her palms slapping the unforgiving floor, stinging. Much to her frustration, a tear squeezed out of one eye. It dripped off her face and splashed onto the white floor, mixing with the blood and dirt she’d tracked in. Glaring at the black boots of the warlord, she prepared herself for the beating that was sure to come.
Eight
The Warlord
He thought it would to be another day of dealing with petty bickering, but then his nephew reappeared, and with him, a girl.
The voices inside him quieted the longer he stared at her. The moment she lifted her head and met his gaze, he jolted. Images of the past assaulted him: sad, green eyes, a kiss, brown hair wrapped around his fist, and blood. He blew out a deep breath as the memories faded.
The voices whispered that they wanted her. That she was different. That she was his.
The resemblance was striking, and yet, she was unlike the women he’d surrounded himself with. By all accounts, he should’ve been disgusted by her, offended and repulsed by her green eyes and scars, but he was intrigued. Ensnared. The flawless Scythian women scattered around the room and the dangerous, broken creature before him created an almost laughable contrast.
But as enchanting as her body might be, it was her face that captivated him. It looked sweet, innocent, and honorable. Everything he was not.
She wore a mask of calm, but again her gaze betrayed her. Flames burned behind her eyes; she was dangerous. But what piqued his interest was the small glimmer of fear he detected. It was an interesting combination: fear, hate, and feigned innocence. He had killed for less than the expression she wore, and yet the voices stayed his hand at her insolence. Death clearly didn’t scare her, but he did. He both liked and hated that.
Before he really knew what he was doing, he descended the dais, almost desperate to be closer to her. Her obvious hate for his nephew warmed him to her even more. Rhys had always been a pathetic excuse for a Scythian. The moment Rhys struck her, something snapped inside Zane. Only knaves and cowards hit women. It was despicable, and no one touched what was his. Ever. It was an act which was not to be borne. His nephew had signed his own death warrant right then and there.
His gaze never strayed from the woman as he drew closer. Could she be the key to what he sought, or would she be the key to his destruction?
Nine
Sage
A large, calloused hand wearing several rings entered her vision. She stared at it. What kind of joke was this? He couldn’t mean to help her up.
“Take it, please,” his smooth voice said.
With no other option, Sage slipped her hand into his. He lifted her from the floor, and she swore she heard her bones creak. She met his gaze and dipped her chin as she pulled her hand away. “Thank you.”
A nod. He scanned her face slowly, taking all the time in the world. Then, he moved down the rest of her body, stopping here and there to examine a scar, a cut, a bruise. Was he admiring his man’s handy work? Looking for ways he could hurt her? She held herself stock-still as he walked around her as if he was inspecting chattel.
“What happened to her clothing?” he murmured, only loud enough for Rhys to hear.
“The other woman needed medical attention. Sage had to use her shirt as punishment for insubordination.”
The warlord hummed and paused by her side.
“Is she still pure?” The question lingered in the air.
“Of course, my lord. We wouldn’t dare touch what is yours.”
She forced herself to hold still when he caressed a scar along her hip, and then her wrist.
“How did she c
ome by the scars?”
“She and I had…a disagreement, if you will,” Rhys replied smugly.
Her stomach churned at his lies.
“And the rest? She’s been beaten badly.”
“All deserved, I can assure you. She brought them on herself. She never stopped fighting.”
Another hum. “What do I cherish most in the world?” the warlord asked conversationally.
“Perfection.” Rhys’ response was automatic.
“What comes second?”
“Our line.”
“True,” the warlord answered, circling her again. “And who bears our lines?”
“Our women,” Rhys drawled.
Sage turned her head to follow the prowling warlord. All his pacing had her on edge. He stopped between Rhys and herself.
“Do we ever hurt our women?”
“No,” the monster replied, his mud-brown gaze darting from her to the warlord.
He glanced at her arm, and the warlord’s lips thinned just a touch. Slowly, he began circling her again. This time, she turned to keep her back from him. She was finished with his inspection.
A small smile tipped up his sensual lips. “I wondered when you would give up your submissive pose. You don’t have it in you to bend to someone else’s will.”
She bared her teeth at him, countering his movements. “You know nothing about me.”
“On the contrary, I know everything.” The warlord slid behind Rhys and whispered, “You shouldn’t have marred her. You know how I feel about that, and yet you disobey me.”
One moment, Rhys was staring smugly at her, and the next, he was gurgling on the floor, scarlet liquid slipping from his neck.
Her body flashed hot and cold, and a high ringing filled her ears. A tremor rippled through her body as Rhys gasped and writhed on the floor. Even as death claimed him, he managed to choke out something that would surely haunt her dreams.
“I’ll always be on your skin,” he coughed, and the light in his eyes dimmed.
She blinked. No.
Sage scrambled toward Rhys and dropped to her knees next to him. Carefully, she held a hand over his parted lips, shaking. Not one breath. “No,” she uttered as she frantically grabbed his wrist to feel for a pulse. Nothing. “No, no, no, no, no, no!”
Her eyes darted back to his face, and she gagged at his empty, unseeing eyes. He was gone. Dead in a matter of heartbeats.
No pain. A clean death. No suffering.
An ember of rage caught flame in her gut. How dare he die! “You bastard!” she screamed and slammed her fists on Rhys’ unmoving chest. “You don’t get to die! Breathe, damn it.”
Still, his chest didn’t move. He was dead.
He didn’t deserve a quick death. He didn’t deserve death at all! He deserved to rot and suffer in eternal hell like she did every day. A wail came out of her that didn’t seem physically possible. “Death was too good for him!”
Sage pulled her hands back and held up her shaking palms. They were red. Covered in blood. She retched, bile burning her throat and flooding her mouth. In a frenzy, she scrubbed her hands over her pants and half-corset, sobbing. She didn’t want him on her. Pushing up from her knees, she tried to stand, only for her feet to slip in the gore. Again, she gagged and scrubbed harder, but only succeeded in making it worse. Her body now looked like a garish painting of red, brown, and black.
Even in death, Rhys seemed to win.
Another sob broke loose as she lifted her head. The warlord was observing, completely calm, utterly unaffected by the murder he’d just committed.
“You,” she accused. “You killed him!”
A shrug. “He deserved to die for his actions.”
“He deserved to suffer,” she choked out as the warlord’s form blurred from her tears.
“My justice is swift. No one breaks my laws without punishment.”
“His life was mine!” she yelled. “Mine!” Sage flinched as her voice echoed in the room.
“Was it?” the warlord questioned softly, returning his blade to the sheath at his hip. “Is anything really yours? Every decision you’ve made has been guided or forced from you. Your life, your body, and even your children will not be yours. He was mine, my subject to deal with.”
She had begun shaking during his little speech, tears still pouring from her eyes.
“It was justice.” He gestured at Sage. “He had no right to touch you. For that, he had a price to pay. You’re too valuable to ruin.”
She scoffed and sniffed, looking for Jasmine, while holding her arms out. “Your men have proved otherwise.”
The warlord barked, “Blair.”
The leader stepped away from the group of silent Scythians. “My lord.”
“Is what she says true? Did the men harm her?”
The leader stilled and flashed her a look that asked, Can you handle our deaths?
She swallowed, and tried to think through all the madness swirling inside her. She held many lives in her hands. Part of her wanted them all to die, but did they deserve to die because Rhys happened to be part of their party? No.
“Your men did not permanently harm me. They followed orders.” The words tasted like ash on her tongue.
“And the other woman?” the warlord asked.
“Anything that befell us was at the order of Rhys.” Her nausea rose up again. She’d just defended the enemy. What was wrong with her? She blankly stared at the grisly scene on the floor, no longer seeing anything.
“Indeed.” He addressed the leader: “Blair, make sure both women are cleaned, healed, and fed. Also, notify my sister that her son has died.”
A large hand touched her arm and something squished underneath. Sage pulled away and stared at the bloody handprint overlapping the silver scars of her forearm. The sight sickened her. She hunched forward and expelled what little there was remaining in her stomach, and watched it splash all over the dirty, bloody floor around her. She wiped the bile from her mouth and stood on wobbly legs, only to come face-to-chest with the warlord. When had he moved? She lifted both crimson-stained hands, and pushed against his chest while stepping back. But she was stopped short and hauled back when his hand wrapped around the back of her neck.
She began struggling, but it felt like she was moving through sap. All her movements were slow and uncoordinated.
“It’s easier this way,” he whispered.
She darted a look up at him as his finger pressed into her neck. His sensual mouth and black eyes were the last thing she saw before darkness swallowed her.
Ten
Tehl
“She won’t say a damn thing!” Sam paced and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “I’ve tried everything, and nothing! Nothing works. She’s silent as the grave. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she might be deaf. All she does when I ask her a question is stare at me expressionlessly, as if she can’t understand the words coming out of my mouth.” He cursed. “We don’t have time for this! Sage is enduring God-knows-what circumstances and—” Sam broke off and swallowed hard. “I worry for her.”
Tehl closed his eyes and held the bridge of his nose. “We have to get her to speak.”
“What do you expect me to do? Torture her?” Sam snarled.
The anger that had been simmering beneath his skin finally bubbled over. “I don’t know!” Tehl exploded. He shot out of his chair and threw a bottle of ink at the wall. “My wife has been missing for over a week in enemy territory. I have no way of knowing if she’s even alive.” He watched the ink drip down the wall like black blood. “Some part of me hopes she’s already dead. Then, she would be spared from Rhys,” he admitted. “Do you understand how messed up that is?”
Jeffry, Gav, Sam, and Rafe all stared at him in silence like he’d lost his mind. Maybe he had. Since Sage had been taken, he’d had nightmares every night. She always died in his dreams, mouthing something he couldn’t understand with accusing eyes.
“You don’t want that,” Gav said w
ith sorrow clinging to him. “Mourning a loved one is not something I’d wish on my worst enemy.”
A loved one.
Somewhere along the lines, Sage became not just someone foisted on him, but part of his family. She got under Tehl’s skin, just about drove him crazy, and ribbed him mercilessly, but that made him like her all the more. He loved her; not like his father loved his mother, but she was a loved one. The realization startled him.
Rafe uncoiled from his spot on the wall and rolled his neck. “Let me have a turn at her.”
“Do you think you’ll do better?” Sam asked.
The rebellion leader shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. But I’ll try until we get something we can use.”
Tehl tipped his chin at Rafe. “I’ll go with you.”
“Is that wise, son?” Jeffry asked.
He smiled sharply at the Keeper. “No.”
The Keeper blinked his eyes dangerously slow. “You’re not planning on anything you’ll regret, are you?”
“The only thing I would regret is the death of my wife,” he said over his shoulder. He then stormed down the winding hallways that made up the labyrinth of cells.
“Do you have a plan?” Rafe asked from beside him.
He sent the rebellion leader an irritated look. “How do you move so quietly? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were related to Sam.”
A small smile played about Rafe’s mouth. “I can’t help it. It’s how I was raised. You didn’t answer my question.”