Nightbred(27)

“All night, Master.” It was the truth. She’d been dreading this moment for hours. Not for the rough, painful ram of his entry into her body, nor the grunting sound of his pleasure as he pushed in to his root. It was the awful warmth that spread from his hand like a fever, burning down her throat and pooling in her breasts, sucking at her will until it swallowed it whole.

She had never once wanted him, but he forced her to feel whatever he desired. For now it was longing and need; in another moment it might be revulsion and agony.

Dutch’s power streamed through Werren, lifting her hips, undulating in time with his thrusts, and moving her hand down between her thighs. One of his favorite ways of humiliating her was to bring her to the very edge before spewing himself inside her and then pulling back his possession of her senses, leaving her without relief.

“You were listening to me and the Italians,” Dutch accused, pumping into her harder. “Do you know there is another like me, this Lucan of Alenfar? He is searching for my emeralds, too. What do you think of that?”

Werren had to pant her reply. “Do you wish me to go to him, and find out what he knows?”

“You could never get past his guards.” Dutch leaned close. “As if you’d risk your neck for me?”

“I would do anything for you.” It sickened her to say such things, but he expected it. “My ladies and I have no way to make a place for ourselves in the world. Without you to care for us, we would die.”

Dutch grunted, shuddering and jerking as he had his pleasure.

Werren remained where she was until her master withdrew from her body and shoved her away. Then slowly she stood, rearranging her skirts and ignoring the wetness between her thighs. “Thank you, Master.”





Chapter 7

Jamys felt the approaching dawn, and looked down at the girl sleeping in his arms. Chris had barely stirred, but the color had gradually returned to her face, and the tenor of her breathing told him that she was in a deep sleep that would last for several more hours.

Spending much of the last three years training or retiring alone to his tower chambers had sometimes made Jamys wonder if he was fit to share his life with so fragile a creature. He’d meant only to guard his heart, but instead he had retreated from every reminder of the happiness that might someday be his. As much as he cared for his father and stepmother, the effortless manner with which they displayed their love had been a constant, grinding reminder of how alone he was. How many times had he turned away from seeing Thierry weaving a strand of his stepmother’s dark hair through his fingers, or Jema sidling against his father, as content as a sleepy cat?

Now he realized it had been more envy than despair. He’d wanted what Thierry and Jema shared for himself, with his own woman, his own wife. Only one would do, and yet would not do, for his dream was Christian, and Christian was mortal. She could no more share his eternal life than a butterfly could mate with a spider.

Some of the Kyn took human women to wife and loved them as fiercely as they would a Kyn sygkenis, but Jamys couldn’t even assume Christian would want to be his. The hopelessness of not knowing what she might desire had gnawed at him constantly. Would she prefer a mortal husband, one who could give her children and grow old with her? What if the thought of giving herself and her heart to a Kyn male repelled her?

He was no hulking, muscle-bound warrior; even with the physical changes training had wrought, he’d never look older or more commanding. Without the reward for finding the gems, he wasn’t even sure what he could offer Christian, and feared what he might subject her to instead. What if the darkness inside him, with which he had lived since his mother’s betrayal, prevented him from ever giving her what she needed?

Now she lay beside him, her soft breaths caressing his skin, her small hand resting against his chest, and he had never felt so right with the world. She fit him as beautifully and naturally as if she had been born a part of his body; like some phantom limb he had lost long ago and forgotten until now.

The scent of her skin and the pulse of her blood beneath it distracted him from his nobler thoughts, and drew his hand to the buttons of her blouse. The garment looked too restricting for comfort, or so he told himself as he released the pearly button over her collarbones. Her thin skin felt as smooth and warm as a brushed kiss against his fingertips, and he slipped free a second button, and then a third. A few inches of silver chain glittered, and he used it to gently tug the old cross free of her garments.

The cross was older than she; older than any he had ever seen in the possession of a mortal. The silver used to fashion it had been hammered, not cast, and the maker’s hand had coaxed hair-thin strands into impossibly complicated Celtic knots. In the center of the cross a small cabochon of milky quartz glowed, serene as moonlight save for a single dark green flaw at its heart. The pendant gleamed from the care she had taken to clean and polish it, so it was obviously precious to her, but she wore it hidden beneath her garments, as if it were something secret or shameful.