Captive Dreams

by Angela Knight

  Corinne took several long breaths afterwards before she tried to open her eyes. Her breasts’ tightness was mildly revenged by the glazed look in his eyes and the tic in his jaw. But he had the advantage with that big paw slowly stroking her back. Under the black lace.

  Damn.

  He smiled at her with the wicked anticipation of a gambler who knows he holds the winning hand. “Your kiss shows some womanly skills, sorceress. Let us go hence and see what more you offer.”

  Mykh watched his captive closely, admiring what his blood and courage had gained him. By the Goddess, she was a beauty with her silvery hair and blue eyes. What trick of fate had kept that body hidden from others under leagues of cloth? She was fierce and fast when she fought, skilled enough to cost him a moment’s caution. Would she love as hotly?

  He would have to be careful not to lower his guard around her. A sorceress could turn a man’s will into melt-water in an instant. Perhaps this night’s pleasures would bring sound sleep without old nightmares.

  She flushed but didn’t resist when he towed her along beside him. A few quick strides brought them over the dais and past the two thrones. He raised an eyebrow at the Tiger Throne’s glow but didn’t pause. It had to be a trick of the light, since almost a thousand years had passed since a Tigerheart had ruled beside a Dragonheart. Although a Tigerheart was always a sorceress . . .

  He pulled open a small door, cunningly hidden in the rich carvings behind the thrones. “Come in,” he welcomed the men who stood beyond it and Corinne stiffened beside him.

  His mouth quirked. He never shared women until he was bored, which was usually all too soon. But he had a great many plans for the long-legged beauty beside him.

  Two men entered quickly and closed the door behind them. Yevgheniy, retired primus pilus, or first spear, of the High King’s personal guard and now Guardian of the Dragon’s Hoard, the traditional reward for decades of loyal service. His weather-beaten face was as incongruous as ever above the Guardian’s rich scarlet robes.

  Mykh lifted an eyebrow at the two beakers and goblets Yevgheniy bore on a silver tray but said nothing. He’d no need now of Bhorizh’s latest potion, even if it could freeze a sorceress in place. He’d learn soon enough what the other beaker held.

  The other man was a welcome surprise. He’d told Yevgheniy to keep watch with no hope that his oldest friend would return in time to help. But Ghryghoriy doted on his wife, more than enough reason to make a hasty return for the Goddess’s Dance. He’d been back for some time, since he wore the immaculate black uniform of the Dragon’s Claw instead of muddy courier’s leathers.

  The little sorceress paled before blushing scarlet at the sight of Ghryghoriy. Mykh wondered how much she knew of the man’s bloody past, then shrugged. Answers could be found later, after settling his innards back to a more landlocked pace.

  “Yevgheniy, Ghryghoriy,” he greeted them each with a strong hug, noting how she edged off to one side.

  “Welcome home, Mykh.” Ghryghoriy’s answering embrace lasted a hair too long to be casual, while Yevgheniy rapidly blinked away tears. “The bonds you requested . . .” He held them out ready for use, as Mykh had ordered before departing. Izmir’s Curse, the only ties capable of holding a magic-wielder against his will.

  The little sorceress shook but didn’t run away, her eyes widening like a deer caught in the hunter’s snare as she stared at the heavy golden cuffs. Her sister had mentioned abuse, which must have been fearsome to inspire such dread in a sorceress.

  Mykh brushed the cuffs and their connecting chain aside. “No need for that. She’s bound to serve willingly in my bed.”

  Both men stared at her then relaxed when she nodded jerkily. The gold disappeared from sight and Corinne openly fought for calm, while Yevgheniy filled a goblet after one last survey of her.

  The door eased open and a huge black leopard flashed in. He leaped up at Mykh, braced his forepaws on Mykh’s shoulders, and lavished kisses on his face.

  “Down, Mazur!” Mykh laughed, cupping his friend’s head in his hands. “You have known me gone before to see the sorceress. Did you fear that I would never return?”

  A long swipe of rough leopard tongue from chin to forehead was the answer, then Mazur butted his head against Mykh’s cheek. He reassured the big cat with a quick hug.

  “You’ve been gone two days and a night, Mykhayl,” Ghryghoriy observed quietly.

  “So long?” He cursed the demons who haunted the void between worlds.

  Sensitive to his master’s mood, Mazur dropped to the floor and began to wind himself around Mykh’s legs. Mykh rubbed the plush head distractedly and accepted a goblet from Yevgheniy.

  “Give her a drink of the same, Yevgheniy, not the potion.” He waited to ask for reports until Corinne held the other goblet. “How quiet is the city? Did anyone notice that I was gone?” He took a deep swig of his ice-cold ginger beer, savoring the demons’ departure from his guts.

  “It’s been silent as my maiden aunt’s bedroom,” Yevgheniy snorted. “What did you expect for the first day of the Hunter’s Watch?”

  “City’s full of pilgrims. There should be some unrest,” Mykh observed, his senses coming alert at the strange tidings.

  “Hell, the whole province is full of pilgrims. Temples are calling it the greatest pilgrimage in five hundred years. And everyone’s keeping watch, like the priests told ’em to. Just so they can give all their strength in the Goddess’s Dance.”

  “By the gods!” Mykh’s fist tightened around the goblet’s stem and Mazur hissed in agreement. “Must they all believe that I need their help?”

  He hurled the goblet into the throne room’s shadows and Mazur roared his own battle cry in support. Khyber’s long dragon snout and neck flashed forward. He caught the goblet in his teeth then set it neatly down on Yevgheniy’s tray. Ghryghoriy raised an eyebrow and the little sorceress flinched at the byplay.

  “Are you telling me that every sailor in Bhaikhal, Torhtremer’s greatest port, is meekly obeying a handful of saffron robes?” Mykh snarled.

  “Aye,” Yevgheniy answered, unimpressed as ever by Mykh’s temper. “No drinking, no fighting, no coupling between a man and a woman. Even the whores have sworn celibacy for the next three nights.”

  “What did they preach to cause such a display?” When neither man responded, Mykh snarled. “Tell me, Ghryghoriy.”

  “All of Torhtremer must labor together that the High King might be healed,” Ghryghoriy answered carefully.

  “Does everyone in the Seven Kingdoms know that I can’t breed a woman?”

  Corinne bit her lip at the naked agony in his voice and hid her face in her goblet.

  “Not easy to hide that with the size of your harem and the hard use you make of those girls,” Yevgheniy remarked, brutally frank as always.

  Mykh cursed again, damning all meddlesome folk who would not leave a man to solve his own problems. Mazur stropped himself on Mykh’s shins, while the little sorceress shook violently.

  “We’ve put out word that you began fasting yesterday, so no one’s looking for you,” Ghryghoriy reported, turning the subject.

  “Even the girls aren’t anxious,” Yevgheniy added, stoppering the beaker. “Told ’em you attended private services here at the palace.”

  “Tides are rising hard and fast for the Goddess’s Dance. All shipping cleared harbor yesterday,” Ghryghoriy assured Mykh, answering an old fear.

  “Priests promised the greatest dance in a thousand years. Looks like they’re right about that much at least,” Yevgheniy commented, before falling wisely silent at Mykh’s glare.

  “Borders are quiet. No word from the sentries watching the northern mountains, either,” Ghryghoriy finished. That was one piece of good news, that the Dark Warrior was still trying to recover his strength before challenging Mykh and the Seven Kingdoms again.

  The little sorceress gently petted the big cat’s head with her free hand, rubbing his ears through her fingers until he butt
ed against her legs for more.

  “Damn watch,” Mykh muttered. “No purpose in it when the priests’ magic can’t give me a son.” He pulled Corinne against him and fondled her hip possessively. She was a battle trophy worthy of a High King and a far better treat than the priests’ useless chants. He was finally free to fulfill all the promises he’d made himself, while slaving for the Gray Sorceress.

  He dropped a kiss on top of her head. “Keep the priests away from me until the morrow, Ghryghoriy.”

  The Dragon’s Claw bowed in response, his face politely blank.

  “And you, Yevgheniy, I’ve a sorceress to taste tonight. Make the usual preparations then get yourself gone. I presume the Tasting Room is ready for use.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “Very well then.” He left the room with a firm stride, his attention fixed on the slender woman at his side and the rare treats to be found between those long, beautifully muscled legs.

  Corinne trotted down the corridors at Mykhayl’s side, barely able to keep up with the pace he and Mazur set. Her mind reeled from seeing Yevgheniy and Ghryghoriy in person. Yevgheniy, with his ancient soldier’s eyes that had seen everything at least twice and done it at least once. He truly was the spitting image of the longest serving Navy SEAL.

  But seeing Ghryghoriy was worse, since he was the secondary hero of The Raven and the Rose. One look at him and she’d immediately recalled his inventive sexual tastes, including an anal sex scene that had made even Celeste blush. He looked much more like Jarred Varrain than she’d imagined, now that she’d seen them both in the flesh.

  In the flesh. Oh dear God, then Celeste really must be in that far future world with its terrible devices . . .

  She yanked her mind away from the tortures Jarred had endured—and could visit on Celeste—to the scenery around her. She’d never thought much about Mykhayl’s living quarters, only the romantic advantages and disadvantages of the women who visited him there.

  Mykhayl gave her no time to study the riches they passed, other than to gain an impression of still more murals featuring the dragon and the tiger, above beautiful marble wainscoting and polished marble floors. She stayed close, having learned in the throne room that the floor was nicely warm near him.

  He turned into a quieter section, nodding at the two sentries who snapped to attention as he passed. They wore the green and gold uniform, with black breeches and boots, of the High King’s personal guard, with weapons far more functional than ceremonial. Their cold eyes warmed at seeing Mykhayl but measured her with a steely calmness that named her as a threat.

  The floor and wainscoting changed to rare woods in intricate marquetry, echoing elegant tapestries of the green dragon flying above the great eastern woods. She swallowed, recognizing the signs of the High King’s private quarters. She’d plotted many scenes in the throne room, including a wedding. But never anything in his bedroom. She shivered at the thought, wishing that he didn’t make her so damn hot.

  And what was he going to do to her? He kept calling her a sorceress, which didn’t bode well for her future. Ever since his captivity by the Gray Sorceress, he’d treated all sorceresses suspiciously, ready to strike and kill before they could hurt him. They were admittedly some of the Dark Warrior’s nastiest servants, more than deserving the deaths that Mykhayl and his brothers-in-law had meted out. But Mykhayl had always watched them more apprehensively than any other enemies.

  What exactly had the Gray Sorceress done to him? Back then, Corinne had been so interested in writing Lily’s romance that she’d considered Mykhayl mostly as a plot convenience. Now she reached out to learn what had happened during his months of slavery and ran up against a blank wall. The same unyielding barrier that had given her months of writer’s block. The same total inability to see Mykhayl’s thoughts and emotions from the inside.

  Corinne cursed silently and refocused her eyes on her surroundings. Mykhayl was striding straight toward a simple door set between richly patterned tapestries showing mating dragons.

  Its vigilant sentry quickly snapped to attention as they approached, her eyes widening at the High King’s companion. She saluted and opened the door behind her, then shut it silently after Mykhayl and Corinne entered. Mazur stayed outside, uttering a disconsolate mrow.

  The room was fashioned entirely of crystal, curving around a raised platform in the center, and almost as enticing as a hidden spring in the woods. Corinne surveyed it warily.

  “The Tasting Room, sorceress,” Mykhayl purred, his deep voice suggestive of triumphs yet to come.

  “What the hell do you taste here?” Corinne spun around to quiz him.

  “I savor women here, Corinne. The heat of them pouring up from their core like the taste of life itself.”

  Savor women? She frowned at how his rumbling voice seemed to burn from her ears to her gut. And those fierce golden eyes that heated her even more. But didn’t monarchs let the concubines do all the work? “That’s crazy. What happened to sprawling on the bed and letting the girl slither up to you?”

  He chuckled and picked her up. “Ridiculous. Why should I permit you to set the pace? Or choose what to do first?”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Corinne lied, stiff as a brass statue in his arms. There was something about being handled as if she weighed nothing that scared her, no matter what she knew of him personally. But being surrounded by a massive chest and arms set her pulse pounding, while the slip might as well not be there for all the protection it gave from his iron-hard sinews under hot satiny skin. “But don’t you want me to prove just how much I’m willing to do for you?” And maybe distract you until you’re doing what I want?

  “The first step of my revenge is to eat you until you beg me to cease, unable to endure any more.”

  Her brows snapped together. “You’re joking, right?”

  “Hardly.” He settled her into a sling that had appeared in the exact center of the room. It was made of fine white silk webbing, more comfortable than any hammock she’d ever enjoyed in a backyard. Instinctively her hands reached up to trace the two bands that secured it above her head, while her feet settled into the perfect little hollows at the other end. She was safe, supported—and hanging in midair before a set of mirrors that showed every inch of her.

  “Uh, shouldn’t I be kneeling at your feet, saying how unworthy I am and promising to do better next time?” She tried to sit up so she could scramble free. Instantly his hands clamped around her wrists, forcing her into the sling. She trembled, praying he wouldn’t realize how wet she was between her legs.

  “You are attempting to divert me,” he whispered into her ear.

  “No! Just suggesting some options . . .” Her words trailed away as he nuzzled her cheek. He licked her ear delicately and she jumped at the echo in her womb. “You’ve got to let me do something, not just lie here!”

  “But you plead so well when you’re lying still.” He smiled down at her, gliding his fingertip along her collarbone. “Perhaps I should keep you exactly like this, just to hear you beg.”

  She went bright red in an instant. “Isn’t there something else you want?”

  “Your woman’s jewel will glow like the dawn sky when my tongue polishes you.” He smiled at her, his hand playing with the lace over her breast.

  She choked as her nipples hardened under his casual attentions. “Conquerors are supposed to be fat-assed men lolling around on pillows,” she snarled.

  “Thinking only with their man parts?” He chuckled. She stiffened under the truth in his words. “Is that what you desire, little sorceress, a man you can lead by his rod? You’ll not have me that way.” He stroked her cheek with victor’s certainty and she closed her eyes, bitterly determined not to give him any more insight.

  But his touch burned into her faster without distractions from her eyes, as he fondled her cheeks and forehead, then smoothed her eyes before delicately stroking her mouth. His rough hands, hardened by decades of swordplay, triggered sensual wav
es through her nerves and veins until she tossed her head, arching her body toward him.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured. She would have run, if she’d thought past the caress in his voice.

  He stepped between her legs, widening them easily. The sling adapted readily to the new position and kept her spread. Before she could say anything, he covered her mouth with his own. She sighed and opened for that insidious tongue, sliding her hands into his wonderful silken hair to pull him closer.

  Corinne blinked when he finally lifted his head. Her tongue ran over her lips and he smiled. Damn, her lips were just as swollen as she’d been afraid of. He chuckled wickedly at the look on her face. Then she realized that his strong hands were steadily stroking the inside of her thighs—all too close to her thong.

  “Hey, where’d you get the stool from?” she demanded, seizing on the least important change in the room. Fiona, the mother-in-law from hell, always said that interior decorating was a safe gambit in the most difficult situations.

  “Magic: it appears when I need it. Now take hold of the sling, little sorceress,” he rumbled.

  “I read a pillow book once that said the pasha should always . . .” Corinne tried to come up with something more enticing for that finger of his to do.

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “More pleading, sorceress? Pray continue that my rod may grow even further. No? In that case, your hands and feet must be well seated.”

  “I really don’t think . . .”

  “Then don’t.”

  She gulped and obeyed him but screamed as the sling vanished from sight. She could feel its support and her body’s happy comfort in it. But she lay suspended in the room’s center, like a ballerina poised in an erotic music box, while he sat between her legs. “What the hell!”

  “I told you I would savor your woman’s jewel,” he chuckled wickedly. “The sling disappears from sight so that my eyes can enjoy you as much as my tongue. Or my hands.” One blunt finger traced her through the thong.

  “Oh shit,” she muttered, feeling the gush of cream that leaped in response. This was starting to look like the beginning of a very long night.