Enslaved by a Viking

by Delilah Devlin

  Aliyah’s face was set into harsh lines that deepened the delicate brackets around her mouth. “I would have kept you in the saray. An exotic. A man like no other. Already the list of women and men who would have sought a single night alone with you was long.”

  “You should have known, mistress, that I could not be contained. I am a Viking. Not a sex-thrall.”

  “So you all keep saying,” she said, circling behind him, “and yet the nineteen remain in my tender care. Why could you not have done the same?”

  Eirik kept his face forward, refusing to follow her as she continued to circle like a lynx around its prey. “I don’t know what manner of men you have kept before us, but we are not the same breed. Our pride is in our fists and our valor, not in our prowess in bed.”

  “I thought we were coming to an understanding, you and I,” she said, whispering in his ear. “But you used the favor I bestowed and betrayed me. I’ll not tolerate that. I’ll not lose face. You will be punished and your Vikings will see their own fate in your blood should they decide to follow in your path.”

  Bethel gasped as she hovered at the door.

  Aliyah stepped beside him, and turned toward the attendant, her eyes narrowing. “Get out,” she said through thin lips. “Wait with the guard down the corridor.”

  As soon as they were alone, Aliyah’s gaze swung to Eirik. And in that moment, she ceased to be beautiful. Her face reddened, her lips pulled away from her teeth, and she flew at him, arm rising.

  The first lash of her whip struck his neck and face. Eirik licked at the blood on his lip and spat it at her feet.

  Aliyah screamed, teeth bared. The whip landed again and again, as she circled frantically around his body, some strikes glancing, some searing his flesh, but she was out of control, striking like a madwoman.

  His body jerked against the lash, but he held back his cries, molded his face into a bitter mask, eyes scalding as he glared.

  At last, her arm dropped, trembling. She panted with exertion. The whip fell from her limp hand to the dirt covering the floor. Her gaze glittered with angry tears. Then she blinked, her expression settling into a calm mask. She reached back to touch her hair, then gave a low, animal cry when she discovered that hair had fallen from the clasp. She turned away, spun her long hair into a loop, and pinned it again, then slowly faced him. Her gaze swept his frame and blanched.

  A gurgling moan slid from inside her. She hurried to the door, reaching blindly, and knocked.

  When it opened, the guard stuck his head inside, grinned at Eirik, then held it open as Aliyah swept through it again, her cowl over her head.

  After the door closed, Eirik swayed against his bonds and laid his face against the tender inside of his forearm to wipe away the blood smearing his cheeks. His skin was on fire from the sweat seeping into a dozen bloody wounds. But they were clotting; already the blood was slowing as his heartbeats calmed.

  Weary, he sagged, drawing in his elbows to relieve the pull against his shoulder sockets, and rested. The bitch Aliyah couldn’t be trusted not to unleash her rage on the others. She was insane. He had no choice but to find a way to win.

  Eighteen

  Fatin kept her eyes lowered as she passed the guards positioned outside the door of the lockup. So long as she didn’t make eye contact, she might slip past without having to make “payment,” or so Adem had advised her. And he should know, given how long he’d lived inside these walls. So far, so good.

  She’d curled up her lip and snarled when he’d handed her the silver slave’s cuff and loin skirt. He’d paid her way into the bowels of the arena, but she’d have to pose as a thrall, come to bathe and service a gladiator.

  “Not fair a dead man should have something that pretty,” one of the guards said to his comrade, as though she weren’t standing right there.

  The one he spoke to had just unlocked the metal door at the entrance of the last tunnel, but his gaze was on her bare chest. The air was cool and her nipples had dimpled, the tips drawing tight.

  His slight grin said he thought he might have something to do with it.

  She tossed back her hair and fought not to mouth off, or her pose as a downtrodden thrall would have a very short life indeed. “Please, sir, I have my orders. I’m to tend to the Viking.”

  “Pretty little thing like you might need a little stretch first to fit the giant,” he said, his finger toggling one nipple.

  Bile burned the back of her throat, and she hoped he didn’t try to move any closer, because his body odor would have her losing her last meal all over his sandals.

  Instead of moving in, he dropped the finger to lift the cloth concealing the contents of the basket she carried on one hip. “No bandages?”

  “Does he need them?”

  “The other one, Miss High-and-Mighty herself, left with a whip coiled around her arm. Softened him up a bit for the spectacle. Blood always draws the ferals out. Makes ’em mean.”

  Fatin placed a hand against her mouth.

  “Looks green, that one,” his friend warned. “Let her go before we have to live with the stink.”

  The one beside the door stepped aside, but she still had to squeeze between him and the doorframe to get past. Her breasts scraped over the coarse cotton of his grimy shirt.

  “You’ll be needing this,” he said, holding up a key.

  When she reached for it, he pulled it away, forcing her to press harder against him to pluck the key dangling off his forefinger.

  She didn’t bother trying to hide her anger.

  He chuckled. “This one’s got some fire in her,” he said to his companion. To Fatin, he whispered, “I’ll be waiting for you when you come back.”

  She hurried down the dark passageway, lit only by a torch in a sconce every thirty paces. An artifice those who ran the events insisted on—keeping the arena and the games as close to tradition as they could.

  The corridor was a rough-cut tunnel through solid stone. This deep beneath the river, which ran beside the arena, water seeped through the stone strata, dripping here and there and feeding the slimy molds and lichens that clung to the rock walls.

  The air was cool, brushing against her breasts, whipping up her skirt, but she couldn’t care. Not after hearing that Aliyah had been there first and that she might have harmed Eirik.

  Fatin passed the first barred dugout cells, but hurried along after quick glances inside at the occupants. All monstrously large, scarred, and with heavily corded muscles. Her heart beat at a heavy, dull throb. Which of these would Eirik fight?

  She nearly passed up the next cell. The figure hanging from chains in the shadows didn’t move, barely breathed, it seemed. She stepped closer to the bars and squinted into the darkness, then gasped when she recognized him.

  Her hands shook as she unlocked his cell door. She closed it behind her, then locked it again to ensure the guard didn’t try to follow her inside. Then she hurried toward Eirik and set the basket beside his feet.

  “Eirik,” she whispered. She didn’t know where to touch him. So many bloody stripes and angry welts covered his skin. “Eirik,” she said again, then cupped the unmarked side of his face. She stretched toward him, kissed his cheek and mouth. “Wake up, Viking. Eirik.”

  He stirred, his knees straightening to raise him, his arms moving forward, wrapping around her in a crushing embrace. His growl, an animalistic, pain-filled rumble, alarmed her every bit as much as the embrace squeezing the breath out of her.

  “Eirik, it’s me, Fatin.”

  His head shook; his eyes opened to squint.

  “Let me go. I have an ore pot with me. I can’t help you if I can’t see how badly you’re hurt.”

  “’Tis only scratches,” he said, his words sounding slightly slurred. His head canted. “Fatin?”

  “Yes, Eirik.” She was so relieved she leaned closer and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him hard.

  Air hissed between his teeth.

  Instantly, she let him go. “Sorry. Let
me tend your wounds. Adem packed the basket with things he thought you’d need. I have cloths and ointment. But you have to let me go.”

  “Right.” His hold eased but his arms didn’t drop away entirely. His face bent toward her, his gaze taking in the sight of their chests mashed together. He blinked. “You’re naked. Why are you naked?”

  “I’ll tell you while I clean you up.”

  “You’re dressed like a thrall,” he said, his tone surly.

  “It’s a disguise. Adem paid so that I could sneak inside and see you.”

  “’S not safe for you, dressed like that. Guards are bastards.”

  “Did they do this to you?”

  “Bitch. Aliyah.” His beard-roughened cheek scraped against hers as he bent closer. “Getting blood on you.”

  Fatin gave a faint smile. “I don’t mind. Might keep the bastards’ hands off me when I leave.”

  “Thor’s bollocks,” he gritted out. “Not a man, Fatin. Not a man when I can’t protect you. Can’t keep you safe.”

  “Eirik.” She sighed and held him, her back straining because so much of his weight sagged against her.

  “Just tired.”

  Fatin stroked his hair, figuring it was safe to touch him there. They swayed together, torsos suspended on the chains. Skin to skin, she was right where she wanted to be. She pressed a kiss against his cheek. “Were you hurt by the men who captured you at the cannery?”

  His mouth touched her shoulder. “No, but they beat me. Kicked me after they blasted me with their spears.”

  “I can’t undo your chains.”

  “They mean to keep me hanging. Can’t sit or sleep.”

  Raising her head, she eyed the chains, noting the hooks in the ceiling. “I think I can loosen them enough that you can reach the floor, but you’ll have to stand.”

  His shoulders slumped.

  Fatin unwrapped herself from around him, but he still hugged her with his thighs and arms. “You have to move away. Didn’t know you Vikings could be such babies.”

  A low growl rattled through him, and she nearly smiled, only that would have hurt too much.

  Eirik gripped her forearms and pushed himself erect, then quickly dropped his hands, bracing them on his knees as he rose. He swayed, but he was standing.

  “I need your help to reach the ceiling,” she said, locking her gaze with his. His expression was less blurred, sharpening by the moment. When he nodded, she sighed her relief.

  “You need to lift me. Or to let me climb on you. Whichever you think you can manage.”

  His brows drew together in a fierce scowl as he concentrated. Then he braced apart his legs even farther and cupped his hands in front of him.

  Fatin gripped his shoulders, stepped onto his outer thigh, then into his hands, and reached for the chain above him. It was a matter of threading the loops through the hook, but they were rough metal and kept snagging. When she was through, she tapped him to let him know to let her down.

  When she was on the ground she gave him a hug. “I’m amazed you did that without shaking.”

  “You weigh nothing,” he said gruffly.

  “But you’re hurt and exhausted.”

  “My blood needed a little stir, is all,” he said, with an all-toofamiliar heat warming the sound.

  Her gaze fell away. Warmth bloomed on her cheeks. “You should try it now. Make sure you have enough slack.”

  Eirik pulled the chains in front of him and knelt on the ground, then sat, his back against the wall behind him. His breath left him in a deep sigh. “I’m grateful for that.”

  Fatin knelt on the ground next to him and gently tucked her fingers under her chin to raise his face into the dim light. “This gash is going to leave a very sexy scar,” she said, doing her best to hide her revulsion for the deep, bloody score that ran from the edge of the cheekbone down to his jaw.

  Then her gaze swept the front of his nude body. He hadn’t been as fortunate elsewhere. Dark bruising, shaped like the toes of boots, marked his belly and sides. “They kicked you.”

  “Yes. She wanted my face and balls spared. She hopes to still have use of them if I survive.” His lips curved into a grimace.

  If I survive . . . Fatin’s stomach clenched. Her breaths shortened. She turned aside and fought to calm herself.

  “Don’t tell me you will miss me, bounty hunter,” he said softly.

  Fatin’s mouth trembled, and she sniffed. But then she raised her chin and pinned him with a glare. “You will not die. You’re just looking for sympathy. I have none for the likes of you.”

  “So long as we are of an accord, elskling.” He laid his head back against the stone wall behind him and closed his eyes. “You have something in that basket to ease my tiny scratches?”

  “Adem sent a healing wand and salves. It’ll be painful, but you’ll feel better when I’m done.”

  “I’ll just rest while you work. If you don’t mind . . .”

  She preferred not having his knowing gaze trained on her. She flipped back the cover on the basket, and pulled the unguents and wand from inside. “Drink this,” she said, sliding a jar of wine mixed with a healing potion into his hands.

  He drank it, his throat working urgently. “I was thirstier than I thought,” he said, wiping his forearm across his mouth and handing her back the jar. Then he turned away, resting his head again on the wall.

  After she opened the pot of ore to brighten the room, Fatin worked quickly. Although not trained, she’d had recent experience to guide her. She worked the salve into the cuts, massaged more into the bruises, and then turned on the wand and passed it slowly over every injury.

  The cuts closed, the wand mending the tears like a zipper and erasing the discolored bruising as she rubbed it over his skin. When she was done, she sat back on her heels. “I’m finished. How do you feel?”

  He cracked open an eyelid. “I must have one of those to bring home with me.” He ran a hand over his ribs and winced.

  “It’s not completely helpful with knitting bones. Those will take time.”

  He smiled, his expression clearing of fatigue and pain. “My thanks. And now that I can think, what are you doing here, Fatin?”

  Rather than answer directly, because she didn’t know who might be listening outside the cell, she opened the lid covering the basin in the basket and soaked a cloth in the grass-scented water. She began to stroke his flesh, cleansing him. “I wish I could have warmed it first.”

  His eyelids dragged downward. “It’s refreshing. Don’t stop.”

  The cloth was no protection from the heat of his skin or the curves and hollows of his muscles. She caressed him shoulder to belly, easing under his arms to wash him.

  His heavy-lidded gaze never left her face, and she wished she hadn’t been so quick to light the room. She’d have liked to hide her blushes. “I would wash your hair, but I have only enough water to bathe your body. You’ll have to stand for me to finish.”

  A small smile tipped one corner of his mouth, but he pushed easily from the floor and stepped forward, giving her room to rub his back and shoulders.

  When she knelt behind him, his feet moved apart. “Don’t miss a spot, sweet Fatin.”

  She liked that he called her that now, a reminder of their short, shared history, and that he still held a grudge—although she thought that maybe his anger with her was lessening. That maybe he did care a little bit. That phrase was beginning to feel like an endearment.

  Drawing closer to more interesting territory, she dropped the cloth and used her hands to cup water and soothe it over his buttocks. They were hard and rounded, proof of his power. These and his thighs were what he used to power his cock inside a woman. As she stroked, his muscles rippled beneath her questing hands.

  Her own skin tightened, warmed. Her nipples bloomed.

  She bent forward, smoothed her hands around his front, and fondled his cock while she pressed kisses against his perfect, masculine backside.

  “Fatin . . .
” His breath hissed between his teeth.

  “Do I hurt you?” she asked slyly.

  “You are here to serve me?”

  “In all things, Viking,” she said, smiling. “What service do you require?”

  His hand caught hers, closing around her fingers, and he dragged her around his body.

  She ducked beneath the chains and knelt in front of him. His eyes glittered. His hands cupped her face, a thumb gliding across her mouth.

  She licked his thumb, then sucked it into her mouth, telling him silently what she wanted to do, and moaning when his hands sank into her hair and he guided her forward.

  Letting go of her, he gripped his shaft, rubbed a thumb over the tip, gliding it in the shiny fluid glazing the broad head.

  She stuck out her tongue and took it, painting her mouth with his pre-ejaculate, then biting her mouth as she tasted him.

  His hand glided along his shaft; then he cocked an eyebrow and gently slapped her cheek with his cock. First one cheek, then the other.

  Each time, she angled her head to capture him, but he drew away, chuckling softly.

  Her mouth eased into a smile and she looked up, locking with his gaze, then opened her mouth like the bird she was, and waited.

  The plush, round tip circled her mouth. Her tongue stroked it, laving it with wet caresses.

  “I think I like you best like this,” he whispered. At her questioning gaze, he added, “On your knees. Adoring me.”

  She snorted. “Adoring you?” But somehow the word felt right. She did adore his rich, musky scent, the lush feel of his satiny head, the heat in the gaze that raked her face and homed in on her mouth . . . Yes, she adored him.

  She licked her lips, then opened again, challenging him to stop playing and let her have him. But she didn’t leave it to his whim. She cupped his balls, her fingers closing around the hard orbs to tug and massage.

  A low growl rumbled through him. His cock slapped her cheek again, but then he clutched her jaw, his thumb curving over her bottom teeth. He opened her wider and pushed himself inside.

  She’d have opened around him, and eagerly so, but he was telling her he was in charge. The man wearing the chains and manacles would master her. Which suited her fine. She closed her eyes and let him fuck her mouth.