Page 17 of Prize of the Warlord
I choose a cut on his pectoral and tip a few drops of the liquid onto it. He hisses through his teeth, eyes snapping, and his entire beautiful body tenses. My own skin tingles, trickles of delight rippling into my secret places as I torture him with more of the stinging liquid, a little for each wound.
“You’re enjoying this,” he growls.
“So much,” I say softly, spilling a generous amount onto his thigh wound.
He bellows in pain—seizes a pillow and muffles his own cry into it. His abdominal muscles flex tight, hard and bulging. Without thinking, purely on instinct, I lay my hand across them, just to see how they feel.
Hot and smooth, like he felt when he warmed me against his bare chest during the journey. His skin is surprisingly soft, but there’s so much power packed beneath it. My fingers trail down to the wisps of golden hair between his hips. He has two slanted ridges of muscle here, angled downward as if his body itself is pointing my way, guiding me.
And I’m entranced, distracted, not thinking, only feeling and wanting.
19
There’s a pronounced lump under the bit of blanket the Warlord dragged over himself. He’s reacting to me again—he wants my touch, craves it.
He lies perfectly still, gripping the pillow, but he’s not looking at me—he’s staring at the roof of the tent, his jaw set and his eyes full of anger.
I take my hand from his abdomen and lay it against his inner thigh instead. His hips twitch involuntarily.
My fingers slide a little higher.
“Finish what you began,” he says thickly.
I’m not sure what he means for me to finish—but the words break me out of my foolish trance. I take up one of the cloths and begin washing his wounds methodically, sometimes a bit roughly, if I’m honest. Zeha pokes her head into the tent while I’m working, but she only nods and ducks out again, as if satisfied that he’s being taken care of.
“She’s your lover?” I ask.
“Sister,” he replies. “She worries too much.”
A knot in my heart eases.
“I have no lover at present,” he says. “No time for it.”
“Because you’re too busy catching mice.”
“You are a means to an end. A piece in the game I must play. To redeem you from me, your parents and your husband-to-be must deliver what I ask.” He names an exorbitant sum and a strip of land I’m unfamiliar with. “Of course, that land is only the beginning. I won’t be satisfied until we reclaim it all.”
“And you’ll push my people out of the homes they’ve had for generations?”
“We were here first.”
“Let’s say I believe you. That was ages ago. Why have you waited so long to push back and reclaim your property?”
“We’ve been too weak,” he says. “We may seem strong, but that’s only because we have to be, to survive in this wasteland. The weakest among us perish, and the worthy survive.” He turns his face away, his jaw working.
I narrow my eyes at him. “You’ve lost someone.”
“Someone weak,” he spits. “Too weak. Pathetic, like you.”
“Who was it?”
He stares at the tent wall without answering.
“Tell me.” I loop a bandage around his arm and tie it tight—maybe a little too tight. He growls and looks reproachfully from the bandage to me.
“I’ll loosen it if you tell me.”
“My pain isn’t something to be bargained with,” he snaps.
