by Milla Vane
“And you could not lure a guard?” He studied her sallow features. “Perhaps not.”
Her laugh only deepened, and the sound forged the steel hardness of his cock thicker and longer. “What man ever cared for a pretty face over opened thighs? But what would come of it? My father had to approve every morsel that passed my lips. If he ever suspected I was with child, he would make certain I drank the half-moon milk.”
The same drink that his female warriors took once every moon cycle to prevent a pregnancy. In small doses, it did. But given a large dose while already with child, it would force the woman to miscarry.
Her piercing moonstone gaze caught his again. “I need no husband to be a queen, Maddek of Parsathe. What I need is a warrior’s protection and his seed. If you can provide that, if you can help me destroy my father and my brothers, then you will have your vengeance and the strength of my throne behind you.”
Vengeance, and an alliance free of Zhalen’s corruption. He only had to shackle this sickly, treacherous woman to his side for the rest of his life.
Or for the rest of hers.
With his heart burning in his chest, he told her, “Then let it be done.”
CHAPTER 5
YVENNE
Anger and hurt had lived together within Yvenne for so many years that she no longer knew the difference between them. Rage was the bite of the bindings around her wrists as Maddek dragged her to the horse her soldiers had unharnessed from the carriage. Fury was the pain shooting through her knee as she stumbled after him.
Now the hurt was all the sharper because, for a short time, the anger had gone. For a short time, she hadn’t felt hunger gnawing at her belly. She hadn’t felt the phantoms of her severed fingers or the itch of healing scars upon her back. Even the agony of her once-shattered knee had been nothing, though the stiffened joint had collapsed when Cezan pulled her from the carriage.
All the pain and anger had vanished when she’d looked upon the man who would be her husband. When she’d seen that his dark gaze did not falter as he met her eyes. When she’d seen the arrogance and confidence of that bared chest and the strength of steely muscle. When she’d seen the leather guards over his shoulders and arms, the black-painted brow, and the silver claws that declared war upon her father without speaking a word.
He was everything his mother had claimed he was—fierce and proud and strong, savagery contained through sheer will.
His mother had also said he would be a great king. Ran Ashev had not spoken false, but Yvenne had not listened closely enough to her words. Now she cleaved to them. He would be a great king.
But now he was only a warrior. A warrior who had not come to marry her but to kill her.
So pain and anger returned—though deeper than before. There was a new hurt to add, because her own heart had betrayed her. She had hoped for too much.
By this age, one would have thought she knew better.
But she would not yield to despair. For although her heart had betrayed her, it was still beating within her chest. And she would be married. She would be free of her father. She would have her vengeance.
And she would make a king of Maddek.
Abruptly he released her wrists and she almost staggered into his broad back—though if she had, her slight form would have scarcely made an impact against his. Her eyes were barely on level with the tips of the black braids that were gathered in a thong at his nape and fell in a thick rope to the points of his shoulder blades. Bronze skin flowed over rugged plains of muscle that hugged the valley of his spine. Silver-fingered Rani’s winged dragon decorated the carved ivory face of the scabbard that sheathed the curved sword slung across his back from shoulder to opposite hip.
The horse whinnied, shying nervously away at his approach. His big hands were gentle as he calmed the animal, his silver claws gleaming against the horse’s russet coat.
Hoofbeats pounded up the road—a mounted Parsathean warrior, perhaps one that had been scouting within the forest and was now joining the others. Two wolves ran at the heels of his horse, which was so tall and muscular it could have carried upon its back the horse Maddek soothed now. The rumored size and strength of a Parsathean steed had apparently not been exaggerated. Nor were the size and strength of the warriors who rode them.
There were six warriors in all, four men and two women. All wore armor similar to Maddek’s, with spaulders and vambraces bound in pebbled drepa skin to guard their shoulders and arms, and their chests bare—except for one of the women, who wore a binding around her breasts. But aside from their armor and their dark coloring, they appeared not much alike in features or in age. And if they had different temperaments, Yvenne could not tell, for at the moment they all regarded her with the same expression. Each one studied her as curiously as she did them—though perhaps for a different reason. Yvenne wondered what sort of warriors had been chosen to serve as his Dragon.
They likely wondered why she was not bleeding and screaming.
But although they all seemed filled with questions, they deferred to the barrel-chested warrior whose broad axe hung heavily from his wide leather belt. A ragged white scar cut across his left eye and cheek.
Allowing him to be the first to question Maddek. He must be the head of the Dragon—the one who led the others.
“Are we bringing her with us, then?”
“We are.” Maddek didn’t turn away from the horse. His deep voice was pitched low, as if not to startle the creature. “She claims the message to our queen and king was sent in hopes of forming an alliance through marriage. She claims that she was not part of a plot to murder them.”
She claims. He could not have stated his doubt more clearly.
And Yvenne could not fully explain, because he’d vowed to rip out her tongue if she spoke of his mother.
She did not doubt that vow, and she dared not lose her tongue. It was the only shield she had, and the only weapon—though now she had to wield her words more carefully than in the past.
She had not known how difficult it would be to always speak the truth. Nor had she known that truth could seem to implicate her rather than prove her innocence.
Ran Ashev had warned Yvenne that Maddek would come to her in anger. But the queen had assured her that as soon as Yvenne spoke her truth, Maddek would hear her.
But she never had a chance to speak it. Nor could she now.
So she would say what truth was allowed. “I would not have sent my handmaid to the commander if I believed he would have reason to kill me rather than marry me.”
The scarred warrior shared a quick glance with the woman mounted beside him. “You sent the Syssian woman to our camp?”
“I did, after my brother Tyzen informed me of the council’s meeting with the commander. My handmaid pretended an illness so that she could remain behind in Ephorn and seek an audience with you.”
Now the woman beside him spoke. Unlike the other female warrior, whose square face was undecorated, silver rings pierced her eyebrows and the upper curves of her ears. “She said you lured our queen and king.”
“I only sought an alliance. I confess it was your commander I lured with those words. I believed anger might bestir him more quickly than an unsubstantiated claim of my existence.”
They looked to Maddek then, but his back was still turned to them, his focus on the horse though it had finally calmed under his hands. Perhaps listening to her words—or waiting to hear those of his fellow warriors.
Yvenne pressed on before he silenced her again. “These many years my father has kept me hidden away. You have seen that even my soldiers had no real knowledge of my existence. I had hoped for rescue by your queen and king—but it is you who have rescued me, instead, from my father and from an unwanted marriage. For that, you have my endless gratitude.”
And saying, she bowed her head—and was overwhelmed by a rush of gratefulness. For
these warriors had saved her.
They looked at each other uneasily. Perhaps because they were unused to a queen bowing to them. Perhaps because they’d only saved her with the intention of watching her die. Perhaps because of what was yet unspoken.
The warrior who rode with the wolves spoke it. “You hope to marry Ran Maddek?”
Yvenne would not hope. She simply would. “If he gets me with child, upon its birth I can claim my throne. For that, I need no husband, but I do need protection from my father. And if we are married, your commander can be the one who removes my father from that seat. Zhalen will have no power, nor will my brothers—and the alliance council can have no argument if he then avenges the murders of your queen and king.”
Fierce pleasure fired through the scarred warrior’s expression. Through all of their faces, Yvenne saw. They yearned for vengeance as he did.
As she did.
The warrior looked to Maddek. “Is this your intention?”
Back stiff, Maddek inclined his head. And he only said, “Her wedding clothes are in the carriage,” but that was answer enough. “Ardyl, you will tie her satchel to your saddle. Remove any weapons you find.”
“And beware any vials,” Yvenne added. “Syssians are best known for poisons.”
With a sharp grin, the pierced woman dismounted and started for the carriage, along the way scooping up the jeweled dagger Yvenne had thrown to the ground.
“So that is why you almost mounted her while we watched,” another warrior spoke up—the only one who wore furs over his shoulders, despite the warmth of the day, and who looked to be the youngest of them. “To get her with child.”
“Toric and I will turn our backs if you wish to continue,” the leader of the Dragon said, a jesting note to his words now.
No humor lightened Maddek’s voice. “She has not yet had her moon night.”
“That is unfortunate.” His brow creasing, the scarred warrior looked her over from his height upon his horse. “The sooner you are with child, the more quickly Zhalen loses his throne. Will he come for you, my lady?”
“Yes,” Yvenne said. “He will pursue us relentlessly.”
One hand still upon the horse’s neck, Maddek turned to glance at the warrior before meeting her gaze with the burning coldness of his. “I told your soldiers I would visit my vengeance upon you. Will he not believe you dead?”
“He will assume what Cezan did—that your intention in taking me was marriage. I am far more valuable as a bride than as a corpse.”
His dark eyes did not waver from hers. “Your only value is in the pain it will cause your father.”
Yvenne wanted her father to suffer, too. But if that was the only value Maddek saw in her, then he would never be a king worthy of the title.
Yet for now she would speak to the warrior in him. “As soon as the guards alert the council, Bazir will send soldiers after us. In two days, we will have all of Rugus and Syssia upon our heels.”
And all of Rugus’s and Syssia’s territories lay between them and the Burning Plains.
Maddek looked to the scarred warrior. “What say you, Kelir?”
“They will expect us to race north and rejoin the army, finding safety in those numbers. But it will be difficult to catch them. Enox rides hard.”
“So she does.” Maddek looked to the gray-haired male warrior who had not yet spoken. “Banek?”
The older man replied slowly, as if weighing every word. “If we continue east, we will travel ahead of the news from the council. We could ride east and north through Rugus, then over the pass at the head of the Fallen Mountains.”
Which would take them to the Burning Plains, though they would have to travel west again to reach the heart of Parsathe.
The second woman spoke. “West. To the sea.”
The Boiling Sea, which marked the western edge of Syssian and Gogean territory.
“And through Syssia as we originally planned?” Kelir asked before glancing quickly at Yvenne. “But without a flayed corpse to toss over the city wall.”
Her brows rose and she looked to Maddek. “That was to be my corpse?” At his nod, she pursed her lips. It would not have pained her father to see her dead, but it would have angered him terribly to know that his attempts to secure power in Toleh had been thwarted along with her marriage. Losing a son, though? “I wish I had thought to flay Cezan and do the same.”
A snort of laughter came from Ardyl. “You still can. If we ride west, no doubt we will overtake the guards who escort his body.”
The warrior with the wolves did not laugh. “And the guards would tell the council—and Bazir—of our direction. We cannot go west upon this road.”
Kelir nodded his agreement. “Or by the same route as the bridal caravan. That road is too heavily traveled and there are too many eyes to see us. They know we will travel home. But there are many paths north, and it is better not to reveal the one we take.”
“Yes.” Maddek stroked his silver-tipped fingers down the horse’s neck. “We will go west to the sea.”
With satchel in hand, a frowning Ardyl mounted her horse again. “Through Syssia?”
“Through Goge,” he said. “Any time lost spent traveling south can be recovered on the ship that will take us north across the water. Then east to Kilren.”
The Parsathean city built after the alliance had been formed. Yet more than a city had been built after the formation of the alliance, Yvenne knew.
“What of the Syssian outpost?” Which lay north of Syssia, at the western edge of Parsathean territory. “If they realize the route we’ve taken, my father’s soldiers might intercept us.”
A hard smile touched Maddek’s mouth. “And attempt to take my bride?”
He hoped for such an attack, Yvenne realized. Because it would be in Parsathean territory, and he could retaliate according to Parsathean law. The alliance council could say nothing, because they had called it justified when Zhalen had retaliated for a similar personal attack.
Her chest tightened. Before an attack came, she needed to be pregnant and married to him. Or he would have no use for her.
And no reason to allow her to live.
The hard triumph in his smile said that he was thinking the same. It mattered not to him how he avenged his parents, as long as he did. And he could easily be rid of her if Zhalen ordered his soldiers to move against them upon the Burning Plains.
No doubt he would take her to his bed during their journey, because he would be a fool to place all his hopes on an attack from an outpost. But if that assault came, no need to marry her or to help her secure her throne.
Anger and pain rose together, hot and aching in her throat.
In five winters, she would be a queen’s age and could have taken her crown without issue. If she had possessed the strength of her foremothers, she could have easily killed her father—or escaped and waited the five years before approaching the council. She wouldn’t have needed protection or to throw herself upon the mercy of a warrior who had none.
But she did not possess that strength. Only courage and wits and rage.
The heat of the last seemed not to touch Maddek. Dismissing her, he looked to his warriors. “We will ride south through the forest until we reach the ridge path that will take us to Goge.”
Trepidation gripped her heart. Yvenne had not expected an easy journey, but she had thought it would be upon a road. “Through the forest?”
“Yes.” He turned those cold eyes upon her again, contemptuous as they swept her from head to foot. “If you did not rest within your carriage, you’ll wish you had. Because it will be unlike any ride you’ve ever known.”
“That is truth. For I have never sat upon a horse.”
Utter silence fell over his warriors. Disbelief crossed their expressions, followed by humor—as if they thought she must be joking.
> Then a harsh laugh ripped from Maddek and he looked to the others. “Yet she hopes to be a Parsathean queen?”
Their laughter joined his, and although theirs did not hold the same scorn, humiliation burned in her face.
Yet she had nothing of which to be ashamed.
She turned her gaze upon the warriors. Few people could look directly into her moonstone eyes without wavering, and they proved no exception.
Their laughter came more uneasily and they averted their eyes even as she said, “My father imprisoned me in a tower chamber from the day of my birth. There was not much opportunity for riding.”
Uneasy laughter fell to shamed silence.
Maddek was not shamed. Instead their reaction seemed to anger her would-be husband. Expression hardening, he told the warriors, “Make ready for the ride.”
There could not be much to make ready, but as they turned their horses away and rode a short distance down the hill, she realized that it was a signal to leave them alone.
Watching his face, Yvenne waited.
She had been told he was handsome—and indeed, it seemed to her that he possessed the finest face she had ever seen. So fascinating to look upon, his cheekbones high and jaw strong. A bold, straight nose sat over wide, firm lips. The black paint upon his brow deepened the intensity of his dark stare. He wore a short beard, which was unusual in Parsathean warriors—but he had been traveling and grieving, so perhaps there was reason he was not clean-shaven.
His gaze still did not falter from hers. Even Ran Ashev had confessed she found it difficult to meet Yvenne’s eyes for any length of time. Yet earlier Maddek had looked into her eyes and not only held her gaze—he had been aroused by it.
He was now, too. She saw it in the flush of his skin, the flaring of his nostrils.
Yvenne had little experience with men beyond her own family and what her mother had described of them—but she was no stranger to punishment and recognized when one was upon her. This was arousal born of anger, not desire. Maddek intended to please himself by humiliating her.