Way of The WOlf: The Northlanders Book I

by Shelby Morgan

  "So many wasted years," she sighed. It was the wrong time to ask, but she had to know. "Why did you wait so long?"

  He bent to nipped at her shoulder, tugging playfully as she squirmed harder against him. "A man does not take this gift from a child. I waited for you to tell me you were ready."

  "I was ready a decade ago. I thought–I thought you belonged to another. I would not share you with anyone. Not even my mother."

  One fine ebony eyebrow arched in surprise. "Lady Evalayna? I would have been honored–but no. There was never that between us."

  "Then who–" the question drifted away, forgotten, as he ground his palm against her.

  "Me. Only me for you. For as long as we have together."

  "Yes," she promised. Whether that was a day or a year or a lifetime. "Yes!" she screamed as he rose into her, waves crashing against a weathered shore line. "Yes!"

  And when they came together, the force of the tide and the beach, she knew that no outside influence could mar the day.

  * * * * *

  "May the gods grant me patience."

  "Unlikely, Mistress."

  The amusement in his voice only served to further annoy her. "I should kill ye. Thy impudence is worth the price of your life."

  Fine ebony shoulders rose in a delicate shrug. "You have that right."

  Tranorva felt her tension ease as he stroked the curve of her shoulder with the soft, sensitive tips of his fingers.

  "But you won't, will you, Mistress."

  There was something fascinatingly erotic about being touched so in public. Still, she had an image to maintain. Tranorva resisted the urge to let her head fall back onto his chest. "Why will I not?"

  Élandine nipped lightly against her neck. "You should get to know me much better before you kill me."

  The headache eased as her blood began to heat under his touch. His lips vibrated against her skin as he whispered into her ear. "Why should anything change with your leadership, M'Lady? These petty quarrels have existed for decades within this court. It is not your place to solve all their problems in the space of one day."

  Relief flooded through her. The lines in her forehead softened from her fearsome scowl. She flicked her fingers at the male who stood behind her, waving him away as she rose to tower over the women before her.

  "Silence!"

  Her voice echoed through the sudden quiet of the huge stone room. "Ye deafen me with this incessant babble!" She pointed to the loudest of the contenders, praying that she might remember their names correctly. "Maelyn, this dispute with thy sister is pointless. Why should the disposition of one mere male come between the bonds of thy birth? Share him between ye or slice him in half, I care not, but keep the matter away from my court!"

  "Parsiony. She is the sister of Lanaie, and they are cousins to Maelyn and Analeas."

  She frowned at the male who made a show of admiring her, while inwardly she thanked the gods for his savvy. "Parsiony, have a care lest Lanaie should also prove thy better at swordplay, for I shall certainly rid myself of one of you and give thy House back to thy cousins to divide amongst themselves."

  "Matias, Jeserat, Nellióne and Wayonka."

  The feel of his hands kneading the tension from between her shoulder blades might have been worth the price of this trial alone, even without the added benefit of his tongue tickling her earlobe. "As for the rest of you, Matias, Jeserat, Nellióne and Wayonka, none of these problems began with rise of the Moons, and none will be solved with their setting."

  She waved her hand at the nearest guard. Thankfully it was not necessary that she remember that one's name. "Give me thy sword."

  The guard blinked in surprise. "Yes, M'Lady."

  Tranorva offered the sword hilt first to Élandine. "The lot of ye bicker like children. Ye have become weak. Ye have forgotten the disciplines ye were raised with. I wager this worthless male can defeat any one of ye. The woman who hands me his sword may have second seat at my table beside Maelyn."

  Élandine simply stared at the sword laying in his hands as Nellióne drew her sword and began her advance. "I have no training with this weapon, Mistress. Perhaps you would hold it for me."

  A hiss of displeasure escaped Tranorva's lips. "Ye can no' fight unarmed."

  Élandine shrugged, not bothering to mention that she had done the same thing a scant twelve hours before. "'Tis against the laws of our people for a male to wield a weapon, Mistress. Yet the challenge is issued and I accept."

  Tranorva's heart rose in her throat. He would maintain the guise at the expense of his own life? What had she done?

  "I accept your challenge." Nellióne apparently saw no moral dilemma in killing a defenseless male. The agile Dark Priestess leaped to the small platform where Tranorva's dais stood. She did not approach Élandine with the arrogance Tranorva had seen in her before, however. Her runed staff extended, she began to circle warily.

  There was something here. Some essence of Élandra society Tranorva had missed. Males were expendable chattel. Males were not even allowed, it would seem, the use of a weapon.

  So why did Nellióne act as if she were about to do battle with the prize swordsman of all Élahandara?

  Élandine crouched low, his weight on the balls of his feet. Tranorva held her breath. The Mage could not use his magic here. Not and maintain his disguise. And he was shorter and less powerfully built than the females of his race.

  But they weren't of his race. Would this body retain the strength of the Faerie creature she'd held in her arms last night?

  Nellióne struck her staff one the floor and aimed a small ball of fire at the male, conserving her energies perhaps, or testing the waters. Élandine did not reflect the fireball back at Nellióne, as Shammall had taught Tranorva to do. Instead he simply tucked and rolled, coming up behind the larger female as she whirled to face him again.

  Too slow. Élandine had already regained his footing. Nellióne found the heel of his hand with her sternum. Nellióne was no unskilled acolyte however. With an amazing display of agility, she rolled backwards out of the blow, kicking out with her heels as she walked over her hands to a pace behind where she had stood.

  One kick slipped inside Élandine's guard to rake him across the chest with sharp pointed nails. He looked down at the tears in his fine colorful silks with the first trace of anger Tranorva had ever seen on this handsome face. So, Élandine was as much of a peacock as the strutting Shammall had ever been. She smothered her laughter. She would have to see that she kept the tailor in attendance.

  Élandine lashed out with a hard kicking lunge that brought both feet in contact with Nellióne's rib cage before she'd fully recovered her balance. She went down in a tumble unremarkable for its grace, and he landed atop her. Shrieking, she tangled her hands in his hair, twisting with all her strength.

  Tranorva spoke softly, but everyone in the room heard the threat in her voice. "Have a care lest ye mar the beauty of my pet. I do not wish him disfigured."

  Her warning seemed to calm Nellióne's anger. The pair untangled themselves and began to circle again.

  Élandine struck first this time, feigning left first, then striking up with his right hand, catching her behind the left shoulder to toss her over his hip. Nellióne latched her legs around him even as she went down, so that they rolled together, a mass of limbs poking out as the tumbled across the floor. Élandine landed on top, Nellióne's hair fisted in his hand as he buried his knee in her back, pulling her face away from the floor.

  "Well done," Tranorva offered as she began to clap. The rest of the room quickly joined her. "An excellent show, Priestess. I admire thy restraint. Take thy place at my table, and let the entertainment begin."

  Nellióne gathered her dignity around her, smoothing most of the traces of rage from her face as she bowed before Tranorva. Still, Nellióne's eyes remained cold, and she kept her gaze focused on Élandine. "I am honored, Mistress. Thy pet is unusually well skilled in the fine arts of KimJing. Indeed a prized possessio
n."

  So. Élandine had attracted yet another bit of unwanted attention through her ignorance of Élandra customs. She would have to keep an eye on Nellióne. Tranorva looked away, clearly dismissing Nellióne. She clapped her hands and the doors at the end of the hall flew open. A dozen young men, outfitted in colorful silks Élandine so admired, sauntered in.

  The music began, and the dancers set their silks to swirling about the room. "Well fought," Tranorva praised as Élandine returned to her side.

  "Thank you, Mistress."

  "I may still kill you." She said it loud enough for those closest to hear.

  "Géndalaine was going to kill me herself," he mused, "As was Nafésti. But somehow she never quite got around to it."

  Chapter Eight

  The extravagant feast sat on long tables about the room, trenchers filled to overflowing, the food left mostly untouched. Such food was meant to be savored, its lure a lust of its own. It could not compete with the other delicacies in the room.

  Tranorva swirled the amber liquid within her delicate crystal glass in time to the music. Slow. Seductive. Intoxicating. The dancers filtered by her dais, one at a time, performing for her alone. Pieces of colorful silk began to litter the floor like some opulent carpeting. A handsome youth of no more, she was learning, than sixty, dressed in flaming red silks, danced before her now, his ebony skin glowing with the soft sheen of the heat in the room.

  The dancer raised his eyes to meet hers, peering out from under thick, curling lashes, half-bold, half-coy. He ran one slim, dark finger over the length of his thick, rigid cock as he smiled at her.

  Perhaps it wasn't the room that had grown warm. Perhaps the heat came from her.

  By the gods. She had finally found a man who actually desired to mate with her. Now that she was no longer seeking a man who would lust for her, she suddenly had not one, but a dozen. She was beginning to feel a little dizzy.

  This world was so unlike her own. Not that the Northlanders did not value sex. But at home sex was usually reserved for the marriage bed or a lovers' tryst.

  Here it practically danced into your lap.

  The Dark Male twisted sensuously around the central column that supported the roof, sliding slowly down to the floor, all the while keeping his eyes focused on hers. As he spun his open silk tunic slipped down his shoulders to join the others at her feet. The dancer's hard cock jutted against the thin fabric that did little to cover him anyway. The loose flowing pants needed but a slight tug at the waist to release their cord, and they too floated to the growing pile.

  These Dark Elves were slight in their build, slim and graceful, but there was nothing else small about them. Tranorva swallowed hard as this one stood before her naked. His dark hair tumbled about his face as he bowed before her. As the music ended he fell at her feet, the swirling silks settling around him like the drifting fall of frost brightened leaves.

  Élandine stood behind her, his hands on her stroking, caressing. His fingers moved over her breasts, lifting, molding, brushing gently across the tips until the nipples stood out in tense relief against the sheer fabric of her gown. The music started up again and another young male took the last one's place.

  Tranorva leaned her head back against Élandine's chest. He bent to kiss her immediately. "The males vie for your attention, M'Lady. They come here in hopes of the honor of being chosen as your mate."

  Tranorva stared at the dancer who displayed himself before her now, his silk garb so sheer that she could have seen every scar on his body, had there been even one. His cock was long and thick and very erect. She hadn't known cocks came in so many sizes and shapes and textures. This one was the color of dark burgundy wine, and curved up slightly at the tip, as if planning to tickle her… He ran his hands over himself as if pleasuring a lover.

  Élandine's hands on her body moved in time to the music, arousing her senses to the point of almost painful awareness. She found herself arching her breasts against his hands. "Let us leave the merry-makers to their own devices," she suggested, her words meant only for his ears.

  "That would be rude, Mistress." He indicated the Counsel of Eight spread around the room. "You are expected to join your sisters in revelry."

  Sisters in… Tranorva tried not to stare. While her attention had been focused on the beautiful young men at her feet, the Priestesses had made their own choices for the evening. Maelyn had appropriated three of the young men, and her second, Nellióne was surrounded by four. The logistics of the situation alone fascinated Tranorva. She thought she had known all there was to know about sex, despite her limited personal experience.

  She had never imagined anything like this. The dancer of the flaming red silks lay beneath Nellióne, her body impaled on his shaft, while a second male knelt between her knees. Apparently the other two were there to bathe the Second Chair Priestess with their tongues, for each was washing a circle closer and closer to the tips of her breasts. Already her nipples stood out like arrows pointing the way to her desire. She writhed in pleasure against the tongues that caressed her, her thin keening moan joining the others about the room.

  Not all the priestess had coupled with the young men, Tranorva corrected herself. Jeserat and Wayonka were either fighting like cats, or they pleasured each other in ways that would give credit to gymnasts. Wayonka's feet were latched around Jeserat's neck, while Jeserat arched hard against Wayonka's mouth, her own legs spread over Jeserat's shoulders.

  Tranorva's senses screamed for release. The air felt oppressively hot.

  "You must pick a dancer, M'Lady. None may climax before you have chosen a mate."

  Tranorva blinked slowly as she glanced around the room again. They expected her to… in front of… with … oh no. She couldn't. Not with one of these… She closed her eyes for a moment. "I have chosen a mate."

  Relief warred with uncertainty in his eyes. Tranorva wanted to laugh. He was a creature of politics. "Dance for me, Élandine." She hoped her voice didn't sound too desperate.

  "Mistress, I –" his eyes met hers, and the startled look faded to one of bemused sensuality. "For you, Mistress. Only for you."

  Tranorva smiled back in relief. "Never fear. I will not share thee. I am a jealous mistress."

  A flick of her fingers dismissed the current dancer. He moved to join Jeserat and Wayonka. Tranorva's fascination with the acrobatics of that pair might have pulled her attention to the three of them, but the room went quiet.

  Élandine moved to stand before her, stiff as a marionette, arms at his sides, head down, his hair half obscuring his face. As if some message had been transmitted between him and the musicians at the end of the hall, the music changed its gentle beat to a short tempered drum from some exotic jungle.

  His body loosening, Élandine began to sway gently to the rhythm, almost as if against his will. The drums hit a stronger beat. His head jerked up as if someone had pulled his head by a string. He flung back his head, his eyes suddenly focused on her.

  With a spinning kick that brought his right foot to the tips of his outstretched arm, he rose to his toes, folding in upon himself until he stood balanced on one foot, stretched out like a bird in flight. The music seemed to pause as he hovered there, then take of wildly again as he executed an intricate kick.

  As he landed cat-like on the balls of his feet, his hands skimmed over the contours of his chest, his violet eyes searching out hers, teasing her with a glint of primeval hunger. The silk clung to his damp skin for a moment, translucent in the flickering light, leaving little to the imagination. The ageless Elf looked both dangerous and predatory at the moment.

  He spun slowly, knees bent, hands tracing symbols in the air that only he could read. His body was poetry, flowing and strong, painting a picture of a lover so in tune with his mate that his every movement was designed for her pleasure. He held her at arms length while he stroked then pulled her close, worshiping her body with his hands, his kiss, his eyes.

  Every gaze in the room followed his dance, yet
always his eyes conveyed the message that he danced for her alone. She could not blame the women for looking. She had not taken the time to fully appreciate this body, so like his own, yet so different. He was smaller, yet still lean and powerful, all exquisite lines of hard packed muscle and perfectly trained athlete.

  His dance conveyed its sensuality in his perfect control and execution of every movement. Each reach of his arm and twist of his body seemed to promise what more he could do with those muscles. His hair spread out in his wake, always a movement behind, whipping around his shoulders like a predator stalking its prey.

  How could he twist the movements of the KimJing into something so sensual? Each curve of his arm felt as if he drew her to his side. Each arched, raised thrust of his leg seemed to skim over her body. He was grace and strength and athletic prowess and lust all rolled into one.

  His sapphire blue silks, new just this morning to replace those Maelyn had damaged, seemed suddenly much too sheer as they fluttered around him, exposing more than they hid. Tranorva realized jealously that she did not wish others to see how beautiful he was. She wanted him all to herself. When at last the music fell silent he knelt at her feet, hands outstretched to her, palms up, in a voiceless offering of sheer masculine beauty. She fought the urge to bundle him in the discarded silks, shielding her prize from greedy eyes.

  The room paused to draw a collective breath. Tranorva reached out a trembling hand to touch what was surely a piece of leftover magic from her dreams. Élandine raised his eyes to meet hers with a slow, seductive smile. Tranorva slid into his welcoming arms as if at last she'd come home.

  As their lips met her jealousy faded away, until the watchers merely added heat to her already sizzling brain. They were of no more import than the fallen silks that padded the floor. "Ye have no' disrobed," she managed, as she slid her hands over the sapphire silk. Her voice sounding thick to her ears.

  "Perhaps you would prefer to do that job yourself."

  She would. Though she found now she had no need of hurry. The thin, sheer fabric glided down his arms, bright blue silks mixing with the colors of late fall at her feet. Her fingers lingered in their wake, sliding easily over his smooth, oiled skin. She stood close enough to feel his hot, thick cock dance against her as her touch repaid his. She ran her hands over his chest, then lower, pausing at his waist.