Page 14 of Prize of the Warlord
I’ve never done anything this clever or bold by myself, and it feels glorious. I take a deep breath of sharp cold freedom, and immediately regret it as my lungs spasm. I bow over, coughing uncontrollably, coughing so hard I can’t suck in any air. Black spots dance before my eyes.
Desperately I clutch the reins and focus on tucking my chin down to my chest, opening my throat, and slowly drawing breath through my nostrils. There’s a delicate divide with these episodes of mine—they either ease on their own, or they become much worse, until my airway closes and I pass out. I’ve nearly died a few times. But usually Mother or the maids are there to apply a special herbal rub to my chest and nostrils, and to give me two puffs of magical mist from the bottle the healer gave us on his last circuit through our district.
This time there’s no one but me, and nothing but the creepy veined trees and the skeletal leaves and the Warlord’s steed.
By luck or the gods’ intervention, my fit fades, and I’m able to breathe again. I’m just about to urge the horse to go faster when a clear, distant whistle pierces the night.
The stallion lifts his head immediately, whinnies, and turns around, plunging back through the forest toward the ravine. Toward the master who summoned him.
“Faen,” I spit.
16
The Warlord waits as the horse picks his way down the side of the ravine, with me hunched grumpily on his back.
“I gave you a chance to honor your word and turn back to my aid,” says the Warlord. “You did not.”
“So this was a test?”
“To see if I could trust you, yes. I already suspected I could not. Look where you came from—a land of thieves and swindlers.” He sneers, teeth flashing in the moonlight. He limps closer to the horse and attaches the great sword to a loop on the back of the saddle. Then, with many afaenand a grunt, he hoists himself up, settling behind me. There’s an awkward moment as we both adjust ourselves until my rear nestles neatly between his legs. Then the horse begins to move, clopping along the ravine until the Warlord finds a place where we can climb out and continue on through the forest.
“Where are your men?” I ask.
“I told a few of them to fetch the pony, and sent the rest back to camp once I found your trail. I did not need their help to capture a mouse.”
“Too bad they weren’t around to help with the monsters,” I snap at him. “You neededmyhelp. That must rankle.”
He grunts. “Some help. You struck me in the face.”
I twist around until I catch a glimpse of the dark bruise on his scruffy jaw. Then I face forward again, smiling to myself. “Yes. I did hit you in the face.” I give a little wriggle of satisfaction.
“Stop moving around.”
Just to annoy him, I shift again.
And he stiffens against my rear, a distinct hardness pressing through his pants, just as it did during the trip down the mountainside.
Thanks to Joss and the maids, I know exactly what that hardness is, and this time I’m not so out of my mind with fear and cold that I can ignore it.
He hates me, yet his body is reacting to me against his will. It’s a shard of power in my hands, and after the humiliation of nearly escaping and being summoned back, I’m all too happy to use it. The mouse can play with the cat, too.
My heart pounds hot and heavy in my chest, because I’ve never done anything like this—I’ve never tempted a man. Prince Havil and I have exchanged lovely kisses—kisses that left us both breathless, warm, and wanting. But this is different. This is the vicious armored warrior who stole me from my home. And I am the soft weak thing who makes him feel irresistible sensations, even when he doesn’t want to.
I twist and writhe, rubbing my rear against his groin. Even through my own trousers and his, I feel the increase in hardness and girth, the subtle twitching strain of that part of him.
“Stop,” he says hoarsely. “When you move like that, it makes the pain in my thigh worse.”
True, I felt the strap on his thigh shift when I moved. But I’m not above causing him pain, too. I hate him, after all. He foiled my escape plans.
Savagely I wriggle against him, and he gasps—I can’t tell if it’s agony or pleasure. Maybe both.
His enormous hand closes around my neck and squeezes, just enough to threaten my airway. “Stop, or I’ll make you ride behind me.”
But I’m beyond caution, beyond meek obedience. I’ve nearly died too many times lately, and the horror of those near-lethal moments bursts out of me in a fount of boiling anger. With my nails I tear at his hand until he curses and lets go. I have an instant of freedom before his entire arm slams across my body, pinning my arms and immobilizing them.
“Bitch,” he hisses.
“I hate you,” I spit back, my voice full of tears.
