Man, was his intuition off. One of the men started yelling and the accursed gwobr actually shot him! He’d attacked her, pouncing out of pure animal instinct. He felt her soft weight beneath his paws. His jaw had opened, ready to tear the throat from her neck. Then, he’d looked into her eyes again and he couldn’t do it.
Blinking again, Falke brought his mind to the present, and looked around the strange room. The woman’s scent was still lingering in his head. He snorted, lifting the bulky weight of his shoulders. The effects of the drug, combined with the fact that he was sore and stiff to begin with, didn’t help and he fell back onto his front paws.
As his vision cleared, he looked around. He was in a cage and at first he suspected Myrddin’s son, Lord Andras, of kidnapping him to finish what his father had started. They had no proof that Andras was like his father, and were reluctant to judge him by the actions Lord Myrddin as they didn’t want to be judged for King Attor, but that didn’t mean Falke trusted the boy completely.
By small degrees, he was able to take in more of his surroundings. The light was dim, but his Var eyes didn’t need it to see. His vision cut through the darkness with ease. He’d seen Myrddin’s dungeons firsthand and this wasn’t them. The walls were constructed of metal--smooth, silver and plain. A low rectangular bed was set next to one wall and he could see wrist manacles hanging from the wall where a headboard should’ve been. The metal chains were draped like material, starting in the center only to be pulled one to each side and left hanging.
Metal drawers were along one wall, as well as a mirror. There were two narrow, plain doors next to the dresser. A control panel was on the side. Through the mirror, he saw the reflection of what was behind him. It looked as if the cage was in the center of the room on a platform. He was too groggy to lift his head, but he made out the corner edge of what looked like a red and black couch.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say he was in a space ship. Remembering the three wobbling strangers, he realized that was entirely possible. But, what would three aliens want with him? Unless, Andras paid them to kidnap him? Or perhaps the Draig? Was the dragon shifters truce for peace just a front? Did they think that kidnapping a Var prince, and the commander, would aid them for an attack?
Anger and fear for his people curled in his gut. He felt helpless, unable to find out what was going on. Letting his limbs tingle with the familiar sensation of a shift, he started to draw his body into human form. Claws sank into his fingers and toes. His eyes filled in with subtle shades of dark brown, hiding the blue.
“Ahh, crap!”
The words were soft, followed by the sound of someone tripping over their own feet. Falke stopped, reversing his shift to stay as a tiger. It was the female from the forest who spoke, only her voice was softer than before and not as happy.
“Damn! My head,” she grumbled under her breath. “I’m never buying anything off a Lophibian smuggler again. That damned whiskey had to be tainted.”
Falke stayed still, watching her stumble before the cage clutching her temples. She didn’t pay attention to him as she passed by his line of vision. He turned his head to watch her and began to shift again, so that he may demand what she wanted with him in his human voice.
The woman whimpered, soft and low, as she struggled to remove her tight black shirt. Falke stopped, once more morphing back into cat form. A thread of curious excitement curled in his blood. She stood with her side to him and, to his carnal pleasure, the shirt lifted above her head baring two very perfect breasts. A strange blue marking wound around her upper arm. It looked like writing, but he couldn’t be sure. As the shirt dropped to the floor, she lifted her hand and ran her fingers back through her hair. Yawning, she scratched under her armpit.
His mouth watered, watching the soft globes jiggle at the movement. They were small, perhaps only a handful, but he didn’t mind. They fit perfectly on her slender frame and came with two erect pink nipples. Falke, when shifted human, was a large man--even for a Var warrior--and her small, almost delicate appearance nearly sent him over the edge with hot desire.
He was suddenly reminded how long it had been since he’d taken a woman to his bed. It had to have been at least a week, perhaps a week and a half--definitely too long a time for a man with his natural sexual prowess to go without release. Looking at her slender hips, he knew her body would make an agonizingly tight fit to his large shaft. If he had a human voice in his Var throat he’d have moaned.
Being half Roane, his body took much delight in sexual appetites. In all other things, he was a man of complete control. In the bedroom it was the same, until he let the passion inside him go. Once let loose, his Roane heritage made him nearly physically insatiable. He could literally last for hours. It often made it necessary to bring several women to his bed at once, otherwise he’d get complaints.
The woman yawned again and stumbled across the room. Falke detected the faint scent of liquor on her and realized that she was very drunk. It accounted for the trio’s crazed, uncontrolled laughter before he interrupted them, and for the way they all stumbled around. He mentally shook his head in disgust. They went out on a mission to trap him, a great and noble commander, and did it drunk? Their foolishness just might be to his advantage. They didn’t seem very smart at all. Their lack of cunning could be his means of escape. His situation was looking brighter all ready.
Then, he noticed the woman’s violet eyes were on him. She blinked several times, and appeared to be studying him. Slowly, she walked toward the cage, topless. Falke’s lids fell lazily over his eyes as he stared unashamed at her breasts.
She chuckled. “You’re going to make me a lot of money. Aren’t you, big fella?”
Falke’s eyes shot up to hers, instantly angry again. The lust drained to be replaced by outrage. She wasn’t even paying attention. Stumbling across the floor, she fell toward the bed, turning at the last minute to lie on her back. Her feet hung over the side, still planted on the floor, still in her black boots. A soft sigh left her parted lips and she began to lightly snore.
Falke growled, but she didn’t stir. He forced himself not to look at her breasts. Knowing he had to get some sleep, he closed his eyes. Tomorrow, he’d plan his escape.
To learn more about the Lords of the Var series, or Michelle M Pillow’s other titles, please visit her website (www.michellepillow.com).
The Playful Prince Page 20
