Page 15 of Prize of the Warlord
“I hate you more.”
I wrench my body, grinding it against his.
He leans down and takes my earlobe between his great teeth, biting just hard enough to send a flood of warning pain along my nerves. I freeze, terrified that he’s going to bite it through.
His heavy breathing gusts into my ear, pain and desire mingled in a thick panting rhythm. Suddenly I realize I’m mirroring that rhythm, breathing in tandem with him as we ride, locked together, bound by hate.
The Warlord’s teeth release my earlobe, but his lips stay there, brushing my ear. After a minute he inhales deeply, as if he’s sniffing my hair. Then he straightens in the saddle again.
A delicate wetness is seeping along the crevice between my thighs. With my legs spread astride the back of the horse, I can’t press them together, or do anything about it. I’m desperate for pressure, so desperate I nearly scoot forward and press my core to the pommel of the saddle.
My eyes latch onto the large hand of the Warlord, the hand holding the reins. His thick fingers are bloodied and bruised. I imagine that bruised hand settling between my legs, one of those big fingers sliding into—
I pull myself up short, terrified at the fantasy I was about to indulge.
17
When we return to the camp, nearly everyone is already asleep, either in tents or in blankets near the fire. Two men and Zeha remain watchful, awaiting our return.
Zeha hurries to the Warlord’s horse. “You’re injured. Shall I call back the healer?”
“No,” he rumbles. “I can heal on my own.”
She makes a harsh sound of frustration, staring at the blood that has soaked his entire pant leg. “I’m sending for the healer.”
“Stop worrying.”
“If I don’t worry, who will?” When he dismounts, she kisses his cheek.
Something clenches inside me—realization, anger, a sense of loss—the same emotion I feel when I watch Joss train, when her healthy, strong body moves so flawlessly through the dance of wielding a sword, spear or ax.
Jealousy.
But it can’t be jealousy after all, because I hate the Warlord so deeply, and I would never want to be someone who would kiss him, or receive kisses from him.
“Call the healer then.” The Warlord waves her away. “Have him come to my tent.”
“Promise you’ll rest,” says Zeha.
“I have something to deal with first.” The Warlord gives me a baleful look. He points sharply at me, then at the ground. “Down, mouse.”
Stiffly I swing one leg over the saddle and slide to the ground. My legs nearly buckle from exhaustion, but I manage to stay upright, and I’m rewarded by a brief flare of approval in his eyes.
Or maybe I imagined it, because the next instant he grips me by the back of the neck and marches me to the tent where the healer cared for me. He’s limping as we go, but the halting steps don’t detract from the storm of feral dominance emanating from him. The strength of his grasp on my neck turns me tremulous and hollow inside. That hand could end me easily. Perhaps I shouldn’t have played with him.
Once we’re in the tent, the Warlord pushes me toward the center post. “Stand there.”
Mutely I obey, while he limps to a corner and drags some chains from a satchel. “Until now I have treated you more like a guest than a prisoner,” he says. “That changes tonight.”
For a fleeting moment I glance at the tent flap, tempted to run. He couldn’t pursue me himself. Maybe I’d be able to avoid the guards—
But at that moment, a huge furry head pokes into the tent. It’s the white tiger, nosing in, haughtily requesting permission to enter.
“Not now, Kaja,” says the Warlord. “Lie down outside, my girl.”
With a low burr in its chest, the tiger retreats outside. She’s probably lying in front of the exit now, another barrier to my escape.
The Warlord fastens the chain around the post and then catches my leg, shoving aside the boot and the fur-lined trousers to reveal one thin white ankle. His fingers pass lightly over the delicate bones there, before he shakes himself and snaps the manacle into place.
