The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  Her eyes flew open in shock, all the air punching out of her in an undignified grunt. Merciful Sister, she could feel the instinctive male urge to rut and thrust and spill, the way the soft wet heat of her drew him irresistibly forward, his hips already shifting with the urge to pump. Only his iron will held him back, because to give her a moment’s discomfort would kill him.

  “Gods, do it.” Tilting her hips, she wrapped her legs around his waist. “I’m dying. Now, Walker, now!”

  Almost before the words had left her lips, he surged forward, seating himself to the hilt in one smooth plunge. Her muted shriek stirred the silken curtain of his hair. Walker froze, holding his breath.

  For a charged moment, he rested his forehead against hers. “Don’t move.”

  “I won’t,” she whispered, licking into his mouth.

  She tried, she really did, but the slick satin walls clamped around his girth throbbed to the beat of her pulse. Or was it his? She could no longer distinguish. Feminine nerves fluttered, impaled by an exquisitely brutal pressure that stretched and filled. But simultaneously, she had the amazing sensation of succulent woman-flesh, slippery and hot, sliding all along the length of his cock. Soft skin stretched over an engorged core, so sensitive that even the smallest movement was excruciatingly pleasurable. Her head spun as each sensation amplified the other in a dizzying, upward rush.

  She dug her fingers into his shoulders, arching into the beautiful blessed pressure. “Walker, I’m—I can’t—”

  “Wait! Gods, fuck!” He dug his knees into the mattress, buttocks clenching with the force of each ramming thrust.

  His climax triggered hers, so closely they were almost simultaneous. Mehcredi writhed and flailed, the double sensations hitting her from inside and out, so exquisitely powerful her vision clouded over. All she could do was cling while the world imploded. She could have sworn the building trembled as the earth shifted in its bed. The door rattled and something tumbled off the dresser to land with a dull thud.

  Panting, she reached up to smooth the hair out of his eyes. “You didn’t,” she said. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  Walker cleared his throat. “Didn’t what?” His bronzed face was ruddy with color.

  “Make the earth move.”

  “I may have . . . uh, let my control slip.” He shot her a dark look, but his lips twitched. “Just for an instant. Gods, the soul-link . . .” The amusement faded from his expression.

  “Amazing. Mmm.” Her eyes half closed, Mehcredi undulated beneath him, her inner muscles rippling. He was still mostly hard, not far from the knife edge of full arousal. Erotic possibilities made her head swim. The muscles in her thighs tensed with near unbearable excitement as she recalled the musky, masculine taste of him, the smooth weight of hard cock against her tongue. She’d track his arousal, bring him to the brink over and over, drive him crazy. Gods, what delicious torture.

  Walker swiveled his hips, slow and languid. “Whatever you’re thinking, assassin, it works both ways.” When she gasped, he grinned, smug and very male. “We’ve done hard and fast. I promised you slow and sweet. And just so you know, when I’m finished, I’m going to start all over again. With my mouth. Like this.”

  Mehcredi panted as he eased away, his lips traveling across the complex architecture of her collarbones, nibbling curves and licking hollows. When he nuzzled over one breast to take a pale pink nipple in his hot mouth, her spine arched clean off the bed. “Nngh! Walker, will you—Ah, gods!”

  He spoke around his mouthful, the vibrations thrumming through nerve-rich flesh. “Will I what?”

  She squirmed. “Your Mark never really went away. Mark me again. For good.”

  Seconds ticked by as he pulled back to stare down at the creamy swell of her flesh, the silk of his hair brushing her shoulder as he breathed. “Ah, carazada. It will be my very great pleasure.”

  Without warning, he lifted her legs and placed them over his shoulders. Mehcredi’s scream degenerated into a whimper. Brows drawn with concentration, he flexed his hips, creating a leisurely rhythm of long gliding thrusts, interspersed with the hip swivels that hit nerves inside her she didn’t know she had. Inexorably, he drove her back up, an increment at a time, exploiting the link. Gods, he was shameless.

  Instinctively, she struggled against his control, thrashing beneath him. “Sshh. Sweetheart, trust me. I won’t let you fall.”

  “Yes.” She fumbled a hand behind his neck, his skin hot against her palm, his hair a cool slide against her knuckles. “Oh, W-Walker.”

  Smiling, he turned his head to press a kiss to the inside of her arm, never ceasing the strong gentle rocking.

  Because of his size and the acute angle, it was an extraordinary sensation, so acutely pleasurable it almost hurt. Bracing himself on one arm, he spread a palm over her left breast. “I did this once in anger,” he murmured, his voice very deep. “Now I do it with love.”

  He resumed thrusting, working to some pattern of his own, shallow strokes interspersed with longer ones, luxuriously deep. Floating on a sea of pleasure, Mehcredi felt the climax threaten like a far-off avalanche, building a pebble at a time, a series of tiny increments powerful enough to shake her world to its foundations. Gradually, she became aware of a bright thread, weaving a purposeful path through the soul-link, binding them together. It felt shiny and . . . green?

  Magick, it had to be. Shaman’s Magick, the—what did he call it?—the ch’qui. Panicking a little, she reached out, but he was there, solid as a mountain.

  Where his palm cupped her breast, the skin prickled as the ch’qui bloomed, flowering in her flesh, the invasion satin soft, exquisite. Her clit throbbed in sympathy, a bud about to burst into full glorious blossom.

  “Ah.” She moaned, all the muscles in her neck going loose, her head rolling on the pillow.

  “Good?” he whispered.

  “Gods, yes.” Mehcredi forced her eyes open. “Feel it. Feel me.” She thrust the sensations back at him.

  “Fuck, you’re amazing.” Walker hung over her, his face stark, the skin drawn tight over strong bones. The Magick burned in him now, the sap of life boiling in his balls, rasping the length of his cock like a rough tongue, insisting and demanding. He groaned, deep in his chest. “Can’t—Gods! Soon, love.”

  The thrusts came faster, the avalanche of sensation rumbling closer, the weight of it bearing down on her, the tension suddenly more than she could bear. Within seconds, the high, tight friction built to a pleasure point so fiery she could no longer breathe, let alone make a sound. Everything tangled together—the crushing pressure in his balls, the luscious tension in her pelvis.

  Nothing was separate anymore. The ch’qui licked over her clitoris, hot and bright, and her climax flowered into full bloom. The avalanche trembled on the brink. With a roar, it swooped, thundering down to roll her under, obliterating all thought save one. Her fingers scrabbling at the quilt, Mehcredi hung suspended in ecstasy, conscious only that she was no longer separate. Everywhere she looked, Walker shone like a steady beacon, a candle lit for her in the window. He was there. He would always be there.

  Dimly, she heard her name, his voice guttural, choked with passion, then so tender she could have wept. A hard breathing pause and he lowered her legs to the bed. Mehcredi turned her head into a sweaty shoulder as a big warm hand cupped her sex, gentling her through the aftershocks.

  “Gods,” she mumbled into his skin, pressing close. “That was—Gods.”

  “Yes.”

  They lay in silence, half dozing, legs tangled. At last, Walker said softly, “I’ve never done it like that before.”

  Mehcredi blushed. “In that position? I haven’t either.”

  “No. With such joy.” His lips took on a rueful curve. “I think I was a virgin.”

  Mehcredi murmured her pleasure, rolling over to lie half on his chest, half off. Staring into his face, she made a discovery. “You have the most beautiful smile.”

  Walker glowered. “Don’t push your
luck, woman.” But he spoiled it by tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Shar warriors do not smile. Ever.”

  “Do too.” Untroubled, Mehcredi grinned. “And even when you don’t, your eyes dance. You get little creases, just here at the corners.” She sighed with satisfaction, smoothing them with her thumbs.

  “I always thought that was silly. How can eyes dance? But yours do. And look at those eyelashes, that hair.” She dropped light kisses on his eyelids, one after the other. “Sister in the sky, it’s not fair. You’re prettier than me.”

  Walker’s expression hovered between outrage and amusement. “Shut up, assassin,” he growled. “You talk too much.”

  Mehcredi giggled, unrepentant. “I think you like it. And don’t call me—Mmpf.”

  Bending his head, he closed her mouth with his.

  TURN THE PAGE FOR A PREVIEW

  OF THE STUNNING CONCLUSION

  TO DENISE ROSSETTI’S

  FOUR-SIDED PENTACLE SERIES . . .

  THE DARK ROSE

  COMING SOON FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!

  CARACOLE OF THE ISLES PALIMPSEST

  “I can��t do it.” When Rose opened her fingers, the crumpled sheet of paper fluttered down to the silk coverlet like a broken-backed bird. “I can’t send another one to die.”

  “Rosarina.” Noblelord Izanami’s claw-like hand groped across the bed for the letter. “My dear.”

  “Don’t ‘my dear’ me.” Her skirts swishing with agitation, Rose crossed the elegant room to stand by the tall windows.

  “Merciful gods.” Her voice cracked as she rested her forehead on the cool glass. Below, blue wavelets kicked up in the light breeze and skiffs darted to and fro on the canal like improbable water beetles, bearing passengers and goods. Decked out with graceful bridges, fretted towers and pagoda roofs, the city of Caracole flirted with spring like the finest of courtesans.

  Grimly, she turned her back on it and faced the long, gaunt figure in the bed. “For the gods’ sakes, the man was torn to pieces! Gutted like a beast in an abattoir.”

  “I know. It means he got too close.”

  Unflinching, the queen’s spymaster met Rose’s anguished gaze. Did he have regrets? She suspected he did, but they could not compete with expediency, the greater good of the Queendom. Staring into those faded blue eyes, seeing the dispassionate intelligence there, the iron purpose, a wave of revulsion rose in her throat.

  “How can you stand to look in the mirror?” She made a wild gesture. “Year after year, you’ve sent them out, knowing—” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “Godsdammit.”

  “Three decades, to be exact. You forget, I am the Queen’s Left Hand.” Each word cost him dearly, but not even illness could rob Noblelord Izanami of his cool composure, his air of hauteur. “The responsibility is part of the office. All our agents know the risks.” His gaze sharpened. “Just as you do, Rose.”

  He paused for a moment, gathering his strength. “There is no room for scruples in this business. And you cannot tell me you haven’t always known it.”

  Rose pressed her lips together. “Not at first,” she said. “Not for the first few years.” She shot him a dark glance. “You were clever. You drew me in so slowly, so cleverly.”

  His thin lips had a blue tinge she didn’t like, but he managed a smile. “Ah, you were perfect.” He let out a sighing breath. “The best young mind I’d ever met, wonderfully subtle, incredibly devious, and yet—” Something sparked in his eyes. “In person, you were dazzling, more beautiful than the Sister Herself. Gods, what a combination. A courtesan and a spy without peer. Flawless.”

  Rose sighed. It wasn’t flattery. Always a pretty child, then a lovely girl, she’d matured into a woman so breathtaking men stopped in the street to stare as she passed. The most sought-after courtesan in the Queendom, the Dark Rose.

  It was the whole package she sold, the charm, the clever conversation, the music and the dancing. And in return? Rosarina of The Garden had always been discriminating in her choice of protectors, but she’d given good value. Her elegant presence on his arm gifted any noblelord with a certain cachet in public. In private, he gained an enchanted world in which he could be king or courtier as the whim took him, surcease from his troubles.

  Always on display, always on stage, even in the most intimate moments. There’d been years she’d felt scraped hollow by the effort of giving and giving and giving, until there was only a tiny kernel of self left unsold, but godsdammit, in the end, she’d done it—escaped with the façade in place, her soul intact. And if the only person who knew the real Rosarina was a manipulative aristocrat old enough to be her father, well . . . that was the price she paid.

  With a fluid shrug, she said, “I retired as a working courtesan years ago. When Prue and I bought The Garden.”

  “You are still my best intelligencer,” the Left Hand said with quiet satisfaction. He cleared his throat. “And therefore best suited to succeed me.”

  “What?” For a second, she was sure she’d misheard, but before she could say more, the old man gasped for breath, his face first flushing, then going alarmingly pale. He clutched his chest, coughing.

  Rose leaped for the bellpull, but a strangled grunt from the bed stopped her. “No . . . wait.” The command was unmistakable.

  Her heart hammering, Rose sank to her knees by the bed and took a long-fingered hand in hers. His flesh was cold and smooth, the bones brittle beneath the thin skin. Gradually, he grew calmer and a faint wash of color returned to his sunken cheeks, though his chest rattled with every breath.

  “Noblelord,” Rose said when she could force words through the lump in her throat. “This is nonsense. You’re too godsbedamned mean to die.”

  “We all . . . die,” he said acidly, but his fingers gripped hers with surprising strength. “This matter is not closed, Rosarina.”

  “If you mean the succession, yes, it is.” Rose ripped her hands free. She stood, glaring down at Izanami. “I won’t do it. I couldn’t. Don’t you see?” She whirled away, took a couple of hasty paces and turned. “I’m weak. I’ll never be as . . . as cold-blooded as you. I know Green IV is a threat, I know we need information, but the thought of sending someone else makes me want to—I don’t know—throw up. Scream out loud.”

  “You’ve been acting in my place for more than a month, since—Hand me that cordial, would you?” He drank, taking small, disdainful sips. “Every decision you’ve made thus far has been for the good of the Queendom.” He closed his eyes, his breath still shallow and quick. “Give me . . . a moment.”

  Rose did so, disciplining her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth. A solution existed for every problem—but only if you were prepared to accept the cost.

  Disemboweled, the report had said. Body parts strewn about the room, the walls painted crimson with his blood. Gods!

  The beautiful chamber was hushed in the warmth of the afternoon, bars of sunlight streaming in to spark on the jeweled tones in the carpet, to caress the thin hands folded on the old man’s chest. When he died, they’d lay him out like that. Noblelady Izanami, small and dark and lively, would grieve for him sincerely, and his three daughters would be distraught.

  And she? Rose blinked hard. She’d miss him dreadfully.

  “I’ll go myself,” she said into the silence. “It’s the only way.”

  The Left Hand’s eyes opened slowly, as if the lids were weighted. He thought for a long time, his brow furrowed and his lips tight.

  “Very well,” he whispered at last. “I don’t like it, but we must have someone on Green IV. I’ll get Marot to step in here.” He fixed her with an imperious gaze. “You will report frequently and you will do what I tell you. Do you hear?”

  When she nodded, some of the tension left his long frame. “Come back . . . to me . . . my dear.”

  Rose bent to kiss his cold cheek, his gray stubble harsh against her lips. “Of course,” she said steadily. �
�No one suspects the Dark Rose of anything deep. All she thinks about is parties and pleasure and whether to wear her hair up or down.”

  Carefully, she folded up the paper and placed it in her pocket. Then she slipped out of the door without looking back, heading for the music room where the Izanami daughters were waiting for their regular lesson in deportment.

  THREE WEEKS LATER BALLYNEWHAVEN, GREEN IV

  Gravel crunched as the carriage swept down the long curved drive of the Lord-Scion Harte’s town house. In the dim interior of the luxuriously appointed vehicle, Rose smoothed her long, trailing sleeves, conscious of a sense of trepidation so acute it approached exquisite. Every nerve tingled. Sister in the sky, how long had it been since she’d felt such a pure sensation?

  Deliberately, she pulled in a long breath. She’d never been offworld before, but as the Technomage starship speared away from Palimpsest, she’d lain quietly in the safety webbing, staring out at the vastness of space. Tears of awe had sprung to her eyes. She and all those she cared for, they were no more than the merest specks, born alone, dying alone. It gave her mission a certain perspective.

  She shivered, reaching up to rub the nape of her neck, but carefully. It wouldn’t do to disturb the coiffure, not when it had taken the combined efforts of two maids to achieve it.

  The carriage slowed, drawing to a halt. Hooves stamped, tack jingled. Rose’s lips curved with pure pleasure. Four matched grays. Only the highest sticklers and the most wealthy on Green IV still used horse-drawn vehicles. Between them, Queen Sikara and the Left Hand had spared no expense. The rest was up to her.

  She gathered serenity around her, shrugging into it the way she would have donned a cloak. This was her business, her profession—and by the Sister, she was very, very skilled. A true courtesan creates a persona, she told her apprentices again and again. Achieve a certain mystique, make it look effortless, and you’ll be irresistible.