Captive

by A. D. Robertson

  Tristan stepped into his room and welcomed the long yawn that signaled how soon he’d be asleep. He was halfway across the room when he froze. His bed wasn’t empty.

  The woman was on her stomach. She wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing, but a single black calla lily rested on the small of her back.

  Chains at her wrists and ankles bound her spread-eagle to the bedposts. The sound of Tristan’s footsteps caused her to lift her head from the pillow, and Tristan saw that she’d been gagged. Her dark hair spilled across the pale skin of her shoulders. Her eyes widened when she saw him, but she didn’t make a sound.

  Who was she?

  That she was tied down and gagged made it clear that the woman wasn’t there by choice.

  Tristan pivoted on his heel and went right back out of the room. He found Seamus on the other side of his bedroom door. And the bloody wolf was grinning.

  “Seamus,” Tristan said, keeping his voice level, “there is a woman tied to my bed.”

  “Yes, sir.” Seamus had the decency to tamp down his grin and nod solemnly.

  “She’s naked.”

  “I assumed so, sir,” Seamus replied. “Given her being tied to the bed and all.”

  Tristan let that pass. “Do you happen to know how she got there?”

  “It was Lana’s idea.” Seamus’s mouth turned downward enough for Tristan to know the old wolf disapproved.

  The woman on his bed had been chained facedown. The black calla lily lay upon her like some dark offering. Of course Lana was the architect of this scheme.

  “Where is she?” Tristan asked Seamus.

  Seamus lifted his grizzled face and sniffed the air. “She headed toward your study.”

  As Tristan turned away, Seamus asked, “What do you want me to do about this one?”

  “For the moment, nothing,” Tristan answered. “Just guard the room. No one goes in. I’ll be back soon enough.”

  However ready for sleep Tristan had felt a few minutes earlier, he was now wide-awake. And furious.

  When he slammed through the study door, Tristan found Lana curled up on a sofa with a snifter of brandy.

  “Hello, Tristan.”

  “What the fuck, Lana?” Tristan glared at her. “What did you do?”

  “I left you a gift,” Lana purred. “I hope you don’t mind that I unwrapped it for you.”

  “Hardly necessary,” Tristan replied curtly. “And by that I mean both the gift and its unwrapping. Who is she?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Lana rose so she was kneeling on the sofa and spread her wings in a way that was almost menacing. “She’s a Searcher. Most likely an assassin. Owen caught her climbing the seawall. Nimble little thing.”

  “Assassin?” Tristan rested his elbows on the back of the divan. “You think the Searchers sent someone to kill me? I thought no one knew I was here.”

  “Perhaps someone found out,” Lana replied, folding her wings once more as she settled back onto the cushions. “And perhaps you should be asking her these questions. That is why I left her for you.”

  “You captured a Searcher and you want me to interrogate her while she’s naked on my bed?”

  “That was the idea.”

  “I thought that’s what we had wraiths for.”

  “This way is a bit more creative.” Lana smiled. “And of course more hands-on for you. And more delicious for all the loyal servants of your household.”

  Tristan grimaced. “How very thoughtful.” He didn’t want to consider how delighted the succubi and incubi of the castle would be at the prospect of gobbling up the captive’s distress and torment. No doubt Lana had made quite a meal out of stripping and binding the Searcher.

  Degradation was something Lana craved, but Tristan had no taste for violation. He desired only a woman in his bed who wanted to be there, who was as hungry for his touch as he was to caress her skin. Explaining that to Lana would be pointless, of course, so Tristan simply said, “I’ll deal with the Searcher.” He reached out his hand. “Give me the key.”

  “Shall I inform Lord Mar that she’s here?” Lana twirled one of her glossy curls around a long red fingernail before dipping her hand into her bodice and drawing out a large iron key.

  Tristan hesitated. If he said no, Lana was sure to run straight to Bosque and tell him that Tristan was trying to hide the woman’s capture. If he said yes . . . Tristan wasn’t sure he wanted to deal with Bosque until he’d decided how to handle the prisoner himself.

  “Whatever pleases you, Lana.” Tristan smiled, taking the key, and then leaned in to kiss the succubus on the cheek before he left the room.

  That would confuse the hell out of her. And it would likely buy Tristan some time.

  Tristan returned to the hall outside his bedroom and found Seamus standing watch.

  “Do you know where her clothes are?” Tristan asked.

  Seamus shrugged. “I can track them down.”

  “Do that quickly,” Tristan told him. “Then come back here. I’ll wait for you.”

  “Shall I summon any other Guardians?” Seamus lifted a bushy eyebrow.

  It was a prudent question, but Tristan wished it wasn’t. He had no idea what he would do with his captive, but he did know he wanted to handle it himself, and quietly.

  Reluctantly, Tristan nodded. “Just make sure it’s someone who can hold his tongue.”

  “Understood.” A moment later, a wolf trotted down the hall and Tristan was alone.

  He looked at the door, half tempted to enter.

  He couldn’t, though, not until Seamus returned. Prisoner or not, Tristan had no desire to humiliate this woman. He wouldn’t ogle her while she was chained up. It wasn’t as though the sight of her hadn’t been seared onto his mind’s eye.

  Even the brief glimpse of the Searcher had been arresting. Whoever she was, she was beautiful. It was too easy to recall the slope of her back and the lovely curves of her bare ass. The sight had been far too sudden and startling to be forgotten. If he’d been another sort of man—the sort Lana wanted him to be—he might have been grateful to come upon that scene.

  As it was, however, Tristan was uneasy that the memory of the naked Searcher made his cock twitch with lust. A life that granted his every wish had made Tristan wary of sinking into hedonism. He acknowledged the fact that Bosque would encourage such a lifestyle was likely the reason he resisted it—but the truth remained that he did resist it.

  Turning a prisoner of war—if that was who this Searcher was: a soldier from the enemy lines—into a sex slave was neither a fantasy of his nor did he want it to become a reality. If she belonged in Tristan’s dungeon, so be it. But she had no place in his bed.

  Tristan paced in front of his bedroom door. His choices left him unsettled. As much as Lana had gotten under his skin that night, Tristan couldn’t help but wonder if summoning Bosque was the best course of action. After all, a Searcher had breached the castle, his hiding place. If nothing else, that fact alone signaled that Tristan’s enemies had somehow learned of his whereabouts. What if this woman was only the first of an impending attack?

  That’s why I’ll have to interrogate her.

  Though he knew he had no way around it, Tristan didn’t savor the idea of torturing the woman to uncover her intentions.

  But there was no other way, was there?

  The sound of toenails clacking on the stone floor drew Tristan’s attention. Seamus’s brown and gray was accompanied by a younger, russet-hued member of the pack.

  Tristan addressed the red wolf. “Good evening, Joseph.”

  The wolves shifted into their human forms, and Tristan took the folded clothes Seamus offered while Joseph dipped into a bow.

  “This is what she was wearing,” Seamus told Tristan. “Owen also recovered a pack full of cli
mbing gear and a dry suit. She swam here.”

  Tristan raised an eyebrow when he noted the leather harness lined with gleaming silver knives.

  Definitely an assassin. Maybe I’m a fool to even consider keeping her alive.

  Tristan grimaced, accepting that he’d kill the woman if he had to, but he wouldn’t do so before he knew who she was and how she’d found him.

  “Be as wolves and stay close to me,” Tristan ordered. “Don’t attack unless she makes the first move.”

  Joseph cast a nervous glance at Seamus, but the older wolf nodded. Without further prompting the Guardians shifted forms.

  Still not entirely certain of what he was about to do, Tristan gritted his teeth and opened the bedroom door.

  6

  SARAH TWISTED ON the bed. The manacles cut into her wrists and ankles, and the cloth gagging her was bound so tightly it was hard not to choke whenever she drew breath.

  She was close to succumbing to panic. A man had been in the room, staring at her. He had to be a Keeper. No one else had incubi and succubi serving as sentinels in their home.

  The memory of the way the incubus had snatched her from the mouth of the cistern made Sarah shudder. The creature’s taloned fingers had sunk into her shoulders, yanking her backward. Then she’d been dangling high above the frothy sea as the incubus’s wings beat, taking her higher and higher until they flew over the castle wall and into one of its towers.

  The incubus took care to remain aloft when he dropped Sarah, hovering at a height that made her hit the stone floor of the tower with a jolt that jarred her bones. Despite the shock and pain, Sarah had rolled over, ready to fight. And if it had been that single creature to defeat, Sarah believed she could have done it. He wasn’t armed, though his ability to fly and his clawlike nails were weapons enough. Once she’d taken out this cliff-watcher, she’d be in the perfect position to continue her mission—inside the castle.

  But the incubus hadn’t been alone.

  Just as Sarah had moved to draw a throwing knife, she’d been seized from behind again. A husky female voice said, “What have you brought me, Owen?”

  Alighting on the floor, Owen replied, “A trespasser. She made it all the way to the cistern.”

  The female sniffed her hair. “She’s a Searcher.” Then she shoved Sarah into Owen’s grasp.

  “I know that, Lana,” Owen said; then he glared at Sarah. “You don’t belong here, precious.”

  He whipped Sarah around, pinning her arms behind her back so she faced his companion.

  Unsurprisingly, Lana was a succubus. Her body was voluptuous to the point of excess, its sensuality only emphasized by the tight leather dress she wore. Familiar as Sarah was with the reputation of this sort of nether creature, the clothes were just too much and Sarah had to swallow a derisive laugh. Given that the incubus was bare-chested and clad only in a leather kilt, Sarah was tempted to apologize for interrupting their staging of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, but decided against it. Pissing off her captors could too easily prove fatal. As long as Sarah stayed alive, she had a chance of getting out of the castle.

  Determined to remain calm, Sarah didn’t struggle against Owen. The only strategy that might work required that she conserve her energy until the right opportunity presented itself. She also hoped that if the nether beasts thought her fearful and submissive, they might do the work of revealing the castle’s secrets for her.

  “I’ll take her to the dungeon,” Owen said to Lana. “You should inform Lord Tristan we’ve captured a Searcher.”

  Lana shook her head. She came close, stroking a long red fingernail from the base of Sarah’s throat to her chin. “I have a better idea.”

  Sarah let herself shudder at the woman’s tone, which dripped with hunger and lust. The more intimidated she seemed, the more likely they’d keep talking like she wasn’t there. She’d already learned the name of their master: Tristan. He would be the one who held the secrets of this place.

  The succubus licked her lips and sighed with pleasure as her nails dug into Sarah’s jawline. “Follow me.”

  Lana led the way to the tower stairs while Sarah—stumbling due to the awkwardness of having her arms pinned—clumsily followed at Owen’s urging. They took her down a spiraling stone staircase, but much to Sarah’s disappointment, their conversation ceased for the duration of the descent.

  When they emerged from the tower into a broad hallway of the castle keep, a low growl slithered out of the shadows. A moment later a large brown and gray wolf followed the path of the sound.

  Sarah tensed and reflexively jerked against Owen’s restraining arms. Every instinct was telling her to defend herself.

  Lana faced the wolf, sniffing with disdain. “Yes, Seamus?”

  Where a wolf had been bristling suddenly stood a man, his face worn with age and his cold eyes revealing that there was little love lost between Guardian and succubus.

  “You want to tell me what’s going on here?” Seamus snarled despite his human visage.

  “Not really.” Lana smiled.

  “Lana.” He barked her name.

  The succubus fluttered her batlike wings irritably. “If you must know, Owen discovered a Searcher climbing the south wall.”

  “I’ve always said wolves are of little use on an island,” Owen sneered. “We’d be better off with albatross Guardians. Or maybe sea turtles.”

  Seamus spared him a spiteful glance, then said to Lana, “You’re putting her in a cell, then?”

  “Dear Seamus,” Lana cooed. “Why be boring when captivity offers so much sport?”

  Sarah gritted her teeth. She wouldn’t let herself imagine the kind of sport Lana had in mind. She just wanted them to keep talking.

  “You should be waiting for orders from Tristan about what to do with her.” Seamus frowned.

  “Tristan will tell me, tell all of us, what to do with the prisoner soon enough,” Lana replied. “I’m just going to offer a suggestion in the meantime. Don’t go spoiling my fun. Is Tristan in his room?”

  “He’s in the baths.”

  The tips of Lana’s wings curled with delight. “Even better.”

  “He won’t like it if she comes to harm before he’s had a chance to question her,” Seamus said with a warning growl.

  “We’re not going to hurt her,” Owen said, but he added to Lana, “Are we?”

  “Of course not.” Lana’s laugh made Sarah’s gut curdle. “Not without orders.”

  Lana pursed her lips at Seamus. “So do we have your permission to continue, pack leader?”

  Seamus winced at her address and he turned away, shaking his head. A moment later a wolf slipped back into the shadows from whence it came.

  “What a bore,” Lana muttered before leading them farther along the hall.

  “Guardians like rules,” Owen replied. “They’re bred that way.”

  “I know.” Lana sighed. “It’s tiresome.”

  When Lana stopped in front of a tall, carved wooden door, Owen asked, “We’re not taking her to Tristan?”

  “We are taking her to Tristan.” Lana opened the door. “Just not to the baths.”

  Owen pushed Sarah into the room.

  Lana closed the door, then took her time looking Sarah up and down. “I don’t think she’s properly attired to meet our master, do you?”

  That was when they’d stripped Sarah and chained her to the bed. A bed that obviously belonged to this Tristan the nether creatures spoke of.

  All thoughts of gleaning information from her captors evaporated in the face of her rapidly changing circumstances. Sarah didn’t want fear to overrun her reason, but she hadn’t considered this scenario. Torture: yes. Being drained slowly by a wraith: of course. Too many Strikers went that way.

  But being violated by some Keeper pla
yboy sadist? That filled Sarah with a dread she didn’t know how to face.

  She lay there, on the bed, with cold air blanketing her bare skin and even colder terror sluicing through her veins.

  When the door opened again, Sarah wanted to scream but forced herself to remain silent.

  The man—whom Sarah presumed to be Tristan—was dressed only in dark cotton pajama bottoms. And seeing her tied to his bed was an obvious shock. He’d stared at her for only a minute or so, but to Sarah it felt like an eternity.

  But just as suddenly as he appeared, Tristan turned and left the room. He hadn’t said anything.

  He left her there, bound and naked. Alone.

  Sarah’s mind turned against her, questioning her every move, from volunteering for the mission to submitting to her captors. Why hadn’t she fought back? She couldn’t help but fear that what awaited her would be more horrible than death.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to force away the racking grief and fear that threatened to wring desperate sobs from her.

  Sarah was shaking from the effort to control her emotions when the door opened again. She dared to open her eyes.

  Tristan was back, and he had two Guardians flanking him. He approached her slowly. Though her bindings made the possibility of a fight unlikely, Sarah quickly assessed her foe. Strength would be Tristan’s advantage for certain. Tall and broad-shouldered, the Keeper was more than fit. His bare chest and abdomen featured lean, chiseled muscle, and he moved with a grace that bespoke the kind of balance and dexterity that would prove deadly in close combat. Sarah didn’t doubt that she could offer him a serious challenge in a fight, but she wouldn’t be able to overpower him.

  Sarah frowned when she saw that he had her clothes in his hands.

  Panic took over when he was within a foot of the bed. Sarah thrashed against her bonds. The chains clanged against the broad headboard, and Tristan scowled at her.

  “That wood is older than your great-grandparents would be today. Stop struggling, or you’ll damage it.”