by Inez Kelley
Taric moved. Leaving the comfort of his parent, he sought his bedchamber and a bath. Silently snarling in frustrated displeasure, Myla unleashed her rage and his knees crashed to the stone floor.
“Damn it, Myla, stop!” Guttural and tense, his voice seeped to her but it was not a command to come forth so her anger did not abate. Once more she vented her unhappiness and heard his low groan. “Please, Myla. Look, stop jabbing me and I’ll call you out after I bathe. Just…leave me in peace for a few minutes. Please.”
Mollified, Myla released her livid clutch on his soul. The silky warmth of bathwater and the strong spice of his soap invaded her senses. Each weary muscle in his frame unbound and unknotted. He was so tired. Empathy swelled and Myla felt a niggle of guilt for inflicting pain on her master. It was small and easily shoved aside. He deserved to be turned over her knee and paddled for his reckless behavior. Didn’t he understand the risk he took? If anything happened to him, a scratch or bump or scrape, she’d never forgive herself. Taric was her life.
“All right, Myla, I know you’re upset so let’s get this over with. Come to me, my guardian.”
Wet lion-gold hair took shape as she formed behind him. The marbled lines of his bare shoulders trickled down to a narrow waist. She’d skimmed fingers up that back, raked nails down those shoulders, ran her hands around that waist. Below, a form-fitting pair of black leggings cupped the firm muscles of his ass. An ass she had saved on too many occasions for him to risk it now out of male ego. Her eyes pinched in fury.
Her palm connected with his skull. “Do not ever do that again!” she spat. “Have you any idea of the danger you placed yourself in?”
Rubbing the back of his head, Taric whirled to face her. “I’m fine. Nothing happened. Did you have to hit me?”
“That was not a hit. That was a tap. Do not command me to stay within again, Taric. You bind my power. I could not have aided you tonight unless you called. The risk is too great. Swear to me never again will you call or hold me against my will!”
“Fine, I swear it. Just stop screaming. I had enough of a headache before you whapped me.” Wearily, he sank into his chair and palmed his forehead. “Marchen carries the bonding mark of my mother.”
“I know.”
Burnt amber eyes flew to hers and his tawny brows furrowed. “You knew, too? First my father, now you?” A damp toweling cloth slapped the floor with his roar. “I’m sick to death of being coddled like an infant.”
Coddled? If she wanted to coddle him, he never would have had a fleabite let alone a bruise or minor wound. No, she never coddled, she only kept him from death. She pointed her finger and advanced on him.
“I do not coddle you. Who carries your sword into war? You. Who feels each scrape and rub of armor? Whose arms ache after the sword’s swing? Whose ass gets numb from the saddle? Yours! Coddle! Bah! You would not know coddling if it bit you.”
“What else do you know that you haven’t told me?” he snapped.
“I know as I need to know. Had I knowledge that could aid you, do you think I would keep it from you?”
“I don’t know, Myla. I don’t know what I know anymore.” Thrusting out of his chair, he paced the room, back straight, fists clenching and unclenching.
“I am unable to lie to you. If I have something you seek, I am unable to hide it. It is impossible for me to deceive you. I was created for you, Taric.”
Before the unlit fire pit, he stood still, his breath loud in the silence. “So you’ve said, created for my protection.”
Spinning, his feet seemed to fly to her. His hard fingers pressed into her upper arms, sharp and biting, pulling her close. Ripples of unfurled want encased her.
“You can’t lie, right? Not to me? Then tell me this, my guardian. Did you like my kisses? Did you want more? Do you feel the burn inside when I touch you? Because I feel it. You kissed me back in the meadow and tonight…tonight… Myla, I didn’t want tonight to be a ruse. I wanted you to respond to me for me. Me! Not your charge, your duty, your promise to my mother. Tell me you weren’t drawn to me. Tell me those whimpers and sighs I heard coming from your lips were faked. Tell me!”
“I cannot.” Shuddering the confession in a half-whisper, she was unsure he’d even heard. Until he crushed her to his bare chest and took her mouth with a fierceness that stole what little breath she had. Fear evaporated in his arms. She was a magical warrior but she could not fight the seductive attack of his mouth. A bonfire of desire deep inside her throbbed and ached with nameless yearning. Although she was not dependent on food or water, she craved his taste, hungered for his possession, thirsted for his touch.
A sound brushed the night and she noted offhandedly it came from her throat. Her tongue sought his and found it waiting. Her leather-shod heels left the floor and he pulled her to him, cradling her closer to his heartbeat. A song rejoiced in her temporal body and grew lush from his caress. In Claverham, she had fought to withstand the bombardment of sensations but now, here, alone with no prying eyes, she let go. She simply felt what being with Taric could be like. It was perfection.
Taric’s tongue slid along her chin and the soft linen of his bedsheet met her back. Above her, his heated skin called and she didn’t think, rising to nip and lick. Damp and cool, his hair glided through her fingers. So hot, she was so hot, she burned from within for him.
The silk of her chiton whispered against his chest, the fullness of her breasts straining against the thin fabric. Only in the frigid water had her nipples tightened and tingled like this, but she was far from chilled. So hot. Panting in soft puffs, when his thumb circled a crested peak, air sailed into her lungs. A joy near exquisitely painful spellbound her as his hands covered her breasts. She burned but he blazed. She arched into his touch, desperate to be consumed by his fire. Hard muscles slicked under her palms as she traced them down his spine, wanting him closer. Beneath her jaw, he found a pulse point and licked with each frantic pound of her heart. Taric was her heart.
Myla tasted her name on lips that commandeered hers, his tongue thrusting inside to claim her breath. Air kissed her shoulders when he tugged the chiton from her, parting it and peeling it down her arms until she was bare to her braided leather belt before him.
A sizzle ignited the room when skin met skin. How different he was. Hard where she was soft, growing harder while she grew softer. Damper. Emptier. His mouth slicked down her throat, his tongue delving in the hollow above her collarbone. Need infused her. Hungry, so hungry. So hot. His hands cupped her naked breasts and flameless fire engulfed her. She could not possibly burn any more and not ignite. She was black powder and he was a tinder spark. One touch, one more deliciously wanton touch and her mind would shatter.
His lips closed around one hardened peak in a wash of wet intensity.
“Hey Tar, do you—?”
“Get out!”
Bryton’s mouth fell open at Taric’s shouted command. He whipped in reverse and closed the door before the echo died away, but the spell had broken.
Shoving Taric back, Myla scrambled upright. The burn inside her replaced by stinging shame, she jerked her chiton into place with tremulous fingers. She closed her eyes and in uncharacteristic cowardice began to mist without farewell.
“No! Stay, my guardian. Remain with me.”
Magic halted her escape and she crashed into physical form with excruciating force. She welcomed the pain, an ache to mask the loss of his ardor. Her arms wrapped about her body to hide the evidence of his mouth, her nipple marking the silk with a wet smudge. She wanted but she should not. Protection not pleasure, she tried to remind herself, but all her mind could grasp was that her body yearned for his. Wracked with conflicting emotions, she squatted, curled into a ball and buried her face in her crossed arms. If only she had the power to open the stone and curl beneath the floor.
“Myla.” Rough with his desire, Taric’s voice stretched to her, along with an open palm seeking to comfort, but she pushed it aside with a headshake.
His hands cupped her head. His stroke was gentle, sliding through her tresses down to her shoulders and onto her quivering arms. “Myla, please, don’t cry. Come here, my love.”
She lacked the ability to fight him. He pulled her up and then close. It was not passion which flowed through him but compassion. Comfort was as foreign as lust but much easier to swallow so she slid her arms around his shoulders, stealing what strength she could through human touch.
His arms hard against her ribs, he hugged her tightly, face buried in her hair.
“Let me return. You swore to me.” A fragile crack in her watery tone whispered against his neck.
He shook his head. “I know. I’m sorry. This is the last time. Talk to me. Why the tears? I didn’t know you could cry.”
“I didn’t either.”
His blond head snapped back. Brows angled sharply, he searched her face. “What did you say?”
“I didn’t know I could cry. I never have before.”
“Didn’t… Myla, you said didn’t, not did not. I’ve never heard you shorten words…and you’re crying…like a human woman.”
“I—I—I do not know why.” Confused and still quivering, she stepped from his embrace and he let her. “Perhaps I have spent too much time in your company of late. Rarely before have I seen you with this frequency. It must be the exposure which dilutes my cadence.”
A furrow creased his forehead and he regarded her with intense sable eyes. “Myla, what’s the longest time you’ve spent with me?”
Casting her mind back, she reviewed each time she had come to him. It was an excellent diversionary move and allowed her to grab the reins on her wildly erratic emotions. While she thought, Taric began to pace almost absently, as if unaware he moved. He possessed the stealth of her jaguar, sleek and powerful in a tightly bound body.
“I spent many hours lounging on your bed as your pet while you studied. You liked to stroke my fur while you read.”
“We’ll talk about Soot later. Besides, that’s when I was a child.” He waved his hand as he paced and a smile tilted her lips. Balic had the same mannerism when troubled. Did Taric realize this? “Since I’ve been an adult, what has been the longest?”
“I suppose…the night we dined. That night I was of this world for several hours. Then in the meadow, it was…perhaps an hour I was with you.”
The furrow deepened, a rough fist rubbing his chin in contemplation and his tread lengthened. He never could stay still while sorting through problems. She supposed he may have walked thousands of miles within this chamber, most since he came of age to take over military duties. The past seven seasons had not yet worn a trough in the stone but she imagined it would before peace was found, unless Taric could achieve it sooner than simply awaiting Marchen’s natural death.
How fearsome he looked. Without armor or sword, wearing only his breeches, he embodied the soldier. There were no soft places on his body, other than his lips, and not one drop of excess flesh. He trained with his men daily and harshly, knowing any day could call them back to battle. Taric didn’t sit on the sidelines, directing troop maneuvers with a map and words, but charged into the fray with shouts and might.
She had argued this strategy once when he’d been knocked from Falcon’s back. He’d been younger, leaner and bleeding alongside the campfire when she appeared to him.
“Good day, my charge.”
“Myla!” He shot to his feet but became unsteady and the next moment his ass hit the ground.
“That swing was too close. Had I not strengthened your armor, you would not be speaking at this moment. You should stay behind the fight line and direct your soldiers from safety.”
His dry, cracked lips had thinned, baring blood-smeared teeth, and he’d glared at her with a fiery pride. “Go away, Myla. No man will ever die in my place. Guardian or not, I’ll do my duty and defend my land and my people with my own blood. I don’t need to hide behind your magical skirt.”
Conceding to his honor, Myla had simply bowed her head and misted back to him.
Such valor increased her pride in her master. It also increased her responsibility. Many more times she had been forced to bleed her essence along his armor, doubling its strength to prevent his serious injury or worse. That he still bore bruises from the blows was painful enough to her, but she had stopped the most damaging of swings. Marchen was cruel and vindictive, seeking Taric out with his most hardened and practiced warriors. That the enemy chose to stay behind the lines and not risk his own hide, she considered not only cowardice but loathsome. He sought to bring misery to his nemesis by felling his only child but never by his own hand.
“I can’t think anymore.” Fatigue lined Taric’s face when he turned to her. “I’ll figure it out later, but I still have some questions for you.”
“Ask and I will answer.”
“Will you?” He gave her no chance to respond. Taking her hand, he pulled her to his chair and down to his lap. She started to struggle, the replay of early evening too vivid, when his palm cupped her cheek. “Stop. Just sit and listen.”
Myla forced her spine not to relax and sat stiffly on his thigh. She could not meet the laughing eyes under his arched brow. He laughed at her resistance and it mocked her arrogance, making her actions seem childish. Still, she couldn’t force the muscles to loosen.
“Fine, perch on my knee like a bird on a fence. You’ll just tire yourself. I don’t bite, Myla. Well, at least, I won’t. Come on, ease back here.” She allowed him to coax her until her back curved against his chest and arm, her legs draped over his hip. It was much more comfortable and much more intimate. “Now, tell me. Why were you crying? Did I hurt you?”
“No.” Stunned, she looked him full in the face. Concern shaded his eyes, the circles below bellowing his need for rest. Deep in her chest something broke, and tenderness rushed in. Her palm met the scratch of his beard shadow before she knew it had moved. “You can not harm me. You are so weary. Sleep now.”
“Later. Then why did you cry? Did I misunderstand? I thought you…were enjoying being with me.”
“I did…I mean…I was but…” Floundering, she struggled to find words for thoughts she barely comprehended. “I am your guardian. I fight for you, Taric, protect you, keep you from harm. Fear has never entered my mind…until you touch me.”
“You’re afraid of me?”
“No, not of you.” Her swallow was tight and tasted of salt. “I do not understand these feelings that erupt inside me when you kiss me. I do not like them. They confuse me.”
Taric studied her face for long moments before he sighed and dropped his head back to the tufted chair. “I suppose they do. No other man has ever touched you.”
“That is not true.”
His head snapped down and shock paled his face. “Who?”
“Bryton kissed my hand the night we spoke. Long ago, during your abduction, a guard fondled me. He kissed my neck, grabbed my behind and squeezed my breast. Only with you do I feel the fear.”
“When you’re with me, what are you afraid of?”
Myla bowed her head but his fingers lifted her chin until he raised her eyes to his. Dishonor shrank her spirit. A warrior did not admit their fear but she could not lie to him. “You make me burn inside. I feel as though I will explode and cease to be. I feel…hungered and empty but no meal could fill my ache. My skin itches and craves your touch, my heart pounds, my stomach quivers. Even after I return to you, the sensations linger and plague my rest. I do not like this.”
The brown of his gaze deepened, shifting from maple to walnut. “I know. I feel the same burn, the same need.”
“You have felt these things before. I have not.”
“No, Myla.” Slowly, he shook his head but his eyes never left hers. “I�
��ve never felt these things, not like this, never for any woman. Only for you.”
“But how can that be? You have known women, been with them, cared for them.”
“They weren’t you.”
On the desk behind him, the candle dripped wax, puddling to the curved base. The taper shrank, forfeiting its life to push back the gloom and her gaze riveted with his. The fingers beneath her chin caressed up, over her cheek to bury themselves in her hair. Her hand left his jaw, sliding to his nape. Their mouths met in sweet innocence.
Somehow knowing he journeyed with her along this path of the unfamiliar lessened her fright and she timorously embraced the sensations pouring through her soul. They were warm and thrilling and pleasant when viewed from beside him.
His words caressed her lips in the softest down of a whisper. “Tell me. Is it only your body that burns, Myla? When I touch you like this—” his palm eased from her hair and stroked down her neck, his thumb slipping to the dip above her collarbone, “—can you feel it in you soul?”
“Yes.” Her shuddered sigh racked her body and he drew her close. The spice of his soap wafting from his skin mingled with a pure male elixir. Greedily, she inhaled, breathing in the fragrance of man, spice and want. His arms around her were a soothing blanket, keeping the unknown wolves at bay. She allowed her bones to melt into his and he simply held her.
Life ceased outside the room. There was no war, no invading friends, no duties to attend to and oversee. Calm permeated the air. She did not understand what was happening but it didn’t matter for now. She was with Taric—her body, her heart, her spirit.
Wrapped in his embrace, she snuggled in peaceful joy until the candle sputtered with its final acrid gasp. Darkness fell, broken only by the stars’ fading gleam through the window. It granted just enough light to see his eyes begin to droop.
Stroking his hair, she whispered against his ear. “Sleep, Taric. Call me to you and rest.”
