Hessa chewed her lower lip, thinking. “Nothing.”
The other woman snorted. “Indeed. I should take your place. I can clean better than you can. You’re only fit for the pit fighters, an ugly thing for them to look upon before they die.”
Hessa gritted her teeth, angry. She pushed away from the woman and scowled. “I am fit to do what I please. While I tend the manor of a high assassin, you will still be washing whores here in Omi House. Maybe he wants me because I’m not twisted and cruel like you are.”
The woman huffed and walked out, leaving Hessa to find the clothes she had brought. She dressed herself in the new shift, a work of finer linen with no stains and golden embroidery at the hems. It tied at the back so that it could fit most wearers. She ran her fingers over the design and thought of Gunnar. Had he been returned to his cell, and allowed only the loincloth to wear? If so, no one would tend his wounds or offer him any kindness now.
She picked up the small bag of her belongings that he had so carefully packed for her. At that moment, the horn sounded in the pits, announcing a battle. The crowd cheered. They had gathered in the drizzling rain, their clothes sodden but their lust for blood insatiable. Nothing had changed much at all.
When Hessa stepped out into the weather, the jilted washwoman waved her hand to the burning house where Hessa would go to have the Omi mark removed and Lord Drake’s mark burned into her skin. Walking with fortitude and without fear for herself for the first time in her life, she stepped inside. The small house stunk of coals and smoke.
The man there had one blind eye, and he had been expecting her. A hot brand stood by the hearth in the midst of the round house. It was in the shape of a winged serpent curling in on itself.
“I am the property of Lord Drake,” she said.
“Come and bear his mark then.” He smiled a crooked grin and beckoned to her with one hand.
She sat across from him and slipped down the neckline of her shift. Hessa closed her eyes and clenched her teeth, determined not to cry out. The fire popped. Metal grated against stone. The man warned her with a word, and then she felt the bite of heat press into her flesh.
Chapter Seven
Hessa Drake stood by the window in the dark tower that belonged to her master. He was a strange man, given to silence and brooding or long trips away. He hardly spoke two words to her at a time. Hessa spent her waking hours cleaning, though there was little sullied in the great black tower. She wandered throughout the mysterious hold, dusting shelves or statues that had no need of her attentions and pondering the turn her life had taken.
It was midday. She listened to the birds outside her mistress’s open window and watched the hired workers far below come to the jindi fields to dig out the roots for market. In the distance, the sounds of Bisura’s pits drifted on the wind to her, but she did not hear Gunnar’s humming or his song. She longed for his voice, for the touch of his fingers on her face, but most of all she longed to know what had become of him.
“You are thinking of the warrior again.” It was her mistress, Shenya, who came up behind Hessa and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“Yes,” she answered. “I would give anything to be with him again.”
Shenya brushed her finger over the scar where the Omi mark had been burned away. In the days that followed her arrival at the hold, Shenya had cared for Hessa’s brands with a numbing salve. Now the marks were healed, one a blank square and the other, the shape of the winged drake. “I have told Lord Brenin your feelings for the pit fighter. Perhaps you will be relieved to know that he is not fighting in the pits or in the breeding cells.”
“What does he do now, Lady, if he is no longer an assassin?”
Shenya pursed her lips. She looked out the window at the fields for a long time before she answered. “My Lord is a bounty hunter of sorts. He brings back those who have been lost, and he brings them back alive.”
“Who does he hunt for now?”
Shenya set her arms on the windowsill. “Omi House has a high price on your warrior’s head. Few survive the pits as long as he did. The crowds still call for him. Perhaps it would also please you to know that he hunts your pit fighter.”
Tears welled in Hessa’s eyes. “He’s hunting Gunnar?”
“It has been weeks since the escape. All but two of the pit fighters have been found. One is your Gunnar. Another, Omi House masters suspect, was too wounded to survive the forestlands. He likely succumbed to the predators there.”
“Lady, if there is anything I can do…anything to buy Gunnar’s freedom…”
“He is free now,” Shenya said, her eyes still studying the outside world. “My Lord never fails to find what he seeks.” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “He was curious about your warrior. Not many have traveled as far as the sea, and there has never been a man here with the magic your warrior possesses. He is valuable indeed…but as something more than entertainment.”
Hessa narrowed her eyes on the strange dagger at her mistress’s belt. It was something precious, she judged, for its hilt was ornate and marked with the symbol for Othia, the sun god. Although her mistress had been nothing but kind to her, she wondered how easy it would be to take that dagger and run. Gunnar had wanted her to run. She shouldn’t have stopped here. She should have kept going the day they tried to leave the city.
Shenya faced her. “Men of power are often misunderstood and exploited.” She reached for her belt, and for a fleeting moment, Hessa thought her mistress would draw the dagger. Instead, she unhitched the coin purse there and held it out to Hessa. “Take this down to the headmaster in the fields and pay him for his work. I have no more need of you, Hessa.”
“No more need?” The heavy purse weighed down her palm. Hessa fastened it to her own belt.
“No more need. Remember that wherever you go in this life, you are not Hessa Omi, but Hessa Drake. My Lord’s mark has meaning both in Bisura and well beyond. Enough meaning to see you and your lover on a safe journey through the forestlands…should you happen upon him again.”
Hessa backed from the room. “You wish me to leave.”
Shenya nodded. “And never come back.”
“I will forever remember your kindness to me.” She reached the doorway and it took all of her resolve not to bolt through it and race down the stairs. She memorized the benevolent smile on Shenya’s face, every bead and bell sewn in to the other woman’s dress. They had something in common, maybe many things, but Shenya knew Hessa’s longing, and for some reason, she was offering her a way to find what she had lost.
“May Othia and Ishas watch over you for the rest of your days.” Shenya went back to the window to watch the workers below.
“And with you, Mistress.” Hessa did run then. She took the stairs two at a time, racing down and down until she reached the hewn door at the lower part of the tower. She didn’t go to her room to collect her belongings. She raced through the courtyard instead, anxious to sprint through the upturned fields to the headmaster.
The moment she left the ornate entry to the keep and stepped into the open air, she heard a familiar sound dancing in the wind. Her heart raced with the probability of the moment. From the west, she heard the horn sound in the pits. To the east, the sun glowed bright in the cloudless sky. Before her, the field of tilled jindi bordered the forestlands to the north. She slowed to walk toward the line of workers who were tossing root crops into carts.
The headmaster wore red, a fiery dyed swathe of fabric that reminded Hessa of the yeineis. He was tall, so much taller than the men who worked for him. At his back she noticed the hilt of a sword. When he faced her and grunted, she held her breath. His dark eyes shined when he looked down at her.
“My mistress sends payment for the harvest,” she finally said, and held out the purse to him.
He stepped toward her and took what she offered. With his free hand, he pulled the fabric away from his face and smiled. “Your mistress is most generous, Hessa Drake.” He nodded at the men
still toiling. “As was your master. Each year these fields need to be worked, and each year at this time the jindi needs to be brought to market. Lord Drake wants it sold in Jondah.” He tied the purse at his waist belt and reached for her hand. “Would you come there with me?”
She nearly knocked him down when she embraced him. “I would follow you to the ends of Radaeh and over the edge.”
Gunnar lifted Hessa in his arms and spun her three times in a circle. “Our world never ends, love, and I will gladly take you wherever the wind bids me go.”
* * * *
The next morning, Hessa opened her eyes and stared up into Gunnar’s face. His hair was tied back in a knot. His dark eyes were clear and joyful. Gunnar’s thumb lingered on her lips. “Hessa,” he whispered. “The day is here and we are together again. I told you the Gods would favor us.” He lowered his mouth to hers and drew his thumb away. The kiss that he forced on her was hard and wet. His tongue slipped past her lips to roll with hers.
Hessa arched her back in response to his closeness. Deep in the wilds of the forestlands, she had found love at last. Although they lay in a tent, their bodies padded from the thick pine needles and lush earth by woolen blankets, Hessa was happy and hopeful. No one would force her to do something she didn’t want to do. She wouldn’t have to rake manure or clean the privies. And if she got with child, no one would steal that baby from her and raise him or her into servitude.
Gunnar kissed the brand on her neck, taking her mind off such thoughts. His tongue ran down her chest as he tugged away her dress to expose her body to his hungry eyes and heated body. He sucked her nipple into his mouth, his fingers massaging away her awareness. His knee ran between her legs to coax her body into arousal, not that she needed much help at all.
His tongue circled her nipple, sending tingles through her. She reached down to stroke her fingers through his thick hair. “I want to take you this time,” she told him.
He groaned and sat up. With a curious smile, he laid back against their blankets, his cock thick and hard. It stood at attention beneath the curly, black hairs. She shimmied the rest of the way out her clothes before she climbed atop his body. With tentative fingers, she explored his broad chest, grazing each of his perked nipples. Down her hands went, caressing the ripples of muscle across his abdomen. She grazed his pubic hairs. When her hands closed gently over his cock, he breathed out a laden sigh. She had never touched a man in this way. His erection was firm beneath velvet soft skin that slid when she shifted her hold. She thumbed the top of his length, learning the shape of the soft, moist head there and delighting in the way he flinched each time her skin brushed over the slit.
Never having been in control of anything in her life until she set the keys in his hands to escape, she looked upon Gunnar at that moment as true freedom, a freedom that she wanted to at least partially control.
Hessa edged closer to his cock and guided the tip to her entry. She closed her eyes, breathed out, and slowly forced him inside her body. His thickness filled her completely. She leaned back and down, enjoying the connection to another person, and the way in which he had yielded to her. His hands closed over her hips while she swayed. Their pace hastened to a frantic race. When her body tensed and she felt the cusp of the orgasm threatening to break through all her inhibitions, she bit her lip to keep from crying out, but this time ot was not to alert the guards, it was to keep their lovemaking a secret from the men in her lover’s employee. The road to Jondah would be long, but she didn’t think it would be long enough to sate her lust for her stolen warrior.
About the Author
Anastasia Rabiyah writes erotic romance, paranormal erotic romance, and fantasy. She often crosses genres in order to follow her muses into the darkness where they seek out destiny in all its forms. She believes in fairies, demons, angels, magic, passion, chocolate, supportive friends, e-books and writing critique groups. Her deepest desire is to pursue her creative dreams and realize them. Every spare moment she devotes to writing for her haunting muses.
Visit her on the web at www.RabiyahBooks.com
Also available at Sugar and Spice Press by Anastasia Rabiyah:
The Highest Bidder
The First Kill
Sugar and Spice Press
Where romance is everything nice.
www.sugarnspicepress.com
The Stolen Warrior Page 5
