“How of you? Would you rule?”
The girl’s question brought Davik back to the present. He shook his head. “Warrik will rule.”
“But you will advise him.”
He wasn’t pleased with the direction the conversation was tacking. “Only when he wants advice. I’ve no wish to be King. I love my brother,” he said brusquely. “Why did you leave the city?” he asked abruptly.
Like a douse of freezing water, his question seemed to suck the air out of her. She lowered her wide eyes, but not before they registered the horror of something previously forgotten, and just remembered.
“What is it?” he asked with alarm. “Petra? What is it?” She lurched to her feet and he followed her, scooping her into his arms as her fists fought him away. He forced his lips on hers, forced her to accept his kisses as though that could make her accept his care and protection.
Hadi’s Saints!
A glimpse of brown wool out-of-place on gray stone had him holding his breath. The man must have followed them up the gap. Without bothering to conceal himself, the bowman was on one knee, about sixty paces distant, his bow drawn on the girl’s back.
Chapter Eight
Adrenalin surged into arms and legs, pricking him to action as he dragged the girl out of the line of fire and threw himself on her. They hit the ground as the arrow hissed into the space they had just vacated. With recoiling reflexes, he was up and sprinting toward the bowman, too angry to be sensible. But with enough sense to realize it would be a close thing. Behind him, the girl screamed, ordering him to stop. His steel was out and in his hand as the arrow was nocked. The bowstring was drawn back. Then his steel was in the man’s neck, hewing a wound large enough to end his life.
He wasn’t satisfied with that.
The steel swung; a splashing red trail marked the path of his blade as it slashed and hacked at the man already dead. He gave the bloody remnants a final kick then swung around to locate the girl and assure himself she was unharmed, still cursing what was left of the pronking dead bastard on the ground. Having followed Davik, she stood not three paces from him, her face pale, her wide eyes full of dread as she stared at what had recently been a whole man. She took a few faltering steps backward. Davik moved quickly to pull her face into his chest.
“Andarta and Mithra’s Bastard Children Together! Are you alright?” Although pale, the girl did not tremble. He turned her away from the body and looked over her shoulder at the man. “North Country man,” he muttered. “A friend of yours?”
She started in his arms but did not answer. What in Hadi’s Name did that mean?
Was this what haunted her? Was this what she feared? This man? “An angry lover?” he said jokingly, then swiftly lost his patience when the girl ignored his question. “Who then?”
She gave him a solemn, almost angry look. “He’s a Northern Soldier. His name was Andrig.” She pushed off from him and climbed back toward the gap.
“Are you going to tell me about it?” he called after her.
“No.” she answered.
Swiftly, he moved to follow her.
Smoothly, she descended the gap, familiar with every hand and foothold while he ricocheted down behind her. She had her foot in the saddle loop when he caught up to her. Topped up with unspent rage and adrenalin, he dragged her from the horse and forced her to face him, then promptly forgot his purpose as her fists knotted into the front of his jerkin and jerked his lips onto hers.
Evidently the girl had some unspent passion of her own.
He loosed her with a shove and took two steps backward. He was too angry to take a woman. That is, too angry to take a woman without hurting her. She gave him a look not the least subdued, and he caught a glimpse of the wild kid she had once been, before her five years in prison—the girl she kept buried—and wished he’d known that girl. With two steps she closed the gap between them.
This time submittal was not an issue, unless it was his own. His anger was transmuted to awe in a body-chemistry reaction that produced measurable heat and an accompanying phase change in his solidifying cock. Her mouth twisted onto his as she energetically initiated their lovemaking, at which time he decided the breeks were not such a great idea after all. In fact, they presented such an awkward obstacle, he arrived at the conclusion that it was no wonder women were slow to undress men.
Not that breeks didn’t work for men; they did. A man could perform adequately upon loosening a few ties. But a woman’s prize was buried deeper; and it wasn’t enough just to bare the prize—he tried that. The breeks had to come all the way down and off so her legs could be spread wide. And, oh Mithra, he wanted her legs spreading for him.
They had to come off.
The episode involving the bowman was shoved into a remote corner of his mind while he dealt with the very urgent problem of getting her breeks off and his cock out and settled between her legs. And of course, once that was settled, his problem became even more urgent as her legs spread to mount him and her body rocked to meet his in a long rippling wave. There is something distracting about a woman astride your loins, bending your steel to near snapping, he thought sublimely. Something that reduces all problems to one. He watched the woman on him as she rose on his cock and plunged back down along his length, watched as she took him in want. Watched with growing excitement as she got exactly what she wanted. Spine arched, head back and tossing, hair whipping about her face, she drove herself onto him. Ah, but a man could only take so much. His pleasure was expressed without words, sound wrenched from his lips in short hard bursts as his cock spat then surged into the suctioning void deep between her legs.
Afterward, when urgency had abated and they lay together settled and sated, he tangled his fingers into her hair. “Mithra, what did I do to deserve that?” he queried with a laugh. “Tell me, and I’ll be sure to do it again.”
He hadn’t expected an answer and strained to pick up her muffled response. “I thought you would die,” she said into his chest. “For two instants, I thought you would die.”
She had never volunteered so much.
“It was a close thing,” he admitted with pleasure. “I gained a fraction of an instant when the man hesitated. I don’t think I was his first choice of target.” He paused so she could add any speculation she might have, then continued when she offered none. “But he should have taken me out, if only to stop me.”
Discussion of the bowman brought him back to earth with a jolt. If there were any other bowmen still around! Andarta! Startled into acute awareness, his senses raced. Nearby, the mare stamped impatiently. Aspen leaves rustled as they twisted in the breeze, masking the sound of potential approach. Rolling away from the horses, he dumped the girl off him, scanning the area as he rose from a crouch. Their two mounts remained standing where they had been left. A third horse stood off a ways, grazing; the bowman’s mount, he had to assume.
Reassured they were alone, his eyes returned to the girl on the ground. Looking disheveled and used, she was lurching to her feet. She met his intent, assessing gaze with a return to wide-eyed vulnerability. Within her expression was a trace of hurt, he realized; she had mistaken his action for indifference.
He caught her to him quickly and pressed her up against him. He wanted to hold her now, while she was still naked and sex-damp, feel her every warm, strong curve against his skin, let her know it wasn’t indifference that put her so abruptly on the ground. She pulled away from him and turned. He watched her back.
“Should I expect any more of your countrymen lurking about?” he asked, his question meant to be an explanation for his behavior.
She hung her head. “I don’t think so.”
He watched her as she pulled the tight breeks up her legs and tied the laces. Perhaps it was over then—whatever it was that troubled the girl—perhaps it was resolved with the bowman’s death.
Upon their return to the inn, he opened a trunk of books for her and left her picking through them. He stepped outside and asked fo
r his brother, then rode to find him.
* * * * *
“I sent Menlas and Jaym to bury the Northman.”
“You shouldn’t have killed him. I’ve a few questions I’d like to put to him.”
“It was him or me.”
“Oh! Well. Good choice then.” Warrik gave his brother a sideways smile.
Davik grimaced. “I lost my head,” he admitted grudgingly. “I was furious that someone would draw on her.”
“Are you sure she was the target and not yourself?”
That stopped him. He stared at his brother while he reviewed his memory. “The arrow was drawn on her back when I pulled her aside. The bowman could have been waiting to loose on me. But then—he hesitated when I was between them.” Davik shook his head. “You should have seen her face when she saw him! She knew him. Knew him by name. She went as white as milk.” Davik thought a moment then continued. “But she was relieved I wasn’t killed.”
“You’re sure,” Warrik teased his brother.
“I’m positive.”
Warrik nodded. “That puts you one up on me. Let’s head back. I can’t wait to get positive with her myself.”
“Actually, I’m two up on you.” Davik muttered behind his back.
The Heir turned slowly. “Really?” He frowned at his brother. “You know, we should spend more time together.” Warrik’s big destroyer jumped as Warrik spurred it forward. Davik’s mount responded with a following lurch, but he reined the horse back. The tall gelding stepped out an intolerant circle as he watched Warrik fly toward camp.
He couldn’t do it again, he realized. Could never do it again. Not with his brother—not with her.
He didn’t want to share her anymore.
Holding the gelding to a constrained, unhappy walk, Davik followed his brother. Upon reaching the inn, he handed his reins to one of his men, glanced at the inn door, then turned to join his army in the kitchen tent.
Chapter Nine
The girl looked up from her book when the door slammed behind Warrik. For several moments, she watched the door. Finally, she turned her attention to The Heir. He’d thrown himself in a chair beside the table and was pulling off his gloves. When he asked for help with his boots, she wrestled with them while he shed his jerkin. One of his men delivered a platter of cold meat, bread, and mustard oil. And, with his usual enthusiasm, Warrik tore into the meal. When the man returned with a jug of ale, Warrik asked her to pour for him. His eyes cut to the door and he frowned for an instant then smiled as his eyes returned to the girl. He pulled her between himself and the table, reaching around her to feed himself. “Why don’t you undress while we’re waiting for Davik?” he suggested.
Slowly, she removed her clothing while The Heir ate. He stopped her several times, asking her to turn, or stretch her arms behind her head. Once he pulled her close between his legs so that her heavy breasts bumped soft against his face and he sucked in the warmth of her through his nose and into his lungs. When she was naked except for her boots, he stood to run a hand from her pelvic wing up to cup one of her breasts. Abruptly, he turned her around to face the table, pushing the food and papers to one side. “Put your elbows on the table,” he commanded her with forced patience. “That’s it.” With his feet, he pushed her feet apart on the floor, then resumed his seat behind her. Having forgotten his meal, he viewed her in silent appreciation then cocked his head to one side. “Could you…darling…” He struggled with a breath. “Would you move your legs apart. Just a little more?” His breath released in a rush when she complied. “Ah, Mithra. You’re a beautiful sight, Petra.” His voice was getting thick, rough. “Turn around for me now, darling.” As she straightened and turned, he lifted her and sat her on the edge of the table. Warrik’s breath was working hard to get out of his chest as he swept the table clear with an arm that put papers and food on the floor together, his appetite now dwarfed by a deeper, more pressing hunger that rose between his legs. “Lie back, darling. Ah, Mithra and Donar, yes, like that.” He reached for her ankles and put her feet up close to her bottom then pulled them apart. “That’s it. Just like that.” He backed into his chair, then pulled the chair closer to the table. Palming the front of his breeks, he groaned. Without realizing it, his hands went to his ties and he unlaced his breeks. “It looks like we’re going to have to do this without Davik, sweetheart. You’re going to have to help me Petra. Open your knees and show me just a little bit more. Just a little. That’s it.”
“Mithra,” he cursed in a whisper as he stood. With sudden, rough impatience, he pushed her knees wide. Taking her hands, he pulled them down to the dark thatch between her legs. “Open your slot,” he rasped. “Show me what to do. Where to touch you.”
* * * * *
It was dark, the night half gone, when Davik opened the inn door and stepped inside. There was only a small lamp lit but it threw enough light for him to see his brother standing at the table edge, coupled with the girl, his cock rammed tight between her legs, his big hands clamped on her hips as she lay on her back, stretched across the table. The small gold light gleamed on his brother’s exposed flanks, the hard muscles of his buttocks. Crossing the room quickly, Davik reached for a pillow and pushed it beneath the girl’s head without meeting her eyes; he then stooped to rescue his maps and papers.
“Where have you been?” Warrik complained. “The girl could use your help.”
For a moment Davik crouched motionless, back to the table, papers in his arms; then he dropped his scrolls as he stood and turned to the table. Lowering himself into a chair he put an arm over the girl and ran his hand into the hair at her temple. She averted her eyes, teeth in her bottom lip. With his hand, he turned her face and made her look at him. He gave her a warm smile. “Do you want help Petra?”
Her eyes were wide, her gaze beseeching.
She was so sweet. Even with The Heir slamming into her, she was sweet. Gone was the wildling, who had mounted him earlier in the day, exchanged for this vulnerable waif, sprawled naked and exposed on the table. He slid his hand down to cup the swell of her breast and placed his thumb against the quiet nub at its center. Starting a kiss, he felt her nub harden and grow, reacting to his kiss alone. He loved her nipples. They were small and dainty on modest brown aureoles placed at the tips of the fullest, proudest breasts he’d ever gotten his hands around. Gently, he rubbed the nub between his thumb and forefinger as he continued the kiss. With his eyes closed…he could believe they were alone together.
“I want her to come on me, Davik.”
Warrik’s words returned him to reality with a harsh jolt.
“I want the full fuck. I want her thrashing and moaning and screaming my name.”
Davik winced. His brother could be so coarse. He shot a quick look at the girl, but her eyes were determinedly closed. Dark shadows hovered beneath her full lashes. “I’ll see what I can do,” he grated with cynical tone and real annoyance. Damn! He’d planned to avoid this. “Why didn’t you do this earlier?”
“I did. But. It didn’t work for her.”
“You did—. When?”
“A few hours ago. We waited for you to join us…”
Davik cursed. “She must be tender. Slow down, will you? You’ll have her thrashing and moaning and screaming your name, alright—followed by curses.” He gave her a final small kiss, then stood. Her body stretched out before him on the table, a feast he would normally lap up slowly. But tonight, he just wanted to get it over with. He frowned at the bruises beneath her pelvic wings where Warrik’s thumbs had gouged her; his brother was too rough.
He should have been here. Recrimination was followed swiftly by frustration. He frowned at her legs, hanging off the table edge. “Pick up her feet and put them on the table. No! Don’t hold her ankles. They’re…sensitive.” He lowered his lips to her ear. “We’ll make this quick, Petra,” he whispered. “Come as soon as you can.” Leaving one hand behind to fondle her nipple, he moved the other to the top of her cleft and pulled her open
. His wet tongue slipped into her slot. Access wasn’t very good, with Warrik ratcheting so near, but with his mouth sideways against her cleft, he alternately suckled, paused, then dabbed his tongue against the nub of her clitoris.
Warrik sucked in a breath. “That’s better,” he rasped. “That’s slick.” A deep guttural rumble rolled in his chest. “She’s creaming on me.”
Again Davik touched his tongue to her nub. And again. He heard her breath catch in her throat. He laid the side of his tongue along her slot and stroked. Her body shivered beneath his arm.
Pulling his hand from her breast, he slipped both hands gently between her legs, along the insides of her thighs, and flattened her folded legs against the table. Returning his lips to the top of her cleft, he kissed her hard. Responding with a throaty cry of anguished pleasure, she jumped into his mouth. Close enough. Sliding his arms under her legs, he curled them around her folded legs and pinned her open. He gave his brother a nod and her strong young body bucked beneath his arms while Warrik hammered her full throttle. There was thrashing and moaning and a great deal of noise, most of it on Warrik’s part.
When Warrik pulled out, Davik scooped her up and cradled her in his arms as he dropped into the chair. Panting and pleased, Warrik pushed off from the table. “Your turn,” he announced and moved to take the girl from his brother.
Davik shook his head quickly. Unconsciously, his hold on the girl tightened.
“I’m willing, Davik.”
Warmth joined the surprise in his smile as he looked into her eyes. “I know you are,” he said softly. “I know you’re tired too, and I’m guessing you’re sore as well.” Not much of a guess; she’d been taken three times since noonday. He smoothed a thumb over her bruised flank while his eyes strayed to the food on the floor. “Have you eaten?”
Kingdom of Khal: Redeeming Davik Page 5