She heard him approach her from behind while he spoke. Finally, he stepped into the circle of light by the candle. Igraine closed her eyes and took a deep breath, knowing that she most certainly would not live to see the next morning. Her body felt like stone, frozen with fear. Nonetheless, she had to face him. Taking a deep breath, she turned around. “Who are you?” she whispered.
He was incredibly beautiful, moving out of the dark with the natural grace of a predator. The stranger was only wearing black trousers, a silver sword belt and soft leather boots. Apart from a leather band around his upper arm, his torso was uncovered. She could see far too much of his tall, lean body, hard muscles moving under the skin that looked smooth and pale, almost like white marble. Yet it seemed to glow in the warm candlelight, as if dusted with a shimmering of gold. Her first thought was that he had not seen the sun for a very long time, and strangely enough, her heart filled with pity for him. But it was more than foolish to pity such a creature. Danger emanated from his every pore, and any instinct she had inherited from her ancestors screamed at her to run for her life. He reminded her of one of the ancient warriors she had read about in Celtic legends, belonging to a long-gone era.
Calling him the Angel of Death had been just the right expression to describe this male. His hair fell down over his shoulders, so light that it shone like the silvery moon on a clear night. It reached almost to his waist. Igraine’s fingers ached to touch the silken strands, to feel their softness. His face might have belonged to a Michelangelo statue, pale and narrow with high cheekbones, full lips and a straight, aristocratic nose. One side of his face was marred by a long, deep scar, which only added to his beauty instead of destroying it. It made him almost look human. Igraine didn't utter a sound until she looked into his eyes. Sinking into their depth made her gasp with horror and pleasure alike. There was wisdom in them, a vast range of emotions she could not even guess at – and pain, so much pain. For a second, she wondered how old he was, assuming that he was mortal at all. She didn't have to look at his pointed ears to know that she was not facing a human being. His eyes were deeply golden like a cat's, and seemed to burn into her soul, forever imprinting her with his image.
He smiled, a dark, knowing smile. “Aye, your kind has always been fascinated by my people. We look irresistible to humans. It has been like this since the dawn of time. It makes us easier to hunt you down if we need to. If you sense our presence, you try to follow us, begging to touch us just once. Even if we kill you afterwards.”
“Who … what are you?” she repeated, not knowing how she managed to hold his deadly stare. Yet she did.
“Why, an elf, of course,” he answered very slowly, as if he was speaking to a simpleton. His arrogance angered her. “Some of your people call us the Fae or Sidhe, or the Tuatha Dé Danann. Yet we are nothing like what the humans believe us to be. I am Prince Elathan, Lord of the elven realms, firstborn son to King Bres.”
She simply stared at him, unable to believe what she saw and heard. What on earth was the right way to greet an elven prince who had abducted and brought her to his lair? Why did he even bother to introduce himself when he wanted to kill her anyway? He could have done it right there where he caught her. The bridge had been deserted at that time of the night. Nobody would have stopped him. Maybe he wasn't a crazy killer, after all? At least for now, the pompous elf did not attack her. He just looked at her down his nose as if she was some insect crawling at his feet. Surely he expected her to curtsy or bow to him? Igraine had a sudden desire to giggle uncontrollably, despite the dangerous situation she had maneuvered herself into. Everything was too absurd to be true. Maybe she was just having a drug-induced, very realistic dream? Unsure what to do next, she finally decided to talk to this ‘prince’. It would be senseless to lie to him about her identity. While she had been unconscious, he had doubtless searched the contents of her handbag and read her name on her passport. Well, assuming that elves could read human documents, of course.
“My name is Igraine Chandler,” she said, proudly raising her chin. “Lowborn nurse of the human realms and daughter to no one.” Damn. Her wayward mouth again. Igraine had a strong tendency to make more or less funny comments when she was frightened, to ease her tension. Even if it might get her into trouble, she just couldn't help herself. “And may I ask, Your Royal Highness,” she emphasized the title to show she strongly doubted that he had told her the truth, “why you kidnapped me from a bridge? And why couldn't I see you when you followed me? If your intention is to murder me, you shouldn't have bothered. Didn't you see that I was about to jump?”
The prince – if he really had spoken the truth which she still doubted – looked aghast, obviously deeming her mad. He looked her up and down for a moment, then he answered, “You didn't see me because I hid my true appearance beneath a veil of magic. Your ancestors used to call it glamour. And the answer is no. You wouldn't have taken your own worthless life, wench. I have seen too many hopeless mortals in my time. Their eyes were empty, bereft of any hope – so unlike yours. There is a fire burning deep within you, woman, fueled by your anger. I can feel much pain in you. Yet you didn't let it destroy you as any weak human should have. You are very stubborn, redhead.”
Now it was her time to stare. She fought the urge to raise her hand to her shoulder-length, curly hair. She always had believed it to be a dull brown, although it was naturally highlighted with auburn streaks. No one had ever called her a redhead before. After all, she wasn't anything special, nothing but a nurse from New Jersey with a couple too many pounds around her waist. Just old, plain Igraine, who had been let down by her faithless fiancé. He had promised to accompany her on this vacation to England. It should have been their honeymoon. She had been looking forward to this. Visiting old, beautiful castles and cozy villages with white, rose-covered cottages, having dinner in pubs and spending passionate nights together, celebrating the life they'd live as a married couple and maybe even making their first baby. Being an orphan, all she ever had wished for was her own family, and a cozy, laughter-filled place to call home. Was that too much to ask for?
Their separation had been over a year ago. She didn't even know why she had finally decided to fly to England on her own. Maybe she needed this to make a clean break in her life, to forget all about this? Instead, she had ended up in some godforsaken underground place, imprisoned by an elf who claimed to be a prince and seemed to despise all humans. To add to her distress, this inhumanly beautiful creature seemed to affect her in a way she had never felt before. Just looking at him made her body react. Her skin tingled, waiting to be touched, and she felt a raw, carnal desire racing through her body, right down to the place between her thighs that ached with need.
“Stop it, stupid!” she softly hissed to herself, at the same time hoping he had not heard it. Obviously, she had not slept with a man for far too long. Certainly not since her boyfriend, Stephen, had dumped her a year ago, claiming he “wanted a girl he could present himself with” in his beauty doc circles. He told her this after ten years of her waiting for him to marry her, so she could have a loving husband and children one day. It was all she had ever really wanted. The money, the prestige, it only mattered to him, not to her. She even put back her own career, quit her college courses in English literature, so she could work as an unpaid assistant in his newly founded plastic surgery practice. Fortunately, she was smart enough to attend evening classes and get a nursing license during that time. Without it, she would have been without an education after Stephen left her. Before her ex-boyfriend got his medical degree, she had worked as a waitress in the evenings, so he could finish his education earlier. “Later it will be your turn,” he’d always had told her. “I will make it up to you, I swear. You’ll lead a good life. We'll have a big house with a large garden for our children to play in.”
Now, Stephen was married to a 23-year-old anorexic blonde who had come to his practice to get bigger boobs. A few months later, he told Igraine about their affair and called it
quits. Igraine, now 31, had no husband, no family, no real education and a new job as a nurse which wasn't very well-paid. She had dedicated too much time working for her non-existent future with Stephen, so she had never tried to make friends of her own. In the evenings, she turned to chocolate for solace. If no one loved her anyway, what was wrong with this? She was lucky to be a tall woman, so she didn’t gain too much weight after all. Even with her extra pounds, men were still interested in her. A nice, attractive colleague at work asked her out for a date, to which she agreed, but she couldn’t wait until the evening ended. Then she could go back to her safe home and her best friend, the well-filled fridge. She hardly gave him answers when he tried to talk to her. That night, he brought her home with a disappointed look on his face. He never asked her out again.
Igraine had been so immersed in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed the prince getting nearer until it was too late. He had circled her like a helpless prey and stood right behind her, his tall body almost touching hers. When his warm breath grazed the nape of her neck, she wasn’t able to move at all. She closed her eyes, shivering. He did not touch her, but stood so close that she could feel the heat of his body. And God, his scent was wonderful. He smelled like no mortal man ever could, even if he’d used the most expensive perfumes - manly and just a bit musky, but at the same time sweet and fresh. It reminded her of young leaves on a tree, right after the rain. She just couldn’t describe it. He seemed to breathe in her scent, as well, since he lowered his face to the side of her neck, inhaling deeply. Despite his obvious dislike of the human race, the elf seemed to be curious about her. After all, they were a different species. But right now, all she sensed was his raw masculinity which awakened her female instincts. The irresistible call to mate.
“Do you know why I hunted you on that bridge, human?” he breathed into her ear. “I do not intend to kill you – at least not now. I took you from your world to have my pleasure with you. You probably won't survive this anyway, and you'll soon wish that I had ended your life on that bridge when I first laid eyes on you. It always has been the way of the Fae to steal mortal females if one of them catches their eye. You are here to be my slave, to fulfill my every need and desire. I think you'll look quite appealing in elven clothes after I'll have ripped those filthy human rags off your body, woman,” he said. His voice was mesmerizing, even more than his scent. “You know, I would take you to my bed at once, if I knew I wouldn’t wear out your weak body too much with it. It could kill you. As befits a warrior's slave of pleasure, you'll learn how to fight and become stronger. Since your body is frail, you have to be in the best possible shape to survive being taken by an elf. You have no choice, human. There is no way for you to resist me. But I'll make sure that you take your own pleasure, too.”
Igraine wondered if he was joking or not. If she was to become his slave, was he trying to take her against her will after all? But he did not hurt her. He did not need to. It simply was impossible to defy him. She felt magic flowing from his hands when he softly touched her hair, savoring the feeling of it. Then his fingers traced the outline of her ear, not pointed as his own, and slid down along the side of her neck. Now she could hardly keep herself from moaning. She only hoped he didn’t notice how deeply he affected her, how much she wanted him to throw her down on the bed and take her, no matter if he killed her afterwards.
Suddenly, she felt his strong hands around her upper arms, grasping her, turning her around to him. Igraine found herself facing the elf, with his muscular body so near that she could feel his thunderous heartbeat – or was it her own? She stared right into his enraged eyes, paralyzed by her fear and desire. She asked herself how old he was, how many battles he had seen. Elathan seemed to look right into her soul, his eyes exploring her. Had he decided that she was not worthy, after all, and would kill her right on the spot?
But he just dropped his hands from her arms and turned away. “Prepare yourself for some hard exercise, wench,” he said huskily. “We'll start right away. If you do not follow my every order, the punishment will be severe. If you lose yourself in self-pity and whine like you humans are accustomed to, every day will only be harder for you. Otherwise, if your accomplishments please me…” He stared at her for a moment, pondering. Then, a boyish and very naughty grin softened his features. “Maybe I will think about a way to reward you for your efforts.” Igraine forgot to breathe for a few seconds. Under normal circumstances, his otherworldly beauty was almost painful to see, but when he smiled, his face seemed to radiate light, like a shining star in the night.
“Now choose your weapon, human. Your first training lesson has just begun.”
Chapter 3: Training Day
“Choose your weapon, human!” Elathan repeated with a dangerously low voice when Igraine didn’t move a limb but just stood there, staring at him like an idiot.
Choose a weapon? Good Lord! Igraine had never touched anything more dangerous than a paper cutter in years. She didn't use too sharp knives in the kitchen to avoid hurting herself. Unfortunately, she seemed to attract injuries. She couldn’t even slice an apple without stabbing herself in the hand and nearly bleeding to death. When this had happened, the doctor who stitched up her hand strongly advised her against spending too much time on household chores, so she wouldn’t accidentally kill herself. Once she broke her leg after climbing up a ladder to clean the high windows in her apartment.
“I am not sure. Maybe I could blind you with a shot of my hairspray?” She gasped and put her hand over her mouth. When she was frightened, she happened to make more or less funny remarks to ease her tension. She just couldn’t help it. Judging from the look on Elathan’s face, he didn’t find this entertaining at all. With one quick movement, he drew a small silver dagger from his belt and pressed it to her throat. Grabbing a fistful of her hair with the other hand, he forced her head back so she had no choice but to look right into his cold, unmerciful eyes. Igraine let out a small cry of pain. Before she knew it, she was pressed tightly against his strong body while he held her in his deadly embrace.
The sharp blade cut the delicate skin of her neck ever so slightly, and she felt a drop of blood emerging. Elathan cocked his head to the side and watched the small stream of blood running down until it nearly mingled with the sweat trickling down between her breasts. Her well-worn favorite sweater had slid down over her right shoulder, and a good part of her cleavage was exposed. The elf seemed to watch her intensely, in a way a lion would contemplate his prey before the killing blow.
“Curious,” he murmured. “Your worthless human blood is as red as mine, yet our races are so different. If only your poor-spirited kin had honored the truce with the Fae. Instead, they began to take over more and more of our world. I can remember a time of peace between us and your people, long ago. Perhaps I wouldn't have learned to hate your kind so much if they hadn't killed the only thing I ever cared for. But which choice will be yours, woman?” he whispered softly into her ear. “Will you surrender?”
Igraine shook like a leaf when he let go of her hair and touched the sensitive skin between her breasts, catching the drop of blood with one of his long, elegant fingers. Then he guided it slowly between his lips, savoring it. She shuddered, suddenly wishing he would lick the tiny red line from her skin, all the way up to her throat. Heavens, where did these perverted thoughts come from? “Now tell me, human,” he continued with a voice so deep and alluring it almost sounded like a lover’s. “Will you live or die?”
Now she knew it. Death was beautiful. Her own personal death, at least. Igraine found herself unable to speak a word. She couldn’t help watching his sharply drawn mouth. A bit of her blood still painted his lower lip red. She wondered how he would taste, how he'd feel if she kissed him there, licking the blood away. Did this hard warrior ever kiss a woman, softly, deeply? Or did he just take her body? No, there was nothing soft about this hard, cynical mouth - except when he smiled. His lips had looked fuller, strangely sensuous then. What an alluring, exotic cr
eature he was.
“Live,” she managed to say. “I want to live … Elathan.” Speaking out his name for the first time coursed like a shock through her nervous system, as if this was the point when she realized that all of this was really happening. She was actually here and facing a creature who, according to her certain knowledge, was immortal and only existed in old legends or fantasy stories. But no, it wasn’t a dream, and she hadn't gone mad. This was real. He was real.
Elathan's eyes narrowed dangerously. “So you shall live, at least for the time being. But listen to me. You'll never call me by my given name again. You are not my kind. You mean nothing to me. You are naught but a feebleminded human, a slave. If you want to stay alive, from now on your only duty will be to please me. Should the need arise, you can call me ‘master’ or ‘my Lord’, if the first choice doesn’t suit you. Your name is Igraine, you said?”
Igraine nodded, followed by a reluctantly whispered “Yes, my Lord.” If she wanted to avoid being killed, she’d better succumb to his wishes for now. Later, she would think about a way to escape. Elathan seemed to watch her expression intently. “An old, noble name for someone so young. I once knew a human woman bearing that name. She was the mother of a great king, the last one of a long line to respect the truce and live in peace with the Fae.”
“Arthur?” Igraine's eyes widened. “You knew King Arthur? But I heard he never existed,” she dared to say.
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