by Jess Granger
“Is it a game?”
He looked at her with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Why? You want to play?”
An electric tingle raced down her spine as she thought about sparring with him on his ship.
“Yeah,” she said, turning back to him. “I’ll play.”
Cyrus took her hand and pulled her through the crowd until they reached the edge of an open lattice of springy poles built over a large hole in the pier. It was a good five-meter drop to the river below.
Cyrus spoke with a man holding two wooden staffs. Each had a blunted hook on the end, just large enough to catch an arm or a leg. The man smiled, shouted at the crowd behind him, and tossed Cyrus the hooks.
Yara looked up at him as he kicked off his shoes and climbed onto one of the thin logs. He tossed a staff down to her.
“Well?” he invited.
She jumped onto the lattice with the grace of the Elite and stood on the unsteady pole with sure feet. With a flourish, she spun the staff around her back. It felt so good to stretch out her arms, and feel strength in her muscles, like she had control of her body for the first time in a long time. The crowd sent up a roar of approval, shaking their hands in the air. The colorful fingerless gloves that covered their palms flashed in the sunlight like confetti. She turned her attention back to Cyrus, determined to block out the visual distraction. “What are the rules?”
“Simple, first one in the river loses.” Cyrus walked backward on his log while keeping his gaze locked with hers.
A thrill of awareness surged in her gut. He had good balance.
Impressive.
Too bad he was hopelessly outmatched at this game. “Any other rules?” she asked, stalking forward.
“Nope, that’s it.”
“This should be fun,” she admitted. She leapt forward, landing hard on a pole near him. The lattice bounced, but Yara flexed through the surge in the wood, keeping her balance. She wasn’t as strong as she’d like, but it was enough. It felt so good to move.
Cyrus bent his knees, maintaining his balance as he hunched forward. The sun gleamed on his bare back. She had to strike.
Sweeping the hook toward his ankles, she thought she’d catch him, but he jumped at the last second, letting her hook pass beneath him as he landed with un-Earthlen grace.
Her momentum turned her balance to the side. He struck forward with the curve of the hook and pushed her side just enough to set her center off balance.
She jumped and vaulted on one hand, turning an elegant flip before landing on another part of the lattice.
The noise from the crowd deafened her as the motion of their hands pumping and waving in the air distracted her for an instant.
It was all Cyrus needed to jump from his pole to the one nearest her. The bounce in the wood caught her off guard and she tried to plant her foot but didn’t have time. Cyrus’s hook shot at her ankle.
She had to leap again, this time cartwheeling along one of the thin poles before finding her feet. She gripped the bending wood with her long toes, finding her balance as she watched him.
How did he learn to balance? Earthlen were notoriously clumsy. Was that just a stereotype? She watched his feet as he ran toward her. His arches seemed to flex around the poles while his gangly toes gripped the wood, much like hers had.
Ducking down, she prepared for his attack. At the last minute she dove down and to the side, catching a pole with one of her hands and swinging herself back up and around.
He smiled at her and straightened, as if he were standing on solid ground. With a lazy arrogance, he placed the butt of his hook in front of him, and crossed his hands over the arc of the hook.
“Give up yet?” he asked.
The crowd laughed. She smiled at him. “Not on your life.”
“You know, you should take it easy,” he suggested. “You’re still sick. Honestly, how long should it take an Elite Azralen warrior to hook a man?”
“That depends,” she shouted over the taunting oooh of the crowd, “on what we intend to do with him.”
She sprang, flipped, landed in the center of a springy pole, and used the momentum to launch herself into the air. She twisted as she flew, reaching her hook out and catching his shoulder. She pulled it in, twisting him off balance as she landed.
She let go of the hook and concentrated on her landing as he fell through the lattice.
The crowd erupted in a deafening cheer.
Yara lifted her arms in victory, her heart pounding with exertion and the thrill of winning.
A strong hand grasped her ankle from below and yanked her down.
Yara’s heart flew into her throat as she fell through the lattice and into the arms of Cyrus. Together they dropped until the river crashed around them.
Cool water engulfed her, and Yara pushed away from Cyrus, fighting to the surface. She erupted from the water, gasping for air. She thrashed her arms. “I can’t swim!”
Immediately Cyrus’s warm arm wrapped around her. She held on to his neck as his limbs surged through the chilly water.
“You cheated,” she accused, as she relaxed and let him carry her.
“No,” his voice sounded husky, so close to her ear. “I won.”
Yara felt a tightening in her chest. She coughed, and Cyrus supported her, his warm arm pulled her tighter to his chest as he swam both of them to the ladder attached to one of the pier stilts.
He pulled her to it and let her climb up until she could perch on the cross support beams. Her cough turned into a chuckle.
“We tied,” she protested as she tried to breathe.
“If you say so,” he insisted, pulling himself up next to her so he could rub her back. “But I saw your toe hit first.”
She looked at him, and a limp piece of river grass hung in the soaking wet hair plastered to his handsome forehead.
She couldn’t stop it as the chuckle turned into a laugh.
The laugh blossomed, something she couldn’t control even if she wanted to. She laughed so hard it hurt her ribs. She had to hold them, fight for breath. She could feel droplets of water clinging to her cheeks and wasn’t sure if they were tears as her laughter poured from her.
He laughed, too, leaning against her arm.
By the Mercy of the Matriarchs, it felt so good to let go.
Yara took a short, shaky breath as her overwhelming mirth stabbed at her. It turned into something more poignant, more painful with each choking breath.
She felt her tears spill over her cheeks, burning hot trails through the cool water.
“Hey,” Cyrus wrapped his strong arm around her. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she sniffed.
He rubbed her back, and it helped her draw a shaking breath. She expected him to try to say something smart about how she couldn’t stand being beaten by a man, but he didn’t.
He just reached out and wiped away her tears.
His fingers lingered on her chin, tipping her face toward his.
She took a deep breath and sniffed.
He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
In a rush, he surged forward, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss.
15
YARA DROWNED IN THE HEADY PLEASURE OF CYRUS’S KISS. SHE LET GO COMPLETELY and felt like she was falling. A deep pulse of pleasure thrummed within her, stealing her breath.
She felt so hot, so open. One arm wrapped around her, pulling her into the strength of his body, while he held on to the stilt with the other. The heat of his skin seeped into her damp clothing as his lips slid over hers.
They commanded her pleasure, demanded her submission to the exquisite torture. And she succumbed. She let herself be pliant even as she reached out to taste him, savoring the feeling of being hot and wet and completely out of control.
She gasped as his hand fisted in the damp strands of her hair and pulled her head back so he could slide aching kisses down her throat and over her bare collarbone.
She closed her eyes and shivered. Sh
e’d never felt this awake, this alive.
“Ona help me,” she gasped as his teeth nipped her skin just above her heart.
“Don’t pray to her,” he growled against her throat.
What did he know about the Matriarchs?
In his defense, her thoughts had nothing to do with being pure.
He kissed her hard on the neck, the intense shot of swirling pressure overloading her nerves. Ecstasy, so intense it hurt, coursed through her body.
She reached up around his neck, twining her fingers in his cool hair. She had to hold him, just to hang on to something. She didn’t want him to stop.
She tipped her head down and kissed him, a light nip on his lips. He answered by taking her mouth again, his rough skin burning her cheeks as his tongue slid into her.
Sweet Creator.
She was on fire. All awareness left her until the whole world became his touch.
“I want you,” she confessed as his teeth nipped her ear. He stilled. It took her a moment to focus as she looked up into his deep green eyes. “I want you.”
Something buzzed near her ear, and Cyrus’s hand jabbed out with a sharp strike. He took a deep breath as he looked down at the crushed fly in his hand.
“Damn it.” He wiped his palm on his jeans and shifted so he could stand on the cross beam. The dizzying letdown left her wobbly as she took the hand he offered her and stood on the beam as well. “We have to get you back.”
Shakt!
Damn flies. She tried to push aside the sting of rejection as he helped her up to the ladder.
She climbed the rungs of the ladder with her frustration clawing at her. He was right. She had almost gotten bitten, and she couldn’t afford any more delays.
It was just . . .
It felt so good to laugh, and kissing him felt even better.
She pulled herself back up onto the wooden walkways of the marketplace. The crowd cheered and laughed, but she no longer cared about the game.
Her insecurity needled her.
What was Cyrus thinking?
Did he regret the kiss? She knew nothing could come of a love affair with him, but he didn’t seem the type to deny himself a willing partner. Why had he pulled away from her? It wasn’t just the fly.
She watched him carefully as he emerged from the pit, holding up their hooks and handing them back to one of the Touscari.
It wasn’t her imagination—lines of tension etched in his brow. She tried to slow her racing heart as she watched him rub his scar, then press his hand to the small of her back to lead her out of the crowd.
They walked in silence back to the Sanctuary. Yara was aware of the crowd around her, but the noise and smell of the marketplace seemed muted as she watched board after board cross under her purpose-driven feet. Even as her heart raced with adrenaline, her thoughts tore around in her mind like a sea-driven storm.
When they reached her room, she looked up. Like an angry command sergeant with a gaggle of untrained troops, Tola stood with his arms crossed. His dark eyes blazed with disapproval.
“Commander,” he stated with a hard tone in his voice.
“I needed to get out, Captain.” She lifted her chin and stared him down, but he met her gaze. What was with these men? His eyes challenged her as he stepped closer to her and closed his hot palm around her bare forearm.
“You are my patient.” He gave her arm a slight squeeze as he turned his slicing gaze to Cyrus. Yara watched as Cyrus offered the healer a half shrug and a scowl.
Tola huffed and led her back to the bed, where he gently placed her within the nets. “I’m sorry, Commander, but your immune system is still vulnerable to illness. You have to stay within the nets until your ship arrives.”
Yara sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped once again in her frustrating cocoon. Through the netting, she watched Tola turn on Cyrus.
“What in your hell were you thinking?” the healer scolded as if she weren’t in the room. “And for Honor, put a shirt on. You have no shame.”
“I was thinking she needed the light, and she’s in the care of the best hands in Rastos.” Cyrus scratched at the welt of a fly bite on his neck. “And if you’re tired of seeing me without a shirt, let’s deal. Give me a shirt, and I’ll wear one.”
Tola placed his hand on Cyrus’s shoulder and forced him down into a seat. “You were out eating spicy kitarc and playing terc. I’m surprised both of you aren’t passed out in your recuperation, and if I hadn’t infused her immune system with your biomarkers, she’d be getting sick right now.”
“What?” Yara grabbed a fistful of the netting and watched as Tola slowly turned to her. Cyrus glared at him. What was he talking about? He was Earthlen, not Azralen. They didn’t have a close enough genetic code to transfer immunity, did they?
He looked abashed. “I’m sorry. Never mind. You need to rest,” he said to her. Then he turned to Cyrus. “You need to behave. I’ll check on you in the morning.”
Tola left the room, with the authoritative air of a military commander.
“You think he’s going to bring me a shirt?” Cyrus asked, his tone teasing.
Yara chuckled, then crossed her arms and rubbed her biceps. The shaded interior of the Sanctuary cooled her wet skin, and she didn’t like the feel of her damp clothes. “I need to get out of these clothes.”
Cyrus’s bright gaze slowly traveled the length of her body and he inhaled a slow, controlled breath. He didn’t say anything as he turned his back to her.
She peeled off her wet clothes, then tucked herself under the blankets of the bed. The soft sheets warmed her chilled skin as she sank deeper into the mattress, pulling the covers over her naked body.
Cyrus crossed the room without looking back at her and picked up his guitar from the corner.
“May I turn around?” he asked.
Yara shivered. “Yes.”
He moved toward her with the grace of a cat. She found her attention drawn to his scar. It cut across his chest like a shining brand, unobstructed by any hair. She had been captivated by his chest all day, and couldn’t help staring at it now. For an Earthlen, he didn’t bronze in the sun like so many of that species. He had a fairer complexion that had glowed with the kiss of the light. Her eyes followed the path of the scar for the hundredth time, starting over his heart, and trailing down just above his flat nipple, until it graced the top of his sculpted abs.
She tucked the blankets up higher on her breasts as he opened the net and slid inside. He sat in the chair near the head of the bed and settled his guitar in his damp lap. His wet jeans had to chafe, but she couldn’t bring herself to suggest he strip as well.
His long fingers slid over the strings, pulling a sweet and quiet melody out of the beautiful instrument. The Orianalen sun touched the far horizon, and the golden red light of dusk painted the small room in a warm hue.
“I had fun today,” she offered. “Probably more fun than I’ve ever had in my life.”
He smiled as he looked up at her with his wicked green eyes. “You should get out more.”
She laughed. “Isn’t that the truth.” She listened to his song, enjoying the way the melody added a layer of complexity each time he repeated it. Eventually he brought it back down to its most simple, and somehow most potent, phrase. “Thank you,” she said as his fingers stilled on the strings.
“My pleasure.” Their gazes locked for an instant. She had said that more than once, and he seemed genuine in his answer.
“How did you get your scar?”
He dropped his gaze to the instrument in his lap. He once again caressed the strings. This time the song was sad and full of longing.
“Knife wound.” He continued to play, though his fingers seemed hesitant, as if his mind weren’t focused on the melody.
“Who was he?”
Cyrus looked up at her. “How do you know it wasn’t a she?”
She shrugged. “I can’t see you really fighting a woman. We’ve sparred, and I could tell you held back
blows.”
“Maybe I just didn’t want to hurt you.”
Yara chuckled again. “As if you could. Who was he?”
“A pimp,” he answered with a sharp edge to his voice. “A master of a brood of enslaved whores.” He paused, repeating the last phrase of the music and stumbling on the notes. “My first kill.”
Yara felt as if she’d been punched in the side. Earth was chaotic, but the planet adhered to the rule of law. She didn’t understand. “Was this on Earth?”
He looked up at her with those eerie green eyes. “No,” he admitted. “It was a much darker world.”
She shivered. How many worlds out there abandoned reason and the rule of law? Unfortunately, it could have been any number of places, Krona, Ankara, Garu, they were obvious, but there were other worlds out there. Ones no one cared about. “What happened?”
“I was out gathering food for my family with my sister and my best friend.” He paused. “She was my first love,” he admitted with a note of hesitation in his voice. “My only love,” he mumbled.
He shook his head as if to clear it. “My sister wandered off to check a trap, and we were alone for a bit . . .”
“Did you kiss her?” She couldn’t help it. She wasn’t jealous, just intrigued by him.
“I didn’t have the chance. We were attacked. I was beaten. I watched them carry her away. She screamed for me, but I couldn’t protect her.” He inhaled and held his breath, his face tight with pain as he continued to stare at the still guitar. Yara reached out and touched his shoulder. He breathed again, but he looked as if a heavy weight still rested in his heart.
“And your sister? What happened to her?”
“She was taken from me.”
Yara felt tears prick the backs of her eyes. “I’m sorry, Cyrus.”
“Yeah.” He tuned the guitar, tapping the strings so they rang with soft bell-like tones. “They were gone, and I couldn’t think. I just . . . I had to do something. It took months, but I found the rat that attacked us and killed him.”
Yara couldn’t speak. She had a hard time rectifying everything he had told her in her mind. The part of her ruled by justice supported his actions, but this was vengeance, not law, and it was dark, ugly.