Eliana's Warlord

by Jory Strong

  He dismissed the order with a shake of his head. Ignored the flash of Rand's teeth.

  Rand took a silver piece from a pocket, walked it through his fingers. "I'll put this on hoodie, Leon. You on?"

  Leon shot a look at Jax, then Rand. "Suck-up."

  Rand laughed. "Can't blame me, can you?"

  Jax crossed his arms over his chest. Fuckers had been with him too long for him to get mad at some of the shit they pulled.

  In the ring, Tanya swung a meaty fist.

  His mystery woman ducked but she didn't follow it by launching an attack.

  Tanya charged.

  His woman leapt away. Kicked, landed a blow to Tanya's back and sent her crashing forward—

  And again, failed to attack.

  Whoever she was, she'd had some self-defense training, the kind someone might have taught a younger sister to help her get away from trouble, not engage it.

  Tanya charged again, face reddened.

  She swung a beefy fist and again his woman dipped, dodged, danced to the side, making Tanya appear clumsy.

  Some in the crowd cheered.

  More booed.

  "Going to get uglier if hoodie doesn't engage," Rand murmured.

  Jax agreed. He could feel the mood shift to impatient. The crowd wanted blood, not the beauty of lithe, evasive movement.

  And every one of hers was just that. Lithe. Evasive. Sensuous. Every one of hers made him want to get his hands on her, to strip away the rest of her clothing.

  She danced away from Tanya, kicked again and made contact.

  Tanya grunted and staggered.

  It wasn't enough to satisfy the crowd. Like a predatory animal with one mind, the crowd closed in, tightening the circle to force an escalation into violence.

  Sensing it, or perhaps sensing that she'd lost whatever advantage she'd gained by entering his bar and escaping through the window, she went on the offensive.

  Three lucky strikes, one with a foot, two with fists, and Tanya was on the ground, a couple of teeth glistening on the sidewalk and blood seeping from beneath the hands held to her face.

  Jax moved in before the circle collapsed and his woman tried to dart through an opening and disappear. Her back was to him but he knew the instant she became aware of his approach.

  She surged forward, away from him.

  The couple in front of her closed the gap.

  She turned slightly and the scrawny man she faced paled and threw his arm across the shoulders of the muscled man to the right.

  Jax's smile was hard and satisfied. His inner circle could get away with treating him as if he wasn't warlord, but the people in his warren knew better. Whether they'd won money or lost money betting on her, no one in the crowd was stupid enough to open a path and allow her to escape when he was the one coming after her.

  He reached her. Locked a hand around her upper arm.

  Electric pleasure traveled from his palm to his chest and then straight to his dick. "Let's go."

  Chapter Two

  Eliana's mouth went dry. Everything inside her responded to the possessive touch and the edged, sharp command.

  She knew who she'd see when she turned. Damn her curiosity, though passing through the warlord's bar had been a rational choice.

  She'd known she was taking a chance when she'd entered, that she might draw attention to herself. And still she'd felt a wild thrill at seeing him, at having him see her, in that instant when their eyes had met though she'd had the presence of mind to keep going.

  Foolish to have given in to temptation then. Even more foolish not to be desperate to get away from him now. But with the possibility of death looming in her immediate future, or worse—because being captured and handed over to Stefan would be worse than death—she wanted to yield to the dominance in Jaxon's voice.

  She half turned to face him and the pulse in her throat throbbed harder. A shiver of want gripped her with the burning intensity in his eyes.

  He was the ultimate alpha male. The ultimate protector. The ultimate threat to her freedom—but only if he found out who she was. Only if he discovered she had value to him beyond spread legs and a night of pleasure.

  The anticipation of that pleasure heated her from the inside out. He'd give as good as he got, whether he made an effort to or not. She didn't think the rumors whispered about him by girls who'd be punished for their interest were a lie.

  Strength oozed off him. Power that wasn't the slick assumption of birthright but came from proving himself mentally and physically.

  He was the law here. Any and everything was his for the taking. Even behind the wall of the city, this warlord was whispered about. Jaxon.

  He wore his dark hair close to his head. It emphasized his wide brows and black lashes, the dark stubble above and below and to the sides of thin, firm lips. Lips that made her want to touch hers to them in an effort to appease, to coax a smile, to elicit words of—

  No. No. Love like that didn't have a place in her life. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  Hadn't she learned anything in the years since Ansell used a young girl's first infatuation to rip her from everything she knew? Never again would she entrust a man with her survival.

  The warlord pulled her to him, close enough to feel the heat pouring off him along with strength, along with the scent of soap and whiskey and fierce masculinity. Close enough to plunge her into carnal fantasies she had every reason to surrender herself to—at least for tonight.

  In his bed she'd find refuge. But more than safety, this might be her one chance to experience the things she'd dreamed about.

  In two days time she could be dead.

  The warlord's hand lifted and her body tightened with need. Her heart sent pulse after pulse of heat downward, into her sex. He brushed the hair away from her face and she stifled a sigh of pleasure at the nearly unbearable gentleness of his knuckles against her cheek.

  A lock of her hair curled around his fingers and he glanced away from her face, rubbed the light brown strands with his thumb.

  "You knew I wanted you to come to my table," he said, a promise of retribution in the dark rumble of his voice.

  "Yes," she said, not fighting against the wave of longing that went through her.

  Even if he only cared about gaining physical release, tonight she'd caught his attention and she'd welcome his heat. For so long, all she'd known was coldness. The touch of people paid to care for her, including the man and woman she'd been forced to call Father and Mother from the day the slavers—because that's what the so-called procurers really were—had brought her to New San Jose to be raised as Stefan's future wife.

  Jaxon closed his hand on her hair. His eyelids lowered. "Are you wearing another man's ink?"

  "No."

  His question created coiling heat around her heart when it should have repelled her by reminding her of the fantasies she'd harbored at twelve about one day being Ansell's chosen mate, the two of them marked as a pair by the identical ink placed on their skin.

  The hand fisting her hair tightened while the other cupped her side and slid upward, sending shards of heat through the black hoodie she'd exchanged her much more valuable jacket for at the beginning of the day. "You better not be lying to me."

  "I'm not."

  "You're from Elias's territory?"

  No. Yes. She wasn't sure which was the less dangerous answer, but hoping to stop him from asking additional questions, she said, "Yes."

  "Who are you running from?"

  Her heart sped. Her thoughts tumbled over possible first names like the ball on a roulette wheel. Conscience strangled the possibility of one of them reaching her vocal chords.

  Jaxon was capable of remorseless violence. He wouldn't be warlord otherwise.

  Any fabricated name she gave him might lead to an innocent man's death. And to give him the real name—

  No. Never. He'd trade her in a heartbeat for whatever reward Stefan was offering for her return.

  She licked her lips,
wetting them in the hopes the lie she was about to tell would flow with smooth believability. "I'm not running from anyone. I saw you with the blonde. It was reason enough to leave the bar."

  His nostrils flared. The thin line of his mouth softened.

  Her heart fluttered and her nipples became hard points of ache. Her pulse pounded harder in her throat, each beat a declaration of desire.

  His hand dropped away from her hair. "Let's go."

  He didn't give his name. He didn't ask for hers.

  It's for the best, she told herself, a traitorous part of her wanting him to care enough to demand her name as well as her body. Wanting to be more than a night's amusement, an interchangeable female body used to satisfy his carnal hunger.

  Foolish, she chided herself. What mattered was that she'd gained a night of safety, a night of freedom, a night of pleasure.

  In the morning she'd run.

  The warlord's dark-haired men took up positions in front of them. The one to the left had caramel-colored skin close to the same shade as hers, the other was whiter, but no less menacing.

  Both had knives strapped to their thighs. Both wore guns shoved into the waistband of their jeans at the middle of their backs.

  Were the warrens really so violent that even the warlords who ruled there didn't walk their own territories alone? Had she just been lucky in the three days since she'd managed to escape New San Jose?

  She suppressed a shiver, needed desperately to believe her luck, if that's what it had been, would hold.

  Behind the wall, not even the Chancellor or the members of the council had bodyguards. But she'd take her chances and die in the warrens before willingly returning to the so-called safety of the city.

  Her gaze lingered on the guns. Being caught with a gun in New San Jose most often meant the death penalty, or, for a bribe, expulsion into one of the warrens. Only the founding families and those who'd gained entry into the elite could afford to own guns—not that guns were easy to come by. Most had been destroyed during The Civilizing.

  For the nomadic tribes that called the wild lands home, including the one she'd been born into, they were a treasured possession, and acquiring ammunition reason to venture close to one of the walled cities and the warrens surrounding them. It was their leader's desire for bullets that had taken them close enough to New Salt Lake for her to be seen by men with a standing order from Stefan to acquire a child who would grow up to look like his dead wife.

  He won't get me back, she told herself as men and women got out of the warlord's way.

  She studied as many faces as she could but didn't see the redheaded man she feared she hadn't lost, despite her attempt to lay a false trail away from the railway that cut through Jax and Josiah's warrens.

  She wasn't sure how much distance was between Stefan's man and her, only that he would never give up. And if he made it to the public square tonight and heard about the fight, heard her described and learned she'd been taken by the warlord—

  He won't. She had to believe she wouldn't be that unlucky. That if he heard about the fight at all, it'd be tomorrow, after she'd already fled.

  They cleared the crowded marketplace. A block later they'd reached a graffiti-marked steel gate stretched between dark green adobe buildings whose walls were covered by murals and more of the script that warned this was Jaxon's turf.

  Razor wire was set at the top of the gate. And though she couldn't see armed men on the building roofs, she suspected they were stationed there.

  The lighter-skinned bodyguard reached the key pad to the right of the gate. Shielding it from view, he punched in the code.

  She concentrated, heard the subtle difference between each of the six digits.

  Relief swept through her. As long as they didn't change the setting before morning, she'd be able to escape.

  He opened the gate and the warlord guided her into a narrow, bare courtyard that would become a killing chute if enemies breached the front gate.

  Propelling her forward, they reached a wooden door set in a dark green wall. The second guard opened it, revealing a house the size of the one she'd lived in behind the city wall, though instead of a vast expanse of lush grass and fragrant, cultured flowers, the small yard was covered in rock and cactus.

  The warlord released her arm and her hand covered the place his had been, her heart speeding in warning. Don't get used to his touch. Don't get used to his heat. Don't believe he can be trusted, or that this is anything more than sex.

  But she shivered when his hand settled at the base of her spine and remained there as they entered the house.

  Dice hit a table in a room somewhere in front of them and cheers erupted. Balls clacked together on a pool table and someone cursed.

  The warlord guided her to a staircase and had her precede him.

  They climbed to the second floor.

  The upstairs hallway was wide. Four squat candles lit mural-covered walls. A geometrically patterned carpet runner done in shades of green covered a strip of polished wood flooring.

  "Front room," he said.

  Each step toward it had the heat building between her legs. Her lower lips were already swollen and slick, her panties wet and her clit stiffened.

  They reached the warlord's door. He opened it and she stepped into a room dominated by a large bed and illuminated by moonlight.

  His scent was stronger here, devastatingly masculine.

  Clothes were folded neatly on a dresser. A black, leather jacket with his graffiti design embroidered on the back was draped over a chair.

  The door closed with a soft, final click.

  He lit candles like those in the hallway before stopping in front of her, his back to the door, hers to the massive bed.

  His arms crossed over solid muscle. His stance widened.

  Candlelight sharpened his features. The aura of power and dominance emanating from him touched her, leaving her feeling breathless as flutter after flutter went through her chest.

  He was masculine perfection and hard, ruthless strength, a man who'd do what it took to hold on to the things he claimed.

  His lips commanded obedience. His eyes required submission, and at least for tonight, she wanted to surrender to desire, she wanted to submit to this man's will in the bedroom.

  "Take off your clothes," he said, and her heart twinged.

  She allowed that reaction for only a beat. It couldn't matter that he didn't bother to ask for her name first. It was better if he didn't. She'd gotten away with lying to him once, in telling him she wasn't running from anyone. Making him care enough to want to know her would be a mistake.

  This could only be for tonight. Tomorrow she'd be gone, a day away from sneaking onto the train that would leave the city, bound for New Salt Lake.

  Eliana pulled the hoodie off and dropped it to the floor, heated thrill going through her with the tightening of his lips and flare of his nostrils.

  Her hands went to the front of the flannel shirt she'd stolen. Her fingers shook, just a little bit in anticipation of showing herself to him, of losing her virginity to such a dangerous man.

  His eyes heated at seeing her nervousness, creating a loop of heady eroticism.

  Watching the warlord's face, she pushed the shirt off her shoulders and let it slide down her arms.

  His lips parted in appreciation of the light blue material that cupped her breasts and didn't hide the outlines of her nipples. Her sex spasmed, further wetting the matching panties.

  Until recently, the only undergarments she'd been allowed were functional and ugly. When she'd opened her dresser drawer and seen that white cotton had been replaced by feminine, sensual bra and panty sets, it'd confirmed that time was running out. She'd known she needed to escape while the possibility existed, before she found herself drugged or frightened by threats into speaking vows of marriage.

  The heat and hard demand in the warlord's gaze ordered her to unhook the bra and slide its straps down her arms, baring her breasts.


  She disobeyed his silent command by crouching to take off her shoes and socks, though she watched him from beneath her lashes.

  He unfolded his arms, let his hands go to the front of his jeans, riveting her attention there.

  Her hands stopped moving. His didn't.

  He undid the belt and her mouth went dry, her heart fluttered wildly.

  He unbuttoned. Unzipped. Grasped his cock and her breath became trapped in her throat. He was so powerfully male, so overwhelmingly masculine.

  "Get finished stripping," Jax said, his cock screaming for release and already threatening to blow.

  He'd had a raging hard-on for what felt like hours. If he stepped forward, she'd be sucking his dick before he saw all of her, and he wanted to see all of her first.

  She tugged the first shoe off then the second. The socks came next and even her feet were beautiful.

  She stood and he wanted to step into her, feel the heat of her bared skin against his.

  Graceful, feminine hands went to the front of her jeans. And fuck if he didn't want them at the front of his, wrapped around his cock.

  She undid button and zipper, peeled the material down long, sleek legs created to wrap around his waist and hold him inside her.

  A spasm went through his dick. He countered it with a hard squeeze.

  She stepped out of the jeans, leaving her in panties and bra meant to drive a man crazy with lust.

  The same desire to do extreme violence that he'd felt when he'd seen her wearing another man's shirt returned. He wasn't convinced she wasn't running from that man.

  Jax stepped into her and saw the flash of fear in her eyes. Good. There were things he wouldn't tolerate. And right now, one of them was her with someone else.

  The heat pouring off her caressed his cock and penetrated his clothing. His hand fisted in the hair at the back of her head.

  Her lips parted. Her soft little moan lit him up.

  He jerked her forward and slammed his mouth down on hers, the touch of her tongue against his shooting a blast of fire straight to his dick, the feel of her hands on his chest making that fire burn hotter.

  Her lower body sought his and the press of her panties and flat stomach against his cock and the back of his hand had him fighting to maintain control.