Page 42 of Prize of the Warlord
“Take it, Cronan,” Olsa interjects. “This bargain will help our clan. We’ll be able to pay what we owe to Vinzha’s clan and to the healer, and we’ll have money left over for medicinal tonics, weapons, and other supplies. And it will rid us ofher,so you can be yourself again.”
He glowers at her. “I am more myself now than I’ve ever been.”
A tiny thrill races through my heart, but I keep calmly caressing the tiger as if I heard nothing, as if my fate weren’t being decided at this very moment.
Tension thrums in the air of the room—the shock of the two women at his confession, the angry energy of the Warlord, who probably regrets what he just said. He grabs his weapons belt from a nearby chair, takes a knife out, and jams it into the wall for no apparent reason.
“I’ll consult with the other warlords again,” he begins, but Zeha cuts him off. “No need. Your meeting with them was a courtesy, and you’ve heard their opinions. Two of them left for their settlements already and won’t appreciate being summoned back again so soon. This is your decision to make. For the good of our clan.” She sinks into their dialect, her voice gentle yet intense, unspooling long phrases like delicate ropes winding around him, binding him.
“The girl wants to go home, Cronan,” Olsa says at last, interrupting the siblings. “She’s too weak to survive long up here, and you know it. The kindest thing you can do is take her back to her people.”
The Warlord doesn’t look at me, but his shoulders sag at her words. I want to dispute Olsa, to claim that she’s wrong—but she’s uncomfortably right. In this harsh land, without the magical spray for my lungs and the careful diet I’m used to, I will probably die much sooner than I would at home.
“I will accept the ransom.” The Warlord’s deep voice fills the bedroom. “Choose some of our warriors to go along with me and take possession of the mountain village they’re giving us. And we’ll need fresh horses. Once we’ve secured our new southern village, we can bring some of the weaker clan members there to live.”
“The other clans will want a share of the foothold we’ve gained,” says Zeha.
“I will call another council in a week to discuss it,” the Warlord replies. “I did this for all the clans, not ours alone. As you said, the other warlords can help us hold onto the village. I don’t trust the Southerners not to double-cross us and try to reclaim the place after we’ve taken possession.”
“You know some of the warlords won’t respect the tentative peace you’ve arranged,” Olsa says. “They will see this as a chance to drive their raiding parties further into the southern districts.”
“Then I’ll rely on you both to help me convince them.” The Warlord slaps his weapons belt around his hips.
The two women exchange sly grins. I have a feeling that “convincing” the other warlords might involve more force than diplomacy.
48
When Olsa and Zeha leave to accomplish their respective tasks, the Warlord throws on several more layers of clothing, including a big fur-lined cloak. Then he looks at me, where I sit on the bed with my arm around his tiger’s neck.
His eyes widen, shot through with pained pleasure. “Kaja likes you.”
“She does.” I smile, rubbing the top of the huge cat’s head.
“You look as if you belong there, mouse,” he says quietly. “In my bed, with a tiger under your palm.”
My fingers tighten on the tiger’s ruff. “Maybe I do.”
“No.” He shuts his mouth tight, strides over, and smacks Kaja lightly on the rump. “Go! Get your ass off my pillow.” The tiger snarls and leaps off the bed, shaking herself before padding regally out of the room. The Warlord kicks the door shut behind her, then returns to the bedside. With his giant hands he lifts me out of the bed onto the cold wooden floor. I yelp at the icy feel of the planks and leap right back into the covers.
“Ixiana,” he says, exasperated. “Up. Now. You need to get dressed. You’re going home today.”
“Can’t we rest a little first?” I let a plaintive note enter my voice. “It was such a long and terrible journey to get here.”
“More whining?” He scowls. “You know how much I hate whining. Obey me, prisoner, or I’ll have to strip you down and dress you myself.”
He realizes his mistake the moment I smile at him. “No,” he says warningly. “You impossible little lust-creature—no, I won’t strip you—you’re going to dress yourself, like a good girl, or you’ll be punished.”
I tilt my head aside. “What kind of punishment? More useless training where I bruise myself against your massive bones?”
“Something worse.” The Warlord reaches for me again, and I scoot away from him, grabbing onto the headboard of the bed and giving his hand a petulant kick.
A wolfish smile spreads across his face, and he climbs onto the bed, dragging me away from the headboard while I kick and writhe. My tunic has worked itself dangerously high, nearly exposing tender parts of me to the Warlord. He pins me down like he did during our training session—both my wrists in one of his hands. His other hand rakes the tunic higher, while his green eyes gleam into mine, full of a carnal savagery that makes me pin my legs together.
Deftly he works his free hand between my thighs, and I can’t help myself—I open wide for him, spreading my legs.
The Warlord glances down, and his throat jerks as he swallows. His tongue travels his lips. “Faen,” he breathes. “Why did the gods make this part of you so damn beautiful?”
He’s hanging over me, a huge impending destruction of male beauty and power. The thick braids I wove have come partly unraveled, and tendrils of his blond hair fall past his jawline, tickling my cheek. I lift my head from the mattress, my mouth yearning upward. He bites his lip, the tug of one sharp canine—but he doesn’t kiss me. He looks down at my parted legs again, at my center spread wide for him. I can feel my own wetness—I know I’m glistening, ready, a dewy field meant to be plowed.
