Page 21 of Prize of the Warlord
My breath is short and frantic, and his great chest surges with rage as he stares me down. His eyes flick to my lips once—and then he roars, flinging me backward. “I’m going to hurt you, mouse,” he bellows as I right myself. “I’m going to take everything from you. Stop me.”
23
When the Warlord charges, I flail desperately with the knife. His forearm slams into my wrist, and the weapon flies from my hand.
“Again,” he snaps. “Pick it up.”
With a whine of panic, I scrabble about in the snow until I grip the dagger’s hilt. It’s too big for my half-frozen fingers—but I’ve no time to complain before he’s circling me, a tiger ready to pounce. I slash, and he blocks me again, bruising my forearm.
“Your bones are made of stone,” I protest.
“Again. Come at me this time.” He stands perfectly still, hands at his sides, his breast bared and vulnerable. “I won’t attack you, I will only defend.”
Maybe I can do this. Cautiously I pace toward him, trying to mimic his style of fighting. Then I charge in wildly, my knife whipping through the air.
A jarring force strikes my elbow, and a palm slams briefly into my chest, sending me flying backward into the snow.
“Don’t rush in blindly,” he says. “You have to aim for some vital part of me. Pick your target, and attack with purpose.”
Gritting my teeth, I rise. I always knew I would hate combat training. I have no idea why Joss seems to enjoy it so much. It’s as if she likes punishing her body. My brothers accept their training as a way of life, a necessity, but they don’t relish it like our sister does.
I am not my sister. I can’t do this.
“What are you waiting for? Choose your target, and come at me,” urges the Warlord.
I shake my head. “You’re just going to hurt my arm again.”
“Mouse. Attack me.”
“No. I don’t like this. I’ve never liked training. I’m not a warrior, and you can’t turn me into one. I’m not sure why you’d want to.”
“Are you defying me?”
Pushing my lower lip into a slight pout, I drop the dagger into the snow and cross my arms.
His face darkens. “You’ll attack and accept your punishment, or you’ll take my dick in your mouth right now.”
Shock blazes through me. “You wouldn’t.”
“Would you like to test me?”
I picture him moving into my mouth, gripping my head with both his massive hands, groaning with pleasure—it’s not an image I ever thought I would like. But the melting heat deep inside my body is proof that I don’t know myself as well as I thought.
Still, I’m not ready to fall to my knees for him. “Sick bastard,” I hiss. I pick up the knife and run at him. This time I pretend to stab, and then I duck and aim for a different spot.
He catches my wrist easily. “An attempted feint. Good. Try again.”
I attack him over and over, trying to get through his guard. I’m the one with the knife, so it should be easy—but he’s always ready to block me with his palm, his forearm, even his knee.
Sore, sweaty, and panting, I retreat, stripping off the corset and my top layer of furs. Now I’m only wearing the thick, blousy shirt of red wool and the leather pants and boots. My nose is cold, but my cheeks burn from the physical activity.
The Warlord watches me with a strange light in his eyes and a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to attack you again. And this time I won’t stop. The threat is real, do you understand? I will do what I like to you, unless you stop me.”
A shivery thrill runs through my chest, and my heart skids into a faster rhythm. It’s a wonder my lungs haven’t given out yet.
24
The Warlord stalks me at first, while I bounce on the balls of my feet, dagger at the ready. Then he charges. I try to dodge—I’m not fast enough. There’s a crushing impact of bone and bruising weight as I’m flung to the ground. He tries to tweak the dagger out of my hand but I resist, kneeing him in the groin and screaming into his face. My teeth snap just shy of his nose.
