"I know, Nas,” he murmured, fingers skimming down her spine in gentle strokes only she could feel. He kissed her shoulder, nuzzled her neck before he guided her arms through her sleeves and tied the back of her dress into place.
"It will wear off soon,” she offered, her fingers pressed into his back.
"Yes, I know. That is why I haven't moved from the table. I fear I won't be able to control my legs.” He'd already managed to lace the front of his trousers before she spoke. “And then what will happen? The wounds are healed by your hands, yet the discomfort remains. The numbness will ebb and I will not tolerate touch of any sort for days, perhaps weeks."
Her hands balled behind his back as she held onto him, wishing he felt her against him. As if he realized what she needed, he kissed her full on the lips.
"Nas,” he whispered. “I felt that."
She kissed him again and he groaned, his tongue pushing past her lips to enter her mouth. He stroked her hair, raked his fingers through her locks as he continued to kiss her. Nasora found herself fighting against rational thought that told her the deep bruises to his muscles and bones would ache in a matter of minutes. Once the medicine traveled through his bloodstream he'd feel each cut, even though it no longer physically existed on his body. Tenderness in muscles and bones became a side effect of her gift, which she often felt in her own body.
"Kneel beside me,” he rasped, his hands already beneath her skirt. The calluses on the palm of his hands snagged her silk underclothes as he pushed them down to her knees. She climbed up beside him, mouth fitted to his, one hand in his hair, the other supporting her weight.
They lay on their sides, precariously perched on the narrow table. Nasora writhed to his probing fingers as he searched for soft, yielding flesh. He combed through the dark hair between her legs, teased the engorged pebble she'd never touched.
His muscles twitched, signaled the steady return of pain. She wanted to draw back, shift her weight and keep her leg from pressing into his hip and thigh, her arm and chest off his shoulder.
"I need to hold you,” he said between kisses. “Even if I can't feel it, I want it."
"Then hurry,” she begged him. “Before it's too late. Touch me, Deno, touch all of me."
Her spine curled, hips drawn forward and one leg carefully draped over his hip. One long finger traced her cleft in sweet, welcomed torture. In vain she attempted to slide him into her, but she'd already flexed herself forward with no place left to move.
"Oh, Deno,” she sighed.
His forehead glistened with perspiration, face glowed with sexuality and male mischief.
"For the rest of my life,” he murmured, “whether I die tomorrow, or next month, or in ten years, I want to remember exactly how you moved and sounded."
Another soft moan accompanied the turn of his hand. His finger slid into her hot, tight pussy. She stifled a cry against his lips, wrapped her arms around him as he drew out and into her again. The momentum gave her a shiver as he thrust once more, another finger adding to the already tight fit. Her body jerked, the first wave of many leading to climax.
"Faster,” she begged him softly, afraid to command him. “Oh, please, faster."
He did as she bade in stronger, faster strokes, pulling out of her completely only to plunge as deep as her body would allow. Shudders rippled through her belly, each one tightening the knot of pleasure. Thrust for thrust she met him, her hips rhythmically meeting his hand.
Another flex of his wrist and he pressed his thumb to her clitoris. Sensation overwhelmed her, unraveled her in surges of fiery pleasure. She convulsed around his three fingers buried deep inside of her, the walls of her pussy clenching him as it would have milked his cock of seed.
Beneath her he trembled, his face bone white and lips bloodless. He forced a smile and drew his fingers to his lips, licking off her essence and tasting her pleasure.
"I'll numb you again.” She sat up and smoothed her skirt.
"No, Nas.” He struggled to sit upright and rake his fingers through her hair. “I want to touch you now."
"Then let me touch you as well."
She kissed him deeply and reached for the leather cord binding his trousers, but before she could free him, the door knob creaked. Her hand jerked away from his stiff cock, and she landed on the floor, her skirt falling around her ankles. The hinges groaned as the door swung open.
"Ah,” said Turvo in his high, rat-like voice. “So he does live."
* * * *
Nasora clasped her hands behind her back and cleared her throat. “Barely, Quist,” she said.
The pig-faced owner tilted his layers of chins upward, and stepped into the room for better examination of his property. “He looks plenty alive to me."
"He should remain within the medical ward,” she replied smoothly, surprised that the unsteady thump of her heart didn't distort her words. “The wound entered through his chest and out his back. Even with my careful ministrations, pain will grip him for quite some time."
The Quist raised a brow. “That is of little concern to me."
"It could take weeks before he's able...” To fight, to properly defend himself, to recover from even a minor blow. He wouldn't care about his slave's well-being. Gold dictated his life. “...able to win and earn you prizes."
"Weeks?” He frowned. “No, Nasora. I paid six gold, and my money will buy his performance the day after tomorrow."
Her throat went dry as she inched closer and closer to the edge of panic. “Quist Turvo, it's quite impossible to expect—"
"Tomorrow.” A single word sliced through hers. “Quist Magron has two knife-beaks—a mating pair imported from Calagron,” he said with a knowing smile, a thin-lipped grin of a man who had stood outside the door listening, waiting to emerge from his vermin's hiding place and catch two lovers.
Sickness threatened, and Nasora lowered her gaze as an image of red-feathered birds the size of horses entered her mind. Despite their name, their claws were their deadliest weapon, and males fought until death for their female partners, which were always caged behind the slave warrior to entice an intense battle between man and avian.
Quist Turvo offered little more than a sporting execution.
"But he'll die,” she muttered.
"Perhaps.” The same cruel smile, the same fleshy face. “Unless you have done your duty, Healer."
She stiffened to the harsh, acidic tone of his laughter. Their eyes met briefly, but she stared past him once Adeno placed his hand at the small of her back. The muffled groan told her he'd regained his sense of touch.
"Adeno,” Turvo growled. “Return to your cell."
* * * *
Through the iron bars he crouched with his back to the damp wall, feet buried in straw, and waited. With his wrists resting on his knees, he listened to the slaves settle for the night in their narrow cells where they rested on cots better suited for children. Birds screeched a hall away, giant cats growled and hissed as they paced the bars and licked their maws in bloodthirsty hunger.
In an attempt to loosen the knots in his muscles, he hunched his shoulders. With a grimace, he remembered his first night spent as a slave nine years ago. He recalled the wonder and relief he'd found in his own space, the dread that had come when he realized his father's cruel hand would never touch him again, but in its place were sabers and whips that never showed mercy. Having no desire for one last night filled with nightmares, he tilted his head back and licked his lips.
"You're no longer on me, Nas,” he murmured weakly. The Yarin root he'd been forced to drink made his throat raw, which would prevent him from screaming in the arena. The slave masters had realized long ago that it disturbed patrons to hear terror accompany a blood bath. “No longer with me,” he continued with the dreaded realization that the essence of her breast and lips had faded from his mouth.
Yet it had existed, he reminded himself, and her unique flavor belonged to him alone. Perhaps in twenty years another man would fondle her breasts, but he'd claimed
her first, however briefly. Possessive male thoughts allowed a smile of satisfaction, but pain and regret quickly swallowed it up.
"But I want you. Now."
Each silky caress of her hand, the tight grip of long fingers around his cock, none of it had left an imprint on his mind. No matter how he'd touched her, he maintained his lowly place. Still a slave, still a prisoner, still a piece of property bought, sold, and destroyed.
With a growl of frustration, he pushed to his feet and stalked the width of his dark, musty cell. Need pulsed through him, invaded his blood like sweet poison. When he'd awakened upon her table, the spear still jutting from his chest, he'd promised himself he'd hold her once, only once. But now once wasn't enough, and perhaps a thousand times still wouldn't sate this sudden hunger, this awakening he'd found with her hands in his hair and his lips sucking her nipple, tongue laving her throat.
An iron door opened and shut, and he stood stock still in his cage, eyes trained on the cell bars. The torches along the wall flickered as a gust of urine-scented air wafted through the lower corridors.
"Deno."
Nasora spoke his name in barely a whisper, but she beckoned him to her. He stood, hands gripped tightly around the bars, and shook them hard to guide her forward. The men around him fell silent, their interest piqued by something soft and warm.
Footsteps cushioned by leather sandals padded along the stone and damp straw until she stood before him, her dark colored gown billowing around her, face pale as the moon he hadn't seen in nine years.
"Where are the keys?” she whispered.
He shook his hand and pointed at his throat. “Turvo,” he rasped.
With a frown, she wriggled her hand through the rusty bars where it stopped at her elbow. Bowing, he drew her fingers to his lips and closed his eyes. The scent of her perfumed skin filled his lungs, lifted him momentarily from his prison cell and nestled him in her grasp.
"How?” he questioned, the single word almost indiscernible.
"I walked here,” she answered. “Eleven streets.” She smiled faintly and clutched his hand. “My governess sleeps deeply. She didn't wake when I climbed through the window and landed in the bushes."
"No,” he said. If his voice still existed, he would have told her to return home. Agony burrowed into his heart as he thought of someone discovering her here, now.
"I won't let him kill you,” she promised.
He reached through the bars and touched her cheek and chin, ran his finger along her lips. With his eyes trained on hers, he caressed her, promised her a night spent far away from this place. Bodies naked and trembling, hair dampened with the rain like sugary mist on the meadows as they lay together, joined as they both craved. He looked her over, imagined his hands cupping her hips, thought of his fingers tangled in her hair grown long once more. Immediately his gaze focused on her belly and the empty womb he wished to fill. He needed her more than ever on the eve of his death, but more than need, he loved her and feared for her.
"Don't die,” he forced himself to say. He squeezed her hand harder than necessary. “Nas, don't die for me."
"Deno—"
"It's not worth it."
She squeezed his hand, then pulled away. “You think it is worth living if I see you die?"
Helpless behind the bars, he watched her pad away, a phantom in a billow of dark silk.
* * * *
Every nerve in her body burned with urgency. While she'd crept down the halls, she'd heard several of the slave masters discussing the tournaments scheduled for the following afternoon. With the masters preoccupied, she needed stealth and courage to slink through darkness in search of forgotten or misplaced keys.
Prisoners rattled their iron bars, and twice she'd barely moved in time to avoid a rock thrown in her direction. Taunts and unsavory words went unnoticed as she lifted cloaks hung on the wall pegs and turned up nothing more than hats and empty scabbards.
She neared the end of the hall when keys jingled, and a man hawked and spit. Back against the wall, she froze, her eyes wide and owlish with terror. A gray-haired man with drooping jowls and sagging eyes took no notice of her presence. He yanked his trousers down past his hips, turned away from her, and urinated in the corner.
Her nose wrinkled despite the heavy odor already in the room, and she stepped farther into shadows until he finished his business and lumbered away. Once he bumbled from sight, she released a breath and stepped forward.
A hand reeled her back.
"Nasora?"
The whine in his voice gave him away. She shivered and ducked away from his grasp before she greeted him. “Quist Turvo."
"What is this ... pleasure?” He licked his lips and eyed her breasts.
"I worried for Jaq. Quist Bour said his foot had not healed yet, and I thought I should see to it—"
"Quist Bour keeps his men in the west wing. Why do you search my holdings?"
Her shoulders dropped, mouth dry with truth. “Adeno is not ready to fight, Quist Turvo. Please, you must give him more time."
The Quist strolled away, his gaze telling her she should follow. “He doesn't need more time, Healer. He is worthless.” Turvo growled. “I should never have paid you. Six gold and for what?"
"You have fought him too hard,” she answered softly, attempting to force her disgust aside. “I could do nothing more, at least not without ample time."
"Time,” Turvo snickered.
* * * *
"Yes, Quist, more time."
Adeno's gut tightened, and he shivered at the sound of Nasora's voice.
"His time is over. He has used up his glory. Most of them do when they fight in his reckless style."
"Then set him free. Show your gratitude of a good show and much gold earned. Truly it's a small price to pay."
His owner chuckled. “Gratitude? I will show my gratitude. I will make him a legend tomorrow. Imagine it, Nasora, one man against two knife-beaks. The female, I've heard, has eggs. Both parents will fight for their unborn chicks, and once Adeno is gone they will destroy nine other men. Then, at the end of the day, we feast on their eggs."
"You will execute all of them."
"One final moment of glory."
"Why not sell Adeno? You could make quite a profit."
"He is not worth twenty gold now. The rest of the Quists wagered he'd last fifteen minutes, but I doubt he'll stand more than five."
"He is Adeno. Even if he has one fight left in him, any man here would pay you fifty, sixty gold just to say they owned him."
"And there are a hundred men who would pay twenty gold each to see him fight to his honorable death."
Two shadows stood against the far wall, one round, the other long and lean. Nasora stood with her arms crossed, her body still as a statue in Turvo's presence. She'd always despised the slave master, even before she'd come into employment as his Healer.
"Please.” She took a step forward, her arms extended in truce. “Show him mercy. Release him."
"To whom do you suggest I release him?"
Nasora hesitated. “My governess seeks a laborer,” she said, voice quavering. “Sell him to her for five gold and I shall give you my profits for the next year."
Long silence followed, and Adeno crept closer to the bars, afraid he would miss a whisper drowned out by his labored breaths. Freedom, life ... dreams lay beyond the cold bars his hands tightly grasped. Nasora stood beyond his cage.
"You stupid, stupid girl,” Turvo spit. “Stupid girl with foolish thoughts."
She cowered. “I beg your pardon?"
Another cold laugh. “Why, you've just given me the warrant for your death."
"I ask for mercy, Quist Turvo. He's fought well for you, show compassion—"
"Mercy and compassion, eh? No, you do not seek mercy for Adeno."
"Of course I do."
"Your hair smells of a feral, violent fuck,” he replied. The larger shadow stalked forward and grabbed hold of the fragile one. With a yelp, Nasora fought t
o free herself, but Turvo clutched her hair in his fist and whipped her toward the wall. She slammed against stone, body sprawled on impact before she sank to the ground. “You do not know the true meaning of a feral, violent fuck."
Adeno heard the crack of flesh upon flesh followed by a muffled sob. He pulled on the cell bars, but he couldn't issue even a shout of outrage. His presence remained silent and passive.
"How did he take you, hmm? While he lay on the table with his cock stiff in the air? Did you ride him, little girl? Milk the seed from him and guarantee your death?"
"No,” she whimpered. “We haven't—"
Another slap across the face. Adeno's heart raced, the desire to draw a weapon pulsed through his veins as her crumpled shadow crawled across the stone floor. His eyes stared hard at the saber hanging opposite his cell, the jeweled hilt and scabbard gleaming in the torch light.
"Lift your skirt if you wish to know the true meaning of a man,” Turvo growled.
"I would rather die than touch you,” she answered through her teeth. “You hideous, beastly excuse of a man."
"For years I've wanted to teach you a lesson, you ignorant little bitch. All this time, day after day, you've turned your back to me as I spoke. Now the only time you'll turn from me is when I tell you to face away so I may fuck you hard from behind. Hard and merciless, until you scream for me to stop."
She turned her face away from him. The iron door creaked open once more, and a child's shadow stood behind Turvo before he could grab her again.
"Quist,” a meek child's voice requested. Turvo's hand lowered to his side. “Forgive me, but Mortego seeks a Healer. He needs Nasora at once."
Turvo heaved a breath and spit on the ground. “You find only ruin here, child."
Without question, the boy left at once, the door slamming behind him.
"I will tell my governess if you so much as touch me,” Nasora warned.
"You will not see Governess Iriana, Nasora. She abandoned you once she realized you'd escaped from her home on this futile tryst.” Cold, thick silence filled the prison cells as though each man awaiting battle had stopped breathing in order to hear the Quist speak. “No woman of honor wishes to harbor an untrustworthy whore of a girl."
Adeno Page 3
