Kingdom of Khal: Redeeming Davik

by Madison Hayes

  “Mount her, Davik,” Warrik said, then watched his brother hesitate. “Mount her. She wants you. Don’t you sweetheart?” he murmured. “Do it for her. A little nudge is just what she needs to give her confidence.”

  Davik gave his brother an accusing stare.

  He grinned slowly, “If you won’t do it for her, do it for me. A little nudge from behind and she’ll be swallowing my cock whole.” He gave a little gasp. “Never mind,” he groaned. “Ah, Mithra, girl. I didn’t mean to criticize. No-no-no sweetheart. Not your teeth.”

  Davik didn’t want to—well he did want to—but either way, he couldn’t help himself. He was out of the chair and moving toward the invitation she presented on her knees. He dropped to his knees behind her, his knees on either side of her calves. Reverently, he palmed the back of her thighs smoothing his hands up over the curves of her behind, pulled her cheeks apart and settled his growing erection into her groove. He felt her warmth envelope him right through his breeks, felt his steel stretch and grow into her crease as his hands slid to the front of her thighs. Pulling her into him tightly, he rocked against her, rubbing his length into the saddle between her cheeks.

  It felt too good to stop there.

  He shot a look at his brother, who still held the girl’s hair in his big fist. Warrik watched her head with eyes half-closed. “That’s it darling,” he murmured. “Right there. Give me your tongue right there.”

  Davik pulled his body away enough to slip his hand between her legs, carefully stroking her with a light touch. He didn’t want to surprise her and he certainly didn’t want to set her teeth on edge; not with The Heir’s entire future so close to those teeth. When he was sure she was comfortable with the presence of his hand, he dropped a tentative finger into her slot to test her, ran it over her clitoris and down to her opening, easing his finger inside. He was surprised when she gave his finger a wet welcome; he’d hardly started on her. She was ready. Ready for a man. Wanted a man—thrusting on her.

  It was enough for him. His restraint was beginning to shatter as his panicked hand fumbled to open his breeks and pull his cock into play. He wanted to forge into her and fill her with his thick hot steel, feel her fire banked hot and tight around him. Instead, with his steel in his hand, he slipped between her legs, not inside her. The thick tip slid up and along her slit, spitting in its excitement, his ejaculate easing the way. He heard her murmur and smiled, knowing her sigh was for him. He withdrew slowly and with a hand holding his tip tight against her, thrust his cock-head along her rut again. She gasped.

  Warrik groaned. “Don’t stop now sweetheart,” he begged the distracted girl. “Ah please, just a little more. Just a little.” Davik slowed his action so the girl could concentrate on The Heir again. Which she apparently did, judging from the look on Warrik’s face, but at the same time she was bringing her rounded derriere tightly into his lap. Questingly. Beseeching his input. Begging him to reassert himself.

  He inserted himself.

  Penetrating her all the way to her limit.

  She cried out, causing Warrik to just about go mad. With his knees still bent, he threw himself forward and curled his long torso over her. Davik watched his brother’s tawny mop mix with the dark cascade he still held in his fist. With the black and white bouquet against his lips, Warrik came into her mouth; his head bowed over hers.

  At the same time, she was stretching her bottom to meet and absorb Davik’s every thrust. He moved his hand to her rise, covered it with his hand, firmly settled the heel and length of his thumb above her rise while his fingers curled between her legs, and rubbed the top of her crotch, the tempo of his hand matching the action of his thrusting hips. When he heard her whimpering sob and felt her start into her arrival, he drove in deep and held—rock hard against her core—while her sheath swallowed around him in a convulsive gulp, reopened and swallowed again. And again. He whimpered himself; then his hands snatched at her hips and he pistoned against her backside, ramming his steel to the hilt four more times before he jettisoned inside her in a scalding rush.

  Chapter Five

  Davik put down his pen about noonday, realizing he had accomplished little in the hours since dawn. Outside, at a distance, he could hear Warrik’s booming voice as he drilled the men. Normally, he would be there also, but he had stayed behind—ostensibly to write up his weekly requisition. Ostensibly, he hadn’t accomplished a damn thing. He was keenly aware of the girl’s presence. When her silk skirt rustled, he used the excuse to look up at her.

  He’d have used any excuse.

  She was a distraction, he thought as he watched her beside the window, gazing out into the street. A small frown creased her forehead.

  “What’s your name?” he asked, suddenly wanting very much to know. Her eyes left the window and she returned him a quiet look. “I want to know what to scream out in the middle of my release.” He grinned. “My name’s Davik,” he reminded her. “Should you ever need it.”

  She gave him a very small smile. “I know.”

  “What’s your heritage?”

  “Why do you care?” she challenged him quietly.

  He returned her challenge with a teasing smile. “I don’t believe a man can be in love with a woman he hardly knows.”

  She ignored this bit of flattery. “My heritage is the same as yours.”

  “You don’t look like a Khal. Not even a North Country Khal.”

  “Mixed blood,” she replied. “Khallic, Westerman, Yute, Agryppan.”

  “Westerman,” he said. “That would explain the hair and eyes. And can you see in the dark?”

  “Better than you, I would guess.”

  “But Westerman are fair-skinned. White.” His eyes skimmed her brown limbs, but he was seeing—courtesy of his vivid memory—the scars on her back. “Did you deserve those stripes on your back?”

  He watched her shoulders rise in a shrug. “Probably.”

  “Were they given you in prison?”

  She nodded. “For stealing.”

  “Food?” he ventured, wanting to martyr her.

  “Diamonds,” she returned.

  He whistled. “Where were you imprisoned?”

  She was a long time answering, watching the hem of her skirt. “Taranis,” she said finally and raised her eyes to his. “Your father’s prison.”

  The space between his eyebrows closed in a grimace. He’d have that question back, he thought, and made a face of regret. “My father’s a stern man. A hard man,” he said flatly. “I’m sorry you got caught, then.”

  “No more than I,” she stated. “I was fourteen.”

  Davik blinked before staring into the middle distance. “You’re…you’re not…you’re the girl who robbed Fastig.” He refocused on her in wonder. “His wife’s diamond set…” his voice trailed away.

  She returned him a look without expression. “You’ve a good memory.”

  “That was…a life sentence,” he said slowly.

  She nodded. “I lost five years of my life…and the young man who helped me escape.”

  Davik shook his head at the ground. “It’s hard to imagine you—a reckless thief. You seem so—subdued.”

  “I was a wild kid.” Her eyes held his. “Five years cured me of that.”

  Ouch, he thought. His eyes returned to his papers on the table. That was well done, he thought cynically. He’d gained a lot of ground—and dug a hole in it big enough to bury his whole damn family. She probably hated them. Fourteen! And five years—her entire adolescence—lost in a rash act of youth. “Things will be different…one day,” he said. “When Warrik takes the throne.” It sounded lame, he knew, and he looked for a cynical response from her; instead she smiled. It was a warm, fond smile and that bothered him as much as anything else, because he knew that smile was for his brother.

  “How long have you and Warrik been…sharing women?”

  He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “A long time. A long time,” he repeated. “T
he first time? I couldn’t bear to hear the poor girl whimper. Not that she didn’t want Warrik,” he explained quickly. “She’d followed him to his rooms. Only Warrik is so big, and she was so young. ‘Course back then, we were young too.”

  “How did you know what to do?”

  “I’d read. A lot.”

  “What did you read?!” she exclaimed, her voice a warm chuckle.

  “Everything. Everything I could get my hands on. My father has an extensive library.” He looked at her and grinned. “Lots of diagrams,” he teased. “Stuff from the orient.” He winked significantly then shrugged. “Literature. Poetry. I can recite all thirty-two verses of Morghan on the gates. Maps. Science. The latest advances in Arithmetic’s.”

  “History of war? Decisive battles?”

  He gave her a pleased smile. “Especially the more recent stuff. Chay; Morghan’s general. ‘How to Decimate the Enemy in One Easy Lesson’. The things she accomplished with the Maghmarin brothers! Peer, Poul, Petr. The raids they pulled off! I could wish I’d been there.” Davik warmed to his topic. “It’s rumored she had Slurian blood. If true, it might account for some of her success.”

  “Slurian descent isn’t something anyone would admit to, is it?”

  Davik shook his head. “Certainly not back then. Perhaps not even now. The word ‘slur’ has become synonymous with the worst kind of insult.”

  “Slurians were feared and envied by men of other races; for this reason they were attacked and slaughtered. Wiped out. They were accused of controlling men’s minds. In reality, they could only sense others’ feelings. Unable to talk or produce any sound, the people of the Dark Isles communicated amongst themselves without speech.” Davik gave an impatient look of dissatisfaction. “There was additional reason for men to envy them; as lovers they were supposedly unmatched. It was said they could physically touch with their minds; touch in an entirely intimate sense.”

  “And that fact led to another excuse to hate the Slurians. Because after forcing you to mate—supposedly against your will—and bewitching you with unparalleled sex, you could never leave them and live.” Davik snorted with cynicism.

  “It was believed that after mating with a Slurian you couldn’t live without him—or her. I mean you couldn’t live! That, if separated, you would die, and horribly. Of course, that wasn’t true either. Slurians could mate without problem with those of other races. They were only bound after mating with those of their own race.”

  “At any rate, Chay may have had some paranormal abilities—like sensing her opponents’ intentions—but I don’t think that was the only reason for her success in battle.”

  The girl nodded. “Element of Surprise. Chay’s opponents constantly underestimated her and, as a result, were caught off guard. But then Chay had a weapon most others wouldn’t willingly use. She’d risk her life…just to get her own way,” she said. “At least up until her first child was born, anyway.”

  Davik stared his surprise at her. But the girl continued.

  “In addition, she could sacrifice one man’s life to save three, come to the decision quickly under extreme conditions, and never look back with regret. I’m not sure I could do that,” she said quietly.

  Davik closed his mouth when he realized his jaw was hanging. “You’ve read Chay? You’ve read Vauchn’s memoirs?”

  She looked at the ground without answering. “Did you know she had total visual recall?”

  Intrigued, he nodded his head slowly.

  “Handy skill,” she said. “Almost as useful as true intelligence.” She continued. “You and your brother make an effective combination—of skill and intelligence. He has the strength and skill. You have the brains.”

  “On and off the battlefield,” Davik agreed amiably, then cast a glance over his shoulder and shot her a warning look. “But don’t tell Warrik I said so. He’d beat the shit out of me!”

  He watched her laugh and something warm shot through his system like an infusion of strong spirit. It was her first laugh.

  “Warrik is so big,” he returned to the subject at hand. “Of course you know that. But the real problem is he refuses to kiss anyone—anywhere. Most women have trouble getting started without a little…romance. Of course, with Warrik, a woman needs a great deal of romance.”

  “That’s where you come in.”

  “That’s where I come in—and, hopefully, that’s when the woman comes.”

  “Does he not like kissing, then?”

  “He thinks germs are spread through mouth contact. He doesn’t even kiss Mother. Although, I don’t kiss Mother either, come to think on it.” He made a face. “She’s a bit of a tyrant.”

  She smiled at him.

  “Does it…bother you? Being shared?”

  She seemed surprised he had asked. She frowned. “Not as much as I thought it would.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked again. When she didn’t answer, he found himself standing behind her, not quite aware of how he’d gotten there. He turned her to face him and lifted her chin. “It’s only a name. Is it so much to give?”

  Her dark eyes were screened as she avoided his gaze. “Petra,” she said with obvious reluctance.

  “Petra.” He accepted the name with pleasure, then cocked his head. “Doesn’t that mean rock, in the original tongue? Hard name for such a delicate creature.”

  “Hard name,” she agreed, and he thought her expression troubled. “It’s a family name. I’m named for one of my father’s uncles. He had no children of his own.” She gave him a worried look. “And I am not so delicate.”

  “No?” He ran the back of his fingers down the curve of her cheek, then his thumb over her lower lip. With his other hand at the nape of her neck, he raised her lips to his.

  “Getting started without me?”

  Davik jumped as though someone had slammed a door on his fingers—or some other extremity.

  Warrik strode through the door and laughed at his brother’s startled expression, threw himself in a chair, and started yanking off his boots. “Missed you at practice today,” he teased his brother.

  With a sheepish smile, Davik dropped his hands to his sides and crossed the room to join his brother. “I’ll ride the lines with you this afternoon,” he offered.

  “How about you ride the lines without me, and I’ll take over for you here?”

  The two men grinned at each other. Shaking his head, Davik grabbed the heel of his brother’s proffered boot. “How about we give the girl the afternoon off,” he suggested as he pulled on the boot. “She’ll get enough of us tonight.”

  Chapter Six

  After grabbing a bite, and filling their water skins, the two men left to ride the sentry lines; it was late afternoon when they returned. “Roasted duck!” Warrik was pleased and surprised when he entered the inn. He looked at his brother.

  “I sent some men upstream to hunt. I thought it would be a nice change.”

  Warrik crinkled a smile in the girl’s direction and nodded knowingly, then grabbed her and placed her on his knee before he tucked in to the meal.

  Davik didn’t use the girl’s name during the meal. He loved his brother—but—if The Heir would know her name, he could find it out himself. Surreptitiously, he watched the girl on his brother’s knee and wondered how she had spent the afternoon, concerned that she might be bored. He should have offered her his books, he realized. Apparently she read, how else could she have known so much about Morghan’s general? And that was a surprise—the fact that she could read. Most people couldn’t—there was no shame in it—it wasn’t like there were enough books in the world to make reading worthwhile. Considering what he knew about her past—being a thief and having spent five years in prison—it would be all the stranger if she could read. He would have to learn more about her, he decided, so he could arrange for her to be entertained, engaged, or at least occupied.

  His eyes fell to the fine silk skirt she wore, the clean white bodice. Though plain, her doeskin boots were p
articularly nice work. She had carried five gold, a respectable sum. Evidently, she was a woman of means, or was wedded to or belonged to a man of means. He found he didn’t like those last two ideas so he cast them aside, arguing that a wealthy man would have given her jewelry, and she wore none.

  A woman of means then. The unwed daughter of a wealthy merchant. Yes, this was an idea he could work with, although she was a bit old to be unwed. Still. Men died. All the time, in fact. A young widow perhaps.

  At any rate, a woman of means. Women of this sort usually spent their spare time weaving, sewing, knitting, embroidering. And yet her hands were rough, he realized, backtracking through his memory. He had taken her hand as he led her to the river last night. Rough for a woman’s hands at any rate, as though she worked for a living.

  And she was not so delicate, she had insisted. He was forced to revise his picture.

  He didn’t like the revision.

  A well paid working woman. He blinked back an image of the girl shrugging off her bodice as though it were her job. A concubine? A prostitute? His eyes cut to the woman on his brother’s lap. How much would a man pay for a woman like that? Mentally, he made some assumptions, tallied up some numbers then doubled the sum to include his brother’s tab. At the rate they were going, they’d empty the treasury at Taranis long before they were done with her.

  But she was fleeing the city. Her clothing would suggest she had left the city in a hurry, as would the fact that she apparently hadn’t had time to collect food or water. Either that or she hadn’t planned on going far. Perhaps she was—

  His brother was wiping his hands on a rag, he realized, and he watched The Heir push back his chair. “Coming Davik?” he asked. Grabbing the girl’s wrist, he went through the door.

  Warrik headed through the camp toward the river, dragging the girl behind him. Davik followed, dragging his feet.

  The girl turned her head as they passed an open shelter where a couple was on their knees, rutting in the shadows. Warrik watched her face with amusement. “Take it inside, Jak,” he threw toward the shelter. He laughed at the reproachful look the girl shot him. “What! Can I help what wedded people do? You’d think they’d get tired of each other after ten years. It’s Melani’s fault really. She deliberately provokes him. Deliberately!”