Second Son

by Brenna Lyons

“I do not hold well with false flattery.” He stalked to the stream that lay across the clearing and cleaned her juices from his hand.

  Danellan followed him, her fists on her hips. “You think I’d lie about that?” she demanded.

  Michael shrugged. “Others have.”

  She growled in disbelief and turned on her heel, heading for the main road. If that was what he thought of her, she was better off without him. It was several glorious moments before she heard him following her.

  “Danellan?” he called uncertainly.

  “Go away, Michael.”

  “I’ve truly offended you, haven’t I?” he asked in surprise. His voice was closer.

  Danellan walked faster, crossing her arms over her chest when he sought to take her hand in his.

  His voice came from just over her shoulder. “I had no right to compare you to them. I apologize.”

  “You’re right. Now go away.”

  Michael spun her by the shoulders and scooped her over his shoulder as her balance deserted her. He marched down the slope toward Frelang.

  “What are you doing?” she thundered. “Let me down, or I will kick.”

  He clasped her ankles in silent warning, and Danellan punched his shoulder, wincing in the pain that started in her fist and raced up her arm to her elbow. Dear Mag! There was nothing soft about this man. She struck him again, heedless of the damage she was doing herself in the process.

  Michael’s voice was tense. “You don’t lay your punches correctly,” he noted. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

  “You have the brains of kit, the sensitivity of jaglin, and the personality of a male geela,” she cursed him, fighting his hold on her ankles.

  To her surprise, Michael started laughing. “I do believe you are the first woman who has ever dared insult me to my face.” He sighed. “No. But you are the second.”

  “You must not know many women,” she shot back.

  Michael set her on the hottel and dragged her face to his for another drugging kiss. His talented fingers played at her aching core. Her nipples tightened into peaks as his other hand traced her ribs toward them.

  Danellan tore her mouth away, cursing her reaction to him. It was so easy to lose herself when he touched her. She was running from men who wanted to own her. Did she want to give any man power over her if she could avoid it? No, but could she avoid it with Michael?

  He crowded her, nipping at her jawline. “I know many women,” Michael informed her.

  “Stupid women, to put up with you.” She bit her lip, reining the urge to encourage what he was doing to her.

  “Not stupid. Two-faced. They insult me. They simply do it where they think I cannot hear them.” He nuzzled her neck. “Say it again, Danellan. Am I the best you’ve known?”

  “No. Never. The words will never pass my lips again,” she vowed.

  Michael cupped her breast. “That sounds like a challenge. We have weeks before we reach Caran.”

  “And if I refuse your company?” she asked, arching her eyebrow in acceptance of his challenge.

  He favored her with a look akin to his battle-face. “I can be very persuasive.”

  *

  Michael grinned at the feeling of Danellan pressed to his back. Convincing her that she would accompany him hadn’t been difficult. After he put her back on Frelang twice and kissed her, grinding himself against her gathering heat until she all but ripped his tunic from his body, she came.

  Then she gave him an embarrassed nod and accompanied him.

  This was insanity. Michael knew that, but there was something in Danellan that he couldn’t let escape him. Her brutal honesty and spirit drew him, but her sensuality held him fast. The memory of her face as she climaxed to his hand stirred his half-dormant cock.

  No woman, not even the few uneducated schente he requested when he wished to experience taking a woman’s barrier and training her to his touch, had ever had that look of rapture before. Michael wanted to see that look many more times in the weeks they had together.

  He would see it. For all her bravado, Danellan was affected by him. She wanted him. Convincing her to come for him would be the easy part. Michael sobered. The hard part would be convincing his body that she was off limits.

  There were too many reasons not to take release in her. Aside from the danger of her being handed over to his father carrying his child, Danellan had no idea what she would be accepting. She would need extensive medical aid to carry his child, Hugam given at the right points in pregnancy and the best doctors. All of that would be provided for her without cost if she carried his child, but Danellan didn’t know to ask for it. She thought he was a normal Kegin male. She would know what she faced if he told her who he was. She would know then what he was, but it was a risk he couldn’t take, not even with Danellan.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Iric 4th

  Danellan stilled, the voices from her father’s office catching her off-guard. It was the middle of the night. Who would visit at this late hour? Why would they?

  “I don’t think this will be overly difficult,” Tranol commented.

  She pressed an eye to the missing slat in the door and took in the scene. Tranol sat at their father’s desk. A general she didn’t recognize sat across from him. She could see them both clearly in the light from the desk lamp, each of them in profile due to the angle of the interior door. Tranol poured a glass of lizor berry wine for the general and placed it in his outstretched hand.

  This wasn’t military business. If it were, another captain or a colonel would have come to speak to Tranol. This was a personal visit. Why would a general visit their home? Was this man a friend of her father’s? Was there something he wished? Some momento of service they shared?

  “I don’t need to tell you, Captain Tranol, that your father’s decision has made him most unpopular with Kell Ri these last five years. His majesty does not like to be denied.”

  Danellan shook her head. That sounded like a warning. She knew there had been problems, that her father was unpopular with his superiors. This post was beneath him, but Cro had always served with honor. How had he alienated his king? Her father had always been loyal, always followed orders.

  Tranol chuckled. “My father used his heart too much.”

  The general cocked an eyebrow at him and took a sip of the drink in his hand, savoring her father’s finest vintage. “And you do not?”

  “I have no heart where Danellan is concerned.” His voice went cold.

  Not as cold as her heart. Danellan gripped the rough wood of the door, digging her fingertips into it. Tranol had always been indifferent, but Danellan hadn’t realized her brother hated her. But, what deal was he making that concerned her?

  “She is your sister,” the general noted, as if he was examining a strange insect.

  “No. She is a bastard born of my father’s lust and her slut mother.”

  Danellan felt her fury spike. It was no secret that Cro had been miserable with Tranol’s mother. Admittedly, he dissolved their contract with penalty, relinquishing Tranol to his mother and a substantial property exchange, to contract with Danellan’s mother, but she was hardly a bastard. Danellan hadn’t even been conceived until after the contract was sealed.

  The general laughed outright. “Then this is a fitting place for her. She will please Kell Ri.”

  Her blood ran cold. Please him? How am I supposed to please him?

  Tranol scowled. “I can promise to deliver her. I cannot promise that she will comply.”

  The general waved his hand in dismissal. “His Majesty enjoys training the wild ones. Her spirit, more than her beauty, caught his attention.” He leaned toward Tranol with a sly smile. “I could not swear that Kell Ri would remember her face. It’s not their looks he wants his wild ones for, though Danellan’s looks would not turn any sane man aside.”

  Danellan pressed a hand to her aching stomach as his meaning became clear.

  “Well, the king is welcome to her. I h
ave no use for her.”

  The general passed him a draft. “Your father’s benefits.” A piece of paper came next. “The writ you will need.”

  “And when I deliver her for sterilization?”

  She bit back a sour wave in her throat. He can’t. A woman cannot be forced to become schente.

  “As agreed. Four times that much upon delivery. Do not fail, Tranol. His Majesty will have her in his bed. You can benefit from this or be as unpopular as your father.”

  “My father was a fool.”

  Danellan fisted her hand. Her brother was traitor to her and to their father.

  Tranol smiled a cold, calculating smile. “And when Kell is done with her?” he asked.

  “Second thoughts?”

  “Not at all. I was just considering—”

  “Yes?”

  “When Kell Ri tires of her, perhaps the young prince might like a new face.”

  The general laughed heartily. “When she is trained, she will still have her beauty,” he agreed. “I imagine Prince Mik would prefer a gentle, pliant lady after his experience with Princess Susan.”

  “Is it true that he still bears a scar?”

  Danellan didn’t wait for his answer. She made it to her rooms on quaking legs. Her father suffered Kell Ri’s displeasure to keep her from becoming schente? Tranol was charged with forcing her into service?

  She shuddered. The king took his pleasure in breaking a woman’s spirit? Was that why he sought to force women in? Willing schente were too tame and compliant for his tastes?

  “No,” she breathed. Stril would take her in and give her a position. Danellan wasn’t above work as a cook or nurse. Considering the alternative, mucking stalls and scrubbing floors would be an improvement.

  Danellan snatched up a pack and started throwing in woven travel gowns and necessities. She added a bag of coin she earned teaching music to the little ones on the base. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to buy passage on a public transport to Caran. If she took a bit of dried meat and fruit from the kitchen and slept on the transport, it would be enough to see her to Stril. She startled as the door to her room opened and Tranol stepped in.

  He lounged against her cabinet, looking disgustingly smug. “I thought I heard you. Good. Then I need not explain this to you.”

  Danellan raised her chin in challenge. “My share of the benefits,” she demanded.

  His smile disappeared. “You have no share,” he informed her.

  “Of course I do. A quarter is my share by law.”

  “Not if Father’s second contract was deemed made under duress.”

  “What duress?”

  “A bastard child threatening his career.”

  “I was not conceived—” she stormed.

  “You were born eight months after contract.”

  “And five weeks premature.”

  “Can you prove that? Your early medical records are sadly — misplaced.”

  “Keep it. I will survive without the benefits.” She hadn’t planned to wait for the benefits. It was no loss to her. Danellan headed for the door, heedless of her silin robe. She’d change in the stable to the riding outfit she kept there. That was suitable for travel.

  Tranol swept her up and threw her to the bed. Her pack was ripped from her hand.

  She tried to snatch it back. “Those things are mine,” she shouted. “You have no right to my personal earnings.”

  “You owe me for your keeping this past month. I owed you nothing, but I didn’t toss you to the winds of chance. You are in my debt. You own nothing. It is all mine in payment for your keep. Everything.” His smile spread. “Even the clothes on your back.”

  Danellan launched away from him with a cry of fear. Her pack hit the floor a heartbeat before his hands were on her. The sound of silin ripping drowned out her choked scream, the only silin she owned.

  *

  Michael startled awake, drawing his dagger blindly and throwing himself toward Danellan’s screams. He could see her thrashing, but there wasn’t another person in their camp. Was an animal troubling her? He hesitated for a moment, kneeling over her, at a loss for an explanation. There was no enemy he could see. What threatened her?

  He sheathed his blade and grasped her arms. Danellan let out a piercing scream and beat at him. He blocked her legs as she kicked, her eyes squeezed shut.

  “A dream,” he whispered. “Mother Fion! What haunts her?”

  “Don’t do this,” she pleaded through her tears. “Don’t let him take me.”

  Was it the band of men they killed? But, Danellan was calm with them. Perhaps she was too calm. Should a woman be so calm in the face of what they threatened? A chill ran down his spine. If she ran from that, the man would know no mercy.

  Michael pulled her to his chest, wincing as she screamed in terror.

  “Danellan. It’s Michael. You’re safe,” he soothed her.

  “Don’t do—” She broke off on a wail.

  He rocked Danellan, crooning to her over and over that she was safe with Michael until she was crying silent tears in his arms. Her hands were fisted in his tunic, and she shook uncontrollably.

  “Danellan? What is it?” he whispered.

  “Don’t let him take me,” she managed in a thick voice.

  “Who? Who hunts you?”

  Whatever answer she made was lost in a yawn.

  Michael kissed her forehead and cushioned her to the ground in his arms, pulling first her blanket and then his over them to conserve heat. The weather was getting harsher. He prayed that they would find a wooded place to make camp the next night. It would be too cold to sleep without a mat of branches soon.

  He ran a hand through her hair, as much to comfort himself as Danellan. That was no simple dream. It was terror at its most basic. Someone hunted Danellan in life and through her dreams. When Michael learned who that someone was, he would pay dearly.

  *

  Danellan pressed her cheek to the hard wall of muscle. She smiled. Somehow, she ended up back in Michael’s arms. She hadn’t slept this soundly since she was a child cradled in her father’s arms. She was warm, though the sun was barely over the furthest peaks. She hadn’t woken warm in over a month. Better, she was safe. Danellan didn’t know how she knew she was safe, but she was certain that she was.

  Fingers caressed her back. Danellan moved, pressing her body to Michael in invitation. His cock pressed into her stomach, making her body warm even more for him.

  “Michael.” She lifted her face, seeking his lips with her own.

  He obliged her. His mouth covered hers, and his cock lengthened. Danellan pulled at the clasp on his trousers and wrapped a hand around him. His weight felt soothing in her palm.

  Michael groaned. “I can’t,” he rasped.

  Danellan brushed his hand away as he reached for her. “Come for me,” she invited, mirroring his words of the afternoon before. She moved her hand, massaging him, exploring him.

  He rolled to his back, giving her free rein over his pleasure. Danellan watched in amazement as his breathing quickened. Michael watched her movements avidly, fisting his hands and grinding his teeth, his expression fierce.

  Droplets of his readiness pooled on the head of his cock, and Danellan licked through the cleft to collect them onto her tongue. He cried out softly, sweat breaking out on his upper lip as she savored the flavor. He was salty and wild like fresh game, and she wanted more.

  Michael rocked his hips, teaching her how to please him. “Danellan.” Her name was like a prayer on his lips. His muscles clenched, and he started to tremble. “So close. Please don’t stop.”

  The first surge of his semen came faster than Danellan anticipated. She clasped the head in her mouth. Michael’s body spasmed, and his eyes widened. He cried out harshly, and his body bowed up, driving him nearly full in.

  His hand fisted in her hair, and his seed poured from him. Michael thickened with a strangled moan. Danellan swallowed slowly, and his hand tightened in her hair re
flexively.

  “Mother Fion,” he gasped. “What are you doing to me?”

  Encouraged, Danellan moved his length in and out, pressing her tongue to the thick veins as she did when she swallowed his essence. Michael’s breathing became more ragged. He shook, tipping his hips in jerky counterpoint to her movements. She pushed her head down, feeling the crown tickle at the back of her throat.

  “Danellan,” he growled. “Stop now.”

  She released him slowly and smiled as he pulled her up and clasped her to his chest. “Well, I know how to get even with you for your torture,” she teased.

  “When I recover, I will kill the man who taught you that.”

  “I don’t suggest it.”

  “Why not?”

  Danellan ran a fingertip up his length, smiling at his groan. “I’ve never tasted a man before, and Fion didn’t create a specimen like you to be wasted in suicide.”

  *

  It was a quarter of an hour before Michael recovered from Danellan’s love play. He watched her moving around their camp, his cock demanding to taste other depths. He couldn’t leave her, but being near her was likely to drive him to madness again.

  She plopped down beside him, blushing as she handed him cracker tack and dried meat. It was meager fare, not a quarter of his usual meal size. Michael sobered that he could find it as sweet as a banquet.

  Danellan scanned her eyes over their surroundings. “Do you think we came far enough yesterday? Will anyone track us?” she asked.

  Michael sighed. “I think we’re safe, but I understand that you don’t.”

  She shot him a look of confusion. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you remember last night? Do you remember how you found your way to my arms?” he questioned.

  Danellan dropped her eyes. “No. I don’t, but I did feel safe there.”

  “You had a nightmare. A very vivid and terrifying nightmare.”

  She looked at the food in her hand, shaking her head. “I’m sorry I disturbed you, Michael.”

  “Do you remember it?”

  Danellan set her food on the rocks at the edge of the fire ring. She stared into the flames, her eyes sad. “No.”

  Michael startled. It was a lie. She knew very well what she dreamed. “Who hunts you, Danellan? Who do you fear? Who do you plead with in your dreams?”