Dark Rival

by Brenda Joyce

  He seized her elbows. “Evil.”

  “Human,” she said quickly.

  He stared at her, then lifted his head. She watched him sense the night. Then he gave up and looked down at her. “Yer senses are stronger than mine. I canna feel if they’re human or deamhanain.”

  “They’re human, but possessed. I can feel them on the walls. They’re not inside yet.”

  Royce’s face twisted. “Ye stay inside yer room.” He strode past her. He seized a bell cord and pulled. The bell began to toll. Bong…bonggh…bongghh…

  “I need a weapon,” she cried.

  “Not if ye hide,” he snapped, not looking back. He thundered down the stairs.

  Allie followed, the stone ice cold beneath her bare feet. Evil and malice were seeping into the castle, but it was still only intent.

  “I said ye stay back,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  Arguing was pointless. He was ruthlessly intent on the pending battle. Allie saw it in his flaming aura and she felt his power and purpose in the night.

  In the hall, he donned both swords and flipped open a chest with weapons. Two men thundered into the hall. Allie reached into the chest as he said, “The walls have been breached.”

  Taking a knife, Allie responded, “Only six of them are possessed. Capture them alive if you can!”

  He sent her a furious and incredulous look, and rushed into the night.

  Ceit ran in with Peigi. “What happens?” she cried, her reddish hair flowing to her waist, clearly having been asleep.

  “Both of you should hide.” Allie turned her back on them and closed her eyes and focused.

  She felt them on top of the ramparts. She gasped as a knife went through a man, his pain flowing around her.

  She opened her eyes and ran out into the inner ward. Above, on the ramparts illuminated by torches and starlight, she saw three possessed humans knifing the watch to death. The soldiers’ cries faded.

  Royce leapt onto the stairs, sword raised, six men with him. “A Carrick,” he roared.

  But the humans who’d just murdered his guard were not coming down the stairs. The walls were over two stories high, but Allie sensed their intentions. “Royce!”

  He turned.

  The three attackers leapt from the walls into the courtyard, landing below Royce, who was now halfway up the stairs, and just a dozen yards from Allie.

  And she met three pairs of maddened eyes, glowing red. All evil was focused on her and their death lust rose up, its scent sickening. In that moment, she knew they were after her.

  “Ailios,” Royce cried, clearly sensing their evil need, too.

  Allie gripped her knife, tensing.

  Royce thundered back down the stairs.

  One attacker leapt at her with his demonic power, crossing the entire dozen yards with a single bound, a dagger gleaming. Allie jumped aside and he landed on the ground, not far from her. He leapt to his feet and Allie crouched, waiting to dodge his next attack.

  He smiled, teeth dripping saliva, and sheathed the dagger.

  Allie started, realizing he didn’t wish to murder her. He wished to seize her.

  Behind her, she heard the furious exchange of sword blows. She felt male might and male fury; she felt pain. A man cried out, dying instantly.

  Allie jerked and saw it was one of Royce’s men.

  Her attacker reached for her with demonic speed, like a striking snake.

  Allie leapt aside, but he caught her arm, and she was flung back against his body so hard she saw stars. He was a giant; her head barely reached his chest. His strength was demonic and Allie went still. She could not struggle her way out of his clutches and didn’t bother to try.

  Dazed by the impact, she saw Royce violently behead one human monster. Three of his men lay dead at his feet.

  The last of the monsters stood behind him—and as Royce flung his glance over his shoulder at her, the possessed giant struck.

  It was déjà vu.

  The sword descending toward Royce from behind…Royce shouting her name, blind to the thrust…her watching from a short distance, helpless to intervene.

  As if the Ancients intended his death this way, no matter the time, no matter the moment.

  Allie screamed, twisting in the man’s foul, inhuman grip, as the sword sliced cleanly and deeply into Royce’s shoulder. She screamed again, almost expecting to see his left arm fall to the ground, severed from his body.

  Royce turned, thrusting. The swords met, screaming.

  Allie saw his left arm hanging oddly, and she sought his pain—but felt nothing. Either Royce was too enraged and adrenalized to feel such a blow, or he was immune to the kind of pain that would cause other men to pass out.

  And then he seized his shortsword with his left hand, stunning her that he could use his arm at all. And he thrust the shorter weapon across the man’s neck, slitting it. Blood sprayed.

  Bleeding heavily, Royce seized the dying man’s ax and turned to face her captor. His silver eyes blazed. He dropped the longsword and shifted the ax to his right hand.

  Allie went very still.

  She didn’t feel pain now. She felt murderous rage.

  And she felt her captor hesitate. His fear welled.

  Royce smiled and it was terrifying. He was breathing hard, and still bleeding heavily. The upper part of his tunic was crimson. But it was the ruthless look in his eyes—the ruthless heat in his soul—that made her hold her breath. Nothing was left of Royce except a barbaric warrior.

  He strode forward, still smiling.

  Her captor’s heart rushed and he pressed his dagger to her throat.

  Allie choked.

  “Draw her blood and ye die,” Royce said, not stopping. He closed the distance rapidly, ax in hand.

  Her captor hesitated, and Allie felt his fear escalate wildly.

  “Ye die anyway,” Royce snarled, and he hurled the ax at them.

  Allie froze as the blade whirled at them, whizzing through the air. The ax sailed over her head—she felt it brush her hair—and it cleaved the man’s face in two.

  He staggered backward and screamed, releasing her.

  She leapt away, tripping. Royce strode past her and with his sword, he impaled the monster through the heart. Then he stood there, breathing hard, leaning on the blade, his left arm hanging uselessly now.

  Allie got slowly to her feet.

  He turned, jerking his sword free of the corpse. He sheathed it and looked at her, his eyes glittering insanely—like a warrior maddened from battle.

  “Let me help you,” she whispered, shaking. She wasn’t sure the old Royce was present anywhere in the medieval warrior now. She wanted him to come back to her, but looking at him, she wasn’t certain that he would.

  But he was very badly wounded. Another man would be unconscious now. She had to save his arm—and his life.

  But she couldn’t find his pain.

  Royce stared at her, his eyes hard and wide and bright. Allie felt small, female, defenseless. Then the hot silver rage began to glitter less furiously. That wild sparkle began to dull. She felt his frenzied heartbeat slowing slightly. He didn’t speak but he was coming back to her and Allie knew he was seeking sanity.

  He breathed and said, “Did he hurt ye?”

  “No. You’re hurt, not I.” She had to heal him, but she was wary. She wasn’t sure what would happen if she walked up to him.

  Royce nodded, panting, and turned to his men. Now that the brief battle was over, every knight in the garrison had surged into the ward, bearing arms. “There’ll be nay more attacks on Carrick. Triple the watch. Take care o’the dead.” He looked at Allie harshly, his gaze still overly bright. Abruptly he strode past her.

  His pain blinded her.

  Allie breathed hard, shallowly, shocked that he was still standing. Then she ran after him. Royce was still in a savage, warrior mode, but he was feeling the effects of that terrible blow and he was bleeding badly. Now that she could feel his pain, she was p
retty certain his arm was partially severed from his body. He was just too enraged to feel it completely yet.

  He stood by the table, draining the jug of wine.

  Ceit and Peigi looked ready to faint.

  “There’ll be no more trouble this night,” he told them harshly. “Bring linen, water. Good night.”

  Ceit didn’t hesitate. She and Peigi fled.

  Allie walked slowly toward Royce, now standing in a puddle of his own blood. That blinding pain went through her again.

  Royce looked at her—and then tore his blood-soaked tunic from his body, flinging it to the floor. Allie bit her lip at the sight of his body—muscular, scarred and shockingly, fully aroused. He gave her a heated look.

  He was still in the throes of bloodlust, she thought uneasily.

  “Come here,” he said. And it was the kind of order he’d give to one of his men.

  She had to heal him but she hesitated. Even badly wounded, he was a magnificent sight. And she felt his lust—not around her—in her. It seethed and begged for release.

  She was almost afraid of him. But her body was humming and vibrating with an intensity of its own. Her gut was hollow, aching. “You’re bleeding to death.”

  He sent her another heavy, hot look. “So heal it.” Then, he spoke in a murmur. “Come an’ heal me, Ailios.”

  She trembled and poured her white light over him, into him.

  His eyes widened, as if he hadn’t expected it.

  But then, had a Healer ever healed him before? She knew her power was warm and that it felt good. She knew the moment he received her white power, his pain would begin to diminish.

  He stared at her in surprise, but his gaze remained intently male and predatory. Allie felt the sharp pain going through him, through her, but it wasn’t blinding now.

  She poured more light over him, into him, focusing on his shoulder and the deep wound. He grunted. The sound was one of release.

  Then he gave her another long look. His gaze was coherent now.

  Confident that he was not about to leap on her in a very bestial manner, she walked up to him and laid her hands on the wound, ignoring the blood. More healing power flowed from her hands, surging now because of their proximity.

  His gaze held hers, watchful and intent. “It feels good,” he said roughly.

  She smiled but didn’t speak. She could not focus while having a conversation. She threw more healing power directly into the wound this time. She became aware of his bulging bicep, just above her eye level, and his bloodstained chest.

  He grunted again as more pain was released. He sat down.

  Allie was so short it was easier to stand with her hand on his shoulders while he sat. The bleeding had stopped. She felt the flesh inside the wound binding and renewing itself. His pain had dulled to a mere ache. She smiled, pleased, and then her heart lurched.

  She had almost been the cause of Royce’s death—again.

  “I’m fine,” Royce said thickly.

  Allie saw that he was even more fiercely aroused than before. But of course he was. That shocking, savage, murderous frenzy was gone. The barbarian was gone. But she’d stopped the bleeding, meaning his blood supply was going somewhere else. His gaze was on hers, oddly uncertain and searching.

  Her heart turned over, hard. “Don’t move,” she said softly. “Let me finish.”

  He just sat there, staring at her face.

  Allie went to the door and stepped into the hall, hoping to find Ceit for the linens and water. She’d set a basin of water and clean linens next to the door. Allie gathered up the items and returned to the hall.

  Her steps slowed. Royce sat naked on the bench, fully aroused, looking exactly like what he was: a supernaturally virile, superpowerful holy warrior with a godly ancestry. He turned and stared at her. His gaze sizzled.

  She came forward, her entire body flaming. Was he inviting her to bed, finally? Or was this still about the battle from hell? She cleaned the blood from his shoulder with the wet linen, pleased to see an angry red scar there. By the morning it would be pink, and in another day or so, white.

  She wrung out the linen and ran the wet rag down his arm, cleansing the blood there, too.

  He breathed deeply and threw his head back. His eyes closed. The pulse in his throat throbbed. His abdomen tensed, the muscles hard and tight.

  She rinsed the rag and laid it on his shoulder, so swollen she couldn’t stand it. Everything had changed in the past few hours—and there was no anger between them tonight.

  Aware of what he was asking her for, aware of what she wanted, she moved the moist linen slowly over his chest.

  He said, without opening his eyes, “Oh, dinna think I’m nay angry.”

  She had to smile, removing more blood. “Hush.” She ran the moist rag lower, over his ribs, removing the blood there.

  His gaze opened, hot and heavy, languid with intent. He remained arched backward against the table. “Ye can disobey me anytime,” he said softly, seductively, “but nay in battle.”

  Allie hesitated. Her gaze was not on his. He was straining for that moist rag. “I think,” she said, and she slid the wet linen low, all the way down his belly, even though there was no blood there, “I may have learned my lesson.”

  He sat still, breathing hard, watching her now.

  Allie took the wet cloth and flicked it up his long, thick shaft.

  He made a very harsh sound of enjoyment.

  Allie met his gaze and smiled at him, her heart hammering with excitement. His gaze flared and he seized her hand.

  He took the rag and tossed it aside. Allie sank to her knees, pleasure building wildly now, nuzzling his perfect length. He gasped and she teased him with her cheek. She thought she heard him ask her to hurry. She rained kisses on his hot skin.

  Suddenly he seized her hips, lifting her to her feet and anchoring her between his legs. “Let go,” Allie gasped, because she had been about to do something she’d been thinking about for days.

  “I’m master here,” he said, and he pulled her hips forward. Suddenly she was on his lap, his turgid erection against her side, and he was clasping her face in his hands. “I’m tired o’ this game.”

  “Me, too,” she said, her heart ready to explode from her chest.

  He looked at her and their eyes met. She saw wild excitement and hot lust, but also something else, bright and light. Then he lowered his face to hers.

  Allie gasped with pleasure, with joy, because he claimed her lips with such hunger, such need and desperation that for one moment, she thought herself back in 2007. She reached for his shoulders and clung. He thrust his tongue deep while he kept her face still in his huge, uncompromising hands. Allie came to her senses and started kissing him back.

  He finally grasped her skirt, the gesture brutal. Allie knew he was about to rip her clothes from her body. She seized the zipper and frantically pulled. He never stopped kissing her, but his mouth softened and she felt a smile.

  “Yer precious garments,” he murmured.

  “Very precious,” she gasped. Somehow she wriggled out of the skirt. He seized it and tossed it to the floor.

  And he stopped kissing her.

  Allie opened her eyes, breathing hard, her body positively in flames.

  He stared down at her thong—and the soaking-wet flesh beneath. Then he gave her a sensual look. He slid his thumb beneath and Allie almost wept from the delicious pressure. Smiling, he rubbed deep, deeper, firmer, knowingly.

  “Oh,” she gasped.

  “I want to watch ye come, right now.”

  Allie didn’t think it was a problem. She was about to crest and break. And then something stopped her—he stopped her, with some kind of force over her mind, her body, her sex.

  Just as he’d done that first and only night.

  “Except,” he said, his gaze blazing, “I want ye coming the first time with me inside.” He lifted her and laid her on the edge of the table, a knee on each side of his hips as he stood.
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  Allie began to hyperventilate. “Hurry.”

  He smiled and dipped between her thighs and rubbed against her. She couldn’t stand the exquisite pleasure and she writhed. He restrained her.

  “Be still,” he murmured. “Let me do the fucking. Lie still an’ enjoy it.”

  She looked at him.

  He was dead serious. “This one time, ye can obey. Let me pleasure ye, Ailios.”

  She nodded—or thought she did. It was really hard to respond because he was starting slowly, with agonizing deliberation, to push inside—only to pause after every single inch.

  She lay as still as she could, starting to cry from the pleasure and pressure, and she let him stroke her, bit by bit, until it was long and slow, deep and deeper still. Madness began. She was blinded by the need for a release. She didn’t know how she could hold so much pressure inside her—or how he could do so, either. Because she felt his pleasure, too. It had crested into a tidal wave, one about to crash down on the shore—on her. And finally, she couldn’t stand it; finally, she wanted to beg.

  “Aye,” he said, and he gasped, surging deep.

  Allie felt the block being lifted. She felt the huge damn break. She cried out, exploded and flew farther, higher, than she’d remembered, weeping his name, shattering a hundred times, each time more intense than the one before. He came with her, each time, violently, long and endless. “Ailios.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ALLIE AWOKE IN A BED twice as large as her own. She lay naked beneath a fur and instantly she thought about Royce’s very hot, very endless lovemaking. She smiled, reaching for him, to move into his arms. He was gone.

  That was okay. She looked up at the ceiling, grinning so widely her mouth hurt. Wow. Those first two times hadn’t been a dream. She hadn’t imagined all that supernatural sex.

  Mr. Medieval was hot.

  She lay still, thinking about the heated night—thinking about his passion and her own. For her, loving him now as she did, it had been even more intense than in her time. That first night it had been only sex and desire; she’d begun to fall in love with Royce after spending that night with him. As for his passion, it had been so off the charts there was no way she’d believe he wasn’t in love with her, too. In fact, unless she was imagining it, she felt that he was even more insatiable than he’d been in 2007. That was pretty impossible, though.