How the Warrior Claimed (Falling Warriors Book 2)

by Nicole René

  But she didn’t say that.

  “I’m ready.”

  Namoriee’s heart was hammering in her chest with such intensity, she was afraid she would pass out.

  She was dressed in the white gown that Leawyn had helped her into earlier, and the light breeze made the strands of her chocolate hair flutter like a butterfly as she walked closer to the man she would spend the rest of her life with. Everyone stared as she passed, but she paid them no attention. Her gaze was focused solely on Tyronian and the hungry look in his eyes as she drew closer.

  His expression was one of reverence as his eyes took their time traveling her body from head to toe in a move that made Namoriee’s body feel hot and cold simultaneously. He took her hands, and she knew he could feel the tremble in them. Giving them a reassuring squeeze, he turned his attention to the village elder, nodding his confirmation for the ceremony to start.

  As the elder started to speak the ancient script, Namoriee studied Tyronian.

  Tribal marriage symbols were painted down his bare chest, looping over his wide-set shoulders and down his arms. He wore his long blond hair down and untamed.

  The elder’s movement brought Namoriee out of her inspection, and she watched with wide eyes the ceremonial dagger in her withered hand. Tyronian’s grip became shackles, keeping her from running away from him when she took an involuntary step back.

  They had reached the final part of the marriage ceremony.

  Tremors rippled through her entire body when he stepped forward, bringing their hands up between them. “Relax,” he whispered.

  “Please don’t do this,” she pleaded, her voice barely audible. “Don’t do this to me.”

  Her only answer was the firm set of his lips and the sound of his skin splitting open when the elder sliced his palm. She tried to pull back again, her apprehension becoming full-blown panic, but his grip was unrelenting. She cried out in pain when the dagger dragged down her palm, tearing her delicate flesh. She flinched when he pressed their bleeding hands together tightly, intermixing their blood and sealing their marriage to the gods.

  She felt nothing.

  Not the blood that trailed down her wrists, or the heat of his skin.

  She heard nothing; not the cheers from their guests, or the ringing in her ears.

  She felt nothing.

  She heard nothing.

  She raised her head, and as her eyes met Tyronian’s blues, she saw everything. Their gaze stayed locked as he bowed towards her.

  “Whether you like it or not.” He whispered the recurring vow he’d made to her all those years ago. The glint in his eyes as he said the words right before he kissed her stopped her dead.

  That was the moment she knew.

  Her life would never be the same again.

  Namoriee sat, her gaze glued to door of her new hut. If someone were to ask her to relay back every detail of her wedding ceremony, she wouldn’t be able to do it. Everything had happened in a blur.

  She looked down at her hand and lightly traced over the cut on her palm. The celebratory feast was still well on its way, but she had been told by her husband to go back to their hut.

  Part of her felt guilty because she knew he could tell she wasn’t doing much celebrating, but, how could she? She didn’t want to be married. Her life was altered by a man she both feared and longed for, with no regard to her free will.

  She tried to think back to what caused the chain reaction leading to what her life was now. What day was the point of no return? When did she know, deep in her bones, that Tyronian was serious when he said he would wed her on the first day of her eighteenth summer?

  A noise outside caught her attention, and she feared that it was Tyronian. She wasn’t ready for what would commence when he stepped through that door.

  She didn’t think she would ever be ready.

  He didn’t appear, and she relaxed. She thought back to her sixteen-year-old self, and the events that took place to lead up to this moment.

  TWO WINTERS AGO . . .

  Oh, why did she let her lady talk her into this?

  Namoriee stared at the wooden door with no small amount of apprehension, like it was a terrible beast poised to attack and eat her alive.

  Because Leawyn didn’t talk you into it—she ordered you to do it, she thought to herself.

  Tonight there was to be a great feast to welcome all neighborhood tribes that had recently poured into their village seemingly overnight. In all her years, she’d never seen all the tribes in one place except for the warrior games, which happened every five winters. The fact that they were here with the Izayges made it strange.

  Were the whispers she had heard of late about the tribes going to war true? Why else would the Siraces and Asori be here?

  Which brought her back to her current dilemma: the feast.

  Normally, she would be serving during such celebrations, but Leawyn deemed that wouldn’t be the case during this feast and insisted that she enjoy it—as a participant.

  The thought nearly sent her into a panic attack.

  Leawyn had noticed this, and they reached a compromise—very unwillingly on Namoriee’s part—that she would only serve the first half and enjoy the festivities for the second. Then, Leawyn decided that Namoriee would need a dress to wear, and insisted (ordered) that she borrow one of hers.

  Which brought her here, staring at Leawyn and Xavier’s door-of-doom.

  She sighed.

  Her lady chief was too kind. Because of that, Namoriee knew she would wear one of her dresses so as not to insult Leawyn and her generosity.

  Tyronian and Tristan were still chuckling in dark humor as they left the tent holding the now compliant chiefs of Asori and Siraces when Tyronian suddenly stopped, noticing Namoriee standing in front of Xavier’s door.

  “You go ahead, cousin,” Tyronian said to Tristan, slowing his gait. “I’ll catch up with you.”

  Tristan followed his gaze. Seeing Namoriee, he grinned in understanding and turned back to him.

  “I’m sure you will.” Tristan chuckled, dodging out of the way when Tyronian took a swipe at him and continuing his search for his brother, still laughing.

  Tyronian crossed his arms, watching as Namoriee glanced around her warily before opening the hut’s door firmly and going inside. He frowned.

  Odd.

  He uncrossed his arms, and with long, purposeful strides, he headed after her. Might as well see what she was up to.

  Namoriee stared around Leawyn’s hut, her anxiety mounting. Even though she’d been inside multiple times, it felt wrong somehow this time. The tub she had ordered for Leawyn was still in the far corner of the room, and Namoriee made a mental note to have someone remove it before the feast on her way to Leawyn’s trunk that held her dresses. Opening it, she glanced down and hesitated.

  Even though she knew Leawyn had given her permission, she was still tentative to choose a dress and wear it. She’d just pick the most unassuming one Leawyn owned.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  Namoriee yelped, dropping the lid in her surprise with a clang. Whirling around, her heart skipped, seeing Tyronian standing behind her.

  “I . . . I wasn’t ste-steal—” Namoriee stuttered fearfully, looking to the trunk behind her and then to Tyronian’s gaze. “It’s not what it looks like!” she blurted out. He cocked a brow at her, stepping towards her.

  “Really?” he drawled, taking another step in her direction. He seemed to take feral pleasure in the fact that she took a step back with each advance he made.

  “What exactly does it look like?”

  She stumbled backwards, tripping over one of the animal fur rugs as she retreated from Tyronian’s imposing figure. He grinned at Namoriee’s alarmed look when she realized that she had backed herself against the wall. He braced both his hands on either side of her head, effectively caging her in.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” he reminded, dipping his face down so that his chin was level wi
th the top of her head. His nose nudged against her hair when he inhaled. He went from the top of her head downwards, until his lips were level with her ear. His lips brushed against her lobe, and she inhaled sharply at the sensation.

  “What are you doing, Namoriee?”

  She felt hot all over. Despite the heat, goose bumps broke out across her skin when she heard him say her name in that deep, husky voice.

  “Answer me,” he ordered softly, but Namoriee heard the steel in his voice.

  “The f-feast tonight,” Namoriee stuttered, shivering when Tyronian pulled her hair aside, exposing more of her neck.

  “What about the feast?”

  “I didn’t have anything to w-wear,” she managed to say. “Lady chief said I c-could borrow one of h-her dresses.” Namoriee faltered, her eyes fluttering closed at the brush of Tyronian’s lips against her neck. It was feather-light, barely touching her skin.

  “Why would you need one of Leawyn’s dresses?”

  When she didn’t answer him right away, he pulled back and nudged her chin up with his thumb, forcing her to meet his eyes.

  “Why?” Tyronian commanded. He tilted her chin up higher, leveling her with a stern look when she didn’t reply. “Answer me, Namoriee. Why would you need to borrow Leawyn’s dress?”

  “B-because, I don’t have any, sir,” she whispered in shame. She could feel the heat traveling from her neck upwards to her cheeks in humiliation.

  “Don’t call me ‘sir,’” he ordered absently. He pulled away from her with a frown—not crowding her, but not giving her room to escape either. He grabbed the dress she was holding when he found her and held it up between them.

  “This is the one you picked?”

  Namoriee bit her bottom lip, nodding. “Yes.”

  When Tyronian didn’t reply, Namoriee looked up at him, only to see him staring intently at her lip that she held trapped between her teeth.

  The hunger in his gaze startled her.

  He brought his right hand up, cradling the back of her head delicately as he pulled her closer. His thumb brushed against her lips, tugging the bottom one free.

  “Namoriee . . .” Tyronian inhaled sharply. His eyes dilated when she parted her lips in reaction to his touch. “I want to kiss you,” he said austerely, heated.

  She froze in shock, a peculiar thrill going through her. A man had never looked at her the way that Tyronian was. The lust and the hunger she saw reflecting in his gaze made her very aware of how close they were standing. Her breasts were flush against his chest; his hands in her hair held her head still so that she couldn’t escape him.

  He surrounded her.

  “Please,” Namoriee whispered, unknowing if it was a plea for him not to kiss her or a plea for him to do just that. He dipped his head, eyes closing as his lips hovered over hers, his body strung tight in his strain to maintain his control.

  “I won’t,” he groaned finally, pulling away from her as if it pained him. His blue eyes opened when he stepped back. He looked as if he wanted to lift her up into his arms, pin her back against the wall, and claim her.

  “You don’t need to fear me, Namoriee,” he told her solemnly, grazing her cheek with the back of his hand. He watched his hand’s movement as it touched her smooth, unblemished skin. She knew he could feel the heat of her cheeks as the blood rushed to them, like they were warming up just for his touch.

  “I made a promise to myself, and to you,” he grated out, pulling his attention away from his hand and staring straight into her eyes. “I keep my promises. I won’t claim you . . . not yet.”

  Namoriee sagged in relief, or maybe disappointment—she wasn’t sure which. With one last show of incredible self-control, Tyronian let her go and put more distance between them. She followed his movement, not budging from her position against the wall. She watched as he went back to Leawyn’s chest of dresses, ruffled through them for a moment, then grabbed one. Holding the dress with both hands, he started down at the material with his back to her.

  “Remember what I told you,” Tyronian said finally, laying the dress out carefully atop the closed chest before stepping away. He paused, his hand idling on the door handle. Glancing over his shoulder, he once again pierced her with his gaze. “When you’re older,” he reminded her quietly. His meaning and the vehemence behind the words were unmistakable. It hovered around them like an invisible rain cloud.

  He nodded his head towards the dress lying on the chest. “Wear that one.” And with that last command, he opened the door and dipped under, closing it softly behind him.

  When you’re older.

  Namoriee slumped against the wall. Her heart was beating erratically, different emotions flowing through her. She stared at the dress that he picked out. The need to look at it was strong, as if a spell had been cast, urging her to look. Her eyes stayed glued to the dress as she drew closer until she was standing before it. She reached out, her hands suspended over the garment, the slightest tremble going through them.

  It was just a dress.

  Fabric sewn together by twine, but it held so much more meaning.

  When you’re older.

  Namoriee closed her eyes and gripped the material, ignoring the tear that slid down her cheek.

  But it wasn’t just a dress.

  Whether you like it . . .

  It was acceptance.

  . . . or not.

  It was submission . . . to him.

  The feast was in full swing, and the night was loud with laughter and joyful conversation. Namoriee was still serving the men, but she knew Leawyn would make her stop soon since half of the tribes’ inhabitants were on their second serving of their meal, and drunk.

  The men’s sexual appetites were also very much active. Many of her fellow serving girls were already perched on the warriors’ laps, some of the men openly groping them. Why, just a few moments ago, Namoriee had passed Tanna, who was already pleasuring the man who had claimed her for the night sexually as she straddled him, uncaring of the audience their act attracted. Namoriee lost count of how many wandering hands she’d artfully escaped. She might be a slave, but she was no whore.

  A Siraces warrior caught her eye, his goblet held in his hand as he raised it high, signaling that he needed a refill. Namoriee quickly made her way over to him and smiled politely in response to his greeting.

  “Enjoying your night?” Namoriee asked as she grabbed his empty cup and began filling it with more ale.

  “Well, I am now that you’re here.” His smile and tone was purely flirtatious.

  Namoriee had to hold back the urge to roll her eyes at his response. Out of all the tribes, the Siraces annoyed her the most. Especially the men.

  The men and woman of the Siraces tribe were open—more open than even the Izayges—with their sexuality. The few times she had visited the tribe with the healer she used to serve . . . it was a wonder that they didn’t have more people than the Izayges did.

  They didn’t believe in boundaries, and that made Namoriee nervous.

  Especially when she caught the heated glint in his eye as he looked her body over. It was the same glint that Tyronian had looked at her with earlier that day, but, unlike Tyronian, this warrior’s gaze didn’t make her body heat up in a delicious way. It made her uncomfortable.

  Namoriee quickly placed his now full drink down on the table and gave him a tight smile.

  “Enjoy the rest of your night, sir.”

  She turned away to leave, when a hand on her wrist made her still.

  “Why don’t you stay awhile? Or better yet, why don’t you follow me to somewhere quieter. I’ll make it worth your while. My name is Cantos, what’s yours?”

  “Not interested,” she deadpanned. She turned around and took two steps before the grip on her wrist tightened and pulled. It unbalanced her, and she gasped when she suddenly found herself looking up at Cantos as she landed in his lap.

  “Much better,” he announced with a lecherous grin. Then, to Namoriee’s horror
, he leaned in. His lips never contacted hers, however, because right at that moment, she was yanked out of Cantos’s lap and pushed behind a broad-shouldered back.

  It was Tyronian.

  “Touch her again, and I’ll cut your head off.”

  And he was furious.

  “What did you just say to me?” Cantos asked sharply, getting into his face.

  Tyronian didn’t even flinch. He only narrowed his eyes at Cantos. “I said touch her again, and I’ll cut your head off.” His voice was more of a growl, his body vibrating with anger.

  “You dare threaten me?”

  Tyronian smiled a slow, dark smile, a viciousness entering his eyes. “I don’t make threats.” He shoved Cantos back into his seat roughly. “I make promises.”

  With nothing else to say, he turned his back to Cantos and faced Namoriee, who shrunk back at his expression. He started to forcefully lead her away with a hand on her lower back.

  “If you wanted the whore for yourself, you could have just said so. Or better yet, we can share her. I’m sure she’s used to taking two cocks inside of—”

  Everything inside of him grew still in fury at Cantos’s words. His fists clenched, and before Cantos could finish his sentence, Tyronian spun around and sent his fist sailing into the man’s jaw, sending him crashing against the table with a bloody lip.

  He heard Namoriee gasp, but he didn’t pay attention to her as he grabbed her wrist and walked her resisting form away.

  “Tyronian, no. I have to finish—”

  “You’re done serving,” he bit out angrily. “You’ll never be serving again.” His tone booked no room for argument.

  He stopped at the table he’d been sitting at before with Xavier, Leawyn, and Tristan, ignoring the different looks they shot him. He bent to right the chair he’d toppled over when he stood up so abruptly. Just thinking about the way Cantos looked at Namoriee caused anger to flare up inside of him. The moment that Cantos had pulled her over his lap, Tyronian saw red.