Page 22 of Prize of the Warlord
“Good, mouse. Very good,” he purrs. “See how I’ve pinned your hands? Twist your wrists, if you can. Make your hands small, and try to slip them out. Do whatever you can to distract me while you get free—spit at me, bite at me, strike my forehead with yours.”
“That will hurt me more than you.”
He grins, letting more of his weight settle against me. “True.”
The cold ground seams to my spine, and his chest presses my front. The telltale lump in his trousers rubs against the hollow between my thighs, a titillating grind. He’s hard again, aroused by our proximity, and gods help me, so am I. But I’m furious too, because what he seems to be teaching me is that I’m entirely helpless, no matter how hard I struggle.
“You’re not even trying,” he says.
“What’s the use?”
The Warlord shifts, hovering over me, his knees braced on either side of my hips. He takes my arms and throws them above my head, gripping them both in his left hand, pushing them into the snowy grass. “So you’re giving up?” His free hand trails along my waist, thick calloused fingers moving under my shirt and caressing my heated skin. “Not going to stop me?”
I inhale sharply as he thumbs the curve of my breast. I twist my wrists in his grasp. My right hand still clutches the knife, but I release the weapon so I can squirm my fingers downward, wriggling free of his hold. Just as I manage to get one hand out, his right palm leaves my chest and lands between my legs, cupping firmly. I go perfectly still, helpless to the heat rolling through my body.
“This is mine if I want it,” he whispers. His fingers flex over me, through the fabric.
A soft whimper escapes me. It’s more desire than fear, but he seems to register it as terror, because he sighs and moves off me, rising again.
“You failed,” he says. “You got one hand free, but you didn’t reclaim the knife. You’re right. It’s pointless trying to teach you anything. You’ve got no will, no strength of heart. You’ll let yourself die or be claimed by anyone stronger than you.”
He turns away and walks back to where he left his cloak. He’s not sweating, and that infuriates me. I gave him no trouble at all. He scarcely had to exert himself, while I’m damp with sweat, panting so hard that when I clamber to my feet, I have to bend over and pause to catch my breath.
The breathlessness prompts a very wicked thought in my mind.
I start inhaling erratically, imitating the halting gasps I usually make during a breathing attack. I stagger back from the Warlord, my eyes blown wide with panic. This is a dangerous game, because imitating the symptoms of an attack could trigger them—but I can’t resist trying to best him. If he sees me in distress, he’ll try to help me. I’m his hostage, his prize. He needs me alive.
“What is this?” the Warlord says, eyeing me with a frown.
Dropping the knife, I clutch my throat, still pretending to struggle for breath. Then I collapse in the snowy grass, with the knife pinned beneath my thigh where I can access it easily. I claw at my throat and chest. Then I extend one trembling, pleading hand toward the Warlord.
He looks stunned and alarmed. After a heartbeat, he rushes to me, bracing one burly arm across my back. “What happened? You can’t breathe?” he asks. “Calm down, mouse. Try to relax.” His other hand settles on my belly, a gentle pressure.
I snatch the knife from beneath my thigh and plunge it toward his neck.
25
I almost plunge the knife into his throat. I could, because he doesn’t stop me—his hands are occupied with holding me gently.
The point of the dagger cuts a tiny line on his neck, right where his pulse beats.
The Warlord freezes.
I know what he’s feeling—the excruciating clarity, the crystallized imminence of Death.
His palm leaves my belly, and his huge warm fingers close around my thin chilled ones. Slowly he moves the dagger down, away from his throat.
And I let him do it.
“You wicked little liar,” he breathes.
I didn’t kill him. Why didn’t I kill him?
My heart is beating even faster than it was when he pinned me and clasped that huge hand between my legs. There’s a new look in his eyes—wonder and respect, edged with the sting of betrayal.
“Do you have any honor at all?” he asks.
“It wasn’t entirely a lie,” I tell him impulsively. “I do have breathing troubles. Sometimes they get so bad I pass out. Our healer back home made a special tonic for me—distilled herbs and mineral water infused with magic. Two puffs in my mouth will loosen my throat and lungs when they’re closing up.” I allow myself a small smile. “But for healthy lungs, it causes spasms and retching. One of my brothers tried it once, and he was sick everywhere.”
