Page 38 of Prize of the Warlord
“You need a bath,” he says, low. “You’re filthy.”
“You need a bath, too,” I retort. “You stink.”
The Warlord turns, a manic gleam in his eye. “Yes. A bath. I’ll prepare it.”
He storms off to the back room from which he brought the food. I remove my boots and relax on the bench, watching the play of the firelight, sipping the rest of my water.
A door creaks open—the door that leads to the room of the Warlord’s father—and a tall, thin shape sidles out, clutching a blanket around his shoulders. Lank hair straggles from his scalp and chin. There’s a haunted look about him, a wild hunger in his faded green eyes.
“Who are you?” he rasps.
“The Warlord’s prisoner,” I respond.
The man eyes me, drawing his blanket closer around himself. “You look too fragile for this world. Too fragile, like all the best and most beautiful things.” He coughs raggedly. “Is he gentle with you?”
“He is gentle enough.”
The man nods. “Our people do not understand gentleness. They call it weakness. Watch him, and you will see when he decides to reject his gentler impulses and return to violence. It takes violence to survive here. Violence, and madness.” A chuckle threads from his lips, and he limps toward the back room.
Through the doorway I overhear a muffled conversation between the gaunt man and the Warlord, spoken low in their dialect. The Warlord’s voice is harsh, frustrated. His father’s tone is bland, apathetic.
After a few moments, his father shuffles back through the front room, carrying a wooden bowl and a bottle. “My sustenance and my poison,” he says, grinning at me with rotted yellow teeth. “I’ll not disturb you two again.”
I’m not sure what to think of the Warlord’s father. There’s a story behind his condition, and I have a feeling it’s closely tied to the Warlord’s demands on himself, the goals he pursues with such single-minded passion. He’s reacting to the weakness of his family, to the death of his brother and possibly his mother—and to the current sad state of his father. The Warlord is determined to be strong, powerful—a leader and a change-maker for his clan.
His attraction to me stands in the way of what he’s planning. It counteracts everything he believes in, everything he intends to do. Which means I can’t trust him not to kill me. He seems to hate the idea of letting me go, but he won’t let himself want me without feeling guilt and rage.
What if he decides that killing me is better than letting someone else have me?
44
I’m sitting on the bench, chewing the edge of a fingernail and thinking anxiously about how I might defend myself, when the Warlord re-enters the front room. He strides over and picks me up without a word, sweeping me into the back room.
It’s a neatly appointed kitchen, with panels of gleaming wood and a smooth hearth made of one massive stone slab. In the center of the room, on stone tiles, stands an enormous wooden tub. The water inside breathes a blessed hot steam.
“Hot water?” I gasp as the Warlord sets me down. “But you couldn’t have heated it that quickly.”
“There’s a hot spring nearby,” he says. “At the foot of one of the mountains. Years ago a previous warlord took Southern captives as slaves to serve him, and he made them run copper pipes from the spring to this lodge. We abolished the use of slaves, but the water system remains. See, here.” He points to a thin pipe arching over the side of the tub. When he presses a lever, the thin stream of hot water issuing from it diminishes to a drip, then ceases altogether.
“Oh,” I breathe. Suddenly every particle of my skin and every bit of my flesh aches to be in that steaming water.
“Undress,” says the Warlord.
Startled, I lift my eyes, meeting his burning stare. I expected privacy, though I’m not sure why—by now I should realize that I’m no longer the cherished younger daughter of the district leader. I’m a scared slip of a girl, helpless in the Warlord’s palm.
“Are you going to leave?” I ask in a small voice.
“No, mouse.” He prowls around the circumference of the tub, to the opposite side, and shucks off his weapons belt and tunic, exposing the glory of his muscled torso. He’s grimy and bloodied, smudged and scratched everywhere. Yet he’s still beautiful in a way that makes my teeth clench and my limbs loosen.
He crosses his arms, scowling. “I’m going to bathe with you. Now take your clothes off, or I’ll do it for you.”
I mirror the stance, folding my arms across my own chest and giving him a tiny smile. “Come and strip me, then.”
Grimacing, he circles the tub and lunges for me, seizing my corset in both his great hands and tearing it open, laces popping and snapping apart. I gasp, but I’m not afraid, not really.
He grips the hem of my shirt and I let him pull it off, over my head. Then he drags my pants down to my ankles, his calloused thumbs skimming along my legs. In the process he has to bow before me, and I plant one hand on his golden head for support as I step out of the pants.
He lurches upright, chest heaving, and surveys my body. I’m not in much better shape than he is—dirty, scratched, and bruised. I probably smell terrible. But he looks at me as if I’m the most exquisite thing he has ever seen.
