Page 40 of Prize of the Warlord
“Gods, Ixiana,” he moans, and then his release jets across the water, falling in pearly drops onto the surface. A few drops strike my belly, beading there. Dazed, I collect them with a finger and touch it to my tongue, tasting the salty male essence of him. He gasps, eyes locked on me with startled awe.
He said my name. Wonderful as it was to watch him come, that word was the best part of it all.
We stand there, breathing the steam, inhaling our mutual desire. And then, at the same time, we move.
I step from the tub, and he hands me a blanket to dry myself with, and a plain tunic to wear. He tugs the cork from a pipe in the bottom of the tub, and the water drains away, along with the evidence of his lust for me.
When I’m dressed in a soft tunic of spun cloth, I wring out my hair and begin to plait it into one long braid, tightening the knots that secure the bones. The Warlord steps up behind me and takes over the task, expertly weaving the braid with quick fingers.
“Sit,” I tell him when he’s done. “Fair is fair. You braided mine—let me braid yours.”
He scowls, and I waver, remembering what his father said about the Warlord’s gentleness always turning back to violence. But then he sinks cross-legged onto the hearth, allowing me to work with his hair.
“I’m not as good as you or Jili,” I tell him.
He shrugs.
“Why was Jili with us on the journey?” I ask. “It was a rough trip for anyone, and she’s still a child.”
“Jili’s father was killed on a southern raid. If her mother leaves her too far behind, Jili becomes frantic, nearly demented, terrified that her mother won’t return. She’s much better when they ride together. She stays in our camp during raids, which is still hard for her—but it means she doesn’t need to wait for days for word of her mother’s survival. She gets the news, good or bad, within hours.”
As I cross the sections of his hair, my fingertip catches on the tiny braid at his nape. “Do you always keep this one in?”
“Don’t touch it,” he growls.
“The bones in that braid are different.”
“They are the finger bones of my mother and my brother. So they can protect me.”
Horrified, I swallow hard. “How—nice. You, um—you didn’t tell me your mother had passed.”
“She cut her own throat after my brother’s death.”
“Oh gods,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”
“Now you know my shame. The weakness of my line—brother, mother, and father.” He releases a harsh laugh. “Zeha and I are the only strong ones. This is why I must never yield, or soften. This is why I must breed with someone hearty and reliable, someone with the health and grit to survive here and produce sturdy children. And this is why I must secure southern lands for those among my clan who need a warmer climate, different food, and better care.”
He knocks my hands away from his hair and rises. “Marrying you, bonding with you—it would ruin my chances for the family I want. But it might secure a chance of survival for others.”
Meekly I nod. What he says of my frailty is a harsh truth, one I can’t deny. My moment of boldness in the bath is gone—spent like his pleasure, and I am my pathetic helpless self again.
“Are you going to chain me tonight?” I ask quietly.
“No.”
“Then where should I sleep? On the bench?”
“You’ll sleep in my bed. But if you touch me I’ll cut off your fingers.”
I cringe from the savagery in his tone. Immediately his features soften with regret.
“I won’t do that,” he admits. “But—don’t touch me.”
46
A soft yellow gleam slants across my face, waking me.
I’m exquisitely warm, buried under blankets, nestled in the Warlord’s arms…
