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Amber Quill Press
www.amberquill.com
Copyright ©2007 by Gabrina Garza
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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ADENO
By
GABRINA GARZA
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ISBN 978-1-60272-068-8
Amber Quill Press, LLC
www.amberquill.com
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ADENO
Nasora firmly pressed her palms to the hard, chiseled plane of the injured man's chest. Eyes closed, she reminded herself that she'd seen worse, but a small voice in her head taunted her with the cruel truth: Most of the slaves didn't survive for long.
With a grunt of exertion she leaned over him, waiting for the leaf she'd crushed to his flesh to release its heady scent. Breath by unsteady breath, his bunched muscles relaxed as the fumes filled his lungs and steadied his heartbeat. Sedated, he wouldn't argue or fuss. With any luck—if could be called luck—servants would return him to his cell before he regained consciousness.
"Drift,” she murmured.
Energized heat warmed her palms, and she took a deep breath, attempting to block out the cacophony within the medical ward and concentrate on this injured man.
"He breathes,” Turvo whined in his high, rat-like tone. The robust, barrel-chested man looked as though he should have a voice befitting a lion, but he never managed more than a cowardly squeak. “That means he lives to fight another day."
She ignored the dark-skinned Miorian and placed her heated palm on Adeno's rock-hard chest. With a puff of air, she blew her straight, dark locks from her eyes until no veil of hair obscured the vision of pain before her.
"What are you waiting for?” Turvo sneered.
"He barely breathes,” she replied at last. “I wait for my strength to heal him, Quist Turvo."
The slave warrior's heart thumped, a slow rhythm against her hand. Eyes pressed painfully shut, she willed him to survive another fight, another bloody moment in a slave's life. Smile, she thought desperately, look up at me and smile.
Coins jingled in the fat man's pocket and disrupted the flow of her thoughts. “Make haste, Healer,” Turvo snapped. “There is no time to caress him. He fights tomorrow."
She allowed her fingers to graze over the warrior's nipples, felt the twinge in his muscles as he reacted on a primal level to her gentle, rousing stimulation. He wouldn't live to fight, but he'd live for the temptation of sex.
"A week,” she corrected, not bothering to face him. She despised the Quist's pudgy face and his lifeless eyes. That he made his profit off another man's death repulsed her. “A week of rest or you merely waste my time."
"Your time?” A chuckle escaped and jiggled his belly. “You have no time, Healer. Your every minute belongs to your governess."
"Leave at once,” she replied, her voice strained for a hint of respect. Her nose wrinkled as she breathed in sickness and death. Teeth grinding, she stared ahead at the black rock wall and wished he would leave her, give her a moment to heal this broken man. “I cannot concentrate on my patient with you hovering behind me."
The sound of ill-gotten coin signaled his footsteps, and when the metallic symphony of gold finally drowned to the moans of the dying, she glanced down and gasped.
"Nas,” Adeno breathed, his eyes clouded, face pale. “You cut your hair."
"Quiet,” she whispered. She still sighed, grateful to hear his voice.
"When did you cut it?"
"Two weeks ago.” She chuckled, thinking it typical of a man not to immediately notice the difference in a woman's hair.
"Why?"
"My governess suggested I do so,” she murmured.
A rush of pain visibly swept through him, though even if his face hadn't contorted, she still would have experienced the tightness in his muscles, the heaviness in his gut that threatened with sickness for both of them. Immediately she drew her hand away, and with it the blackness crowding her vision receded. She needed to concentrate or his wounds would leave them both on the brink of death.
"Here.” After a moment to gain her composure, she pressed her hand to his damp forehead and bent to look him in the eye. Her free hand crushed the leaf to his flesh and released the strong, sweet scent, the aroma of deep, inviting sleep.
"No, I want to feel it."
"Rest,” she whispered when his shoulders hunched and he resisted the herb. His head thrashed to the side, and she placed her palm to his cheek, to the forbidden surface of smooth, freshly-shaven flesh. Their gazes locked—his filled with determination, hers struggling to abolish pity. “Rest far from here, Deno. Take long, deep breaths."
Sometimes he violently protested, but today his jaw went slack, his smooth lips soft and slightly parted. A curl of black hair rested above his brow, and she gently smoothed it away. His square face appeared peaceful and flawless—handsome—now that she'd sedated him.
"Think of the hills and the pass leading north,” she murmured, her voice a soft, hollow whisper in the damp, ill-lit quarters that served as a medical ward beneath the Emperor's Stadium. “Think of the rain like sugary mist on the meadows, and the white blotches of hundreds of sheep grazing for the summer. Think of what we shall never see again, not in this life, and perhaps not the next either."
He drifted now, his lungs drawing in more of the Sleeping Leaf that would allow him to float on his dreams through an hour of surgery and mystical repair. Fortunate, she thought, to escape this place if even for an hour.
Now she needed to close her eyes, clear her mind, and tend to him. With each deep breath, she built up her energy as she sterilized a needle with a candle's flame. Heat seared through her fingertips, static pooled in the palm of her outstretched hand as she prepared to heal the opened wounds.
A bloody hand gripped her thin wrist and pulled her close. The needle almost dropped from her grasp, and the violent wrenching nearly sent her hand directly into the flame. She shrieked, but the surrounding agony swallowed her surprise.
"What have you—"
Two wide, fearful eyes met her gaze as he inhaled a sharp, desperate breath. It jarred him, this interruption from a dreamless sleep, this passage of an hour that, to his body, seemed like days.
"Are there still men able to fight?” he questioned, his voice bordering on a command for answers.
She looked into her assigned patient's wide eyes and frowned, knowing he had no recollection of their previous conversation. “They have summoned the Scales,” she said evenly. As he grasped her wrist, she sought to remove herself, but he held her physically, emotionally.
His hardened expression faltered, and she allowed him to lace his fingers with hers. Realization hit that he was once again in the care of his Healer, his broken form given yet another chance for repair before the arena destroyed him again.
"I'm here, Deno,” she said quietly.
Drums rolled, muffled by the roar of a bloodthirsty crowd two floors above their heads. Bits of dust and debris fell from the cracks in the rock walls and ceiling as the underground shook. She covered his torso, but not in time to cover his wounds. A Scale shrieked its battle cry, followed by the beating of feet and wings against the arena walls.
Nasora ignored the sounds of bloodshed and took a deep breath. The serrated scythe l
ay shrouded in alabaster gauze. She did not know why a bloody weapon was ceremoniously wrapped and given to the victor. It was not her duty as a woman to think. It was her duty as a Healer, however, to tend the wound created by the razor's edge.
The wound, straight and clean, swept from the arena warrior's armpit down to his hip. Such a serious injury would leave her drained for hours, possibly even a day or two. She'd grown accustomed to the fatigue and never complained, especially to the warriors who lay before her, their faces contorted with agony.
"How long have you done this?” he asked, his voice heavy with the urge to sleep.
"You know how long,” she replied under her breath, mustering the courage to dismiss him.
Despite the pain that turned his skin gray with agony, he managed a grin. His smile invited her to meet his gaze, but she refused his dangerous beckoning.
"Say it,” he tempted, his voice a deep, encouraging growl. It prickled her skin and sent a flurry through her belly. “I want to hear your voice."
Her gaze lowered. Despite herself, she gave into the temptation of his voice and smiled. Long ago she'd surrendered to the sound of his voice, memorized the way he spoke, the soft, barely noticeable drawl of a man born to foreign soil. Both of them didn't belong to this land, yet they were shackled, enslaved by customs and laws they'd learned to fear.
"Nine years.” A rarity for a Healer. Most came as infants, not sixteen-year-old girls pushed from their mother's desperate arms. “The same as you, Adeno."
"Tell me more."
"I've been here since South Clenath broke from Derage rule."
"What else?"
"Since I returned the hens to health after my father slit their throats. It angered him to have to kill them all over again."
He studied her. “I remember. He locked you away for it."
"Yes,” she whispered, the intimacy of their conversation raw and welcomed to the normal sterile environment she lived and worked in.
"How foolish."
Another smile, another prick of emotion in the swell of darkness they knew so well. His gaze left her face and traveled down her neck and chest to her breasts. Through the thin silk her pebbled nipples showed, the unmistakable shape drawing his masculine attention. The look on his face turned ravenous.
"When you wore your hair longer."
"Yes,” she answered, her voice far too silky for her work. She rested her hand in the middle of his chest, her fingers settling over the flat disc of his nipple. “When I wore my hair longer."
"Why did she ask you to cut it?"
"Easier to work,” she muttered.
"Is it?"
"No."
"I miss the feel of it against my flesh,” he said softly, his eyes heavily lidded, nostrils flared. “When you would bend to look me over, it skimmed along me here...” He touched low on his belly, fingers grazing along the dark hair leading from chest to groin.
Absently, she reached up and touched her shoulder-length hair, wishing instead that she followed his hand down, past his belly button and beneath his waistband. But she couldn't and it frustrated her.
"It's out of the way now, isn't it?"
They stared at one another for a long moment before she feared he'd reach up and skim his fingers along her skull, draw them closer than necessary, than safe.
"Nas, I think you're—"
"Forgive me,” she whispered. The medicine meant to numb him had failed to keep him asleep for more than a few fleeting seconds. His throaty groan of protest assured her that he was well on his way to feeling the slash across his flesh.
She cut through the dwindling thread at his lower rib, then turned for another curved needle.
"When do I fight next?” He twisted, straining against the stitches before apparently deciding it was futile. Black eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched against a grunt.
"I don't know,” she lied, knowing Turvo would send his slave into the arena tomorrow if he could walk.
"Where is...” Adeno paused and his eyes closed.
She glanced over her shoulder at the armor and weapons draped in black cloth, and shuddered. The leather arm belonged to Jetta, the man who had cut Adeno. His corpse lay somewhere within the basement while his head remained staked in the arena for all to see. When the remains had been jeered to the crowd's satisfaction, it would be boiled and the skull returned to Adeno's owner as a trophy.
Her heart wrenched in her chest. She remembered seeing Adeno and Jetta crouched together in the corridor as they awaited battle. She knew they had often exchanged meals, one man starving while the other ate before his fight. Cynically, she reminded herself that it would do no good to mourn this dead fighter. No one else had, no one else would.
"Did you see to him?” Adeno questioned.
"He was not mine to see,” she answered.
For a long while he stayed quiet, his shallow breathing the only sign of life. Encouraged by his silence, she placed several towels on the edge of her table and moved two large, crescent-shaped bowls from her work table to where Adeno lay. Hot, perfumed water continued to simmer over the modest fire in the corner of the closed-off room. She ladled enough into the bowls to wash his face and hair and properly clean the smaller wounds she had no more strength left to tend.
Water trickled from the soaked rag, and he watched her, his gaze intent on her balled fist.
"Close your eyes,” she murmured.
He didn't speak, but he didn't obey either, and without the will to argue with him, she dabbed at his chest with a beige-colored rag. Goose bumps rose along his upper arms and once flat nipples stood hard and erect.
"You're cold,” she commented.
The lengthened bulge in his trousers told her otherwise. For half a moment she stared at the distraction and wondered if he displayed lust for her or the lingering excitement of battle. Men frequently died with stone-hard erections, the body's answer to both desire and violence.
At last she tore her gaze away and found him studying her, his dark eyes heavily lidded. Shifting her weight, she leaned over him in order to reach the bowl of medicinal water. Her breasts hung over his face, nipples hardened with the sight of his erection, inviting his lips and teeth.
She swore she felt him lift his head, but once she realized the danger in their game, she took a step back and dunked a fresh rag into the water. In silence she scrubbed her fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp. His eyes finally closed, but the erection remained. He hunched his shoulders, relocated his arms until his hand lay across his hips and directed her eyes toward the unmistakable outline of his penis.
With each stroke of her hands through his hair, he touched himself, slow and deliberate. She wondered if he realized that she completely ignored her duties in favor of his mesmerizing actions. Back and forth she rubbed her fingers through his hair, knuckles occasionally pressed to his scalp. Back and forth his outstretched hand moved over his trousers. She ached for him to caress her there, at the point now dripping wet with need.
"Would you care for a blanket?” she questioned.
He grunt a firm, “No."
"Are you certain?” Her voice trembled with voyeuristic guilt.
"You'll get the blanket wet."
Embarrassed, she paused and wondered if he knew the effect his actions took on her. “No, I will not,” she answered firmly.
His eyes slit open. “You always grab blankets with your wet hands.” A sly smile tipped the corners of his mouth when he gazed up at her.
"Your hand is shaking. You must be freezing."
"Is that what I feel?” he murmured, the tips of his long fingers sliding beneath the waistband of his trousers. “What do you feel?"
Danger had never enticed her. She pressed harder against his skull. “A lump,” she said irritably. “A massive lump on the side of your head."
The muscles in his face tensed, but he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Both hands rested at his sides, his erection still painfully obvious.
Her eyes
flitted from the door to the table. Turvo had returned to his home, she assumed. Guards wouldn't disrupt her, and other Healers busied themselves with their own fighters. All she had to do was step closer and touch him, release him the way she'd always dreamed of. She wanted to know if his penis twitched when he was awake as it did when he was asleep and she examined him. She wanted to know the feel of his testicles in her hand while she stroked him, loved him the way she had wanted to from the moment she'd first seen his square face framed in dark waves of hair.
"Why do you heal me, Nasora?” he asked suddenly.
Emotion had always been worthless here. She placed her hand on his bare chest and attempted to slow the rhythm. So often he'd been brought to her with his heart racing, muscles tense, body aroused by fear and the rush of fight left in his blood.
She'd wanted to drape her arms over him, press his face to her neck, and run her fingers down his naked back as he filled her in one swift stroke. At night she dreamed of his muscular form, healthy after she'd placed her hands on his wounds and closed them with her life force. She envisioned his face cradled in her hands, his fingers pressed into the soft curve of her hips as he lifted and lowered her onto him. Sometimes she even saw their children, eyes pale gray like hers, hair midnight black like his. One tall, slender daughter and two broad-shouldered, muscular sons. The offspring of a former Healer and a slave warrior—the children who would never be born.
"Iz cas mah desri, Nas,” he murmured in his native tongue. Only when his body succumbed to medicine did he speak to her in his old language. Like a drunk, he professed his longing and she listened, pretending to ignore the words she wanted to hear him say.
I want to make love to you, Nas.
"Iz cas tuh sui fezah."
I want to touch your flesh.
"Ay sui tuh merot."
And you to touch mine.
He pursed his lips briefly. “Nii mueri dina sui hana."
"Instead I die under your hand."
Eyes closed, mind struggling for clarity, she filled his torso with an energy block and hoped it would put him at ease.
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