Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4)

by Leona Wisoker

  Prison properly turned into sanctuary, he relaxed into utter peace and watched the light fade towards dark, Alyea dozing contentedly in his arms. He didn’t think about what had just happened; he couldn’t bear to examine it, in case he found some flaw to ruin the moment. As the temperature chilled, he wrapped warmth around both of them.

  Alyea stirred as her cool skin warmed again, vaguely restless, then rolled to face him. “That didn’t exactly hurt,” she said dryly. “You keep handing out dire warnings, and then—”

  He didn’t want her to think about it. Didn’t want to think about it himself. He shifted position abruptly, closing his teeth around her nipple; she hissed and tried to push him away.

  “Damnit, Deiq—”

  He let go and set the tip of his nose against hers instead, just touching, breathing through his nose as he stared into her eyes.

  “Don’t avoid this,” she said, barely audible.

  He grinned without humor and slid a hand across her body again, willing her to respond to the distraction this time: with only a light nudge over into recent memories, her breathing went ragged.

  “Don’t—” she gasped, even as her body reacted as he’d asked it to. “Please—no—”

  A surge of want fueling her body even as her mind cried out against it; horrified at the physical welcome the dasta streaking through her system gave as Tevin climbed onto her, despite her furious attempts to fight off the drug—

  Horrified, Deiq released the push on her will immediately, catching her against him in a tight embrace.

  “No,” he said into her hair as she writhed in his grip. “No, Alyea, no, not that, not like that—Listen to me—I’m sorry, damnit, I forgot—shhh....”

  She shoved at him, trying to break free. Instinct gathered, aggravation rising.

  “Alyea, stop,” he said sharply, commanding where persuasion had failed. She collapsed, breathing hard, rebellion twitching through her muscles: he only had moments before the hold broke. He spoke fast: “Alyea. Stop. Look at me, damnit. I’m not going to rape you. I forgot for a moment, and I’m sorry. But you have to stop fighting me, right now, damnit, now.”

  The moment stretched, twisted—She glared at him, expression nearly feral, as though she saw him as Tevin now—and broke.

  “Hells with you!” she snarled, and shoved with everything she had to get free.

  He fought his own anger for a heartbeat, and lost: flipped over to pin her beneath him, one hand on her throat and the other capturing both her wrists, yanking her hands up into a position where she had little leverage, then snarled, his face almost directly against hers.

  As her face went white, he remembered that Alyea was open now: he could have bypassed all the speech and put the words into her mind. Habit had kept him from reaching for that contact, and it might have avoided this. Too late now—he only had the truth left, with no time to craft manipulations.

  You be still, he said without words. She went rigid, every muscle locked in a battle between obeying and rebelling; that continued resistance was vaguely surprising. You are mine, he told her, with the weight of certainty.

  The hells I am! seared back at him, a response as hot and uncompromising as the fireball that had destroyed the Tower cellars.

  He flinched back a little, unsettled: a moment later, images slammed into his mind, experiences of pain unleashed as a weapon of brutal efficiency, making the initial image of Tevin preparing for rape look delicate in comparison.

  Deiq howled, self-control almost gone under the assault, and struck out, not with his own memories of pain—those would destroy her mind, and even his ha’reye side didn’t want that—but by yanking her memories of Tank to the forefront, driving that passion into her consciousness—

  —He saw Eredion and Tank to either side, Alyea between them, heat flashing among the three—

  —saw, overlaid in Alyea’s memory like a ghost she wasn’t aware of carrying, Eredion’s frantic rejection of the moment, his terrified reaction: Oh, gods, Deiq will kill me if I do this—

  —and Alyea’s own fear flared at the evoked memory—He’s going to kill me for being with Tank, that’s what this is all about, he’s jealous—

  —which jarred his ha’reye side into confusion. He grabbed for control and threw back his head with a burst of laughter.

  “Oh, hells,” he said aloud, tension evaporating like smoke in a high wind and relief flooding his body with a moment of watery weakness. “You don’t understand a damn thing, do you? Neither of you do.”

  Alyea writhed beneath him, caught between anger and evoked desires. He released all hold on her and rolled clear, retreating halfway across the patio before she could even sit up. Breathing hard, still grinning, he sank into a crouch, leaning forward on splayed hands like a runner readying for a sprint, and watched her through half-lidded eyes.

  She sat up, pushing her hair back out of her face, and glared at him without fear. “If you ever touch me again,” she said, “I will do my damn best to kill you.”

  He let out a long breath, restraining irritation, and reminded himself that she was still young, and her ability to understand had severe limits. He pushed back to a kneeling position, rubbing his hands over his face.

  “Evkit very probably wanted me to kill you,” he said, and watched shock flare through her whole body. “I’m going to enjoy denying him that result.”

  He stood, slowly, and came towards her. She watched him with deep, hostile suspicion but made no move to attack or retreat; either from residual trust or from the understanding that either move would be useless.

  “Why would Evkit want you to kill me, when he was trying to save me from you not long ago?” she demanded.

  He knelt beside the couch, settling back onto his heels, and regarded her steadily. “Because he’s complicated,” he told her, then deliberately put one hand on her ankle. She held still, nostrils flaring as though she were able to scent the danger in the moment. He took his hand away and leaned back on his heels again.

  “Complicated,” she said, color flaring high in her cheeks.

  “Never underestimate him,” Deiq said. “Or me.”

  He put his hand on her ankle again. This time he tugged lightly, pulling her leg out straight and to one side; her lips went thin, but she offered no fight.

  “I’m not human,” Deiq said, watching her face. “You keep forgetting that.” He let her ankle go and stood up.

  Her gaze skittered to his groin and back up to his face, and one eyebrow quirked. “That looks entirely human,” she said dryly.

  He held still save for raising one eyebrow, and waited patiently for her to work it out.

  She watched his expression, frowning; he could sense her mind beginning to work again. At last she said, the words rough in her throat, “It’s not about sex for you.”

  “No. Not usually.” He didn’t bother to explain how much more pleasurable feeding was, or even the kind of slaughter he’d indulged in at Peysimun Mansion; she had no way of understanding that physical orgasm was—grey by comparison.

  She shut her eyes, a shudder working through her. “I thought feeding was the most revolting part,” she whispered.

  “I don’t enjoy inflicting needless pain,” he said, still not moving. “That hasn’t changed, Alyea. And I don’t care who else you take to bed—as long as they’re not a threat to me. You don’t have to stay by my side for the rest of your life. You’re not my whore, you’re not my slave. But you can’t back out of being a desert lord, and one of the consequences of that is that you never, ever say no to a ha’ra’ha or ha’rethe. No matter what we ask of you. You don’t have that choice any longer.”

  She drew into a tight ball, her forehead on her knees, arms wrapped around her legs, and let out a hoarse sob.

  “Eredion warned me,” she said, the words muffled. “He warned me not to call it love.”

  “He was right,” Deiq said, remorseless. “And you’re very lucky that I’ve been handling humans who didn’t
understand that concept since before either of you were born. Any other ha’ra’ha would have killed you over that slap.” He paused, watching her pull into a tighter huddle of misery, and sighed. “I didn’t want to make you face this yet,” he added, more gently. “I know it’s unpleasant. I’m sorry. But I can only let you fight me so far before it has to stop, and you’ve hit that line.”

  To himself, he admitted that he’d wanted that line not to exist with her. For a while, he’d thought the miracle of feeding from her without pain would extend out to erase this restriction as well. And his temper had been pushed much further than ever before: but not far enough. Not nearly far enough.

  As he’d expected—it hadn’t lasted.

  He turned away and went to the small table to refill the mug of tea. A moment’s attention brought it back hot, although nothing could save the flavor. He sipped, grimacing at the sourness, then brought the mug over to Alyea, sat beside her, and handed it to her without speaking.

  She wrapped her hands around the heavy mug as though considering whether to smash it across his face; finally raised it to her mouth and gulped most of it down before lowering it to rest on one thigh.

  “What do you expect me to do?” she said then, her fingers tight around the mug. She didn’t look at him. “Do I just—” Her throat closed, her mouth working in a refusal of the words she’d been about to say.

  He saw them anyway, the choked off, agonized echoes: be your whore, kiss your ass—

  Deiq sighed. “No.” He reached out and lifted the mug gently away from her grip, drained it, then set it on the floor, using that time to think of how to explain. Like all humans, she wouldn’t really understand. She was already going back to thoughts of rape and domination, as he’d expected.

  At least men could manage some vestige of understanding. Women always got stuck at this point.

  He forced his tone to remain unemotional as he said, “I’ve taught you enough about handling passion that you can safely take whatever lovers you like. Your temper is going to get you in trouble still, but I’ve done all I can with that. You’re young, ignorant, and stubborn. If you had gone through the years of training most desert lords go through, you’d have a better chance of understanding what I’m trying to tell you. Right now all you’re thinking is that you have to do as I say, and it’s much more complicated than that.”

  “Is it?” she said bitterly. “Isn’t it just so simple at the end?”

  He shook his head. “You chose to get into this,” he reminded her. “I promised to train you, and I have. I promised not to hurt you, and I haven’t.”

  She glanced down at the livid marks on her ankles.

  “You did that to yourself by fighting me, and it’s a minor consequence,” he said without any particular remorse. “Those bruises will be gone in less than a day.”

  She glared at him. “I liked you better when you were starving.”

  He smiled, amused by that. “I was close to human then. I won’t be that weak again for a long time.”

  Her face flared red, then mottled white. “Because of me.”

  “Yes.”

  She shut her eyes, despair radiating from her.

  “Alyea,” he said softly, enough to make her look up at him. “I need you to understand something very important.” He paused long enough for her despair to shift into a bleak curiosity, then went on, “I’m a First Born ha’ra’ha. The only one left. My lesser cousins couldn’t care less if they rip you apart with agony during a feeding. My ha’reye ancestors certainly don’t think about it. I do. I have thought about it for—” He decided at the last moment to keep the time spent scaled back to a number she could comprehend.”—for over a hundred years, and looked for ways to make it not hurt. You are the first success with that. The only success.”

  “Why?”

  “I. Don’t. Know.” His frustration brought the words out rougher than he intended. He drew a sharp breath and forced himself to calm down. “Until I do, I want you to stay with me.”

  Her expression soured into bitterness again. “As a safe feeding stock. Of course. And are you going to try breeding me, too, and see if my children carry the ability?” she demanded. “Oh, that’s right, I probably can’t have any more, can I? So that’s no good—”

  He shook his head, letting go of the temptation to respond with a matching, and far too human, anger: excessive emotion wasn’t necessary, and her fury didn’t matter. A faint ache passed across his chest for a moment, then disappeared.

  She was young. Resilient. She’d come around, given the time. Right now, she just needed to rest; she’d had a number of nasty shocks and was feeling overwhelmed. He decided to believe that.

  “Alyea,” he said, weaving his voice beneath her anger, reaching through to the bedrock of fear beneath, “easy. Breathe—think aqeyva—breathe. Easy. Easy. Good.”

  The splotchy color of her face evened out, her pulse steadying. He eased her back to sprawl on the couch and against him, drawing warmth over them both, then nudged her gently into a thick doze.

  Her limbs slowly loosened into true sleep. He allowed himself a light doze of his own, tracking the shudder of her heartbeat and the tiny twitches of her muscles as her sleeping mind sorted through what he’d told her. He could sense her rearranging the truth he’d given her to a more palatable slant, as humans always did; I will be different, I will break past what he expects surfaced briefly and swirled away. He smiled in sad acknowledgment.

  His prior hopes aside, things would never be that different. But by the time she awoke, her subconscious would have half-convinced her that it was possible to be so exceptional as to change his very nature. It would take her years for that protective romantic edge to harden into the rough cynicism of a mature desert lord.

  Even after all she’d been through, she still wanted the world to be a nice place. He would have laughed if he’d been able to find enough humor in that.

  In the wake of that thought, something that had been nagging at the back of his mind for some time came clear. He lay still, thinking it over, then nudged her awake and said, “Alyea, when did you talk to Kippin?”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Lord Evkit sauntered through the door onto the patio, looking as smug as a teyanin could get. Two guards followed him, their dark stares never leaving Deiq.

  “Ha’inn,” Evkit said, bowing. “You call for me?” His gaze flickered to Alyea, to the couch and rumpled blankets on which she sat, back to Deiq; a faint frown wrinkled his dark face.

  Deiq gave no return courtesy. “Kippin,” he said. “He’s mine. I’m claiming blood-right.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “The little fucker kidnapped an elder ha’ra’ha,” Deiq said flatly. “He’s mine.”

  “No,” Alyea said, just as flatly.

  Deiq turned slowly to look down at her. She sat still, feet firmly on the chill stone, head up, matching his stare with her own intensity. In the background, Evkit yipped a thin chuckle.

  “I took Kippin’s surrender,” Alyea said. “I have a prior claim.”

  “But he was never yours to accept, Lord Alyea,” Evkit said. “I told you that already.”

  Deiq moved forward one long step, reached down and put a hand under Alyea’s chin, tilting it gently up until her head was as far back as it would go. He leaned over to stare into her eyes again: trailed his fingertips lightly down the surface of her exposed throat.

  It wasn’t even remotely an erotic gesture. Alyea held still, watching blackness flaring in his eyes, and tried not to breathe too loudly.

  “Mine,” Deiq said, in a low voice. “Mine, Alyea.” He studied her face for another lazy moment, then straightened and turned away.

  She stayed still for a moment, teeth tight; sat up slowly, feeling muscles creak and catch in protest. Her heart hammered in her chest. A wave of lightheadedness and nausea swept through her. Vision hazed.

  “I think perhaps Lord Alyea needs a rest,” Lord Evkit said from somewher
e far away.

  Deiq didn’t say anything. Or maybe he did and she couldn’t hear him. Her whole body was shivering as though dumped into icy water.

  Teyanain hands guided her to her feet. Teyanain voices directed her. She stumbled into motion, wondering, hazily, if they were going to walk her right off that cliff. Anything seemed possible just at the moment.

  A door shut behind them. Not the cliff, then. And Deiq wouldn’t be following. He had business with Lord Evkit. With Kippin.

  Her thoughts tumbled, chaotic as a flock of whirling seagulls:

  Deiq almost killed me. He was that close to it. Not out of anger—out of cold—something, something so cold. And nobody would have stopped him. All because I got in his way—because I claimed something he wanted.

  “The little fucker kidnapped an elder ha’ra’ha.”

  Not: He almost killed Lord Alyea. No hint of anything but personal outrage had been in Deiq’s tone or attitude.

  So much for “he cares”, Alyea thought bitterly, then shook her head, recognizing that she’d been about to put human interpretations on the matter again. Maybe it was best to simply treat Deiq as...as a kind of semi-intelligent tornado that wrecked everything it touched without understanding the debris it was leaving in its wake.

  I’m being melodramatic again. But the yawing breach in her self-confidence made it hard to think clearly. She allowed the teyanain to guide her through the hallways, barely noticing her surroundings. If someone had attacked her at the moment, she’d have been dead without defense.

  They were right. I thought I knew what I was doing, what I was getting into; but I’m still a horse crashing around in a glass shop. I’m still being pushed around instead of being in charge.

  Past time to turn that around—if she could just figure out how.

  A door opened in front of her; she went through without prompting, stepping into a cloud of delicate orange scent and an overall impression of whiteness.