Elathan smiled sadly to himself. “That is what he wants humans to believe. He still dwells in Avalon since he left this despicable world behind, never to return. I was not so fortunate. Now come, slave.” Abruptly he turned around, his rigid posture indicating that the idle talk was over. The elf strode to the training circle and picked up two long wooden sticks from a rack. He threw one to her so quickly, she hardly saw it coming. Relieved that she had managed to catch it, she joined him in the arena. He needn’t realize too early how clumsy she was.
The prince was already waiting for her. He surveyed her briefly with a mocking glance. His stick was circling in his right hand, so fast she could hardly follow it with her eyes. Igraine grabbed her own stick in the middle and held it out threateningly … or so she thought. Elathan shook his head. “Did you never see anyone pole fighting, human?” he asked with a sigh. “Look, this is how to hold the staff. One hand at the end and the other at shoulder width above, thumbs on the inside.”
He stepped behind her and grabbed her arms, moving her hands on the pole to the right position. Igraine felt an incredible heat emerging from his body. Somehow his pale skin made him look hard and cold like a stone, but that was not the case at all. Oh no, he wasn't cold at all. All right, hard he was, everywhere. She doubted that the prince had a single soft spot on his body. Was he hard down there, too, right now? The thought came to her uninvited, and she blushed deeply. Her heart began to beat like a drum. Hopefully he wouldn’t notice the way his presence affected her. She just had to lean back a little, and she'd feel his warrior's body pressed against her back.
“Now hold it level in front of you. Yes, that’s it. You raise the pole over your head, back to shoulder level, like this. Then thrust your arms out in front of you, now drop them down below your waist. With this move, you can strike your foe or avert an attack.” He went to her side, demonstrating it to her, followed by other techniques. Igraine watched in awe how gracefully he fought, light and quick like a dancer. Hard muscles moved and tensed under his pale skin, showing off his strong arms and wide shoulders.
After Elathan showed her circular movements, thrusts and jabs, he decided that she was ready for practicing. “Brace yourself,” he said with a wicked look in his eyes. “Now, attack me.” He dropped his own staff to the floor. “Look, woman, I am unarmed and defenseless.” Igraine hesitantly lifted her pole. “Attack me, or I’ll rip your heart out and throw it to the dogs, stupid human!” he thundered.
There and then Igraine's numbness faded away. Anger prevailed over fear. It felt like a brick wall collapsing inside her mind when she finally had the strength to overcome her shock. Suddenly, she was beside herself with rage. All that she had gone through during the last two days took hold of her. She had been kidnapped by a creature who shouldn’t even exist. He had robbed her of her life, dragged her into this creepy place and constantly threatened to kill her. Besides, she really hated being badgered and humiliated by this pompous ass of an elf.
Being angry was a strange feeling to Igraine. For years and years, she had seldom allowed herself to become enraged, out of fear that Stephen would stop loving her if she did. She never complained, not even once shouted at him when he dumped her for that dumb blonde just like that; after all she had sacrificed for him. Instead she wordlessly turned around and left shortly afterwards for the motel – just with her suitcase and two bags, leaving most of her possessions behind. Stephen had never bothered to send them after her. He probably had disposed of them in the garbage. Once settled in her new apartment, small but hers alone, she started to eat and eat. Every time her anger seemed to well up again, she couldn't resist the temptation to indulge in food. It felt so good and eased her pain. After that, she felt at peace and comforted for a while, but not for long. Soon the rage and anxiety would raise their ugly heads again, and she would continue the same way, day after day.
During this moment, all the anger, hate and disappointment broke over her like a huge wave; so many long-suppressed emotions which at one time she could almost not endure without breaking down completely. But now something else was there. At first she didn’t know what it was. But it felt good. Actually, she felt great and very alive. Adrenaline shot through her body, her heart pumped. Even her skin felt hot and oversensitive to any touch.
With a fierce cry, she lunged at the prince, fully intending to thrust her pole into his ridiculously handsome face. She hoped she would break his all-too-perfect straight nose which he had way too high in the air most of the time. A crooked nose in this otherwise flawless face would be her special present for him and remind him of this ‘stupid human’ long after he had killed her. She grinned wickedly, not afraid of dying at all at this moment.
Elathan was clearly surprised by her sudden ferocity, but not for long. His warrior instincts rapidly took over. When she lifted up her right arm to strike a heavy blow at him, he grabbed the end of the staff she had thrust forward to hit his head. Igraine didn’t have a chance against his strength and swift reactions. Before she knew it, she was catapulted high into the air like a pole jumper and crashed onto the stone floor with a loud thump. She felt a sharp pain in her right wrist when she tried to catch herself before the impact. Then she hit her head hard on the floor. Moaning, she tried to get up, but was hit again by a series of blows with the pole. “Stand up!” Elathan ordered. “Stand up and defend yourself, woman!” He held the tip of the pole to the base of her throat, obviously assuming that she would give up now. But Igraine was beyond fear and pain now. She didn’t care if she lived or died, as long as she gave the pointy-eared bastard a hard time.
Bleeding from several wounds, she took hold of the pole directed at her and pushed it aside before rising slowly. It was a difficult undertaking with only one hand. When she tried to support herself with the injured wrist, she winced in pain. Elathan watched all this with a mixture of indifference and curiosity; his unblinking eyes holding her furious gaze. He seemed to be musing whether she was worth his effort at all, or if it would be better to kill her at once.
Coming to stand before him, she straightened to her full height and looked him straight in the eyes, refusing to give up. “Now what? Are you tired already, sweet prince? Why don’t you call one of your servants to carry you to your royal chambers and tuck you up in bed?” Then she tried to attack him again, this time with her bare hands pushing into his hard chest as hard as she could. It made the pain in her wrist almost unbearable, but she didn’t care. He stood there like a rock and didn't move an inch. His slightly amused smile indicated that he wasn't enraged, but she knew that he couldn’t let her live after this insult. Not anymore.
Igraine's anger grew even more when he didn’t lift a finger to fight her. The wound on her head kept bleeding, and she was feeling dizzy. Tiny lights began to dance before her eyes. But she would never give up. She couldn’t. “Just finish this farce and kill me, elf,” she hissed. Simultaneously she stretched out her hand and grabbed a short, light sword from the nearest rack. The tip was blunted for training, but the blade looked sharp. She surely could do some damage with it, at least. Crying out with rage and frustration, she swung around the sword, aiming at Elathan’s neck.
The air was violently pressed out of her lungs when her back hit the floor. Elathan had thrown himself into her body and landed right on top of her. Effortlessly, he took hold of the sword and flung it away. It skittered over the floor and beyond her reach. It was over. This would be her end.
Igraine was struggling for air, but it was impossible to get any with the weight of the tall elf pressing down on her chest. Her eyes were closed while she awaited the pain of his final move to kill her. He didn't need a weapon to perform the task. Would he slowly choke her to death with his strong hands, or break her neck with one swift movement? It didn't matter, as long as he got over with it soon. However, nothing happened.
After a while she dared to open her eyes. Elathan's face was so close to hers that the heat of his breath touched the side of her neck. He d
idn't move, just stared down at her with his lion's eyes. She fought the sudden desire to touch his cheek and trace the long scar leading to his chin with her fingertips. Unexpectedly, the elf grabbed one of her wrists with each hand and pinned her to the ground. He rested a part of his weight on his elbows, so she could easily breathe now. When Igraine finally felt brave enough to lift her gaze to his, she gasped. The expression of his strange light eyes was not cold or amused anymore, nor did she see her own death in them. What she saw was untamed desire, a primitive craving so raw, so powerful that his eyes were burning with passion. This was like nothing she had ever seen in the eyes of any human man before. His body as well as his mind seemed to call out to her, not asking, but demanding the fulfillment of his carnal needs.
Once again, unexpected feelings hit her like a wave, but it was not rage or fear this time. She couldn’t move under his weight, but she loved the pressure on her body, her own weakness confronted with his overwhelming strength. Softly moaning, she tried to move under him, though not to escape. Instead, she rubbed herself against him, just a little bit. The elf reacted with a sharp intake of breath. Igraine could feel all of him, his strong shoulders, the incredibly hard chest crushing the softness of her breasts, his flat, tense abdomen. His long, muscular thighs tensed, one of them settling right between her legs, spreading them. There was no doubt that he was fully aroused, and his erection felt huge against her hip.
During the fight she had not seen one single drop of sweat on him. Now, his pale brow glistened with tiny pearls of moisture. One of them was running down to the notch in the base of his long, muscular neck. Igraine couldn’t help herself. She had to taste him. Following a sudden, undeniable urge, she lifted her head up to his neck and put her lips right there, licking him with small strokes of her tongue, like a cat lapping milk. Elathan went rigid, every muscle in his body tight before he finally threw his head back to ease her access. She felt him shivering and smiled against his heated skin. For once, she had managed to surprise him. When he groaned deep in his throat, it was a sound so incredibly erotic she felt it deep in the core of her womanhood. Wetness started to gather between her legs. God, he smelled so incredibly good. Her whole being screamed out to him to take her, even if he meant to kill her afterwards.
Elathan closed his eyes, breathing heavily and pressing harder against her body. When he lowered his head to inhale her scent at the curve between her neck and shoulder, his long hair fell over his shoulders and covered her face. She wanted to wrap herself up in it completely and lose herself forever, embedded in the silky softness of it.
Igraine gasped when the prince’s lips touched the delicate skin on her neck. At first his mouth seemed to tease her as a revenge for the sweet torture she had applied on him before. Then she felt his tongue on her, moving in tiny circles over her neck. Her nether regions throbbed with desire, and she grabbed him, hugging his wide back, touching every hard muscle on it. She winced when he started to bite her with his sharp elven teeth, causing a pleasurable amount of pain without really hurting her. Wantonly, Igraine began to rub her lower body against his arousal, to show him that she was his and his alone to take. She didn't know why she behaved that way. Was he using his magic on her again or was she just a victim of his supernatural beauty? Whatever the case, she didn't really care. For now, he obviously didn't want to kill her as long as he was enjoying himself. So why couldn't she use him the same way and give in to her overwhelming need to touch him? Later, she would find a way to escape and maybe even pay him back for what he had done to her.
Then, to her utter frustration, his weight was lifted from her body, and she lay on the floor, alone and trembling. She was fully dressed, but felt naked and cold. Igraine opened her eyes to see what had happened. Elathan crouched before her on one knee, watching her with a naughty, self-contented smile. Fae or human, the species didn't really matter when it came down to male arrogance.
“I must admit you took me by surprise, human," he said. “To tell you the truth, I didn't think you'd even survive your first training. But you did quite well - in both disciplines. Most eager to learn, aren’t you?” He stretched out his hand and touched the bare, sensitive skin of her inner thigh, where her jeans had been torn during the fight. Slowly he caressed her there, his fingertips moving upwards until he almost reached the spot where she longed and ached for him. Igraine moaned when he took his hand away.
“I think it is you who wants to be tucked up in bed now, slave,” he remarked with a slightly evil gleam in his eyes. Then he was gone.
Chapter 4: The Presence in the Dark
Prince Elathan closed the door to the human’s prison cave behind him and pressed his bare back against the cold, damp stone wall of the darkened corridor, closing his eyes. His muscular chest heaved with each breath as he struggled to gain control over his agitated senses.
He cursed softly and waited for his heated body to cool down. How could a mere mortal woman affect him so much? Although he didn't like to admit it this to himself, he wanted this redhead. Desired her. His body, his whole being yearned to feel her luxurious curves pressed closely against his skin while he spread her creamy thighs and possessed her completely. It had been this way since his first sight of her the previous day when, like so many nights before, he had stood on the column of the old railway bridge and watched the uncountable lights of Londinion, gleaming and twinkling on the dark sky.
Usually he loathed human settlements, most of all this giant abomination of a city which poisoned the air with its mere existence. But deep in the night, when most of the streets were empty and the ugly buildings were hidden in the dark, he actually liked to watch their illuminated outline. This strange force they called electricity never ceased to fascinate him. It seemed unbelievable, but, despite their ignorance, the humans had developed their own kind of magic. He liked to stand on the bridge and watch the lights for hours, standing still like one of the old trees in the forest he had once called his home. Only then could he forget all that tormented him – the fate of his people who had no guidance, no hope left at all, since his father, Bres, had given up on them.
The king had grown very old after so many eons, so many lifetimes; he was now the oldest elf on earth. Once a proud warrior, somewhere along the way he had lost his unyielding willpower. He simply accepted that his people would fade and eventually die, after humanity’s repeated betrayal of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Breaking the truce again and again, they stole the elves’ lands, killing not only their warriors, but also defenseless women and children. Eventually, they chose to forget the Sidhe they had once treated like gods. Even so, they continued plundering and destroying the earth with their hideous machines, killing uncountable creatures of the Fae without even knowing it. More and more the Fae had retreated to their own lands, protecting their realm with magic so no human could ever cross the boundaries again.
Bres had grown very tired of his life. In truth, Fearann was reigned by Bres' second wife, Queen Breena who had born the king another son – Ruadan, Elathan's half brother. Being accused of raising an army against the king to prematurely claim the throne for himself, Elathan had been forced to leave the elven realms and live in exile, dishonored. But the prince still had friends who frequently informed him about Breena and Ruadan's insatiable greed for wealth and power. They took everything from their subjects who had once thrived and prospered under the king's protection. Even the use of magic was forbidden, leaving the Fae helpless and unable to defend themselves from their enemies at the borders. Elathan knew about the suffering of his people, the broken, blank expression in their eyes. And they believed that he, the throne heir of Fearann, had betrayed their trust. True, Elathan's magic would have enabled him to live among his people, unrecognized if he chose to magically change his appearance. But as long as he couldn't help them, he preferred to live alone, accompanied only by his pain.
But last night had even robbed the prince of the peace his silent watch on the bridge usually brought him. Deeply lost in t
houghts, his gaze directed at the shiny lights, he was suddenly affected by something he couldn’t make out at first. It made his body tingle with new sensations, his heart beating faster. A strange yet wonderful scent filled the air, and he instinctively turned his head to explore from whence it came. At the same time, he became aware that someone was standing on the other bridge, disturbing his solitude.
A human. It was a woman, her auburn, tousled tresses hiding most of her face from his sight while she bowed over the balustrade, staring down at the chasm beneath the bridge. Angrily, Elathan whirled around. He knew that his glamour kept her from seeing him, but he found himself furious, wishing she'd go away and leave him alone with his thoughts.
There it was again, that irresistible smell. As he sniffed the air, his eyes widened when he found out that it had been her. Ridiculous! No mortal woman could smell like this. Humans simply didn't smell like a sweet, exotic flower. A flower that grew under a tree and nestled between fresh, young leaves glittering with dew in the rays of the morning sun. Disgusted by his foolish pondering, he shook his head. Perhaps he had not seen the vast forests of Fearann for too long. If humans smelled of anything, then it was of fear and death, especially if they dared to cross his way. But the last time he had killed one of them, it had been in battle, centuries before.
Nowadays, he avoided them if he could, preferring to live in underground caves where they wouldn't find him. He knew that if he was openly confronted too many of them, he wouldn't be able to help himself. Rage and memories of Ailidh's death would take possession of him, and he'd kill any human foolish enough to come near him. They wouldn't stand a chance, of course. He didn't even have to use his magic to end their worthless lives with his bare hands.
However, it was undeniable that this woman on the bridge was the origin of the unknown scent that affected him so much.
Bound to the Prince Page 4