His eyes dropped to my breasts.
“Besides,” I added, “I need a little aggression in my life.”
He moved decidedly closer, his fingers sliding lower. I speculated whether suffering Kol’s attentions to get his scent was worth the damn effort, but was so glad I did when Borgus’s nostrils flared and a frown puckered his wide brow. Straightening, he dropped his hand from my waist and held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
I took his hand and let him lead me to the stifling dance floor. He maneuvered near a corner and swept me into his arms in a waltzing fashion, one hand holding my hand in a loose grip, the other on my lower back, pressing me close. He smelled of a clean, masculine cologne. Disturbed that he should smell good, I pretended to be falling for his charms, letting his body mold to mine.
I tried not to think of Maxine as his fingers trailed down my spine. I tried not to think of those same fingers gutting her with a knife and tossing her carcass aside like trash. Were these the hands that did such a thing, the ones sliding sensuously over my body?
Sweat dampened the nape of my neck under my hair. My stress level was rising. He watched me with keen focus. I scanned the room as he guided my body in a slow circle. A Morgon couple backed against the wall. With his hands on her shoulders, the man eased her down onto her knees. In profile, her face lifted as she fumbled with his pants. He placed his hand on her crown, guiding her head closer before he shifted and whipped his wings out to shield them from view. Borgus followed my gaze. I looked away quickly, feeling small and alone in a sea of strangers.
“Does that bother you?”
“No. Of course not. I’m just not used to seeing that in a public place.” I struggled to keep my composure, hanging on by a thread.
Borgus chuckled, and I felt the hairs on my arms bristle.
“Not in Gladium, perhaps,” he crooned. “Voyeurism is an aphrodisiac in Drakos and even more so in Cloven.”
Get it together, Moira.
I flipped my hair, putting both arms around his neck, feigning nonchalance.
“I wouldn’t know. It’s illegal for humans to go to the northern Morgon provinces.”
“I wouldn’t say it’s against the law, but humans are not exactly welcome.” He gripped the base of my neck, his thumb stroking my collar bone. “But it seems for the first time in history, the gates of the Obsidian Games will be open to interested humans this year.”
“Really?” No need to act surprised. This was news to me.
He leaned down, his mouth close to my ear. “Would you like to come?”
The sexual innuendo, implied in his lilting words, tied my stomach into a knot. When his thumb brushed over the swell of one breast, acid churned in my gut. Thankful his lips hadn’t made contact with my skin, I pulled back and peered into the shining black of his eyes. “Perhaps,” I answered in a coy, yet tawdry tone.
“You’re flushed.”
“It’s just a little hot in here.” I avoided his eyes.
“That it is. Let me buy you another drink.”
He tugged me by the wrist back to the bar and tossed several large bills on the counter, calling to the waitress, “A bottle of your best champagne.”
Getting intoxicated would be completely stupid, but there was no way to avoid playing along. Borgus untwined the top cap of the champagne bottle, then popped the cork like an expert. Yes, he was accustomed to the privileged life. He filled two fluted glasses and passed me one.
Voices clamored as the Vaenger players made their entrance, streamlining for the Pit at the other end of the chamber. A gray-winged Morgon girl flew to the chandelier above the Pit, inhaling a deep breath, then blowing out a stream of flame to light the wicks, brightening the view of the fighters entering the cage below. The crowd merged toward the arena. Kraven’s friend, the star player for the Gladium team, shirtless and fuming, opened the barred gate and disappeared from view into the bottom. A blond Riptide player with an arrogant smile laughed to one of his teammates before following him.
“Would you care to watch the fight?” Borgus’s voice had darkened, cutting like a blade. I forced myself to shake my head and pretended to sip the champagne, already feeling a strong buzz from the Brevette.
As the party at the shot-table broke apart and streamed our way, I wasn’t all that shocked to see Layla mingling between a few Morgon men. Her top had fallen so low on her chest that I could tell she wasn’t wearing a bra. Good Lord, she was a mess.
“Moira! You’re back. Atta girl,” she slurred, leaning drunkenly against me, knocking my glass. Champagne slopped over the rim onto my breasts. “Oops,” she snickered.
Borgus stepped to the side when Layla sloshed her drink again in his direction.
“Is someone bringing you home?” I asked her.
There were no other humans with them, and I hoped she didn’t plan on driving. A Morgon man loomed over her shoulder. “Hey, baby. I remember you.”
I recognized the green-eyed sleaze-bag at once. “Take care of Layla, will ya?”
She’d already stumbled off with the rest of them. He didn’t, easing into my space. Borgus just watched from the sidelines.
“Too bad she spilled that good champagne. No worries, baby. I’ll wipe it off for you.”
“Um, no you won’t.” I didn’t need any acting for my next trick. As one of his hands came up, most probably to grab my breast, I gripped his forefinger and bent his whole hand and arm backward and upside down. He turned to avoid the severity of my hold, allowing me to twist his entire arm behind his back. He cried out as I pushed his hand closer to his spine and higher. Wings ruffled in my face when another Morgon grabbed him by the shoulder, dragging him toward the arena.
“Stop fuckin’ around, Drom. I’ve got money on this fight.”
His friend hadn’t noticed what had happened in the blue gloom of the underground club. But I didn’t miss the glare of malice Layla’s beastlike friend, Drom, shot over his shoulder as he was hauled into the crowd.
“Well, now,” said Borgus, clinking his glass to mine, half-empty from my struggle with Drom. “That was impressive. It’s not every day I see a beautiful woman send an angry Morgon violently on his way.”
I took a sip of champagne, letting him get a nice, long look at my vulnerable throat, deciding this was the moment. It was now or never. I needed to go for the jugular, or in this guy’s case, the groin.
I set the champagne glass on the table and snapped his handkerchief from his front lapel to wipe the liquid from my breasts. I didn’t need to look up to know he watched the slow move of my hand across my cleavage.
“I’d have to say”—I finished dabbing and folded the handkerchief in a perfect square, leaning my body against his—“that I’m not every woman.” I tucked the cloth back into its place, smoothing his lapels with both hands, letting them rest near his shoulders, my breasts brushing the silk of his suit jacket. “And I’m picky about my men.”
“Oh?”
“Strong. And confident, of course.”
“Of course.” He edged closer.
“A man with unwavering determination who knows how to please a woman. And one who understands what a woman wants, even if she doesn’t know herself.”
I blinked, realizing my description matched a certain Morgon with ice in his voice and fire in his kiss. A roar erupted from the crowd at the arena as I held his gaze, mere inches from his face.
“Do you know, Moira, that you carry the scent of another Morgon man?”
The fact that he was harping on this issue meant I needed to step up my game and convince him Kol didn’t matter. I let my lashes fall, then lifted them in a provocative manner. “He doesn’t mean anything.” My stomach twisted. “I need a new Morgon man.”
He slid a finger along my jawbone and across my lower lip. I didn’t move, praying he wouldn’t kiss me, wishing I had my medal for comfort. I had refused to wear it. A woman looking for a promiscuous liaison would never have something of that
sort around her neck. My heart hammered despite my bravado. He leaned in close, his tone seductive and dominant. “Come. Take a walk with me.”
I smiled, hoping no fear shone in my eyes. He wrapped a hand around mine, leading me away from the bar, winding around table-tops and the few couples engaged in amorous play rather than watching the fight. He led me toward the exit. The exit as Kol had warned me the first night I’d met him.
“Where does this go?”
He pulled me closer. “Outside.”
“Oh.”
My witty banter came to an abrupt halt. My throat felt thick. This was it. Soon enough, I’d be whisked away to God knew where. The noise of the cellar grew distant. The hollow clopping of my boots and his expensive shoes echoed off the walls, sconces of golden light tossing long shadows across the cavern. We rounded a bend. The silence heavier, I needed to say something just to ease my nerves. “Do you live close by?”
I shivered at the eerie smile I caught in the torch-light.
“We’ll be alone soon enough.”
A few more steps and he stopped, his grip easing around my wrist, holding me still.
“What is it?”
I stared up ahead, unable to discern anything in the gloom. An odd scraping or ticking sound reverberated from the shadowy recesses. A tendril of malevolence permeated the air, twining itself up my body and around my throat. I could no longer keep my pulse from pounding away. Something terrible lurked in the dark. Something terrible drew closer. My courage evaporated like mist. Suddenly, I didn’t want to do this anymore. I didn’t want to be the bait. Primal fear shook me senseless, screaming at me to run. Borgus tightened his hold on my wrist, staring fixedly into the gloom, willing whatever was there to come forth. My whole being drew back, sensing an evil otherness hovering in shadow, waiting to take me.
All at once, a stomping of several feet approached fast. I spun around to the sight of Drom barreling toward me, rage marking every strained line of his face. “There’s the bitch.”
“Shit,” I mumbled.
Drom grabbed me at the same time three of his friends attacked Borgus. Then it was mayhem. Streaks of Morgon men flew into the melee, evaporating out of thin air. Growling. Yelling. The whoosh of flapping wings. I caught the profile of Lorian zip past me as Drom shoved me back against the wall. Scuffling and grappling filled the corridor.
Drom leaned over me, gripping one arm and wrapping his fingers around my throat with the other. “I’m going to teach you—”
He screamed. A horrible crack, then his head was hauled back. As Drom let me go, he gave me a violent shove toward the wall. I caught the flash of furious silver eyes right before my head whacked the cavern wall, and I slid down to the cold, stone floor. A haze swept my vision, dragging me under as I whispered, “Kol.”
Chapter 12
Cold sweat slicked my brow. My head throbbed. I couldn’t open my eyes. Voices sounded muffled and distant. I was still in the cave, but I was safe. Lorian’s voice came clearly into focus.
“…needs a healer. I’ll take her to—”
“No.” A powerful outburst, then quieter words. “I’ll take care of her.”
Lorian didn’t protest. I doubted anyone would after that dominant command. I tried to open my eyes, to say something, to ask what happened, but all that came out was a soft moan as I was lifted into someone’s strong arms. The crushing pain in my head increased. I slipped back into the black.
* * * *
When I awoke again, I could barely lift my lids. The sharp profile of Kol’s face silhouetted against a moon-bright sky. My arms and torso were wrapped in something warm, though my cheeks stung from icy wind. I felt the familiar sensation of flying. Rather than in a harness, Kol carried me. My vision hazed as I went under again.
* * * *
Warm. I was warm in a soft bed, though I felt pin-pricks of pain on my upper left arm. I felt him nearby. A masculine woodsy smell wafted over me. Opening my eyes, there he was, large as life, bending over me in deep concentration. I peered at the spot where his hands were doing something. Pain throbbed.
“Are you stitching me up?” My sleepy voice sounded more scratchy than usual.
His eyes flicked up to mine, then back to his work. “Either that or let you bleed all over my bed.”
His bed!
I tried to sit up. He splayed a firm hand across my upper chest, fingertips across my collar bones, and promptly pushed me back down before he went back to his stitching.
“You’ll pop the stitches before I’m even through. Be still.”
His voice was low and gruff, but no dragon lurked there. He sounded strangely calm compared to the voice I heard between unconsciousness and awake. The voice who had refused to let anyone take me but him.
A smooth gray stone arced upward to a dome-like ceiling. Somewhere, I heard water. Rain? Couldn’t be. The first snow had fallen in a torrent. Rain was months away now. My head must be still fuzzy from whacking against that wall. I remembered Borgus, Drom, the cavern.
“Kol. What happened?”
“The operation failed.” He continued to suture the gash in my upper arm.
“I was so close. We almost—”
He stopped stitching. His frown deepened over a narrow gaze. “We won’t be making a third attempt. So don’t even think about asking.”
I said nothing, feeling mollified. He went back to work on my arm. I couldn’t admit what a coward I’d become at the last second. How I wanted to back out, to call for help right before Drom and his oafish friends came barreling in, thus ending our grand plan. There was irony for you. The jerk I couldn’t stand had saved me from going through what I knew now was a definite mistake. There was something else at the edge of my mind, trying to snake its way in. I pushed it back, watching Kol. His hands were so large—broad, long-fingered, yet gentle and deft at stitching.
“Did we get Borgus?”
Somehow, I knew the answer before he gave it to me.
“No. He slipped out while we took care of that asshole and his asshole friends. If Borgus’s men were there, they were well-hidden and long gone by the time we’d dealt with the others.” The asshole, no doubt, being Drom.
A white-waxed candle burned low on a side-table. From this angle, his scar stood out in stark relief, an angry line marking this Morgon man, making him more severe, more cold, more distant. Whether from being half-stupid from the knockout or just plain insane, I touched two fingers to the top of his scar. He froze.
“Did this hurt?” I whispered.
“Yes.”
I trailed my fingers feather-light down the reddened scar past his lips to where it stopped beneath. “Does it still hurt?”
Swift and sudden, he gripped my wrist in an iron hold, pinning me with simmering rage. “Don’t.” He gave me one shake of the head. A warning.
He angled his head lower and snapped the thread’s end with his teeth. He was up and moving away before it dawned on me how stupid I was. What in the world had possessed me to do that? I must’ve hit my head pretty damn hard.
I curled onto my side, feeling constricted by my tight corset and painted-on pants. Uncomfortably so. I stared at the candle, watching the wax roll into pools in its cast-iron holder, wafting a soft honey-flower aroma into the air.
He returned with something in his hand. “Here. You might be more comfortable sleeping in this.”
It was a long-sleeved black shirt made of a divine material—thick and petal-soft. It was also three or four sizes too big.
“Can you change on your own, or do you need my help?” The devil was back in his eyes. The tips of his wide mouth tilted up.
“No. I can manage.” I pushed off the bed with my injured shoulder, winced, and buckled at the elbow. He caught me around the ribs and helped me into a sitting position, my legs hanging off his bed. Literally hanging, for I couldn’t reach the floor.
“I’m fine!” I snapped.
He crossed h
is arms and stood there, blocking my way.
“Really. I was just a little dizzy. I’ve got it.”
“You banged your head hard, but the worst injury is in your shoulder.”
I touched the wound lightly, remembering how Drom shoved me. Yes. I had hit my head and scraped my bare shoulder on the jagged wall on my way down to the stone floor. The wound was clean, the stitches tight. I met the glaring Morgon’s gaze. “What?”
“A simple thank you would suffice.”
I opened my mouth to give him a sassy come-back, then snapped it shut. “Thank you,” I muttered, examining the wound.
“It will heal quickly and leave a little mark. It’s a surface cut, but will sting for a while.”
I met his stern gaze.
“Change. Stay put,” he snapped. “I’ll have something for your head shortly.”
He exited the room, the door nothing more than a stone archway carved into the wall. A very large one in order to fit his massive body and wings. Was his house in a cave? If so, then it wasn’t deep underground. A fireplace stood on the far wall, the smoke filtering up somewhere to the open air through the stone chimney. From here, I could see large river rocks carefully embedded into the chimney up to the point where the roof sloped into a dome.
I unlaced the corset in the front, feeling instant relief when I removed it. There were indentions in my skin where it had supported me under my breasts and squeezed my ribcage. After peeling off my pants on top of the bed, I pulled on the shirt Kol had given me, luxuriating in the softness against my skin, raw from being bound so long.
Other than a low-backed chair next to the fire and the bed on which I sat, there was no furniture. As would be expected, the bed was massive—three times the size of my own in my little apartment. There were no posts or headboard, but there was a unique design carved directly into the slate-gray stone wall where a headboard would be. Swirls of vines crossed and interlaced into a pointed arch, meeting the edge of the roof where the dome began. I touched the carven image, running my fingers along the surface of a thorny rose. It reminded me of Kris’s headboard at her parents’ home.
Waking the Dragon Page 13
