Forbidden Craving

by Gena Showalter

  He’d just had to remind her about that, hadn’t he? Her free hand fisted, and her belly quivered. “No,” she said.

  He sighed. “If you insist on abstaining—”

  “I do.”

  “Then I’ll spend the rest of the day—” he grimaced “—talking with you.”

  Probably shouldn’t laugh.

  Really, he could have claimed she owed him.

  Once a date had felt entitled to sex after paying for dinner. If not for her self-defense classes he might have succeeded in his endeavor to exact payment. But Valerian acted as if only her delight would spark his own.

  No self-defense class in the world could protect her from his appeal.

  “How altruistic of you,” she finally said, forcing a dry tone.

  “Tell me. Have you had a bad experience with sex?” he asked gently. “Because I would be happy to return to the surface and punish anyone who ever hurt you.”

  The urge to lean against him, simply enjoy being with him, bombarded her. “No.” Try zero experiences, buddy. How would Valerian react to that?

  And she wanted to lean against him? Fear raised its ugly head to screech, Fool!

  Why begin something destined to end?

  “What if Joachim challenges you again?” she asked, changing the focus of the conversation. “Or what if he just stabs you in the back without bothering to engage in a fair fight?”

  “He won’t.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Joachim lost. Everyone knows his skill is inferior to mine. Whether he kills me in the future or not, he’ll never be accepted as leader.”

  They turned another corner, torches lighting the hallway, revealing familiar nicked-and-scuffed walls.

  At the entrance to the master suite, he opened the door with his free hand.

  She released him to soar inside—and gasped.

  The large bed had been made, with a new comforter. A pink comforter.

  Jewelry had been scattered over the vanity. Every piece boasted pink diamonds or pink crystals. A full-size mirror hung on the wall, the frame made from pink-veined marble.

  Steam curled from the bathing pool, twining around the pink flower petals that floated on the surface.

  “I can’t...how did you...?” Use your words.

  An impossibility at the moment.

  “I sent a man to the Outer City bright and early this morning to buy things I thought you’d like. I want you comfortable in this room. Want it to be ours, not mine.”

  She swallowed the lump growing in her throat.

  “Thank you,” she managed to say. “This might be the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  “This, Shaye, is only the beginning.”

  * * *

  STANDING THERE, VALERIAN drank in the sight of his mate. Then he drank in the sight of the bed. He wanted Shaye there, splayed and open for his view. His touch.

  No, no, no. Control yourself.

  She’d made her desires clear. Talk. Nothing sexual.

  Now his mission was clear: tempt her into begging for more.

  He’d never before had to use sexual prowess to seduce a woman. Anyone he’d ever desired had desired him in return, no encouragement necessary. Shaye made him feel at a loss. While he hungered for every part of her, she continually pushed him away. And of all the women in the world, she should crave him most.

  How much longer could his body withstand her rejection?

  Not much, he suspected.

  “I’ll gather the supplies,” he said. He unearthed clean rags, a basin of hot water, a jar of cleaning oil, and a vial of healing sand from the Forest of the Dragons and placed each item on a tray.

  His ears were attuned to Shaye’s every movement, lest she decide to bolt for the door. Surprisingly, she remained exactly where he’d left her.

  Their gazes clashed as he walked toward her. How lovely she was. Her pale hair draped over her shoulders, an erotic curtain. Beneath her shirt, her nipples were hard.

  He was hard. He’d been hard since he’d last taken her hand, and memories of their kiss had played through his mind.

  She gasped as if she knew the path his thoughts had just traveled...as if she liked the path his thoughts had just traveled.

  Oh, to be so lucky.

  Instead of placing the tray in her outstretched hands, he leaned down slowly, giving her ample time to misunderstand his intentions. He had to know her reaction.

  His lips hovered over hers, as if he meant to kiss her, her snow-sweet scent filling his nostrils. She trembled, her breath catching in her throat. What she didn’t do? Rebuke him.

  The stubborn woman yearned for him to kiss her, whether she would admit it or not. But she’d already told him no, and he wasn’t going to violate her trust.

  He lifted his head without touching her in any way. “Thank you for tending to me,” he told her, his voice soft.

  “Yes. Well.” She nibbled on her bottom lip. “I warn you. I’m not known for my gentleness.”

  “I’ll love having your hands on me.”

  After he explained what she needed to do with each item, he carried the room’s only chair next to Shaye and tried not to grimace.

  With somewhat shaky fingers, she brushed the dark sand from his shoulder, careful to avoid his wound. He winced as sharp pain radiated throughout his body.

  “Distract me,” he said. “Tell me what you enjoy doing in your free time.”

  “Work. For years I’ve only really worked. I didn’t just write cards, I ran a company. And I guess I spent some time intimidating people.”

  “Your intimidation techniques are adorable.”

  She rolled her eyes as she soaked one of the rags with oil. “This smells good. What is it?”

  “Soap, I think your people call it.”

  “Our soap doesn’t smell like this. Like magic.”

  He shrugged and returned to the previous subject. “A company is like a kingdom, yes?”

  “Yes. I suppose.”

  “So you were already a queen.”

  “I...never actually thought of it that way but kind of wish I had. Bow to me!”

  He chuckled.

  “What about you?” she asked. “What do you do in your spare time? Paint?”

  “Yes. I also—never mind.”

  “Let me guess. Have sex.”

  He gave a single nod.

  “There’s never been anyone special?” As soon as she asked, he knew she wished she could take back the question.

  “No one. Nymphs have one mate. Only one.”

  “What happens if that mate dies?”

  “The nymph dies with her.”

  “Wow.” She searched the tray for the item she wanted. “How are mates chosen?”

  “Chemistry. Fate. A thousand others things, I’m sure.”

  “So you don’t really know. Got it.”

  A corner of his mouth curled up. “Do you have a pet?”

  Longing lit her features. “No. As a child I wasn’t allowed. Fur would have dirtied my mother’s clothes.”

  “But you wanted one.” A statement not a question.

  “Yes.” With a scowl, she slapped the cloth against his wound. “This topic is stupid. Let’s discuss something else.”

  He was beginning to see a pattern to her bouts of anger. Only when her sense of detachment was threatened did she react with waspishness.

  “You like people to think you are cold and unfeeling,” he said. “You’ve even tried your hardest to convince me of this. Several times. Why?”

  “Look, my mom made me see shrinks when I was a kid.” More gently, she cleaned away every impurity. “I don’t need an amateur diagnosis right now.”

>   “Tell me,” he beseeched. She might think she wanted to be cold, but he saw the moments of warmth and softness she tried so hard to hide.

  “There’s nothing to tell, really. Over the years, I learned that relationships—love—always lead to pain and upset.”

  He frowned. “That isn’t even close to the truth. Love heals.”

  “I’ve never seen an example of that.” She probed the edge of his wound with her fingers. “This cut is pretty deep. I think you need stitches.”

  He bit his lip to hide his wince. He’d never had to deal with a wound before. After a battle, he’d always gone straight to a woman and had sex, his wounds disappearing of their own accord.

  “What I need is sex,” he muttered.

  “Are you pushing me? That sounds like pushing.” She scowled, even as she tenderly dried the injury. “I’m more than willing to go get one of the other women for you.”

  As her words echoed between them, she pressed her lips together. A combination of rage and trepidation flitted over her expression. Did she fear he would take her up on the offer?

  “Ah, little moonbeam. When will you learn? Only you will do.”

  She relaxed, her expression softening. “When will you accept the fact that I don’t sleep around?”

  He plucked the ends of her hair and sifted the silky strands through his fingers before he brought them to his nose to sniff. Ah, sweet heaven. “You smell so good.”

  “Yes, well, I can’t say the same for you.”

  He took no offense. “I’m most definitely in need of a bath. Would you care to join me?”

  A quiver raked her, and she tossed the bloody rag into the hearth. “No, thank you.” Next she picked up a clean rag and scooped sand into a gaping pocket. “You do realize I’m about to put sand in an open sore, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And you still want me to do it?”

  “Of course.”

  She shook her head, incredulous. “Whatever. It’s your infection.” But she hesitated a moment before smearing the grains into his injury.

  He didn’t speak for a long while. He concentrated on her breath, gently fanning his shoulder. He concentrated on her teeth, nibbling on her lower lip. He grew painfully hard all over again.

  When wasn’t he hard lately?

  After she’d wrapped the wound in a bandage, he stood. His nerve endings were sensitized, his skin pulled too tight over bone. He burned from the inside out.

  Her gaze lowered, and she gasped. She jumped away from him, as if he’d morphed into a monster.

  “Put that thing away,” she said. She even pointed.

  Feared the mighty sword between his legs, did she?

  “That,” he said, “is a he, and he is here to stay.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve named—”

  “King Longstaff and his trusty knights,” he interjected, teasing her more fun than he’d had in a very long time.

  She seemed to choke on her tongue, and he had to swallow a laugh.

  “King Longstaff insists his subjects bow before him...orally praise him.”

  Color high in her cheeks, she tossed the rest of the bandages at his chest. “King Longstaff is about to lose his trusty knights—and his head!”

  There was no swallowing his laughter this time; loud guffaws burst free.

  “Methinks the lady protests too much.”

  “Oh, really?” She took a menacing step toward him, and he immediately cupped his precious. Now she laughed. “Methinks the king fears his lady’s mighty wrath.”

  He stilled. He didn’t even dare to breath. His lady, she’d said. His. Not “the” lady. She was beginning to see him in a romantic light.

  Perhaps she realized the implication, as well. Her laughter died, and her smile faded. “Um. I...” She gulped.

  “No,” he said, before she could do her best to ruin the moment.

  While at war, he’d learned to always end every battle on a positive note. So. That’s what he would do here.

  “Thank you for patching me up. Enjoy the rest of your day. My lady.” He left her then, striding out of the room without a backward glance.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DR. BRENNA JOHNSTON tied her black curls on top of her head with a thin strip of cloth. As always, a few of the shorter curls escaped confinement to cascade over her temples.

  How did I end up in this situation?

  She studied the unconscious man draped across a bed of sapphire silk. His beautiful dark hair reached the rise of his powerful shoulders. Long eyelashes etched spiked shadows along his cheeks. His nose was slightly crooked, his lips lush.

  He looked like a fallen angel.

  A dying, pain-entrenched fallen angel.

  Blood oozed from thick gashes on his chest and thigh. Before the fight, his skin had been deeply tanned. Now it was pale and tinted blue. He’d gone into a mild form of shock.

  As a surgeon, she’d seen worse. She could fix him. Though she would have preferred to use her tools in her hospital with her nurses aiding her. Not the jars of oil and sand she’d been given, an unsterilized environment, and the lug head standing guard at the door.

  At least there was one fact in her favor. She’d been terrified since being taken hostage by these giant, hulking beasts, but for the first time since entering this...whatever it was, she felt in control. Like herself, confident and in her element.

  With a wave of her finger, Brenna summoned the guard. He approached her warily. She didn’t back away, but forced herself to stand her ground as she signed what she needed.

  His face scrunched with confusion, and he held up his hands, a command for her to be still. “I have no idea what it is you’re doing. Can you not speak?”

  She sighed inwardly. Her vocal cords had been severely damaged years ago. There weren’t any scars on the outside; no, her scars were internal. She’d been attacked—a blurred, blackened, hated memory she couldn’t allow herself to relive. Not if she hoped to function. But. While she could speak, her voice was...not pretty.

  “Needle,” she croaked. “Thread.” Primitive that he was, he probably wouldn’t know a scalpel from a butter knife. “Operating tools.”

  He cringed at the rough, broken sounds she’d made but nodded and raced off. When he returned a short while later, he handed her a lumpy black satchel. She unrolled it, finding a bronze scalpel, plus thin hooks and several needles.

  “Fire,” she said now. “Hot water.”

  He removed a blazing sconce from the wall and tossed the entire thing into the hearth. The logs inside quickly caught flame, crackling and burning.

  “Bowl. Water.”

  He found a bowl and filled it with water before attempting to hand it to her.

  She pointed to the fire.

  After he’d hung the bowl over the flames, she dropped the instruments inside the water.

  Once everything had been sterilized, her hands scrubbed clean, she approached her patient, ready to act. He had yet to move. Had yet to make any noise, really. His features were no longer pinched with pain; they were relaxed.

  That both elated and worried her. At least he wouldn’t feel the pain of her needle. But such a deep sleep...

  Brenna squared her shoulders and got to work. She cut off his pants, cleaned the gaping wounds on his legs and chest, and did her best to repair the torn tissue—which was in better shape than she’d dared hope. Sounded easy, sounded quick, but she was by his side for several hours, sweat trickling from her. Toward the end, fatigue caused the muscles in her arms and lower back to quiver.

  That will have to do.

  She would have liked to give him a transfusion, but without blood-typing, she could do him more harm than good.

  Would that be such a bad thing?
If he died—if all the warriors in the palace died—she could escape.

  She desperately wanted to escape.

  The man who’d chosen her last night—Shivawn—had attempted to ease her distress by explaining where she was and why she’d been brought here. Of course, his explanation had only intensified her fear.

  Atlantis. Nymphs. Sex for survival. At first she hadn’t wanted to believe him. However, after everything she’d witnessed today, she no longer had the luxury of disbelief. Sword fights and bejeweled walls. Silk pillows lining every wall with warriors having sex atop them. Mermaids and a crystal ceiling that produced light. Women going mad, becoming sex starved.

  Shivawn had been ordered not to touch Brenna, so he’d tried to talk her into touching him. He’d expected the same easy and enthusiastic response. How surprised he’d been when his efforts were met with bouts of hysterical sobbing. Finally, though, he’d left her alone. And he’d been oddly sweet about the entire situation. Also surprisingly protective.

  Still. He had to regret his choice already. He did regret. This morning, when she’d caught glimpses of the other warriors in bed with their chosen—no one closed their doors here—Shivawn had cursed at the couples, anger steeped in envy.

  He wanted that for himself. But she couldn’t give it to him. Not now, not ever.

  Brenna had only allowed Shivawn to pick her from the lineup so that she would be taken away from the large group of men. One warrior she could fight and disable. But all of them? No way.

  Part of her had wanted to go home, but she hadn’t been sure she would survive another trip through the water. The other part of her hadn’t wanted to go home. For the first time, she didn’t have to worry about her ex-husband’s threats.

  Leave me, Bren, and I’ll kill you.

  He was in prison, yes, but soon he would be up for parole.

  She sighed. For the next several hours, she remained seated beside the unconscious man—Joachim—sponging a warm, wet rag over his forehead and doing everything in her power to make him comfortable and keep him from getting cold. As much blood as he’d lost, he was susceptible to hypothermia.

  “Brenna.” Shivawn’s voice drifted from the doorway, jolting her. “Now that I know you’re capable of speech, I long to talk with you. I’d love to know more about you.”