by Jaide Fox
Decision made, Ashanti moved quietly to the cell’s entrance and peered through the thick iron bars at the bound man. The torch she held flickered, dancing as a secret breeze struck it, shadows engulfing the sparse golden light as if to snuff its pale light.
What greeted her was a vision of despair. Her heart ached at the sight of the defeated man. His head hung down, hair obscuring the sight of his haggard, worn face. Had Lord Conrad continued torturing him? It was a possibility. The man appeared to be sleeping though, or perhaps he was unconscious…in which case, she had no idea what she would do with him.
It was all speculation, best banished by going to him. Unlocking the cell, Ashanti eased the heavy door open. Thankfully, the oiled hinges made no sound. She left it open as she stepped cautiously inside.
Fears assailed her now that the time had come, and she almost thought she couldn’t do it. She wiped an errant lock of black hair out of her eyes, stalling as she tried to gain her courage. What would stop him from eating her alive once she released him?
Ashanti shivered at the prospect. She could only hope he was human enough to spare her in exchange for his freedom. But then, what did she truly have to lose? She was living on borrowed time, whether Lord Conrad discovered her treachery or not. Almost, she wished she’d studied the black arts, but her soul could not have withstood the jeopardy of eternal damnation...or rather more jeopardy than she already faced.
She moved close enough his scent teased her, pleasantly musky and evocative as freedom despite his ill treatment. She was near enough to touch him and yet he remained still, his breathing so shallow she couldn’t detect the rise and fall of his lungs. A different fear seized her in its terrible grip, making her stomach clench painfully. Was she yet again too late to save someone? She’d been unable to help her parents and now this chance for redemption was slipping through her fingers. Had Conrad killed him with his tortures? She had no way of knowing what had been done before, or since, his capture.
Tentatively, afraid of what she’d find, Ashanti reached up to lay her fingers against a pulse in his neck. It beat surprisingly strong and fast. She sighed in relief, then frowned.
A trick? Perhaps. Perhaps not.
His skin scorched her, the flesh eat up by unnatural heat and flushed splotchy red in places Ashanti noticed now that she was so close. He was ill—likely dying. Studying him, she could see he hadn’t healed completely. Something must have caused him more hurt than she realized, but she couldn’t fathom what it could be since shifters had such miraculous healing abilities and strength. Had a hidden injury been the reason Lord Conrad had captured him so easily?
Maybe he’d been starved since his capture and needed sustenance to power his healing?
Unbidden, unwelcome, pity surged through her. Without conscious volition, she stroked his neck and head, feeling an instinctive need to comfort. He did not respond, assuring Ashanti that he was unconscious rather than merely sleeping or feigning sleep. Emboldened, as concerned with his lack of response as she was relieved, she trailed her fingers from his hair along his neck and shoulder...still no response...from him.
His skin was smooth, silky beneath the sensitive skin of her fingertips and palm, the muscles beneath that smooth sheath rock hard even in his state of unconsciousness. Her fingertips tingled with tiny shocks of energy that she found strangely unnerving and invigorating at the same time. The urge to comfort was usurped by another urge, one she neither completely understood, nor questioned.
A brazen urge to explore what had always been called a nightmare to her people compelled her to bury her fingers in the pale blond, surprisingly soft hair that flowed from his scalp along his powerful neck and fell across his chest. She should have been repulsed to touch him so intimately, but it had the opposite effect, spurred her to touch him more. Tentatively at first, she glided her fingers down his hair sprinkled chest, wincing as she encountered the welts from his beatings.
Anger surged through her. That bastard Conrad deserved retribution for his actions. Unfortunately she was not the one to mete out justice.
In that moment, it almost seemed as if she stepped outside herself.
The side she knew felt remorse that he’d been made to suffer in her name, compassion for his pain.
The side she barely recognized felt far more than anger—a rising heat, a consuming hunger—almost a sense of triumph that this powerful creature was helpless to her will. Brazenly, she leaned closer, bending her head so that she could run her lips along the angry welts, brush them with her cheek, lathe them with her tongue.
Heat curled between her thighs. She squeezed them tightly together and nearly gasped at the sharp stab of forbidden pleasure.
She was barely aware of the restless movements of her hands, stroking the hard ridge of muscles along his sides, down the rippling muscles of his abdomen, up along his sides again to the arms chained above his head. The muscles along his inner arms stood out in long, hard bands that she caressed. She touched the cold steel that bound his wrists, almost as if to reassure herself he was still within her power, then allowed her hands to drift downward again, fascinated by the contrast of cold metal and heated, silky skin, roughened by a sprinkling of hair. As her restless movements brought her hands once more to the hard chest beneath her cheek, she discovered a hard male nipple and paused to tease it with her fingers, then her tongue as her fingers sought new discoveries.
The rippling muscles along his lower chest and abdomen quivered slightly as her palms skated over them, but she barely registered it, caught up in her exploration and the heady sensations it evoked. When her questing hands at last encountered his loincloth, she hesitated. Dare she explore further?
She should not.
She did.
Almost timidly now, feeling her two selves converge as doubts surfaced, warring with forbidden desires, she skated her hand lightly along the band, oh so tempted to delve inside, but caution won out and she merely ran her palm over the supple cloth where she discovered to her surprise a very large, very hard ridge of flesh. Puzzled, a little confused, she cupped her hand around it, slipping it along the hard length.
More than a little dazed, it took several heartbeats for her heated brain to catch up to her mental processes. She looked down at her hand, cupping his sex through the thin cloth. Slowly, realization sank in and, still hopeful that she was wrong, she raised her head, lifted her gaze to his face.
He was looking right at her. And he bore not the look of a man at death’s door.
Ashanti couldn’t breathe for several moments, felt her jaw go slack with surprise. Complete awareness awakened very slowly...the realization that her cheek still rested on his hard chest—that she still cupped the hard ridge of his sex in her hand....
She released him as if she’d just discovered a hot poker in her hand, leapt back, feeling the blood rush from her head and then back in a sickening wave that brought a wave of cold and blackness, then a flood of bright red heat.
What foulness had bespelled her, she wondered frantically. Shame filled her, that she’d taken advantage of an ill man, unconscious, barely clinging to life.
When had he awakened?
His slanted, tawny eyes, their pupils mere slivers, studied her with a mixture of bewilderment and...and hunger. A shiver skated over her skin, leaving goose-bumps in its wake. She wanted to run from those alien eyes, to turn away, but mesmerized, she was held rooted to the spot, her legs refusing to obey thoughts of escape.
Without fathoming why, she needed to touch him again, like an unheard beckoning that had to be answered. Unconsciously, she stepped close and reached up to comb his hair from his face, her wrist brushing his lips accidentally.
She felt a jolt when his tongue snaked out and touched the fragile pulse that beat there, that tasted the salt of her skin. He watched her, watched her reaction to him and seemed pleased that a simple touch affected her thusly. But he couldn’t know that she’d never been touched by anyone but Lord Conrad...and that she
hated him.
At his touch…her own reaction, Ashanti wavered, tempted to flee, compelled to stay. That other side of herself that she didn’t know or understand seized control of her so that instead of yielding to her inner warnings and fleeing, she moved infinitesimally closer, curling her hand around the back of his neck, drawing him down as she raised up to meet him.
She closed her eyes as his lips touched hers and a fire burst inside her, searing heat scorching soft skin where she connected with him. Her knees weakened and she drew her other arm around him to support herself, not daring, nor willing, to pull away.
He kissed her ravenously as though starved, his mouth moving in hungry nibbles over her lips, debilitating what little strength she still possessed. She’d never imagined a kiss could be so powerful.
Something beat wildly in her ears and she realized it was her pulse, deafening with its quickening. She groaned against his mouth, molding herself to his hard planes, wanting to be closer still, unwilling to stop even to breathe.
The chains rattled as he strained to touch her, to be inside her. Sensing his need, she parted her lips and he thrust his rough tongue into her mouth, delving deep, and then drawing her into him. She gasped in the back of her throat, unable to believe the simple pleasure two mouths could conjure together, reveling in the wild taste of him, an untamed force that consumed her soul and gave it to him.
Vague and disjointed as the thought was, it connected with an earlier warning, that she had somehow been bespelled and fear knifed through her.
Ashanti broke away, stumbling back from him several paces, panting for breath as she stared at him in shocked dismay. A warmth suffused her limbs, weakened her. Her skin tingled all over. Her thoughts lay in the ruins of confusion, as if she’d drunk too much wine.
Touching a hand to prickling lips, she looked at him accusingly.
His fierce gaze swept her up and down, measuring, lingering on her intimate parts as if they caressed her through the gape of her black cloak. She regretted her wardrobe then, felt shame and guilt flood her as she saw herself through his eyes: the scarlet linen cut in a deep vee to her navel, slit up the sides and held in place by a gold cord wrapped around her to stabilize the flimsy fabric. By Lord Cornad’s will she was clothed like a courtesan, not an untouched maiden…and yet, her actions had done nothing to lead anyone to believe her an innocent.
It angered her that she had left herself in no position to dispute the knowing look in his eyes.
He studied her a moment longer, until she thought she’d crack from the suspense. Gleaming eyes met hers once more, alien, angry. “Why did you come here? Were you curious about my people’s legendary skills as lovers?” His voice rolled over her, as seductive as a purr.
She swallowed hard, passion leaving dust in the wake of mortification. “No, I did not.” Speaking was an effort. Her lips felt swollen, heavy. She could still taste him on her tongue and wondered if he could her. She squared her shoulders, determined that he would not see her frailty.
“Your actions belie you.” He looked pointedly down at himself, drawing her attention to the erection that steepled his loincloth. Warmth flooded her cheeks at her audacity. She turned her back to him, ashamed and not wanting him to see her embarrassment, all thought of defiance fleeing her. She was a woman full grown, not a child, and yet this man, this beast, brought out a side in her she’d never seen before.
“I came to free you, though I know not now if I should risk it... What do your people call you?”
“I am known as Blasien, and it matters not to me, my lady, if you free me. I do not need your help.”
She shuddered, thinking of what he would endure in her name. Lord Conrad would never let him live even had he not been a shifter. He’d dared to touch her when she’d invited him. She couldn’t look on the doomed man. “You fool. You’ll be killed if I don’t. I want some assurance you’ll not touch me if I release you.”
Ashanti trembled, hating herself, feeling the heat of his golden eyes, though she couldn’t bear to see him.
“I offer you no such promises. ‘Twas because of you that I was taken.”
A wave of shock and guilt went through her. She hadn’t expected that he would know. No doubt Lord Conrad had bragged of it to him, she thought with a mixture of shame and anger. “I know,” she whispered. She hid her face with her hands. Had she been in his position, she could well imagine her feelings would mirror his own. Revenge would be sweet in her heart.
“I do thank you, however, for allowing me to free myself, my lady.”
His words chilled her, the hackles along the back of her neck raising in warning too late. She turned and saw him straining, the muscles of his arms and legs bunching with power. A shiver arced up her spine as the sounds of chains snapping reached unbelieving ears. Without hesitation, as metal links groaned and flew through the air, she whirled and ran, but a lightning fast hand grasped her cloak and pulled her back before she could escape.
Ashanti tried to scream but he knew what she would do before she did. He clasped a hand over the lower half of her face, blocking her cries for help, and shoved her against the wall, trapping her. A tremor ran through her at the contrast of warm skin to chill block. She struck him with her fists, flailing her arms to find purchase. Blasien released her mouth to pin her arms above her head, a massive hand encircling both her wrists.
His face hovered mere inches from hers. She sucked in a breath to scream. It died in her throat at the look in his eyes.
The dungeon was far below the castle—no one would hear her. It was down here for that very reason. There were no guards keeping watch over the empty dungeon, for Lord Conrad had dismissed all but the most necessary men…..and the guard at the main gate was dead drunk even if the thought of him challenging such a man as this were not laughable. No one would come. He could do with her what he would with none the wiser.
She wanted to believe he would not harm her, but his actions told her he would do something that could damage her mind and soul rather than physically wound.
And God knew, she wanted it.
He held her captive with his body, molding her breasts to his chest, his erection digging into her lower belly. The thin linen of her gown acted as little barrier to him. Her body was taut against the wall, and something coiled inside her, near bursting to be released.
He breathed heavily, as though strained by the activity, the wildness of his scent engulfing her senses. He leaned closer, speaking low. “The situation has been reversed. What shall you do now?”
To whet your appetite to try a new author, here’s a special unedited excerpt from friend and sometimes writing partner, Nicole Ash, Ravished by Wolves, coming soon.
Ravished by Wolves
By
Nicole Ash
Revised and re-vamped from a previously published title, The White Wolf’s Curse.
***
The muscles in Fador’s chest and arms rippled beneath her touch. Rachelle tried to be casual about touching them, but it made her blush the way he gasped as she slid her hands over his skin when he set her down on her feet. She turned and hoped he wouldn’t see it.
“Are you all right?”
She had no idea how far he had run with her in his arms, but it seemed he had been running in silence for hours. It was amazing to her that he had only recently started to pant. He must be a professional runner or something. What were the odds of that, though? He leaned up against a tree and looked up to the moon without answering her.
“Thank you. For saving me.”
He was like a dark knight come charging from the darkness to rescue her, but he seemed to have forgotten his shining armor. And his clothes. While he was distractedly standing with his face turned up and his eyes closed, she took the chance to study him. Rachelle’s eyes traveled past the long raven hair that fell past his shoulders to his face. He had a straight nose, square jaw and his skin looked swarthy under the pale light of the moon. She followed the cords of muscle down
his chest to his rippled stomach and beyond. His body looked like a Greek statue.
Well, almost. The Greeks would never have chiseled such a long hard cock on one of their statues. She felt her sex clench as she looked at it and tried to pull her eyes away. He had to be the sexiest man she had ever seen and she found herself yearning to touch him again. She looked back up to his face and found him staring back at her with a half smile on his face. Rachelle blanched.
“You’re welcome.”
“What? Oh.”
“Enjoying the view?” he asked, a slow grin spreading across his face.
The heat that rushed to her face wasn’t the only heat she felt at that moment. Another one bloomed hotter as his gaze slowly swept down her body like a caress. Rachelle found herself speechless. What in the world is he doing out here without his clothes? If he were one of the authorities he certainly wouldn’t be out here naked. That thought cooled her ardor, but only a little. She tried to focus her concentration on his eyes, fighting the urge to allow hers to wonder again. What in the world is wrong with me? I’ve never felt so…. Shut up Rachelle! My god, think of the situation you’re in. Control yourself woman. He’s just a man. A sexy man, but still just a man. Who just happens to be naked and happy to see you. It isn’t like he’s the first man who’s ever given you that look before.
He may not have been, but she couldn’t recall any of the others at the moment and didn’t think any other man had ever had such a powerful, physical effect on her body using nothing more than a gaze. She felt herself growing wetter the longer he stared at her with that look of hunger in his eyes, so she tried to think of something to distract them both.
“What about those men? Do you think they’re still following us?”
He laughed.
“There’s no one left to follow us. Not from that group anyway.”