Page 16 of Prize of the Warlord
He rises, infinitely tall and broad, crowding me against the post like a wall of hulking flesh and bone and furs and golden hair. He bends slightly so he can look me in the eye. “Try to scurry away now, little mouse,” he murmurs, his breath fluttering across my lips.
For a second our mouths hover so near each other I can’t breathe. An unbearable tingling sensitizes my lips—a craving to touch them to his. No, not touch—crush. I want to bruise his mouth with mine. I want him to bite my lip like he bit my ear.
But soft delicate daughters of district leaders don’t have such savage hidden yearnings. So I cringe back against the post and turn my face away.
He shuffles toward the bed in the corner, the one where I lay earlier. And then, with a pained groan, he begins removing his armor and gear.
With a noble’s entitlement, I thought this tent was mine. But of course it isn’t. It’s his, and he plans to sleep here.
18
Once all the Warlord’s leathers, furs, and armor are off, I get a full view of the knotted muscles of his back, rolling and shifting beneath his skin. He removes his boots—and then he strips off the ruined, bloodied pants.
His backside is perfectly curved, two firm globes of flesh that beg for my hands. I want to touch him everywhere—
He turns, holding the blood-stained pants in front of his groin, and he catches my eye. I avert my gaze quickly, but he chuckles. “You’ve seen a naked man before, haven’t you, mouse?”
I don’t reply. I’ve seen parts of men, yes—but never a whole naked male at once.
Cautiously I glance at him again, this time eyeing the deep gash in his thigh, and the cuts all over his torso and arms. “You’re badly hurt. You should call a servant to bandage you.”
“I don’t have servants.”
“But you’re a Warlord, a leader.”
“And I lead by taking care of myself. But tonight I will make an exception. You will clean and bandage my wounds.” He tosses aside the pants and sits on the edge of the bed, pulling a bit of the blanket across his privates. “There is water and soap there, and cloths. Bring them.”
Swallowing, I walk to the metal pitcher and basin he indicated. The long chain clinks as I move. I bring the supplies near him and set them on the floor by the bed, along with the small dish of soap and the clean cloths.
“Before you begin,” he says, “fetch me the bottle in that satchel.” He points to the far corner of the tent.
With a sharp glare in his direction, I go to the satchel and hunt inside it until I find the bottle. Liquid sloshes inside.
As I start to walk toward him, he orders, “Stop.”
I hesitate, staring him down.
“Get on your hands and knees, mouse,” he says softly. “And crawl to me.”
A sharp pulse of indignation rolls through me. “No.”
“Do it, or I’ll chain both your feet tonight, and your hands as well.”
Pinching my lips together, I tuck the bottle into the top of my corset, among the furs. The floor of the tent is covered with woven mats of some kind, so at least I won’t be scuffing through dirt.
I sink to my hands and knees, and I begin moving toward the Warlord.
“Slower,” he says. “And look at me.”
I lift my eyes to his and crawl slowly, forcing every bit of hate I feel for him into my gaze. His own eyes blaze green into mine, and his lips part softly, though his jaw is clenched tight.
“Such a good little mouse,” he whispers as I near him. Reaching out, he cups my jaw, and his thumb drags across my lower lip. There’s salty blood on his skin, and I can taste it on my mouth when he lets me go.
He reclines on the bed, a giant of a man entirely bared to me except for the scrap of blanket covering his dick. He presses a palm there briefly, and a muscle at his temple flexes. Then he says, “Tend to me, mouse. Start with a little of what’s in the bottle—pour it on the cuts. If the healer is delayed, that liquid will prevent infection. Afterward, cleanse the wounds with water and soap.”
“Is this my punishment?” I murmur, unstoppering the bottle.
“It will hurt me more than it hurts you.”
