Way of The WOlf: The Northlanders Book I

by Shelby Morgan

  The band on Tranorva's right wrist snapped as she wrenched against it. Her momentum carried her half off the table. Blind rage had her hand around the Dark One's throat, spanning it as her thumb bit into the soft, fleshy skin over the jugular. The High Priestess screamed, a high, shrill wail of protest as Tranorva yanked her closer, her rage more than a match for the strength this one possessed.

  Tranorva had no weapon, but it mattered not. Escape was within her grasp, one way or the other. She closed her teeth over that fragile windpipe, using her free arm to keep the hands from casing their magic. Only the metallic ping of the door opening behind her warned her that someone had heard the Dark One's cry. Footsteps raced across the room. A Male shouted for help.

  Tranorva bit down harder, grinding her teeth into the fragile skin, hoping to accomplish her goal before reinforcements arrived. She felt the first taste of blood pour onto her tongue even as the impact hit the back of her head. She laughed in triumph as the blackness took over…

  Chapter Four

  Géndalaine, High Priestess of Élahandara, cursed herself roundly for a fool. Tranorva would never be broken. The woman was dangerous. Rage spilled like the blood from the wound on her throat. Arrogance. That was all it was. Arrogance on her part to think that she could win that one over. But it would have been such a victory. It would have broken the morale of the Northland troops to see the Warrior mistress at the head of the Élandra army.

  She should have known better. She should have ordered Tranorva's death immediately. By the gods she would remedy that mistake today. Now. Within the hour. Just as soon as –

  Géndalaine stopped in mid-stride as she flung open the door to her apartment. The room was not empty. A young male lay on her bed, naked, looking startled and half wild, as if he'd been asleep when she flung open the door. And from his deliciously tousled look, perhaps he had. Géndalaine licked her lips in anticipation. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my quarters?" she demanded, centering her rage on the unfortunate male.

  "I–I am a gift, Mistress. From your sword-sister, Nafésti of Talandar."

  Géndalaine crossed the room slowly, taking her time in studying this gift. Nafésti had incredibly good taste. He was young. No more than sixty, she'd guess. He sat now half-sprawled on the bed, his legs to one side, his weight supported on one arm, his face still fuzzy with sleep and wild with the sudden fear.

  He would be tall. Taller than most of the males–only a few inches shorter than she herself. He was fine-boned, but still solid, in that delicately male sort of way. Beautiful, really. Géndalaine stared down at him a minute before she back-handed him hard enough to knock him flat on the bed. He lay where she'd dropped him, though she could see he wanted to run. Good boy.

  "I should kill you. Your impudence alone is worth the price of your life."

  A smile stole slowly across his face. "But you won't, Mistress."

  "Why won't I?"

  "Because you're curious. You want to know what Nafésti saw in me that made her think I might be a suitable gift for you."

  Géndalaine shrieked as she jumped on the ancient carved wooden bed, landing neatly astride his waist as she swung both fists at that pretty boy face. His hands closed over her fists, his grip surprisingly strong. She pitted her strength against him, determined to beat the smile from his face. Instead of defending himself, he pulled her fist to his mouth, laying his lips across the inside of her wrist where the pulse beat against the dusty ebony of her skin.

  Géndalaine felt her breath catch in her wounded throat. Her vision began to blur as his lips moved slowly up her arm, stopping to lick the delicate point at the inside of her elbow where the sensation of his tongue against her skin made her shudder with rage which was fast turning to an all-encompassing lust.

  She made no protest when he rolled with her, her hands still locked in his. Now she was flat on her back on the bed, his lithe young body positioned over her, his eyes dancing now with laughter. Damn it, laughter was not the emotion she wanted to elicit in a male. She wanted fear. She wanted …

  His erection surged against her belly, a white-hot heat burning against her skin. His teeth grazed over her shoulder, then gentled as his tongue moved to trace the injury to her neck, slowly, deliberately licking the blood from her wound. He traced the line where the blood had run down her chest. Slowly, very slowly, their hands still locked, he moved the thin silk out of his way, using only his lips and his teeth to undress her.

  She was ready to melt in his hands by the time his lips made their first assault on her aching breast. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he stared down at her. Then slowly, deliberately, he ran his tongue across her nipple, his smile deepening as her body shook with desire and her breasts jutted out to meet him. He lowered his mouth again, suckling like a greedy child, flicking the end of his tongue across the bud of her nipple all the while.

  Géndalaine made no effort to stifle the cry that tore from her injured throat. She bucked up against him, grinding her aching mound against his rigid cock. "By the gods," she panted. "Now! I want you now!"

  He laughed at her again, the way no one had dared in three centuries. "And I want you to wait. I'm going to make you wait. I want to hear you beg."

  "I will kill you, you impudent young fool!"

  He merely transferred his attentions to the other breast, licking in an ever-tightening circle around the areola, flicking his tongue across her skin in short little darts designed to pinpoint her concentration on nothing but him. It was working. She was more acutely aware of his body than she had ever been of anyone's save her own. She cried out again as he sucked the nipple into his mouth, giving it at once all the attention she had craved. His cock, hard as an oak shaft between them, ground slowly against her as he began to circle his hips, so close to where she wanted him, so close.

  "Please," she whimpered.

  "What? I don't think I heard you, Mistress."

  She lunged at him with her teeth, ready to bite and tear, but he met her mouth in a kiss that scorched her, leaving her breathless and stunned. He changed the motion of his hips, drawing down, and down again, until the tip of his rigid cock forced a path between her springy curls to the source of her agony. For it was agony now as he moved against her, his cock a burning torch against her aching clit. She arched against him, bringing her legs up and around his waist, attempting to impale herself on him, but he escaped.

  "Please," she begged again. "I want you. I want to feel you inside me."

  "I want to feel you around me," he whispered, sliding easily into her heat. "By the gods," he murmured against her throat. "You feel perfect. So tight. So hot."

  He stroked into her, young and hot and hard, yet still in control. Géndalaine felt the tension of the day slip away. Yes. This one would do. He would do for quite a while. She would wait till later to kill him.

  He suckled her breasts again, his touch expert, knowing just how to bring her to the hardest peak. "You are exquisite," he assured her. "So beautiful." He moved to trace the tip of her long, pointed ear between his lips.

  Maybe much, much later. The room shimmered with lights like the brightest show of stars in the night as she shattered around him. He stilled within her a moment, letting her absorb the glory, before he shifted, pulling her with him to the edge of the bed. He stood over her now, stroking into her slowly at first, then harder as her body responded to him once again. Her hands were free now, and she used them to explore his body, perfect, hard and well-muscled and covered with a fine sheen of sweat from their efforts together.

  "Show me," he instructed as he thrust into her harder, pulling her hips against him now for leverage. "Show me what you like."

  She'd never done that before. Done something sexually just because her lover desired it. The thought wouldn't have occurred to her. He was a male. He was there to serve her. He was...enticingly beautiful. And so focused on her. Géndalaine watched his eyes darken to the color of blackest ebony as she traced the circle of her own ni
pples, raising her fingers to wet them as she tweaked the tips into hard, aching buds. She lifted her breasts, feeling the weight of them, pinching the nipples hard as she shattered around him again.

  There was no pause this time. He drove into her harder, faster, the movements frenzied and jerking with need. She ran her fingers up over his chest and higher, pulling his head down until she could stroke the tips of his delicate, perfect ears with her tongue. It was his turn to cry out, screaming her name as he raged within her, spilling his seed in a fiery gush that brought her to her final shattering climax. The room spun around them in a crazy kaleidoscope of colors as he collapsed on top of her, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  "So beautiful," he murmured against her neck.

  "So are you," she assured him. And so young and so perfect. Yes indeed. Géndalaine decided she might keep this one around for quite a while before she killed him. A sudden thought occurred to her. An absurd idea, but one she voiced anyway. "Do you have a name?"

  "Yes, Mistress. I am honored that you should ask. Élandine. I am called Élandine."

  "Élandine," she repeated. "In the old tongue it means 'Beautiful One.' How appropriate."

  He managed the strength to move beside her onto the bed, folding his body around hers as he kissed her shoulder at the base of her neck. "You are too kind, Mistress."

  She stretched languorously against his warmth, comfortable in their nakedness together. "I may still kill you."

  "I should kill you. Your impudence alone is worth the price of your life."

  A smile stole slowly across his face. "But you won't, Mistress."

  "Why won't I?"

  "You have that right, Mistress."

  His fingertips traced the outline of her ear, making her want to purr like a giant cat. "But not right now."

  "No, Mistress. Not now. You should get to know me much better before you kill me."

  Géndalaine felt her blood beginning to heat again as he stroked his fingers over her skin. "Much better," she agreed.

  "Nafésti was going to kill me herself," he mused, "But somehow she never got around to it. She thought perhaps you might like the privilege."

  "I must remember to thank Nafésti, and tell her what marvelous taste she has in males."

  * * * * *

  Tranorva awoke strapped to the altar again.

  She wasn't dead. Surely you couldn't hurt like this if you were dead.

  If she wasn't dead, she had to escape.

  She felt more than a little disoriented. Tired. She was so tired. Perhaps she would wait just a while longer to escape…

  Had she been brought back here before? How long had it been? She couldn't quite remember. She had to escape…

  Her head still hurt where she been hit from behind, knocked unconscious again. She might have been taken back to her small stone cell. She had vague impressions of a long restless night spent on a hard pallet while her head threatened to explode.

  A warm hand stroked gently across her throat, brushing back her wild tumble of hair as the fingertips began probing gently for the beat of her pulse. Tranorva's eyes flew open to stare into those of a Dark Male. He smiled down at her with eyes that looked almost familiar. Eyes that seemed to be trying to tell her something.

  Three fingers pressed against the side of her throat. Slowly, deliberately, the fingers spread wide apart. The nails rocked against her, pricking her skin, then pulled away, so as not to leave any mark. The fingertips pressed into her, no longer gentle as they drew down toward her breast bone. Tranorva understood their meaning well enough.

  Three slashes across the upper chest. Clan of the Wolf. Tranorva swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened. She'd never been rescued before. Never needed rescuing. It was a humbling experience. The face looking down at her slowly closed its eyes, sending an unmistakable message. Tranorva forced herself to relax as her lids veiled her sight to the narrowest of slits.

  "She's still unconscious, Mistress." The voice sounded rich, and deep, and tinged with humor. "So far your methods seem to have been less than effective with this one."

  Tranorva forced herself to lie perfectly still. Apparently the Dark One's methods had proven effective enough. She hadn't managed to escape, and the Priestess was still alive. "She is a waste of my time. I should have killed her." The voice sounded a little hoarse, though that might have been wishful thinking. Still, Tranorva smiled to herself. Small victories.

  "Why don't you let me give this one a try? Perhaps I can break her." The hand on her skin seemed to be trying to reassure her, though Tranorva thought she might be grasping for any mote of hope.

  "Have a care, you impudent young fool, lest I turn my attentions toward you." The Priestess did not sound as displeased with the male as her words implied. Rather the contrary. Tranorva could have sworn she found his impudence flattering.

  The male only laughed. "I shall fear you when you tire of me, Mistress, and not before."

  "Do what you will with her. I shall enjoy your entertainment."

  Their laughter held dark promises jointly understood. Tranorva offered a silent prayer to the seven gods for strength and endurance.

  The male stroked his hand gently over her skin. "Open your eyes, my fair beauty. We have so much to offer you. Power beyond your imagination. The best armies in the world at your command. And a dozen such as myself as your personal slaves. What have those who are lost to you offered as compensation for a lifetime of duty?"

  Tranorva swallowed hard. Indeed it was difficult to remember with the handsome, exotic creature stroking his hands over her naked breasts. "The duty to family and Clan needs no reward save brotherhood," she managed, proud of the force with which she managed to convey her words.

  His fingers dipped between her thighs, stroking up the soft flesh of her inner leg until his palm rested against her heat, grinding rhythmically against her until it became hard to think. "Family. Do you even know what that means? The name of the House you would die for is not even your own."

  Anger warred with fear. He knew her too well. He played her body with perfection. "How come ye to know of my family?"

  "My mistress has found me ever useful," the male answered cryptically. "I have many talents."

  Apparently his talents included those of an experienced lover, for she shattered under his hand, aching for more. She would not. She might be helpless to withstand his physical onslaught, but she would not respond to his treachery. "My House is the House I choose to serve, and my position one I am entitled to by right of my mother's marriage."

  Three fingers dipped inside her, demanding her response. "You are the bastard daughter of a disgraced House, and the name that House bears is not even your own, for your mother was but the younger daughter of House Lindall, and now that House is ruled by her sister's son. Were the truth known, you would have no House to return to. You know this, deep in your heart you know I speak the truth."

  Ayala, Evalayna's own mother, was House Lindall? Seanen was her own cousin? Mother had raised him all these years in her own House without one word of the truth? She twisted violently against the restraints, both to escape his touch that continually roused her traitorous body, and to escape the fear his words elicited. Rage surged up within Tranorva's blood. She surged against her restraints, determined to tear them from their marble mountings. "You lie! Your gods are the authors of lies! You would trick me with half-truths and treachery. I will not dishonor my House nor my Clan!"

  He moved away, leaving her body aching with need as he moved to stand at the top of the altar next to her. His fingers stroked her lips, wet with her own juices. Her smell mingled with his. She fought the restraints mindlessly. "Your Clan is not even your own, for Roahr VinDall was your father, and he was not of the Northlanders. A Second Sister takes the Clan of her husband. Though Roahr VinDall never bothered to grace your mother with his House or his Clan, since he saw no need to formalize their union."

  He held her head now, so that she could not bang i
t into the altar, once again knocking herself unconscious. "You are a bastard, from a long line of bastards M'Lady. You have no House, no name, and no Clan. No matter how your kind malign us, we are the ones to offer you truth. Your future is your own to choose. We offer you everything. Position. Power. Wealth. And we offer it honestly. We do not choose to hide behind lies and half-truths. That is not our way. Join us, mistress. We are not evil. Only mal-used by those who fear us for our honesty and our beauty. Come with us, Mistress. Allow us to serve you."

  Tranorva cried out in anger and rage as the Dark Priestess moved to join in the assault on her sense. The Dark One only smiled as their eyes met, her eyes already clouded with passion. Tranorva gasped in outrage as the High Priestess ran her hands up the inside of Tranorva's thighs, then over her hips, swirling up to tease her nipples into aching mounds of need. Tranorva wanted to be able to tell the Priestess to keep her hands to herself and mean it, but the aching need threatened to rip her apart.

  She'd tasted this one's blood on her tongue. Now her traitorous body responded thus to this woman's touch? Had she ever thought herself immune to such carnal lusts? At least no man she'd ever attempted to couple with had raised such feelings of all-encompassing need. Yet as warm feminine lips closed over her aching breasts Tranorva had to admit that she was far from immune. She should be planning new ways to attempt escape. She should be finding ways to argue against the Male's logic. She should…

  Tranorva raised her head as far as she could to watch as the Dark One lowered her mouth over her aching clit. Just as the Priestess's tongue dove into her hot, aching sheath, the Dark Male drove into the Priestess from behind, impaling her as she lapped at Tranorva's throbbing nub. The Priestess shrieked in desire even as a growl shook lose from the young male's lips.

  The effect of their combined lusts loosed an answering need that shook Tranorva to the core of her understanding of herself. She was not–she should not–Damn them! They were the enemy. At least the woman was. Tranorva was not sure exactly what the male was about. The Wolf Clan Symbol was no deep secret mystery. Every Clansman bore the matching tattoo. Now that she thought about it, he might have been merely tracing the lines scored into her shoulder. But…