And that was when Cynthia awoke, her scream of refusal halfway out her throat.
Dreams were supposed to fade. Cynthia knew this; it was what always happened. No matter what kind of dream it was – dreams of flying, or dreams of falling – the details always faded away, and she was lucky to remember she’d even had a dream a month later.
But not this dream. It stayed with her in excruciating detail throughout the day. As she prepared herself breakfast, she could feel the cold stone floor of the paraitak building under her feet. As she forced herself to eat, she could smell Verek’s skin and feel him as he walked around her.
Cynthia tried to distract herself with the library – reading up on the southern warlords and their seemingly eternal quest to be free of northern influences – but she could still hear Verek, saying the same words over and over again.
She could remember the dream in detail more vivid than any actual memories she had, and that scared her more than anything else, because it meant she remembered Verek more than she remembered Rushael.
Come to me.
The words made her break out in a cold sweat. They rolled through her mind and down her spine, and she sobbed as the physical reaction only grew. She was shivering, her skin was prickling, and she wasn’t sure but she definitely felt like she was going to throw up.
She needed a shower. That would help.
It did.
It was nice to be able to shed her clothes and just luxuriate in the sensation of being gently pummelled with water. Cynthia stepped into the stream of water and let all the tension out of her body with a long, shivering sigh. She could still remember the dream – and it was still vivid and lurid in her mind – but the water formed a kind of wall around her, a fluid and ever-moving defence that held Verek at bay.
Then she closed her eyes, and Verek was there with her – as naked as she was, so close she could feel him pressing against her. He grabbed her wrist, and she screamed and jumped away.
She smacked into the side of the shower and pressed herself against the glass. Her heart pounded in her chest. She hunted for him – for Verek – expecting him to loom up over her.
But she was alone.
Her shoulders slumped as the tension dropped from her body, and she stepped back into the stream of water to continue her shower.
I’m just freaking out over Rushael, she thought to herself, and at the memory of her lover – her lover, someone who was hers and hers alone! – she began to grin.
And then the water hit her wrist, where the ghost of Verek had grabbed her, and she let out a hiss of pain. She clutched at the source, and then pulled her fingers away.
The water drumming on her body was warm – hot, almost. She’d set it that way on purpose, to scour away the feel and thought and memory of the dream. But now it felt like ice against her skin, if she even felt it at all.
There was a mark on her wrist: a semi-circle with a line through it, almost like a sickle. It was almost like a scar, a pale splash of colour against her already-pale skin.
No. Not a scar. A brand.
It wasn’t hurting any more. There was a sensation of some kind there, but it wasn’t pain. It was more a kind of pressure, almost as if –
Cynthia felt her knees give out, and only remained standing by leaning against the side of the shower again. She stared at the mark in horror, a heavy leaden feeling welling up from her gut and spreading ice-cold fingers through her body.
The sensation was unmistakeable. It had to be, given that she had felt it only just moments before.
It was the sensation of someone clasping her wrist tightly.
Cynthia felt ill. She’d finished up the shower and now she was back in the library. She was reading – frantically reading, doing everything she could to occupy her mind and fill it with anything but her own thoughts.
But the mark kept reminding her it was there. Every so often it would throb, as if some invisible hand was squeezing her wrist, and then Cynthia would hear Verek’s voice in her head, that sibilant and sinister sneer ripping through her thoughts and making her skin prickle and pucker.
She fretted for the rest of the day, and well into the night. She didn’t want to go to sleep – she didn’t want to dream of him again. So she devoured book after book, doing everything she could to occupy her mind even as her mind fragmented with each pulsing reminder.
But she couldn’t fight off the dreamlands forever. Everyone has to sleep – even more so when they’re exhausted, be that exhaustion from exertion or terror. And so, even as she stayed in the library, she fell asleep in her chair.
And while she slept, she dreamt.
Verek was claiming her.
In the dream, Cynthia was a willing participant. And with Verek, it was a different experience entirely.
He had her against a wall, facing away from him with her hands pressed against the smooth stone on either side of her head. He thrust against her and was inside her with a hot and angry heat, and she pushed back against him and moaned and urged him to give her more. His hands were on her hips, she was pinned against the wall, and in the dream, she was loving every savage minute of it.
“You are mine,” Verek said. Cynthia looked over her shoulder into his eyes – eyes as dark as Rushael’s, but somehow colder, bereft of any kind of warmth or love – and agreed. The zai-archon freed himself from Cynthia, then spun her by her hips so that she faced him and pressed against her again. She dug her nails into his shoulders, wrapped her legs about his waist, and prepared herself to feel fulfilled once more.
And then Cynthia’s eyes fell on the locket about his neck, the only item he wore at all, and she was pulled from the dream with a shuddering, jarring jolt. Of all the things to pull her from the dream, of all the things to send her fleeing into the realm of wakefulness from this dream where she had no control, it was the locket that awoke her. Or, rather, it was what she saw on that locket that awoke her. The locket bore a symbol – one that Cynthia knew all too well.
After all, it was branded into her wrist that very morning.
CHAPTER TEN
Rushael would be home soon.
That’s what Cynthia repeated to herself as she fretted back and forth the next day. She gravitated toward the library again, seeking out her childhood comfort in the form of books.
It didn’t help. She couldn’t concentrate. All day, she could only think of the dream, the branding, the way Verek looked at and talked to her. It was, to be blunt, terrifying.
But Rushael would be home soon, and when he came back, everything would be better. That’s what Cynthia repeated to herself.
The day stumbled on to night, and Cynthia readied herself for more dreams. This time she’d fight back, she told herself – she’d make herself take control in the dream and push him away. It was her mind, after all; she was in control in there.
But as it turned out, she wouldn’t need to worry about dreaming ever again.
Night fell, and Cynthia’s anxiety only got worse. She couldn’t possibly get to sleep in this state, could she? But she was yawning, and her vision was blurring – sleep was creeping up on her whether she wanted it to or not.
A shout yanked her from sleep. She hadn’t even been aware that she’d lost consciousness, but now she was wide awake.
That voice was familiar.
Cynthia rose to her feet, and found herself trembling with adrenaline. She knew who had just shouted out – and she was fairly certain they had shouted her name.
She hesitated, one hand on the back of the chair she had just been sitting in, the other at her throat. What was she supposed to do?
She heard another noise – muffled, off in the distance, but nonetheless distinct.
It was the clang of metal on metal.
Hand still at her throat. Cynthia sought the sound out.
The sound led her back to the arboreum, where she had first arrived at Rushael’s palace. As she drew nearer, the sounds grew louder and louder. Cynthia quickened her pace to
match the increase in volume, and by the time she reached a wall she knew would dissolve at a wave of her hand, she was running.
The wall fell away at her gesture, and Cynthia ran through into the arboreum. And there, right in front of her, her nightmares and worst fears were made reality.
Two men stood in the middle of the arboreum. Each was swinging a long, wickedly sharp two-handed sword at the other with a furious intensity. The blades clanged and sang and shrieked, and the two men ducked and snarled and swung their weapons with lethal determination.
Cynthia didn’t recognise either of them at first. Their faces were so twisted with fury and hate for each other they barely looked – well, human. But then one kicked the other in the chest and drove him back, and for just a moment the hate and ferocity vanished from the kicked man and Cynthia recognised her lover.
Rushael!
Cynthia didn’t realise she’d called out his name until he spun and looked at her. It was a fatal mistake. The other man saw Rushael drop his guard and charged in, sword held high and hissing downward.
Cynthia screamed out a horrified denial. Rushael turned his attacker’s blade aside, but the momentum of the strike still drove him to the ground with a brutal crunch. The sword fell from his hands, and his head dropped back against the ground. His head rolled to one side, and Cynthia looked into his eyes and saw nothing but broken defeat there.
The attacker leveled the tip of their sword – its blade easily as tall as either man – at Rushael’s throat. With a callous and contemptuous sneer, they flicked the blade downward. Cynthia cried out at the flick of red blood that lurched from her lover’s body, and Rushael convulsed in pain.
It wasn’t a mortal blow. There was nowhere near enough blood for it to be a killing strike, and Rushael was still clenching and unclenching his fists – so he still lived.
But Cynthia had been doing nothing but read for the last few days, and she knew what that gesture meant. The attacker was gloating. He was marking his victory in the most contemptuous way possible under Rusnean custom.
And now he stepped away from Rushael, then turned to face Cynthia.
It was Verek. Of course it was. His eyes crawled over Cynthia’s skin, lingering where she least wanted them to linger.
She raised her chin defiantly. This was not her dream. She was in control here.
Verek lifted his sword and propped it cockily across his shoulders. Cynthia’s certainty flickered, and began to fade. She might be able to control her mind here, but Verek had all the power right now.
“I did not think one of my own lieutenants would seek to defy a direct order,” he said, and Cynthia trembled at the underlying tone to Verek’s words. “But I am more surprised that he would think it is possible to fool me.”
With that, Cynthia realised that Rushael’s ruse had failed. Verek had known she was alive this entire time.
“I claim you as mine, as is my right,” Verek said.
Cynthia glanced over at Rushael, and felt something harden in her heart.
“I go willingly,” she replied. “To be honest, my lord, you are saving me.” She raised her chin and forced a sneer upon her face as she glared at Rushael. “This man stole me away, and I hate him for thinking he could hold me captive in this gilded cage.”
Rushael’s face collapsed. Grief rippled across his features, and it was obvious Cynthia’s words cut him more deeply than Verek’s sword ever could.
Verek laughed at Rushael’s reaction. He took a swaggering step toward Cynthia, then turned and sneered down at Rushael.
“When you are mine, my love, you will have the entire planet as your own.”
He slid the sword from his shoulders and readied it for another blow. Cynthia drew in a sharp breath, then took a step forward.
“My love,” she said. “My lord. Let him live.”
Verek frowned and turned to her. Cynthia did not yield.
“He does not deserve an easy release,” she said. “After all he put me through, I want him to suffer. Let him live, and know the pain of seeing me with you.”
Where Cynthia’s words had caused Rushael pain before, they caused agony now. The blood drained from his face, his jaw hung open, and there was a tremor to his features that betrayed something terrible.
Verek saw this, and he was pleased.
“You are a cruel woman indeed,” he gloated, and there was something more to his voice as well – something heavy, and thick, and hungry.
He lusted for her.
Verek laughed, and let the tip of his sword drag along the ground as he strode toward Cynthia.
“I must have you,” he said. “Now.”
Cynthia’s heart started to pound, but she nodded and raised her chin.
“Of course, my love. Let us go to the bedchambers.”
Verek grinned, and strode past Cynthia.
He led the way like he knew this place as his own. Cynthia wondered how that could be – did all the castles work on a template? Had he been here before?
She honestly had no idea. And to be honest, she had bigger things to worry about.
They reached the room far too quickly. Cynthia forced herself to stay calm as Verek laid his sword to rest against a wall, and then turned to face her.
He was not subtle. He tore his clothes from his body with a single gesture and stood naked before her. His was a scarred and notched frame, beaten from many years of war. But he was, aside from that, no less impressive than Rushael.
Cynthia let out a moan as she ran her eyes over Verek’s body, and deliberately drew in deep, heaving breaths to make her chest rise and fall as extravagantly as possible. He wore nothing but a locket with an all-too-familiar image emblazoned on it.
“Oh, my lord …” she breathed, and then she began to fumble with her dress as she spoke. “I must have you … I cannot hold back …”
She’d never really talked dirty before, so it felt more than a little awkward. But it seemed to work – Verek became aroused simply by her talking to him. Or perhaps it was the clumsy stripshow. His eyes certainly lingered on her chest as she shimmied out of her dress and pulled it down over her hips.
She smiled at him as the fabric pooled around her ankles. She stepped away from it with a little sound, kicking it away with one foot and biting her bottom lip as she approached her new lover.
“Verek,” she said, “my zai-archon … I can’t wait to feel you inside me. I must be with you, now …”
Verek raised his chin and smiled back at her.
“Then come here, my love, and we will be together.”
He raised a hand in an imperious gesture, palm up, fingers slightly curved – come here – and Cynthia placed her own hand in his. He pulled her close, a rough and impatient gesture that jerked a cry from her mouth.
He pulled her against him, and she turned her gasp of surprise into a long sigh of anticipation as their naked flesh pressed together. She ran her fingers along his shoulders with an appreciative murmur, and then traced those same fingers along his collarbone. She could feel his erection pressing against her belly, and she moved against it with a hungry moan in her throat as she stood on tip-toes and opened her mouth to kiss him.
Their lips touched. Verek pushed his tongue into Cynthia’s mouth, hungry and insistent, and let out his own sound of satisfaction – a low, greedy rumble from somewhere deep in his chest.
The rumble lifted in pitch. And it continued rising.
He pulled back. There was confusion on his face, and as he looked down and saw what Cynthia was doing, the confusion twisted into something else.
“What are you doing?” he shouted. “Stop!”
Cynthia ignored him. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she was not going to be deterred.
She had her wrist pressed against that damned locket. She was holding it tight, refusing to let it slip or slide away, and it hurt. It was like cold electricity slapping her in the wrist again and again – and by the looks of it, Verek was feeling the same thing.<
br />
He fell to his knees and dragged her down with him.
“Stop …” he repeated, his voice so much weaker than before.
Cynthia did not stop.
There was electricity firing off under her wrist. It was agonising, jolting through her body and making her convulse with each pulse in the most horrific and vile way possible. She clenched her teeth and held her wrist to the locket, even as Verek tried to pry her hands away.
I will not scream, I will not scream …
She screamed. And the world went black around her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Her mind fled the pain, dancing back just a few days past – after Rushael left, when the nightmares first started.
Rushael’s library really was thorough. The mating rituals, in particular, were thoroughly explained and explored.
If a lord wanted to claim a mate as his own, he could brand her with his personal sigil. It ignored the will of the mate, but formed a compulsion that could not be resisted.
It could, however, be broken: if the two symbols – one on the mate’s wrist, the other around the lord’s neck – were brought together, the compulsion would be destroyed.
But then, the book cautioned, so would the lord and his mate. There was power in the sigils – power that Cynthia couldn’t quite understand, and the book didn’t really try explain it – and breaking the link between them would unleash that power.
Rusneans rarely survived a sundering of the sigil, and as Verek himself had said Cynthia was just a human – fragile, easily broken.
She was, in fact, dying.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Verek died first. Cynthia watched the light fade from his eyes, and allowed herself a triumphant smile as she realised she had outlived him.
But then a final pulse of power surged through her body. It threw her backward, and she slammed against the wall with a horrible wet smack.
This was it, she realised. She’d won, but still managed to lose.
Alien Romance: Rusneon Mates Boxed Set: A Scifi Alien Abduction Romance (Alien Romance, Alien Invasion Romance, BBW) Page 21