Page 64 of Prize of the Warlord
“Ixiana.” My name is a rebuke and a caution.
Reckless, I writhe again, and I reach behind me, where the hard column of him presses against my rear and my lower back. When my fingers wriggle into the tight space, stroking upward, he sucks in a breath. “Ixiana, stop.”
I stroke upward once more, but he catches my wrist. “Did I ever keep touching you after you’d asked me to stop?”
“I—I never asked you to stop.”
“But I would have, if you’d protested.”
I scoff. “I was your prize. You didn’t need my permission, as you reminded me so often.”
“I staked the claim of a Warlord, yes,” he says. “But I honored you despite those words. Allow me the same dignity.”
Flushing, I extricate my hands and clasp them together.
“As for what I said to you,” he continues, “Those rough words of possession—I suspect you liked them.”
My stomach flutters, and I pinch my lips tight.
“You secretly wish to be claimed. To play at being forced and overcome by someone like me.”
I can barely breathe. How does he know? It’s my most shameful proclivity, one I never realize I had until he took me. And he has laid it bare, spoken it aloud in the bright morning.
“Only by you,” I murmur, my face flaming. “I only want to pretend that with you.”
His chest swells against my back, a massive sigh. “No more talking. When we talk, I lose my reason.”
“Or perhaps you gain it,” I mutter.
“Do I need to gag you, mouse?”
I smirk, though he can’t see it. “Gag me with what?”
I feel the answering twitch of him against my rear, but he growls, “Hush.”
As I’m about to respond, we round a bend in the road—and there, on the slope below, riding up to meet us, is a contingent of district guards, with my father at their head.
My people noticed my absence, and they have come to fetch me.
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Cronan stops the mare at once and swings off. He unbuckles his giant sword from the back of the saddle and throws it onto the ground, a clear sign that he does not plan to fight them. His gaze locks with mine, and he jerks his head toward my father’s group. His eyes demand that I ride on obediently, and go back to my family like a good little mouse.
I set my jaw and shake my head.
My father and his people have stopped, too. They’re a couple dozen paces away, able to witness my exchange with Cronan in the clear morning light. I’m glad of it—I want them to see that I’m not being coerced, that I want to stay with Cronan.
To make the point, I lift the reins and whirl the mare around, pointing her back up the mountain road toward Three Bridges.
My father gives a surprised cry, and Cronan growls his frustration.
The mare and I only manage a few strides before the Warlord sprints up beside us, seizes the bridle, and hauls the horse’s head back around. “Stop this, Ixiana,” he says.
“At least let’s talk to him,” I beg. “Let’s tell him I want to stay with you.”
He lifts his hand to smack the mare’s rump and propel her toward the soldiers. But I slide off the saddle, cringing as I land on my damaged ankle. The mare trots away, toward my father and the guards.
“Stubborn little ass,” the Warlord grits out, and he picks me up, slinging me over his shoulder like he did earlier. He strides toward my father with determined purpose.
