Jane’s heart sank and her belly felt emptier than before.
Suddenly Jane felt Zaren’s eyes turn on her: pinning her, holding her as if she were affixed to the wall—just like the helpless butterfly specimens her father studied.
Her mouth dry and her hands trembling, Jane waited until the other woman had gone through the door and it closed behind her…and only then did she look at Zaren.
She was terrified by what she might see in his face…but his eyes were in shadow. All she could discern was the set curve of his mouth and the strong shape of his jaw.
“Zaren,” she whispered, her voice hardly more than a breath. And shaky. Very shaky. “I—”
“Come here,” he ordered. His voice was…not his own. It wasn’t filled with love or kindness. It was emotionless. Frighteningly neutral.
Jane couldn’t resist obeying any more than she could have stabbed him with a knife. She moved to him as if he drew her by a silken thread. Her heart thudded; her knees were weak; her insides were a mess of hopeful butterflies and writhing snakes of terror.
“Zaren,” she said again as she approached the bed. She wanted him to say something. To let her know that he still felt something.
That he still loved her.
She still couldn’t see his eyes—and she wasn’t certain whether that was by accident or design. Her knees shook as she approached the bed, where he lay in all of the glorious splendor that was his body: long, powerful, sculpted…tanned golden from decades under the sun. His hair, now shorter than it had ever been in the jungle, was nut brown and just brushed his shoulders. He had very little hair on his body and face, and she knew what there was grew soft and springy, like moss.
But his eyes…they were still shadowed.
His mouth was not. “Come here,” he said again in that same voice.
“Zaren,” she began again, tremulous, reaching for him. “I must—”
“Be silent.” His words slapped her like a whip, but Jane had little time to react, for he reached for her.
And this time, unlike when any other man reached for her, groped at her, grabbed or took, Jane went to him. She fairly threw herself into his arms, sliding up along his warm, hard body, smelling his beautiful, familiar, beloved scent…and immediately found his mouth.
He tasted like Zaren. Oh, God, at last. At last. Tears stung her eyes as joy sang though her.
Together they would figure this out. Together they would escape.
His mouth was soft and firm and sensual, the same mouth she loved, the same mouth she’d taught to speak and kiss and taste. She tasted him now, gently sucking on his lips, taking his sleek tongue deep into her mouth, tracing the insides of his mouth with her own tongue. She wanted to crawl up inside him and become one with this man—this man who was so tender and strong and intelligent and vital.
This man she loved.
“I love you, Zaren,” she whispered against his lips. “Zaren, you are—”
He smothered whatever she might have said with his lips, rolling her onto her back and sliding his leg between hers. She arched into him, her fingers closing over the swells of muscle at his shoulders, feeling them slide powerfully beneath his skin.
Jane couldn’t get enough of him, tasting his smooth, salty skin, feeling his hands slide gently and lovingly over her body: her breasts, the swell of her belly, the curve of her hip. He touched her with reverence and love. He kissed her with gentleness and passion. He made soft, pleasing animal sounds in her ear as he nuzzled the sweet, sensitive skin along her throat, avoiding the collar and taking her pulsing skin gently into his mouth…licking and sucking on her as she sighed and closed her eyes, sinking into lush pleasure. Sweet, hot, unhurried, undemanding pleasure.
This. This was Zaren. This was what they shared.
Jane quaked delicately and felt the sting of glorious tears at her eyes when he loved her breasts—tasting the skin that had been mauled and tortured by so many others. She closed her eyes and buried her hands in his thick, soft hair, holding his head close to her as warmth and love rolled through her, settling gently and insistently in the pit of her belly.
Lust, desire, passion…yes, it was all there. But this. This was love. This was what she wanted, needed, craved.
When Zaren parted her legs with his hand, Jane’s eyes opened at last. She opened herself to him in a way she did for no other—willingly, easily, and with the desire to please him as much as he meant to please her.
That was the difference: the touch, the layers beneath the raw emotions of desire and lust, the need to give him what she also desired. The drive to please him always, before finding her own relief.
His fingers found her, and her body responded with pleasure—without fight, without strife, without simple, superficial need. She simply responded with heat and love. That was it. That was why it was Zaren for her—why it would always be Zaren who could bring this depth of emotion and pleasure from her.
Though there might be others—though they might wring the orgasm from her, might torture it forth, drag it from her panting body—it was only Zaren to whom she gave it willingly and with joy.
When he slid himself inside her, Jane burst into silent tears at the pleasure of it…the warm, tender rightness of it. She swore he shuddered too, that he undulated and heaved deep inside, in his heart, when he gathered her close to stroke and fill and slide.
She was wet—wet with love and desire and need. She lifted and met his easy thrusts, his long, slow strokes that made the tears well in her eyes with the beauty of it all.
She captured his mouth with hers, feasting on his sensual lips, knowing this intimate act was pleasurable only with the man she loved—for it was there that their hearts threaded together. Their mouths, their lips, their words, their life.
“Zaren,” she said, sobbing quietly against him. “I love you. Please forgive me. Please understand.”
He arched suddenly, thrusting home deeply as he came, his face damp and wet against her cheek as he gathered her closely. He murmured something into her ear, but she couldn’t hear him—for Jane had tipped into a glorious burst of pleasure and warmth, love and tenderness.
She felt his lips move, felt his breath against her ear—but his voice was too low and deep, and she was crying out with her own release, while at the same time trying to keep it soft so they wouldn’t be heard.
He collapsed on the bed next to her, and Jane rolled toward him, desperate to touch and hold him close…to speak with him, to see his eyes at last…
But he rolled away. His movements were sharp and deliberate. Her heart shattered when she realized he was getting off the bed, moving away from her…turning his back to her.
“A fitting goodbye,” he said in a strong, cold voice as he walked over to a small pool that graced the corner of this room.
“Zaren?” she said, unable to believe her ears. “What do you mean, goodbye?” Surely she hadn’t heard him right.
He sank into the tub, scanning her with a glance that was just as remote as before. “I’m leaving very soon. I didn’t expect to see you again, as you have been very busy with Zenovia. But how kind of you”—this was a sneer; something she’d never heard from him—“to take the time to visit me once more.”
“Zaren, no,” she managed, even as the ground seemed to fall away from her feet—leaving her cold and empty and confused. But mostly cold. Ice cold.
She began to shake. “No, you must understand—I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to be with her, with anyone other than you. Zaren, you know me! You know me better than anyone! How can you believe…I would…want…” Her voice broke as stunned tears burst free.
“I’ve looked away too many times, Jane,” he said, busying himself with a pot that appeared to contain soap. “It’s clear you are unable to be faithful, to remain true to me—and it’s just as clear you are enamored with your new lover. I’ll return to England with the tale that you died of sea poison. Your father will mourn you, but it’s for the best. I
t would break his heart if he knew the truth.”
“No.” Jane realized she was crying, sobbing, very nearly shouting—and she didn’t care. How could he do this? How could he believe this of her? “Zaren, no, please. Even if you don’t believe that I love you, don’t leave me here. Not here, not with her—take me back to England with you.”
He looked up at her at that moment, meeting her eyes directly for the first time since she’d entered the chamber. “That is not going to happen, Jane. I am done with you. Now, begone with you.”
He flung his hand out sharply, just as he had done with the dark-haired woman from earlier, and Jane stared at him, stunned. Utterly stunned.
“But Zaren…I don’t understand. This isn’t—this isn’t you. What have they done to you?” She was grasping—grasping at any explanation, anything to account for his demeanor and words and actions.
But he’d risen from the tub, the water cascading from his beautiful body, and yanked on a bellpull. “I told you to leave.”
Jane was still standing there, tears streaming down her face, body utterly numb and empty, when a servant came in.
Zaren didn’t even glance up as Jane was taken away.
— VII —
Zaren could not bear to look at Jane except for that single, brief moment when he met her eyes.
It took every bit of courage and strength to wipe emotion from his expression and pin her with disdain and revulsion—and then he had to look way.
His feet, hidden by the water, were curled into fist-like positions so tightly he thought his toes might fracture, pressing against the tile as they did. And his hands, one beneath the water, digging sharply into his own thigh and the other ruthlessly destroying the contents of the pot of soap—all they wanted to do was touch her again. Pull her to him, hold her close. Never release her.
Instead, he kept himself cold, distant, remote, angry.
It was his only chance. Their only chance.
Zenovia and Akenov both must believe Zaren had nothing but hatred and disgust for his wife—and he knew they listened and watched. He could smell them. He’d scented them immediately after Jane had entered the bedchamber—and he was thankful for that. Otherwise he might have made a grave error.
He’d awakened the moment Jane approached the window. Of course he had—he felt her, smelled her, even through his deep sleep. She would always nudge him, attract him, connect with him. He would always find her, like an animal finding its way back home—no matter where it was taken.
Nevertheless, he made a show of waking, for he recognized the presence of Zenovia and Akenov coming from behind a different wall—and so he knew they weren’t meant to be seen by either himself or Jane.
Which meant this was a test. Or a trap.
The only way he could tell Jane he loved her—of course he loved her; of course he would never leave her—and that he wanted only her, that she didn’t need to ask forgiveness from him because he understood—was by making love to her.
And he did. It won’t be the last time, he told himself fiercely. Though every time he touched his wife, he feared it could be. They had so many enemies. They were in such danger all the time, it seemed.
But he’d shown her with his lips and touch, with his long, easy loving—stroking and gentling against her. He’d known from the raw, intense musk rolling from both Zenovia and Jane yesterday in the court room that whatever had passed between them had been filled with violence and strife.
It would not be so with him and Jane. Never.
And he did his best to show her this. To demonstrate his love.
Because then he had to destroy her. He ripped the last bit of comfort and ease from her, tore her heart into chunks, and built up the largest, tallest wall between them—and then he dismissed her.
The devastation in her large sea-colored eyes had nearly undone him.
Zaren brought up two large handfuls of water to wash the tears from his face, splashing it into his eyes and nose with frustration.
Then he calmed himself. She would understand. He hoped she already did—but it had been necessary for him to be brutal and rough in order to make Jane’s reaction true and believable.
It was necessary. It was the only way.
And now he must continue this charade for another short while before he could take his Jane far from this place…and have her once more with him. His partner. His love.
He yanked on the bellpull once again, this time twice—which was the signal for the dark-haired beauty to return.
Zaren would do what he must to play out this charade, but it would be only Jane whom he saw when he touched the dark-haired woman. Only Jane, with her fiery hair, lush curves, and sweet, puckered mouth.
He hoped she would forgive him for what he must do, for to live without Jane’s love would be to live in hell.
— VIII —
Jane stumbled out into the courtyard, blinded by tears. She could hardly breathe. Her body was numb, and her heart—she didn’t believe it would ever function properly again.
“Well, well…how did your clandestine meeting go, my darling, disobedient slave?”
Jane stumbled and looked up at Zenovia’s cold, bitter voice. The expression on her mistress’s face was terrifying, but Jane had no more capacity for fear or apprehension.
Her life was over. She cared for nothing any longer.
It was true. Zaren loathed her.
He truly had renounced her.
Whatever happened to Jane now…she didn’t care. It couldn’t be any more painful than what she was experiencing as her heart was rent into pieces.
Thus, she hardly noticed when strong hands grabbed her arms and manhandled her away. She didn’t even hear Zenovia’s rough, angry orders as she was taken to a small chamber swathed in dark draperies.
She barely recognized the feel of her arms being yanked apart, violently spread as far as they would go—and then even farther—and then her wrists affixed to the wall behind her.
And her legs—kicked apart, shackled at the ankle—spread so far she felt the dull ache in her hip sockets.
Jane didn’t care. She was numb.
And even when they took her knees, spreading them wide to open herself to the chamber at large—Jane had no fear. No apprehension. She hardly noticed when they bolted her knees wide against the wall with more chains.
“Do you see what you’ve wrought upon yourself, my sleek little cunt?” Zenovia said, coming up close enough to brush against Jane’s open, vulnerable body. She slid a rough, greedy hand down over her belly, flicking her fingertip over the tiny hooded pip that flared out from her exposed quim.
Jane jolted at the sudden sharp pain, then cried out when Zenovia did it again, and again, and again…
Soon she was raw and red and swollen, pounding with pain and unpleasant arousal, breathless from the torture.
And Zenovia wasn’t finished. Not yet.
For she had a whip next…a long, slender, red one. It looked as if it was braided from silk, but there were tiny little beads woven in its tail.
Tiny little beads that stung and bit into Jane’s skin like thorns. They pattered over her flesh with every swing of the whip—over her breasts, her arms, belly, legs, and even the plump lips of her labia.
Zenovia wielded the whip with fury, her eyes blazing and her teeth bared, striking over and over and over.
Jane could do nothing but take the blows, submit to the beating—yet even then, even as her flesh stung and bled and cried, she felt nothing as painful as the knowledge that Zaren was gone from her forever.
At last, the blows ceased raining down on her, and Zenovia flung the whip away with strident fury.
“You have betrayed me, Jane. I should kill you. I should kill you right now.” Her face was close to Jane’s, her eyes boring into hers as she brought the steel of a knife to her throat. “I should slice your head from your shoulders. That’s what I do to traitors. To those who betray me. That’s what I do to slaves who don’t know t
heir place.”
Jane swallowed, keeping her head lifted high, and her eyes straight ahead. Do it. Please, do it.
There was a soft click and the brass collar that had encircled her neck for days fell away. Jane’s pulse stuttered as the knife moved in, cold and sharp against her skin.
A sudden calm washed over her. She almost smiled.
Yes. Do it.
“I should kill you,” murmured Zenovia. “I should put myself out of this misery.” Then she spun away, flinging the knife off with a vengeance, her voice rising into a wail. “But I can’t. I bloody damned well can’t.”
She turned back to Jane, her face wet with tears, her eyes glittering. “I can’t live without you, my useless slave. You’ve enraptured me to the death.”
Zenovia moved in, cupping Jane’s face in her hands, then covering her mouth with hers. Jane tried to twist away, but her breath was smothered, taken in by the desperate kiss of her mistress.
Jane trembled against the wall as Zenovia determinedly drew her into a spiral of reluctant lust once again. Somehow, her aching arms were freed and her ankles and knees loosened, and Jane sagged, weak and aching—but was caught by her lover just before she collapsed.
“I can’t let you go,” murmured Zenovia, bringing her to the bed, laying her on it almost tenderly. She stroked the bloody welts that covered Jane’s torso, rubbing something cool and soothing on them, over her raw nipples and bruised pip.
“I’ll never let you go, though you fight me at every turn.” Then she dove between Jane’s legs and began to feast on her swollen, tortured pearl until Jane cried out in painful release, writhing and twisting beneath her.
Zenovia dragged her hot, swollen quim over Jane’s thigh, pressing and rolling against her until she too shivered with release.
She rose from the mattress, and Jane felt it shift as her mistress left. And then she was back with that same ugly collar. There was a sharp click as it was latched back in place.
Enraptured Page 6
