by Nicole René
“Tristan!”
He looked back, expectant.
“There was a girl. Woman, really. She had a scar on her face, and she was…different. She warned me of the attack, and she helped me escape when…” Leawyn shrugged. “I never got to thank her.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know it.” Leawyn grinned and Tristan barked out a laugh.
“I’ll ask her myself, then.” He waved at her, and she watched as his form disappeared into the distance.
Come back to us soon, Tristan. Leawyn thought sadly. She heaved a heavy sigh and turned away to get back to work.
There was a lot to do in the aftermaths of war, after all.
The morning air was cool, the sky a soft gray with tinges of pink in the morning light as Leawyn quietly made her way past the slowly waking village. The tribes’ grazing horses paid her no attention as she walked past them and up to the small incline in the field.
Leawyn stopped, her hands raised up to her brow to shield her eyes from the sun that was glowing steadily brighter. Her eyes scanned the field and hillside.
“C’mon,” she muttered under her breath. “Where are you?”
The sun was becoming a beautiful blend of colors now as it peaked. Soft pinks, blues, and tangerines created the beautiful chaos of morning light.
More moments passed, and she was just about to head back up to the village when she heard it.
A soft whinny echoing from below the hill.
Leawyn stilled, watching the hilltop with bated breath.
Deydrey’s silver mane appeared first, slowly walking up the hill until her chest was visible. She stopped, her neck turning to look behind her, waiting.
Leawyn’s hand flew to cover her mouth, blinking back tears.
The pure black colt burst over the hill, his longs legs still uncertain and wobbly as he hurried over to his mom’s side and stayed close.
“He looks just like him.”
Leawyn jumped in surprise, looking over her shoulder to see Xavier staring at the foal ahead of her.
“He’s beautiful,” she said with emotion thick in her voice, turning back around. Xavier’s arm rested around her shoulders, pulling her close to his side.
They watched the colt run around, testing out his legs and speed. The colt kicked out his legs, and they both laughed when he wobbled precariously as his feet landed back on the ground, the momentum throwing him off balance.
A soft cry caught drew their attention behind them.
Xavier and Leawyn both turned, watching Namoriee walk towards them, her arms cradling a blond-haired baby close to her chest.
Xavier stepped forward and met her halfway, Namoriee gladly handing their son over so he could take him in his own arms and hold him close. The girl turned to leave as soon as she did so.
Leawyn smiled softly at the sound of her son’s happy gurgling as his dad tickled his stomach. Xavier walked back over to her, and she sighed in contentment, leaning back against him when he wrapped his arm around her waist from behind.
“I love you,” he whispered into her ear, meeting her eyes when she tilted her head back to look up at him.
Leawyn and Xavier didn’t choose their beginning, it was chosen for them. They were forced on each other for the sake of their tribes. For a long time, Leawyn’s life had felt hopeless. She was stuck with a man she hated, with no chance to escape, and she had often wished-for death.
Xavier and Leawyn tore each other apart with their words, and then put the pieces back together with their actions. They wanted each other to suffer, because they were scared. Of themselves, of each other…of love.
Hate brought them together; fear tore them apart.
They hurt each other to try and hide their own pain. They were lost in the sea of loneliness, yet, somewhere along the way, they found each other, and instead of drowning, they swam.
It took Leawyn awhile, but she finally figured it out.
Xavier was a warrior first, and a man second. That was a fact that would never change.
Their love wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t conventional. But it was theirs. Their love was painful. It was hard. It was heartbreaking. But most of all...It was everlasting.
They fought the battle, and won.
Leawyn smiled, fingers caressing his cheek. She went up on her toes and Xavier bent his massive form down to meet her halfway. Before their lips touched, she told him the truth.
“I love you, too.”
The End.
* * *
Turn the page for an exclusive bonus scene in Tristan’s point of view!
* * *
“Tell me, Tristan…what would you do if you lost your freedom?” Leawyn asked him.
“To be forced to spend the rest of your life as nothing more than an object; tied to a man who cares so little about you, he would feel no remorse for killing everything inside of you.”
The wedding party continued to dance around them and even though they kept tempo, it was like time had slowed and everyone faded away until it was only them and this moment. An air of melancholy surrounded her, and when she met his eyes… it took everything he had to not react to what he saw reflecting in her ocean blue eyes.
“Would you accept your fate?”
It was a simple question, one that she couldn’t possibly know how much it would affect him. The hollowness that he saw in her depths was the same kind of emptiness that reflected in his own.
Because like her, he wasn’t free. He was trapped in the prison of his creation.
Unexplained anger coursed through him to which he unfairly directed at her. But just as quickly as his anger, came wariness.
Leawyn might seem like an innocent and defeated girl now, but she was far from it.
She was dangerous—she just didn’t know it yet.
From over her shoulder, he saw his brother get up from his and Leawyn’s shared table and make his way towards them.
Their time together was coming to an end.
She was still waiting for his answer; the fact that he was about to crush the glimmer of hope he saw in her gaze weighed heavy on him.
Because instead of admitting the truth, he did what he always did.
Lie.
“No,” he said softly, watching avidly as the light in her eyes dulled. “But you will, Leawyn.”
He released her and stepped back, hiding his shaking hands by dropping hers. He watched Xavier escort Leawyn to his horse, Killix. Her expression was more akin to a woman being led by her executioner instead of her husband.
If Tristan truly believed that he was capable of feeling anything, he would imagine the tight feeling in his chest would be sympathy.
You’re a liar.
The whisper in his mind made him clench his fists.
Filthy, dirty liar. You don’t feel sympathy for her. You want what he has. As always.
The toxic thought was one that he refused to acknowledge. Turning away, he pushed through the crowd that was still celebrating the union of the Izayges and Rhoxolani.
From foe to friend.
He snorted at the thought. He knew for a fact that the only reason Xavier agreed to the marriage was because he wanted the Rhoxolani’s land so that he could turn it into another Izayges settlement. His brother was a great warrior and masterful liar. He was cunning, ruthless, and cared only for the Izayges people. No matter the cost.
Unlike you.
He grabbed a mug of ale as he passed by the serving wench, ignoring the suggestive look she sent his way. Usually, it was easy for him to play his part of the carefree brother of the Izayges chief, but not now.
His mask was slipping and Leawyn was to blame.
The Tristan people saw didn’t care that his brother was regarded as the best warrior of Samaritan history. Or that he was passed over to be the one to bride the beautiful daughter of the Rhoxolani.
If only they knew the true nature of what he was.
He was so lost in his thoughts, that once h
e stopped walking, he was surprised to find himself at the cliffs behind the village. He downed his drink and in a bout of bitterness, he threw launched his mug. He watched as it arched and then crashed into the ocean below.
He heaved a sigh.
“Tired of the wedding?”
He whirled around at the voice, his dominant hand going for the hilt of his sword on instinct.
No one was there. He scanned the darkness with his eyes.
“Who’s there? Show yourself,” he demanded.
Everything remained still and quiet. He narrowed his eyes; his sword made a quiet slinking sound when he started to pull it free.
“There’s no need for that,” the voice spoke again, sounding amused. If he wasn’t on such high alert, he would ponder the uniqueness of that voice. It was raspy, but decidedly feminine and had a strange accent.
“I will not ask again,” he warned.
“And what will you do?”
He whirled to the right, where the voice was now coming from.
“Come and find out.”
Laughter floated out to him, this time to his left. He jerked his attention that way. How was she moving so silently?
Witch, his mind hissed. He tensed, unease coating him.
“Relax, brother of Xavier. I mean you no harm.”
At the mention of his brother, he pulled his sword completely free despite her assurance. “How do you know who I am? Enough games. Show yourself!”
“Very well.”
It was quiet, then like a forest sprite, she stepped out of the darkness and robbed him of breath.
He realized why she had been able to blend with the night. Her skin was darker than what he had seen before. Her midnight hair framed her face and was ramrod straight. The length of it covered breasts that he was sure were bare. Smooth, unblemished skin glowed in the moonlight, despite her color. But what was most remarkable about her was her eyes.
They were two different colors.
She was the most exotic thing he had ever seen, and she was beautiful.
“Who are you?” he breathed, entranced.
She tilted her head curiously. “What difference would my name be to you?”
“Are you a witch?”
“To some,” she replied cryptically. “To others, I am many different names.”
She was close enough to him now that he could smell the woodsy scent of her.
“Are you the Goddess Ianna?”
She laughed quietly under her breath. “I am no Goddess.”
His breathing became slightly uneven when she reached up, smoothing her hands up his chest.
“What are you doing?” he asked huskily.
Her lips tilted. “Isn’t it obvious?”
His lids grew heavy while he watched her untie the strings holding his shirt together; starting from the base of his throat, downward. She might claim not to be the Goddess Ianna, but her actions screamed otherwise.
After all, Ianna was known for her trickery over warriors who fell for her sexual prowess.
“What do you want from me?” He should be asking more pressing questions and demanding answers, but it was like she had cast a spell on him. He couldn’t move—could hardly breath from the arousal she awakened within him.
“I want nothing from you right now besides this,” she whispered, cupping the firm bulge hidden beneath his trousers. “Will you deny me?”
He didn’t answer her right away, his eyes flying across her face.
He shouldn’t do this.
Something about her wasn’t right, and he now, more than ever, was certain that she was a witch. But instead of voicing his thoughts and pushing her away like he should have, he bent his head and captured her lips in a kiss.
He groaned softly when her tongue met his eagerly, her arms wrapping tight around his neck and pulling him closer. He snaked his arms around her, his hands traveling until they gripped her ass. He hauled her up, making her moan against his lips. She wrapped her legs around him as he carried her away from the cliffs before lowering her to the ground.
He trailed his mouth from her lips to her jaw while her frantic hands unbuckled his belt. His body lurched slightly from the force of her pulling it free from the loops and pushing the fabric of his pants down his hips.
“Gods,” he grated against her neck when her hands gripped him firmly. She stroked his length, using the exact amount of pressure that he liked, but usually had to teach the women he slept with how to do.
“I am not a lover,” he growled against the delicate skin of her neck. “I will not treat you like some flower.” He gripped her throat, urging her head back forcibly to better look her in the eyes.
“I don’t care about you. I only care about the pleasure I can find inside of your tight cunt, you got that witch?”
“Do I look like I want a lover? Why do you think I chose you?” Her multicolored eyes darkened with arousal.
“You’re good for only one thing, Tristan,” —she reached down and squeezed her fist around him almost to the point of pain— “and that’s this.”
He snarled at her, pulling back enough so that he could use both of his hands to tear her skirt in half— uncaring that it left her without one once they were finished.
His hand back at her neck, he used his other to hoist her leg around his hip at the same moment he filled her entirely with his girth with on hard thrust.
There was no buildup. No foreplay.
He did exactly what he promised and used her with the same gentleness of a man using a whore. His thrusts were brutal and punishing. Forceful. If it wasn’t for his hand against her throat holding her down, her body would be sliding away from his after each impact.
“Tristan!” she cried, her nails raking down his back, leaving crescent moon indents that beaded with blood.
“You don’t get to use my name,” he rasped. “Not when you withhold yours.”
She whimpered in response, her bare breast bouncing as her inner muscles clasped him. She wasn’t the tightest, but her cunt gripped him with encouragement while he battered into the delicate tissue. Arousal spun through him like a storm. Each time he pulled out of her greedy body and slammed back in, it was like a spike of pure euphoria to his engorged member.
He consumed her. Abused her. The sounds ripping out of his throat were animalistic, her mews and whimpers fueling his primal hunger.
He wanted to tear her apart with his cock, and he felt no shame for it.
Sweat dripped down his brow and chest, his lungs puffed for air as he owned her. He was always a rough lover, something the women in the village knew and willingly endured when they sought out his bed.
But this was different. He was completely unbidden.
Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t know this woman. Or maybe it was because some part of him was angry with her for being able to entice him so much and make him lose control.
Whatever it was, it liberated him.
She gasped in protest when he pulled out of her, reaching out to him desperately. He ignored her and flipped her over. With a sharp slap on her bottom, he tugged her up by her waist so that she was on her hands and knees.
She shrieked when he hammered back into her roughly. The force caused her to fall forward, but he simply followed her down, his hips pistoling inside of her.
“You’re so wet,” he rasped. “You like the feel of my cock inside of you, don’t you witch?”
She gasped in shock when his palm smacked against the skin of her ass again.
“I asked you a question.”
“Yes!” she wailed, jerking when he spanked her again. Painfully.
“Yes what?” he taunted, spanking her again— this time on her other cheek. “Tell me what I want to hear.”
“I like your cock inside of me,” she moaned. “I want to come.”
“You’ll come when I say you can.”
His fingers curled over her hips hard enough to bruise. When she went to look back at him, he tangled his fing
ers in her hair and held her head forward to prevent her from doing so.
The waves drowned out the sound of their bodies slapping together in a frantic tempo. He kept her captive, not letting her control any aspect of their joining. Eventually, she stopped trying and just submitted herself to the fact that her body was his to control, and there was nothing she could do about it.
Time seemed endless. He lost himself within her body, until finally he felt close to combustion. His balls drew up tight, his spine tingled and he knew he was close to coming apart, but he held back.
He didn’t want it to end until she screamed his name whilst she fell apart.
It only infuriated him more that he cared enough to make sure she got her release before he did.
His hand left her hip to come between her spread legs where the meat of his cock was spreading her folds apart. She jolted when he touched her swollen nub, rubbing it in harsh circles.
“What are you—ah!” she choked, his hand squeezing around her throat preventing her from finishing.
“Shut up and come, witch,” he hissed cruelly into her ear, taking the lobe between his teeth.
He pressed down against her nub simultaneously his hand left her throat and pushed his thumb inside of her puckered hole.
She screamed as she spasmed around him with her release. A moment later, he followed with a groan.
Their heavy panting broke the otherwise silent night. Still buried inside of her, Tristan squeezed her hips once before pulling out of her warmth and got to his feet unsteadily. As he dressed, the mysterious woman rolled onto her back, not at all ashamed of her nudity. He finished and stood straighter, his gaze roaming her naked body lazily.
The sweat that misted her skin made her body shimmer in the moonlight. Her long hair was wild from his hands being buried inside of the tresses. She looked sated, and extrinsic and it made his blood heat with the knowledge that he was the one to make her look that way. A sudden, fierce desire hit him, confusing him.
“Who are you?” he asked again, mystified by her mere presence. “You’re not from here.”