Hunted: A Claiming Novella (The Claiming)

by T. A. Grey

Phoebe didn’t look like she believed that. “Let’s look at the facts.” She held up a finger to count of her points. “You and he had something happen a few years back. You refuse to tell me what happened but I’m willing to bet that at least a kiss happened. Since then, neither of you have been with anyone else. You fight when you see each other, and you said so yourself—he wants you. So while you may not be holding out for him, he is for you, dearie.”

  “How positively uplifting,” Penelope muttered. Things were looking more dismal than ever.

  On the other side of the dance hall, not far from Penelope’s dressing room, music echoed in full swing as the smaller ballet troupe performed. Tarina Mey, her boss and an incredible dancer in her own right, would be getting on stage to perform her number with the accompanying troupe any minute now. Penelope finished the last dab of lipstick to complete her exotic makeup for tonight’s show.

  Bam, bam!

  Two hard knocks sounded. Both of them jumped at the sound; Phoebe answered the door.

  All the oxygen in the room was sucked out in a vacuum as Ryon Ward filled her doorway. The last time she’d seen him she’d left him with an erection—and on the verge of orgasm. Tonight he looked incredible: dark, scowling, and intense. Even his hands looked ready to curl into fists—or maybe into her hair as they had yesterday. Her stomach twittered anxiously.

  Phoebe looked back and forth between them then her eyebrows slowly rose. “Well, I should be going. I came to see Tarina’s performance anyway. Talk to you later,” she said to no one in particular. Ryon stepped to the side to let her pass, then closed the door behind her.

  Once more it became quiet, so much quieter with only Ryon in the room with her. He silenced the world around them so that she could only focus on him. Tension could be felt flowing chaotically between them. His eyes trailed down her body then back up. Heat sparked in his eyes.

  For some reason she felt the need to say something— anything to clear the silence. “I-I’m about to go on soon. I have to go.”

  He took two steps toward her. The crowded dressing room didn’t leave much space for the general’s larger-than-life presence. He looked like he wanted to take her over his knee. Not that she had a problem with that, under certain occasions. She found the whole idea rather wicked, actually.

  “Not yet,” he said. “We need to talk.”

  And like that, at the reminder of the Claiming, her arousal shriveled up like an old prune. “No, thank you,” she said brusquely. “You need to leave so I can finish getting ready.”

  “You look ready to me.” His eyes scoured her once more making her flush hotly.

  “Be that as it may, I still am not ready. Now leave.”

  “Finish getting ready while I’m here because I’m not going anywhere, Pen.” He crossed his arms across his broad chest.

  There it was again, the nickname which never ceased to suck the breath right from her.

  “Insufferable man…” She looked back over her makeup and costume, but she already knew she was ready and didn’t have anything else to do—but to face Ryon.

  “We left off last night in an awkward place,” he said. He sounded unsure of himself. It was the first time she’d ever heard him like this and it caught her attention.

  “Is that how you’d describe it?”

  “We never finished discussing the Claiming.”

  Her heart froze a beat in fear. “I can’t discuss this. Not now!” She had a show to do. She couldn’t dance with thoughts of Ryon or of her claiming or of this weekend. There were too many questions and worries to deal with. She much preferred to ignore it.

  He stopped before her, coming too far into her personal space. “Yes, now,” he insisted. “I’ll be at the arena this weekend. I will fight for you, Pen. And I will win. Do you understand what that means?”

  He was so close she could smell him. His masculine scent was heaven to her senses like rich, heady sex. So potent was his scent she had to fight the urge to drift forward and bury her face in his shirt.

  “You’re not looking at me,” he said angrily. “Are you even listening to me?” He grabbed her by the shoulders. His touch didn’t hurt but it did startle her into looking up at him.

  It was a mistake to look at him. Now, only a breath of air separated them. Her breasts grazed his chest. His gaze dipped down to her mouth—and stayed there.

  “Ryon…I need to know.” She licked her dry lips, his eyes tracking the movement with predatory regard. Her voice pitched low to mimic her mood. “When you went home last night did you think about me? And what we did?” She boldly pressed her hips against his.

  And gasped. They both did at what she found. Already he was hard for her. The grip on her shoulders became bruising a moment before he released her, mashed his hands in her hair, and held her.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said, angry, hungry eyes scoring over her flushed face. “But I can’t wait to kiss you.”

  His mouth came down and laid a claim on hers. A stake. Hard, wet, and hungry. He kissed her, groaning deep in the back of his throat, flooding her mouth with his wicked taste, with the promise of pleasure. Her hips naturally lifted against his to feel even more of him.

  “Why would you ask me that question, little devil? If you’re thinking to try to tease me again, you have another thing coming.”

  Then he attacked her neck with sensual kisses up to her the back of her ear. She wilted into him like a bouquet of dying flowers.

  “I want to know. Because when I went home I touched myself, too. Thinking about you. Thinking about how I’d wanted you and all the things I wanted to do with you. About how I wanted to grab your—”

  She never got to finish the statement, for Ryon growled like a rabid animal before hauling her body against his, lifting her feet clean off the floor, then slamming his mouth across hers. When her back hit the wall she didn’t think anything of it at all. It felt like the most perfect place to be. After all, it made it easier for Ryon’s hands to cup her breasts and stroke her hips. He drove her mad, her wetness already creaming her underwear.

  “General,” she moaned as he bit down on the base of her neck. A dominant gesture.

  “I’m going to claim you, Pen. I will. And after, I’m going to fuck your little quim and your mouth. All of you.”

  His lips drifted across hers, soft and gentle, but they forced her mouth open to slide inside. He caressed a moan from her, and that’s how they were caught when her dressing room door swung open.

  No one had locked the door

  A startled woman’s voice interrupted. “Oh! Excuse me! I’m sorry. I had no clue.”

  Horrified, Penelope pushed Ryon away only to pale at who’d caught them.

  Tarina Mey stood there. Penelope respected few more than she did Tarina. Not only did she partly own Prima Donna’s, but she was one of the most moving ballet dancers Penelope had ever seen. Respect didn’t begin to cover how Penelope felt for Tarina. She certainly didn’t want her boss and friend to see her making kiss-kiss with a man in her dressing room. Inappropriate wouldn’t begin to touch the situation.

  Tarina took in the two of them, and paused. “Sorry to…interrupt. Lansey’s called in sick and can’t perform the number to the adagio key. Could you come fill in?”

  Pen was already nodding, and Ryon stepped back to give some much needed breathing room.

  “I’d love to. I was just headed that way,” Penelope said. Her blush told an entirely different story.

  Tarina saw it, but at least was kind enough not to say anything. “Great, I’ll see you in five. Curtain’s already up.” She turned and left, leaving Penelope alone once again with the man who loved to torture her dreams.

  “I’m sorry. That’s my curtain call,” she told him, hearing the vamping music playing. “Looks like we’ll have to cut this evening a bit short.”

  Ryon tried to grab her but she slapped his hand away. She didn’t know who she was angrier with—Ryon or herself. She was a professiona
l. She’d never made out with a man in her dressing room—ever. She’d be lucky if rumors didn’t spread before nightfall. Just what she needed. More stress.

  His mouth twisted. “Fine. Go. But this isn’t done with.”

  Fine. Whatever, she thought.

  The hallway that led to the stage felt longer than normal. Ryon might even stay to watch her dance.

  Behind the massive red curtains, Penelope took lead position where Lansey normally was. The rest of the dancing troupe formed a V pattern behind her. As the music began the overture, the curtain began rising. Pasting on a delicate expression, a soft, gentle face, Penelope ignored the packed audience and focused on her routine.

  For the first time ever her timing was wrong; her synchronization seconds behind. She couldn’t help it. Her mind sprinted at a mile a minute and didn’t seem ready to slow down. On top of that her heart was pounding. And then she saw him.

  The general.

  He stood in the back of the crowd watching her with a fixed expression. He meant to claim her? For some reason, until now, she hadn’t quite thought it through. Just what being his would entail. What if he did win her hand in marriage at the Claiming? She would actually be his, completely and utterly by law.

  She fell into the dance. The movements were long lived in memory deep in her bones. They were patterns she’d created with her body hundreds of times. Dipping, arms arching above and out straight. She leapt, performing splits in the air and even she was impressed that she managed to hang in the air for a split second as if by magic. When the performance ended and applause broke out over the audience, Penelope bowed, eyes secretly searching that spot at the back of the room.

  Ryon was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 5

  Ryon arrived at the king’s castle as night settled overhead. Storms clouds hovered like menacing discs, growling in anger and threatening a wet onslaught sure to drench. An ominous night. He didn’t care for it.

  Up ahead at the front gate of the castle the spieler stood at attention. A row of military officials and royalty dressed in their finest livery waited for the steward to announce them to the celebration.

  “Admiral Premby Adams and wife, Miranda,” the announcer called out. He had a grand, ringing voice that carried out over the courtyard and into the ballroom.

  Tonight the highest of the kingdom’s echelon would gather to boast about their massive wealth and responsibilities. All under the pretense of celebrating their victory over the Avas.

  Tonight was the anniversary of six years free from Avagarian attacks. The thought made him feel sick; his chest felt hollowed out and scraped clean like carving bones. It hurt like hell. Because tonight was nothing but a fat lie.

  They were no longer six years free from attack.

  This was the hardest part of his job. In the interest of public safety, it was his responsibility to clean up the messes and make sure everyone was safe. He couldn’t do that if everyone began living in fear again. They’d already lived that way, under repeated attacks by an inconceivable enemy. An enemy much stronger, quicker, and more dangerous than them.

  War kept their morale low as a people. Birth rates declined, people died. That’s how the Claiming Laws came into being. With the population in steep decline, the king had to do something. And so he chose to write a law which stated: During the Claiming Season, a time lasting during the warmest months of the year, a female will be chosen of healthy constitution to be offered for any fit male as wife.

  In less subtle terms: It made men marry young women in order to procreate. During the Claiming Season, lasting roughly three months, one female a month would be chosen. That left a possibility of three new pregnancies a year.

  The strongest of the males would compete, since they must fight any other competitors in hand-to-hand combat. Sometimes men died for the chance. However, the victorious winner would reap the greatest prize of all—the female. He would then take her, copulate, and thus officially mark her as wife under Tarlèan law.

  He vowed to win Penelope during her Claiming. No one else would touch her. It was their time now.

  A touch on his shoulder caught his attention. The man behind him was pointing at the announcer. In fact, everyone was staring at Ryon expectantly. It was his turn in line.

  “My apologies. I was lost in memories,” Ryon said automatically.

  The group behind him smiled, oozing familiarity, righteous or not. “Such a hero,” one woman sighed.

  The announcer smiled, pleased, turned to the great hall and bellowed, “General of the Tarlèan Armed Forces, Ryon Amadeus Ward!”

  He tensed under the attention. It still wasn’t something he’d gotten used to, though he supposed he dealt with it better than he had when he first became general.

  Applause erupted as Ryon stepped into the castle. He saw the faces of his compatriots, his men at arms, royal leaders from their respected houses, and friends and loved ones. These were his people, but he cursed at having to dress up in his full regalia. He felt pompous with the ridiculous medals hanging off his chest like some boastful symbol. He’d not done the things he had, and does, for recognition, and certainly not for any applause. He did it to save lives. He was good at his job and he simply wanted to do it. If he could do it quietly, from the back corner of a room wearing a dull smock, he would. So long as Penelope stood at his side.

  He made his rounds through the crowded room of socialites. He shook hands, patted backs, kissed ladies’ rouged cheeks. Played his part as the general. All the while his mind churned with thoughts.

  Of Penelope.

  He’d thought he had seen fire in her before, especially after their first kiss those years ago. Now he had to face the realization of how just how mistaken he’d been. What he felt for Penelope could only be described as a blistering inferno. His very skin felt stretched taut around her, each cell poised to wait to see if she’d grace him with her touch. His thoughts were forever returning to her, to the wicked things she said to him, to remembering the feel of her mouth on his cock, to the thought of waking up next to her in bed, of sharing meals together. These thoughts pleased him like an overfilled wine glass to a drunk.

  Trumpets boomed a hymn of the king’s royal march. Ryon jolted at the raucous noise and turned to watch his friends much more lavish arrival. Lyle generally attended social events partnerless. However, tonight the sultry Lysse was attached to his arm, a lecherous smile on her red lips. Her appearance did nothing to stoke his desire. All it did was remind him of Pen’s perfectly shaped mouth. He liked the way she kissed, too. She kissed like she did all things in life—with enthusiasm. A man could hurt worse than having an enthusiastic partner.

  Stifling a groan, Ryon adjusted his hips to ease the pressure growing in his groin. A release from his own hand had done nothing to reduce the ache in his body. Only one woman could appease him now. His usually stellar patience had begun to slip around the time he’d kissed her again. As soon as he could, he planned to slip from the party unnoticed and go home. Maybe another release would help with the pain in his manhood.

  Just as he turned to make his way to King Lyle, a commotion started up.

  “Who’s that?” one woman asked nearby, her tone hateful. “Looks like one of those dancer girls.”

  Shock froze Ryon in place; the muscles in his shoulders bunched so hard they convulsed in spasms. With a turn, he faced the front of the hall and stopped, rooted in place like a tree. He visibly shook—with rage.

  * * *

  Here, birdy, birdy, birdy.

  Oh, you can be so wicked, Penelope thought.

  Tonight she was dressed to kill and she had only one name on her hit list: Ryon Ward.

  He wouldn’t stand a chance against tonight’s assault.

  Her name wasn’t announced as she entered the military soiree to commemorate an attack-free kingdom. How easy it had been sneaking into the gala, uninvited. All it took was a smile and the guards had let her pass as a “special guest.” It helped that they
recognized her from Prima Donna’s club. They’d even asked for her autograph, but she had to decline. There just wasn’t time for that. Not tonight.

  Tonight she was here with a purpose. To get a little payback on Ryon. Why, one might ask. Well, she had many reasons. Or, perhaps not many, but one very good one. He’d kissed her in her dressing room, in her private sanctuary, and had gotten her in trouble with her boss. Now all the dancers wouldn’t stop teasing her about “getting it on with the general” during work hours. That just wouldn’t do. So she planned to rectify the situation. Tonight.

  Her soon-to-be victim stood on the opposite side of the room scowling with the angriest expression she’d ever seen on his face. Normally, he kept himself rigid with control, but the mask had slipped from place. He’d spotted her surprisingly quickly—as soon as she’d entered the room—as if he had a beacon on her. And he looked downright furious.

  She almost giggled.

  Penelope made sure she caught his eye before she lifted her chin high and smiled at him. This was her game now and she controlled things. It was something she’d always been good at. Eyes were on her, both appreciative and not.

  For such a possessive man, Ryon took things about as well as she’d imagined. His mouth formed the words of a vicious curse but he didn’t speak the word aloud. How delightful he was. She could laugh but it’d surely sound shrill and evil with her devilish thoughts. Rare was it that she ever had so much fun with a man.

  Ah, yes, it felt good to hold the reins of power again. Last night he’d tipped the scales in his favor, but she planned to rectify that. Tonight he would pay. She hadn’t quite decided what she would do. It wasn’t in her nature to be vengeful—until now. And it wasn’t in her nature to plan anything. She much preferred on-the-fly thinking. It was exhilarating. In fact she could hardly keep from smiling like the little devil he proclaimed her to be.

  Behaving badly had never felt so wicked.

  Penelope began to make a pass around the hall as was customary at a gathering of this magnitude. As she came to the bottom of the grand staircase, she froze. Standing before her was none other than the King of Tarlè, Lionel Hargrowe, His Majesty. Sucking in a petrified breath, she dropped into a deep bow, even remembering to lower her gaze at the last second. Hopefully she hadn’t made an affront.