by Milla Vane
Coming closer, he looked down upon her. His big hand gripped a thick bulge through his red linens. “You will ready me for the ride, and ease this discomfort since I cannot ease it between your thighs.”
She would have wagered her throne that he had ridden without complaint under far worse discomfort than he suffered now. But she had agreed to serve as the vessel for his vengeance.
“How would you have me ease it?”
His burning gaze fell to her mouth. “I think I should not trust your teeth.”
She smiled up at him, displaying how very sharp and strong those teeth were. “Perhaps not.”
“Your hands, then.”
“And will you untie me?”
Slowly he shook his head, his gaze still holding hers.
“Then you will need to unfasten your belt for me,” she told him reasonably, “for I cannot unfasten it with my hands bound.”
His color heightened, his anger heating. Because he’d expected her to balk, she realized.
She never would. Best he learned that now.
Gaze on hers, he crowded closer. And by Vela’s moonglazed sword, she could feel the heat of his body through her robes. The sheer expanse of him seemed to swallow the world. Her head tilted back so that she would not look away from his eyes, and his head was bent as he held her gaze. Challenge burned between them.
He did not unfasten his belt. When he gripped her hands and drew her even closer, she discovered that he’d simply gathered up the linen.
She could not stop the shudder of her breath when her fingers wrapped around his heated length. Temra had been generous upon his creation, and his steel cock burned like a brand between her palms.
His teeth gritted. Disgust? Pleasure? Yvenne knew not. She only knew his anger as it filled the distance between them.
Sensing it, her own rage rose—anger at him, for being this man who had made her heart betray itself with hope. He had already closed his ears to her. Now he would punish her?
She lifted her chin. “What now, warrior?”
“Stroke me,” he said with clenched jaw. “As if your hands are a sheath that I would fuck.”
A sheath. Her fingers circled him. The grasp of her right hand was weak, but her left hand was still strong. Upward she stroked his length, his skin softer than she expected, her fingers both sticky and slick.
“A sheath wet with my brother’s blood,” she told him, and watched the hot flare of his eyes. “Does that please you, warrior?”
It did. Because although he gave no answer, his thick cock responded with a pulse against her palms, growing harder in her grip. Down she stroked, feeling an answering pulse deep within her body, a rising liquid heat as unexpected as it was sweet.
This was not punishment at all. For as strong as Maddek was, she did not think he could have stopped her now if he’d wanted to. She might serve as a vessel for his vengeance, but his pleasure was in her hands.
So she took her pleasure in this, too. Pleasure in knowing her own vengeance would soon be had. Pleasure in the steel of his cock and the strength of his arousal. Pleasure in the heated response of her body. She was uncertain whether she responded to his strength or to the unexpected power she wielded over him—but it mattered not.
She’d had so little pleasure in her life, she would take this and be glad of it.
He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. “Harder.”
She did and then gave him more. “Do you know how it felt to slip the dagger into Cezan’s flesh, to feel his lifeblood spill over my fingers?” The groan low in Maddek’s chest said he imagined it, but he could not possibly take the same pleasure as she had. And would not take the pleasure he should, because he had forbidden her from telling him anything of his mother. What Cezan had done to Ran Ashev was not the only reason Yvenne had slid that blade through her brother’s ribs and into his heart, however. “Today he hit me. But a year past, he threatened to silence me by stuffing my mouth full of his cock—and it was also only fear of my teeth that stopped him.”
Maddek’s lids had grown heavy, though he still held her gaze, but upon hearing her, his eyes met hers again fully.
Now the anger there was not only directed at her.
She stroked him harder, faster. “Fortunately for Cezan, he did not ask for my hands instead, as you did. I would have ripped him apart.” Gently her fingers slid down to cup his sac. “But you, warrior—I will take your seed as often as you like. I care not how you give it to me. Upon my mouth, my hands, or deep inside me.”
A tremor worked through him. Still his gaze burned on hers.
Her fingers worked the length of his shaft and her voice worked upon the furnace of his heart. “I will be your queen, warrior. And I look forward to the full moon, when the blood and the wetness upon your cock are not my brother’s but mine, after you have thrust your sword into my virgin sheath and spilled your seed. For when that seed takes root, we will have the vengeance we both desire.”
The tremor that worked through him turned into a violent shudder. His chest lifted on a great breath and his thick length pulsed into her hands, and she held his gaze as she used the wetness of his spend to continue stroking him.
Until he pushed her hands away, his teeth clenched as if her touch were now too much to bear.
Smiling up at him, she raised fingers pearled with his seed to her mouth, and licked them as he had licked Cezan’s blood from hers. The lingering metallic flavor of that mingled with the salt of his spend.
Maddek’s seed and her brother’s blood. Yes, she took great pleasure in drawing both.
His eyes heated again, watching her. Still he said not a word, but his gaze finally broke from hers when he stepped forward and his hands circled her waist.
Easily he lifted her astride the horse. A glance down the road revealed that his warriors had all turned away from them.
And her anger was not completely spent. As his hands slid from her waist, she snatched the point of his beard in her sticky, bound hands and dragged his gaze back to hers.
“Treat me as you wish when there are no eyes to see, warrior,” she hissed fiercely. “But when we are with others, you will treat me as your queen.”
His eyes narrowed. “I will treat you according to your worth.”
“You fool,” she said, and did not balk now, either, though the anger in his eyes burned hotter than she had yet seen. “I am to be your wife, and as such, I am under your protection. If your people see you treat me as a dog, though I am a woman you are obligated to protect, then they will not trust you to care for them as you should. They will not trust you to fulfill any obligation.”
“They will not care of obligations when they see you. They will only see the daughter of the man who killed their queen and king.”
That was what he saw. “I will make no secret of my hatred for Zhalen. I will tell them you saved me from an unwanted marriage to Toleh’s king and won me to secure a new and stronger alliance between our nations. I will say I was abused and controlled by my father and brothers. That is not something the Parsathe look kindly upon, is it?”
Maddek gave no answer, but he did not need to. For the Parsathe took care of their own. Abuse and neglect were not tolerated.
“Their hatred of my father will not extend to me unless you allow it,” she told him. “No one even knows of me to hate me.”
“Perhaps they will never know of you.” Coldly he pried her fingers from his beard and placed her hand upon the horse’s coarse brown mane. “Hold fast, daughter of Zhalen. Because if you fall, my warriors and I will not halt for you. We will leave you for the beasts of the forests to find—or your father.”
A fate more terrifying than anything a beast might do. “And what of your vengeance?”
“It is already in motion. Zhalen believes I have you, and he will come for me. Your throne and bloodline would s
weeten my vengeance, but you are useful to me as a wife or a corpse.” He paused and his deep voice took on the solemnity of a vow. “And know this, Nyset’s heir—if you are too weak to keep up, if the Syssian or the Rugusian soldiers take you, I will not come for you. I will not risk my life or my warriors’ lives to return for you. So you had best hold on.”
Abruptly he left her, collecting her horse’s long reins before mounting his own with an easy leap onto its back. He tied her reins to his saddle.
Without looking back, he urged his horse down the hill.
Yvenne’s heart leapt on her mount’s first step. She jolted forward, almost falling over its neck.
Yet they were only walking. She had no hope they would not set a much faster pace through the forest. Desperately she twisted her fingers in the long mane. She had held on her entire life.
This would be no different.
CHAPTER 6
MADDEK
With their strong hearts, the Parsathean horses could have run through the night—if they ran upon a road. But the forest had deepened, the uneven ground rising steadily as they climbed through the foothills toward the ridge separating Ephorn’s lands from the Gogean plains, and soon their mounts were snorting with effort. Foamy sweat lathered their coats.
And even the strongest heart could not give a horse eyes to see through the dark.
Maddek slowed and dismounted. By torchlight he and his warriors walked, leading their mounts—except for Yvenne, who looked to have collapsed over her horse’s neck, clinging to its dark mane with her face buried beside her bound hands.
Her mount seemed as exhausted, delicate head hanging low and sides heaving.
Kelir was studying that small horse as well. His gaze met Maddek’s and the decision passed between them unspoken. They would halt for the night. Maddek gestured to Fassad, who sent his dogs in search of water.
The hounds returned quickly, then led Fassad to a stream that tumbled down the rocky hillside. Maddek followed its path upward until he found an outcropping of boulders that would provide cover for their camp. The trees did not grow so thick here, though there was still little sky to see through the canopy—and no grazing available. They would not have let the horses forage, anyway. Instead their mounts would be kept close and quiet, so as not to attract the predators that hunted in these hills.
They would make camp, but the horses came first. Maddek untied Yvenne’s reins from his saddle, and in the dim torchlight he saw that she had lifted her head but had not yet made a move to dismount.
The others were looking her way, as well—at the frail and sickly queen who could not ride. As she had never been on a horse before, she likely didn’t know how to care for one.
“I will tend to her mount,” Maddek told them before leading his to the stream. His mare would not bolt even if charged by a tusker, so he left the horse to drink her fill.
With his gelding waiting behind him, Banek had paused beside Yvenne. A blade flashed in his hand.
The back of Maddek’s neck tightened, but the older warrior’s posture was not tensed for attack, and his voice was pitched low as he told her, “My lady, let me help you.”
Carefully the warrior slipped the dagger beneath her bound hands. Long strands of coarse hair floated to the forest floor.
The horse’s mane. More strands were caught between her fingers—glued by dried blood and Maddek’s seed—but she still had not uncurled her fists.
Even in the firelight, Maddek could see how her face paled when Banek gently pried her cramped fingers open.
Carefully the old warrior picked away clumps of mane from her palms and fingers. “Can you walk, my lady? It will help ease the stiffness.”
Her reply was tight, so strained it was barely more than a whisper. “I will try.”
Yvenne did not look over at Maddek’s approach, but Banek did. As did the other warriors.
For the first time in Maddek’s life, he saw reproach and censure in the warriors’ eyes. He could almost hear it upon their tongues.
He probably would hear it upon their tongues when they had a moment alone. Or more damning—they would give him their silence.
Yvenne had spoken true. His people would think poorly of him if he visited his wrath upon her where they might see. Although his warriors also yearned for vengeance against her father and brothers, they had taken her word as truth. Perhaps they only believed her because Maddek had not killed her. Or perhaps they had recognized something in her he could not.
But queen or not, bride or not, she was a woman under his protection whom he had not protected.
Maddek could not treat her as a bride in front of his warriors and as a dog while alone, however. He could not pretend in that way. It would be as if speaking lies through every action.
So a choice needed to be made. Either he would take Yvenne at her word and accept that she had not plotted to kill his parents—or he would kill her for her part in that plot now.
Maddek could not force aside doubt—and he could not believe her claim that his mother had chosen her to be his wife. But if he would have his vengeance, then she must be his bride. So until she gave him reason to believe otherwise, he would also accept that she had only sent a message to his parents in hopes of forming an alliance.
And Temra be merciful if he ever discovered that she had spoken false, because Maddek would not be.
His gaze upon her pinched face, he told Banek, “I will tend to her. Our mounts—”
“Will be mine to care for this night, Ran Maddek.” Respect returned to the older man’s voice as his blade slipped through a dark cloth tied around Yvenne’s waist.
Her veil, Maddek realized. At some point during the ride, she had fastened herself to the horse’s chest harness by the leather strap that passed over the withers.
That would not have saved her if she’d slipped from its back. Better to fall clear than to slide beneath the horse’s belly to be dragged or trampled by its hooves.
As soon as she was cut free of the horse, Maddek sliced through the bindings around her wrists and tossed the blood-stiffened ropes to the ground. His hands circled her narrow waist. She truly weighed a feather, the points of her hips softened only by the thin silk of her robes.
Cradling her slender form against his chest, he carried her upstream of the horses, to the very edge of the circle of light cast by the torches. Her body shook against his, though the night was warm. It must be fatigue and pain that made her tremble.
They could not travel at a slower pace. But Maddek could not let this happen again.
Beside the stream bed, he set her upon a flat stone. After rinsing his hands in the icy water, he cupped his palm and carried a handful to her lips.
She drank eagerly, her tongue flicking out to catch the last drops clinging to the side of his hand.
Licking those drops as she had earlier licked his seed and her brother’s blood from her fingers. But there was no challenge burning within her moonstone eyes now. No arousal. Only exhaustion.
He ignored the hardening of his cock and brought her another palmful to drink, then wet the rags of her veil and began cleaning her hands.
Maddek could feel her gaze upon his face as he wiped away the blood and seed and hair. “The only remedy for a new rider’s pain is to move the muscles that have stiffened. No matter if it hurts all the more when you do.”
Fatigue thickened her voice. “I will bear it. I daresay the pain of freedom is far more tolerable than the comfort of prison in my tower chamber.”
So it must be. “It will be worse when you awaken, so it is best to stretch the muscles now. The stiffness will pass after a few days of riding.”
Chin sinking low against her chest, she nodded. But despite her agreement, there would be no walking or stretching. Even as Maddek watched she fell asleep, slumping sideways upon the stone seat.
After wetting the rags again, he slid his arms beneath her legs and shoulders and carried her to camp. The horses were staked together near a large clump of trees, eating grain from their bags of feed. Maddek’s warriors had laid out his furs beside the shelter of the large boulders. With Yvenne in his arms, he sank down upon them.
“We will leave at sunrise.” At his announcement, he saw their surprise—and their approval. Usually they would set out at first light, long before the sun rose above the horizon. But one look at the woman in his arms told them why he allowed the extra time. “Take your own rest,” he added. “I will keep watch.”
For Maddek would not sleep. Vengeance blinded men. Tonight his eyes needed to remain open.
So he kept them open as he finished washing her hands. He still had doubts, but not everything she had spoken was a lie. She’d said her father had locked her away, and indeed her brown skin was as sallow as if she’d never seen the sun. She had also said her fingers were severed after killing her eldest brother, so that she could not draw a bowstring again.
Battle always left a mark. So it did here, when he looked with open eyes. The skin over the stumps of her missing fingers seemed thin and pink, as if only recently healed over. The remaining fingers were soft, but for a slight thickening at the tip of her third finger. A callus common to archers, though hers was not as rough or as hardened as a warrior’s. Newer.
By the light of the torch, he unwrapped the bloodstained linens from her left wrist to elbow. Pale lines marked the thin skin at the inside of her forearm. He and every other Parsathean warrior wore leather vambraces to guard their forearms, yet he still recognized those stripes. They were from a bowstring snapping against the skin like the lash of a whip, and signaled a new archer who had not yet mastered her technique. By the appearance of her scars, the string had struck hard enough to break skin—and by the number of them, had made her bleed over and over. They indicated that she had recently learned to use a bow with a hard taskmaster to push her.