Page 7 of Prize of the Warlord
It doesn’t hurt like I thought it would, but it’s so lonely. The enormity of the vast nothing around me and beneath me shrinks my soul, and instead ofme,whole and pleasant and interesting andhuman, I’m a fluttering scrap, a speck, a mote of light in the cosmic emptiness.
And then a male voice, raw and coarse and annoying, scrapes against my consciousness. “Do you have a spine? Any will to fight? Or are you just a weak little mouse after all?”
I don’t want to fight. What people don’t realize, not even my family, is that I fight every day of my life. I fight harder than everyone else just to seem normal, because my body is always battling me. When I’m not succumbing to one sickness after another, I’m struggling through periods of shortened breath, or suffering with aching bowels because my stomach suddenly decided that every food is now cause for horrendous cramping.
I’m tired of fighting.
I thought I had a future, safe and secure, with Prince Havil. I could live quietly, pleasantly, well-cared for and probably loved, with few significant demands on me besides the occasional court event. That future might be gone. And even if it’s not, I’m not sure I want it badly enough to struggle upward through this dark and mystical blue.
But that voice… that persistent, grating, growly voice…
“Pull yourself out of this, little mouse. Show me you have teeth. Bite and scratch.”
I could float away, let my consciousness dissipate. But the gravel of that voice disturbs the peace of my death, shattering the lethal calm with ripples. I growl back, and I begin to struggle.
Something twirls down toward me, golden tendrils winding around me and helping me, healing me. Glimmering ropes, drawing me back to the surface.
My eyes flare open.
First I see a slanting roof of leathery skins, stitched tightly together and coated with something waxy along their seams.
Then there’s a man’s face—skin like black onyx, and dark eyes flecked with gold. As I watch, the gold fades. Maybe I imagined it.
“She’s back,” says the face. “You owe me for this, Warlord.”
“If she lives I’ll have plenty to pay you with.” It’s Deep-Voice—he’s the Warlord. Zeha called him Cronan.
Of course he was only urging me back to life because he wants the ransom. He’s hoping my father and my betrothed will pay a hearty sum for my safe return.
“I should have let myself die just to spite you,” I murmur.
“You did your work well,” the Warlord says to the healer. “Until next time.”
The man near me moves away, out of my line of sight. There’s a brief gust of cold and a flash of light, then a slapping sound as the tent flap closes—because that’s where I am, in a tent, buried up to my neck in blankets and furs. It’s warm—almost too warm. There must be a fire in the tent, because a thin trail of smoke disappears through a circular hole in the dome-like roof.
Slowly, experimentally, I ease my arms out of the furs. My shoulders are bare—oh gods, I’m entirely naked.
I lock eyes with the Warlord, who stands a few steps away with his barrel-sized arms crossed over his mountainous chest. He’s naked from the waist up, and the sheer magnificence of his physique steals my words for a moment. Every valley and ridge of that muscled torso is a wonder of male topography.
My mouth has fallen open, and I close it quickly.
Mentally, unintentionally, I compare the soft slim physique of Prince Havil to the brute standing before me. Havil is attractive. He is civilized and gracious. This hulking warrior terrifies and repels me. I don’t admire him at all. Why can’t I stop staring at him?
“You’re a pain in my ass, little mouse,” he says.
“Good.” I settle deeper into the furs.
“You almost died. I had to summon a healer.”
I shrug, which seems to infuriate him. He closes the distance between us in a single huge stride and grasps a handful of hair at the back of my skull, dragging my face closer to his. “No dying,” he growls.
“Because you plan to ransom me?”
“There’s more than one kind of ransom,” he says. “We will see what price we can get. Money, land, penance for what was stolen from my people.”
His breath carries the heavy tang of alcohol mixed with a savory smell—whatever he ate last. My stomach churns with hunger. My head feels swimmy, partly from hunger and partly because the expanse of that massive chest is so close to me, and I can’t help remembering how smooth and hot his skin felt when we rode together.
Not that I care about smooth, hot skin. I frown, focusing on the two tiny scars on his chin, and a bigger one along his throat. More faint scars etch his pectorals and arms. Battle marks. The trophies of a warrior.
