Page 8 of Prize of the Warlord
“My betrothed is only the third prince, and my father has little to offer,” I say. “They may not be able to give what you ask.”
I gasp as he hauls me closer still.
He jerks a knife from its sheath and sets the tip under the corner of my jaw. “You’re saying I should kill you now.”
“No,” I whisper, trembling. “No. Please don’t.”
9
The Warlord’s teeth are clenched and bared. His beautiful, brutal face nearly touches mine. “You make me so angry,” he whispers. “The weakness of you. You’re pathetic. Even now, you beg for your life instead of facing death bravely.”
“You summoned a healer to save me,” I breathe. “It would be stupid to kill me after all that trouble. And weren’t you the one who called me back?”
His green eyes widen. “Called you back?”
“I heard you speaking to me. When I was—sinking. Why would you call me back only to kill me?”
His hand at the back of my head relaxes, releasing my hair, and the blade leaves my throat. He recoils, staring at me as if I’ve grown two heads.
“Rest.” He barks the word like a curse, and charges out of the tent.
What a very strange ruffian. Maybe I only imagined his voice in my death-dream. I just met the man. Why would his voice be the one my mind conjured to drag me back? Why not the voice of my kind mother, or my devoted father, or one of my brothers, or even Joss? Come to think of it, Joss and this ruffian would make a perfect pair—warriors, both of them, with the same belligerent attitude and the same disdain for my weakness.
The tent flap opens and closes again, but I don’t see anyone walking in. I push myself farther up among the furs, peering around. “Is anyone there?”
Something moves—something enormous and furry, striped black and white—a gigantic tiger, with a head the size of a carriage wheel. Its muzzle hangs slightly open, showing long fangs and a pink tongue. Blue eyes blink at me.
I shriek, scrambling away from the magnificent monster. It hesitates—then with a bunching of shoulder muscles it leaps onto the bed with me and flops down onto the blankets.
When the warlord bursts in, I’m standing on the corner of the bed, stark naked, cringing away from the cat.
He rolls his eyes. “Kaja!” he snaps at the tiger. “Off. Now.”
The tiger curls back its lips and snarls at him.
“Kaja.” The warlord’s voice deepens, and he seems to grow taller, more dominant. “Out.”
Still growling, the tiger rises fluidly and leaps off the bed, stalking out of the tent with a baleful glare at its master.
The warlord looks back at me. His gaze drags from my tangled hair down to my bare chest, then to my belly and thighs, all the way to my feet.
“You’ll make a poor wife,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Your hips. Too narrow for babies. And your tits—much too small. All of you—too small.” He strides forward, placing his giant hand along my ribs, casually. My skin quivers at the unfamiliar touch. “You had bruises here, but they’re gone now. The healer did his work well.”
His hand sweeps lower, down to the curve of my waist. His thumb grazes my navel, while his fingers wrap around nearly to my spine.
He’s staring at my stomach, head cocked aside. Experimentally he cups my waist in both hands, as if he’s curious whether or not he can circle it entirely. Long as his fingers are, he can’t quite manage it.
My mind is a tremulous whirl of sensation. I can’t tell if I’m scared or embarrassed or—something else.
A whispering tension vibrates through the air between us—me, standing bare and defenseless on the bed, and him, holding my waist, staring at my body like a man entranced.
“My messenger will speak to your father today and make my demands,” he says, rubbing his thumbs along my skin. “You’ll be gone from here soon.”
“Where is here?” I venture.
