Captive Dreams

by Angela Knight

  The answer came soon enough when a finger gently lifted her chin. She opened her eyes cautiously and found his face inches away from hers. His eyes were molten gold, heavy lids veiling only some of his intensity. “Give me your lips that I might slake my thirst, Corinne.”

  He’d spoken her name for the first time and her pulse raced at the thought, despite her sniffles. She leaned up and very tentatively touched her mouth to his. He purred, a deep rumbling sound that spoke volumes of masculine satisfaction, and responded gently.

  They kissed for a long time, sweetly and simply like high school sweethearts first exploring each other. His cheek was rough with beard as she caressed him, feeling the play of their tongues and teeth within his mouth. He held her face between his hands when his tongue moved to explore the hot, moist depths behind her teeth. She sighed and kneeled in front of him so she could better match him.

  Her fingers glided into the heavy silken weight of his hair. It was cool and smelled of flowers, as if he’d stood outside in the last moonlight before dawn. She threaded her hands deeper until they curved around the back of his skull to pull him closer to her.

  And still they kissed.

  His hands fell away to stroke down her body, thumbs finding the sides of her breasts where they flattened against his chest. A caress there sent her moaning into his mouth and rubbing her nipples against him. She smirked when he shuddered at the touch. But that game forced too quick a pace and his hand moved to her back.

  She rubbed his arms restlessly, too taken by his strong presence to stay still. Muscles there flowed over and around each other in ropes, built for battle but offering protection to a frightened female. She made a small sound at the back of her throat and pressed closer to him.

  He quivered and his mouth traveled to her cheek and down her throat. She tilted her head eagerly and he nuzzled her until her pulse ran hot and true. He nipped her, setting her blood pounding stronger, then laved the small hurt until she moaned and clutched at him.

  “Mykhayl.” Her voice was a whisper of need.

  “Mykh,” he answered; she fell silent as she tried to think. “Call me Mykh.”

  “Mykh,” she tried the name softly, shy of the intimacy that a nickname implied. He licked the sensitive point again and she shuddered. “Mykh,” she groaned, pressing against him.

  He growled softly and traced his path lower. She arched against him, opening herself to the caress. One night had taught him more about what her body preferred than Dylan had learned in three years of marriage. But now Mykh explored her breasts as if he’d never seen them before, mapping the veins with his tongue until her aureoles bloomed. He tugged on one aching, upthrust nipple very gently and she moaned in satisfaction, her fingers tossing the fiery silk of his hair.

  “Mykh,” she sighed when he suckled her and pulled him closer still. He stroked her back, fondling her spine until she writhed under his mouth. She felt safe and cherished in the circle of his arms. Her eyes closed to better focus on the pleasures he brought. Self-discipline be damned, she was going to enjoy this man.

  Mykh shifted his position under her, kneeling with his feet tucked under him. She barely noticed, too caught up in what his very talented tongue was doing to her other nipple. His hands gathered her hips, lifted her up, and brought her down over him. His cock glided into her, stroking her clit with its every inch, and she gasped in shock. “What the hell? Mykh!”

  “Easy now, Corinne.” He rocked against her in the most delicate of movements. But every touch pressed the heated brand against that bundle of nerves and filled her core at the same time.

  “Jesus Christ, Mykh,” she groaned and tried to drive herself onto him. His grip tightened and she stopped.

  “Gently, Corinne, gently. A morning’s play after a long night.”

  “Doesn’t feel like playtime,” she grumbled and wriggled again.

  “Corinne,” he warned. His touch remained implacable and she finally yielded, her buttocks sinking into his hands while he did as he pleased. He controlled her now, although he could make only very little thrusts.

  His hips circled and she shuddered. How could such small movements trigger such an overwhelming response in her? She licked his shoulder, enjoying the salty taste of his sweat and the shudder that her touch set off in him. At least he wasn’t as calm as he’d like her to believe.

  Ch’i rippled into life along her meridians, circling between the anchors of their mouths and groins. His ch’i was hot and urgent but felt blocked somehow, so it couldn’t circle as freely as hers did.

  “Sweet lady,” he rumbled and she kissed his neck. They were almost equals in height when wrapped around each other like this. She stroked his shoulders and tried a little hip circling of her own. He groaned and she smiled. Two could play at this.

  It wasn’t a game that could be enjoyed for long, not when every breath sent one or the other of them shuddering. A climax was creeping closer, its slow burn gliding down to her toes where they pressed against the small of his back. She moaned and buried her face against the strong tendon under his ear.

  He rocked again, more strongly. She bit down against a scream and her mouth closed onto his shoulder, finding the exact pulse point where a tigress marks her mate.

  Mykh jerked, groaned her name and jammed her body down deeper onto his. He used his hands as well as his body after that, lifting and dropping her onto his hips until sanity fled. She clung to him, panting as she clenched around him. Ch’i burned brighter until her bones turned incandescent.

  He arched his back to gain more contact and gasped. A hot jet caressed her core, then another and another until they became a flood. His ch’i reached to hers and she kissed his mouth, instinct demanding that the circuit be completed. He moaned into her mouth as he came, linking their ch’i. She burst into flame throughout her body, pummeled and overwhelmed by a climax more complete than she’d ever imagined.

  They sprawled on the bed afterwards, still linked together as much by ch’i as his cock. But neither of them dared to speak. Corinne yawned and turned her face away from the rapidly increasing light outside. She was asleep before she could finish another breath.

  Later she awoke slowly, disappointed but not quite surprised to find herself alone, and moved just enough to open one eye. She could observe Mykh through the half-open doors separating them, holding a conversation about the army’s readiness during the month-long festival to come, while two men braided his hair and another paraded brocade robes for his approval.

  To be precise, he was discussing whether or not the army could do battle against an unexpected attack. Damn. She’d have to tell him what she’d seen in her nightmare.

  Mykh was nothing like Dylan, the husband who’d abused her. Mykh could have weighed her down with chains, tossed her into one of his many dungeons, and used her however and whenever he pleased. Instead he’d taken the bonds off in exchange for a promise, even though he was furious at her and had no reason to trust her. If he could give his word under those conditions and keep it, then she didn’t have to be terrified of him.

  At least not about him killing her.

  The bedroom looked remarkably similar to his old campaign tent, where she’d first seen him. It had a comparable tumble of furs and silks and pillows, although these were the finest silks instead of a mercenary’s well-worn collection. This room had opulent tapestries shielding its ceiling and walls, not the tent’s carefully patched canopy. She’d first seen him leaning against its center post, worrying about his sisters’ well-being, while his big black leopard, Mazur, slept curled up on the bed. Corinne had taken one look at him and known immediately that he was the family’s protective leader.

  She glimpsed Mazur pacing restlessly in the council room and pausing from time to time to nudge the doors leading to the bedroom. Finally the moment came when Mykh was too busy to pay attention and Mazur slipped into the bedroom. He padded softly over to the bed and considered Corinne.

  She looked back at him gravely. Ma
zur had been Mykh’s constant companion since they were adolescents. She could name his battle scars as easily as she could Mykh’s, although she’d never been in his head. Her fingers itched to pet his velvety soft fur but she sensed this was a formal introduction, unlike the encounter in the throne room.

  Mazur’s nose twitched and his big pointed ears shifted forward as he studied her more carefully. She held her breath, uncertain of his reaction. Mazur was too feline to simply accept Mykh’s judgment of her.

  He sat down suddenly and his tail curled around his feet, as he assumed the imperious posture of all regal cats since before Egypt. He rumbled a deep throaty purr. “May the Celestial Guardians bring peace and prosperity to you and yours, Great Lady.”

  Corinne blinked as her mind fumbled through scraps of lore. A conversation with a cat? Well, white sorcerers had done so centuries ago, before the Dark Warrior destroyed them. She knew the Language of Beasts, thanks to The Wizard and the Wisteria, the second Torhtremer novel, but she’d never spoken it in public. Years of training to sing operas had produced some strange sounds from her voice, but that language was far harder. The white sorcerers had a point when they taught that the Language of Beasts required magic to shape human throats around feline sounds.

  She coughed and tried to say the ritual response in English as gutturally as possible. “May the blessings of the Four shine upon you and yours, Great Hunter.”

  Mazur sniffed and gave her a disgusted look, as if she’d offered dry kibble for breakfast when he wanted cream. His tail twitched impatiently before he purred again. “Forgive me, Great Lady, I did not fully understand your meaning. Would you please repeat yourself that I may become enlightened?”

  What now? She could pretend stupidity or inability, but Mazur clearly knew what she was capable of.

  Oh, God. She couldn’t do this. It was too strange, too frightening here.

  “Mazur,” she faltered. “I can’t, I just can’t.”

  He patted her knee softly in encouragement. “Great Lady, you smell like the high meadows in the western mountains where humans once walked with us. My mother and her mothers said such humans can speak with us. Please try again.”

  Tears pricked her eyes at his gentleness. “Okay. I’ll try. But don’t laugh at my accent.”

  “Never,” he swore and resumed his formal pose.

  She tried to remember the sounds she’d made while pacing her little office overlooking the lake. She’d tried for hours until she could purr like a cat or whinny like a horse with equal ease.

  Corinne took several deep breaths to cleanse her lungs. Then she growled the ritual response, “May the blessings of the Four shine upon you and yours, Great Hunter.”

  At least it sounded like a cat talking. Oh hell, what if she really was the sorceress Mykh called her?

  Mazur, of course, suffered from no such qualms. He grinned, his tongue sweeping over very sharp teeth, leaped up onto the bed with a delighted mrow, and began to lick her face. His rough tongue rasped her face and she giggled.

  “Mazur!” she laughed, then switched to the Language of Beasts. It was much easier to speak it while in Torhtremer. “You’re very exuberant this morning.”

  “Of course,” Mazur rumbled. “Why not? We have waited long to speak again with a two-leg.”

  She chuckled and petted him, savoring his welcome.

  “What are you doing, sorceress?” Mykh’s cold voice shattered their romp.

  Oh shit. Corinne looked up and found a High King frowning down at her. He was dressed in a pale green silk tunic, high necked and loose sleeved, with rich bands of gold embroidery around the neck, down the front, and circling his wrists. Matching silk trousers wrapped his hips and thighs in loose folds, before diving into high boots. A wide sash was folded in intricate pleats around his narrow waist. His hair was now plaited into dozens of small braids, every one touched with gold and amber until they seemed alive with tiny flames. A sleeveless brocade coat, worked in fabulous designs of flying dragons, emphasized his broad shoulders before it fell to the floor, while his great sword, Dragon’s Breath, hung across his back.

  The ensemble was calculated to evoke awe and majesty, yet the man within was more dangerous and impressive than his clothing. Her pulse began to thud at sight of the bulge rising behind the trousers’ soft silk.

  Why was he armed in his own bedchamber?

  Corinne disengaged herself from Mazur and sat up, hastily pulling a silk quilt around herself. The big leopard felt no similar constraint. He leaped off the bed and wound himself around Mykh’s ankles, purring wildly. “She’s a friend! Come at last!” he mewed but Mykh didn’t understand.

  “Sit, Mazur.”

  Even a feline couldn’t disregard that tone. He sat reluctantly, his tail twitching frantically as he watched the two humans.

  “I was greeting Mazur,” Corinne said slowly, sticking with the truth. “He said hello, so I answered him.”

  Mykh’s face tightened with an emotion she couldn’t quite read. Fear? Regret? Was he remembering something from the Gray Sorceress? “Only sorcerers speak the beasts’ tongue. You must dress so you can accompany me.”

  “You can’t mean to keep me under your thumb all the time!” His anger was all the more frightening for being unexpected. Was he angry that he’d spent the night with her? But her sifu had taught that dragons always attacked from an unexpected direction.

  “You are far too dangerous for a loose leash, sorceress. I will send Yevgheniy with clothes. Will you obey him in my absence or must I watch you every minute?”

  “I think I can manage to get dressed without your help, thank you very much!” Corinne snapped. The contrast between last night’s gentle passion and his cold ascendancy now shocked her.

  “You will not find your punishment amusing if you injure him in any way,” he warned.

  “He’s a goddamn primus pilus! What the hell can I do to him?” Corinne shot back. Was he so terrified of magic? Surely not, given his comfort with Khyber. Was it scars from the Gray Sorceress’s imprisonment?

  “Too much.” The simple words echoed with a multitude of scars.

  Mykh turned to leave, his robe shimmering around him like dragon’s wings. Mazur dodged his boots, visibly uncertain about where to go.

  “Mykh,” she called out to him.

  He spun back to her. “You will address me as Your Majesty.”

  “You jerk! Last night you weren’t so formal,” Corinne spat, too hurt by the change to watch herself.

  “Last night I was a fool.” A glacier would have been warmer than his voice.

  “Asshole,” Corinne muttered under her breath and the amber pendant flared briefly. She took a deep breath and tried to recover. She wanted to throw something at his arrogant head, but she needed to warn him about the dream. She silently chanted a Daoist meditation, until she could speak without spitting at him.

  “Your Majesty,” she tried again. Let’s try playing it his way . . .

  He stopped just before the doorway, reluctance in every line. “Yes?”

  “As a sorceress,” she looked for phrases that would keep his attention. “I must warn you that the Dark Warrior stirs in the northern mountains.”

  He frowned. “My sentries have given me no warning of this.”

  “He woke very recently.”

  “Thanks to your presence, no doubt.” Mykh shifted slightly, bringing Dragon’s Breath closer to hand.

  Oh shit, he was right but she couldn’t bring herself to say so. The Dark Warrior had avoided Torhtremer for the year since The Raven and the Rose ended, while Mykh rebuilt the country and healed from his wounds. To awaken immediately after she arrived meant that the Dark Warrior hunted her, which his presence in her nightmare confirmed. Damn. At least she was in the palace’s heart, where the Dark Warrior had never walked. “I had thought that he would return in five years, or maybe as little as two years. But now I sense . . .”

  “How long?” The demand slashed the room like a sword s
wept from its scabbard.

  Corinne reached out as she always had when plotting. The answer came quickly, which meant that it was true. “Weeks, I think. Or maybe even a few days. He’s very close,” she whispered and their eyes met.

  All emotion vanished from Mykh’s face before it assumed a mask of resolve, hiding any traces of his thoughts. “I will make inquiries and set guards as necessary. My thanks for the warning, if it is true,” he added reluctantly. “If it is false, then Izmir’s Curse will adorn your wrists.”

  Corinne flinched then nodded. She’d much rather wear those damn cuffs and not have the Dark Warrior attack Torhtremer. “Very well, Your Majesty.”

  Mykh studied her for a moment longer, measuring her acquiescence, before sweeping out of the room. Mazur hissed and started to follow. The door slammed in his face and he came back to the bed, swinging his tail dejectedly.

  “He is a good man, Great Lady,” Mazur chuffed softly, as he leaned his head against her leg. “He will change.”

  Corinne rubbed the leopard’s ears but didn’t dare speak.

  THREE

  Yevgheniy entered from the antechamber a few minutes later, wearing crimson brocade robes and carrying a leather-wrapped bundle. He approached warily, as if he expected furniture to start flying at any minute.

  Corinne silently inventoried the spells she’d written for the Torhtremer romances, like lighting a fire, dumping a bucket of water, sending a rug flying. She knew some bigger spells, too, such as bringing rain. And greater magic yet, like making a life-size fleet from a set of models. But even if she really could work a spell, Mykh was the one who deserved to get hurt and not his obedient servants.

  Yevgheniy stopped well back from the bed. “His Majesty sends these for you to wear.”

  “Fine. Just put ’em down and get out,” Corinne snapped.

  He tensed almost imperceptibly. “His Majesty insists that I remain in the Dragon’s Lair while you dress.”