Lord of the Storm

by Justine Davis

  She had called herself fool before, for falling in love with a slave who would forever blame her for his years of enslavement. How much more of a fool was she for falling in love with a prince, much less a prince who would blame her for the loss of his home, his birthright, his family . . . his kingdom?

  Nausea rose in her as she remembered the stories of the butchering of the Triotian royal family. The old king, beaten, flogged, and then beheaded, his body left hanging as a warning for all who would resist. The queen, who after being stripped and raped again and again by the glorious victors, had had the audacity to commit suicide and put an end to their fun.

  And Brielle . . .

  Shaylah shuddered, fighting the revulsion that flooded her at the thought of Wolf having to kill the mate he loved, to give her a quick, painless end, to save her from the fate of his mother. And for the first time, she thought of Wolf’s mate without a trace of jealousy, merely with sadness, for Brielle, for what had been taken from her, and for herself, for what Brielle had taken with her.

  “At least you had his love for a while,” she said inwardly. “I only wish you hadn’t taken his heart with you when you died.”

  A memory came to her, of Wolf’s harsh voice, telling her of the moment when Brielle had begged him to kill her before the rapacious troops were upon them, before they could torture him with the sight of what they would do to her.

  “You have to be strong,” he’d quoted from her last words. “Because you have to come back . . .”

  She realized now what Brielle had meant. Shaylah knew that if she had had to witness Wolf’s brutalization while he’d been a captive in Ossuary, it would have incapacitated her, destroyed her. Brielle had given up her life so that Wolf would be strong enough to lead his people against the terror that had destroyed their world. It was an act of courage and sacrifice almost beyond Shaylah’s comprehension, and she doubted if she would have had the fortitude for it. Or the nerve to do what Wolf had done. Perhaps, she thought dully, there really was something to the notion of royal blood.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed when at last they came for her. She had heard shouts of triumph, of joy, of welcome echoing down the tunnel, and gathered that, ragtag band or not, the Triotians were throwing quite a party for their prodigal prince. It was just beginning to quiet down when the larger of the two who had put her into the tiny cell arrived. He unlocked the small cage door and yanked her out.

  “You will come with me,” he said coldly, clearly still wishing to eliminate the problem of her existence in his own way. “The prince has sent for you.”

  Shaylah winced at the painful grip on her arm. She wondered if she was about to take the brunt of Trios’s vengeance against the Coalition. Would he really do it? Would Wolf throw her to them, perhaps as a welcome-home present of his own? She couldn’t believe it, yet how could she think she knew this man when he had kept this secret from her?

  The big man grinned at her, an evil, leering grin that told her more than words could how much enjoyment he was getting out of her alarm. Shaylah stiffened her spine. Her chin came up. Regardless of her status in the Coalition at the moment of her position as a prisoner here, she was Shaylah Graymist, of the Graymists of Arellia, and she would not show fear to bullies.

  “If your beloved prince wishes to see me, then he can come here, where he can see what accommodations you provide for his guests.”

  The big man’s hand moved swiftly. Shaylah’s ears rang, and her head reeled with the force of the slap he administered.

  “You are insolent! No one speaks of Prince Darian in that tone! And you are not a guest,” he added with a sneer. “You are a prisoner of the Triotian army.”

  “Army? Is that what you call this group of brigands?”

  She tried to dodge him this time, but the back of his hand caught her full across the mouth. Pain lanced through her face. She felt her lower lip split, then felt the trickle of blood.

  “You will obey,” he warned. Then came the leering grin again. “We have few women here. And they are Triotian women, deserving of respect. I’m sure the prince will wish you to service him before he executes you.”

  Those words echoed again and again in her spinning brain. She was still a little dizzy when he began to drag her down the tunnel. She vaguely noticed that there were many small rooms carved out of the side walls, apparently serving as lodging for the group. Some held merely bedding, some makeshift furniture.

  When they reached the main room, Shaylah saw that it was nearly empty now. But those who were there stopped in their tracks to watch the guard haul her past; their stares were cold and suspicious. Despite her pain, she forced herself to hold her head up and return their stares levelly.

  They started down another corridor, this one larger. The quarters here were larger, too, actually separate rooms, many with doors. When they came to a halt before a door at the end of that long tunnel, Shaylah could hear voices from the other side, voices that stopped when the guard knocked. Glendar, she thought. And, of course, Wolf.

  At least, she thought it had been Wolf. When the guard opened the door at the command from inside, and she got her first look into the well-lit interior of the surprisingly large chamber, she wasn’t sure anymore.

  She barely spared a glance for Glendar. She was staring at the man who turned to look as the door swung open. A tall, strong man, clad in black leggings and shirt that set off his coloring and made the blond mane of hair look like spun gold. The clothing was adorned with intricate stitching in metallic gold thread, a precise reproduction of the royal crest of Trios, repeated countless times down the long sleeves of the open-throated shirt and the side of the leggings down to where they disappeared into soft yet sturdy black knee-high boots. He looked, Shaylah thought, more stunned by his appearance than by the guard’s blow that had split her lip, like the royalty he was.

  The big guard planted a hand in the middle of her back and gave her a rough shove. She stumbled into the room, but recovered herself quickly, in time to see Wolf stiffen, then turn and stride across the room. His gaze was fastened on the guard, who took a step back long before Wolf even got close.

  Wolf’s long stride faltered, then changed direction in the instant after he glanced at her. He came to a halt in front of her and lifted a hand to her chin. With a firm yet exquisitely gentle touch he tilted her head.

  His eyes widened, then narrowed as he stared at her bruised, bloody face. He spun around on one booted heel, his fists clenched as he glared at the guard.

  “Who did this?”

  “I . . .” The big man gulped. “She refused to come, my lord. She spoke of you impertinently. I—”

  “So you struck her? A woman half your size?”

  “She’s a prisoner,” he protested.

  “And what makes you think that?” Wolf’s voice was dangerously casual.

  The big man stared at Wolf. Shaylah watched, fascinated; he looked like nothing more than a delinquent son called to task before a stern patriarch.

  “I . . . She’s a Coalition officer . . .”

  “She is also,” Wolf said in cool, measured tones, “the sole reason I am alive. She is a guest, not a prisoner. But even if she were, that kind of treatment would not be tolerated. I will not have Trios become no better than her enemies.”

  The man flushed. “I only meant to hurry her, but she refused to leave the cage.”

  “Cage?”

  The man’s color deepened; he obviously regretted his words. “I . . . It’s where we keep . . .”

  “It is our only means of securing prisoners, Dare.” It was the first time Glendar had spoken, and his tone was mildly rebuking. “She is in Coalition uniform. Renclan had no way of knowing the woman was . . . not a prisoner.”

  Shaylah saw his jaw tighten, then relax. “Very well. But mind this, Renclan. In the future,
we shall treat prisoners as we would wish our own to be treated. That they are not is irrelevant. We will not sink to the level of our enemies. If we ever wish to regain our world, we must live by the rules that governed it so well for so long.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the man said humbly.

  Spoken like a true prince, Shaylah thought, staring at Wolf as if she’d never seen him before. His gaze flicked to her, and she saw that muscle along his jaw pump as his eyes fastened on her bruised cheek and swollen, bloody mouth. He looked back at the guard.

  “And be sure the others know,” he ground out, “that she is to be treated as you would treat any other that had saved my life and brought me home. You may go now.”

  The man scuttled hastily out the door, shutting it behind him. Shaylah saw Glendar looking from Wolf to her and back, rubbing one weathered hand at his silver-bearded jaw. Then she had eyes only for Wolf as he took her elbow and led her across the chamber to a large bed, piled high with pillows and covered with a sumptuous quilt of a fabric she’d never seen, but recognized as the wondrous velvet her mother had spoken of long ago. Not everything in the royal family place had been destroyed, it seemed.

  “Sit,” Wolf ordered gently. “You need tending.”

  “I am fine,” she said stiffly, though she wanted nothing more than to do as he ordered. She thought again of his once likening himself to a child ordered to take what he already wanted; she’d never understood the feeling so clearly as she did now.

  He had been obviously upset by her injuries, but his words to the guard made Shaylah wonder about the reason; was it because she was hurt or because of the actions of one of his men? She was afraid she knew the answer.

  “You should lie down. You are bleeding,” he said when she still refused even to sit.

  “It is less than a Coalition prisoner would suffer. And much less than a Coalition slave, as you very well know.”

  Wolf glanced quickly at Glendar. The old man had gone pale. “Glendar—”

  “Is it true?”

  “It is over, Glendar. It does not matter.”

  “My God, that they dared to—” The man crossed to Wolf and grabbed his shoulders. “What did they do to you? You must tell me!”

  “So you can be eaten up with hatred and the need for vengeance? Not a pretty gift for an old, old friend.”

  “I am your only surviving relative, Dare. By adoption, it is true, but nevertheless—”

  “You know that means nothing to me. You are uncle to me just as you were brother to my father.”

  “Then do not keep me in the dark.”

  “Do you want the whole ugly story of my degradation?” Wolf snapped. Then he sighed, lifting one hand to place it on the older man’s arm comfortingly. “Glendar, I was a collared slave for five years. It was . . . ugly, brutal, and degrading. It is something I will never forget, but not something I wish to discuss.”

  Glendar paled even more. “A . . . collared slave?”

  “Yes.” His hand went reflexively to his throat. “And were it not for Captain Graymist, I would be still wearing the badge of Coalition property. Or I would be dead, my body probably still rotting in a cell at Ossuary.”

  Glendar gasped at the dreaded name and turned to stare at Shaylah. He studied her for a long moment. Shaylah returned his gaze steadily, her back still stiff, her head still high.

  “It seems,” the older man said at last, “that I am in very great debt to you, for the life of this reprobate youngster.”

  “You owe me nothing, sir.” Shaylah told herself she added the appellation out of respect for his age, not because she was grateful there was still someone Wolf loved, and whom he would allow to love him back. “Nor does . . . your prince. What I did, I did of my own will. Except,” she said wryly, glancing at Wolf, “to bring him here to what I thought was certain death.”

  “I can see that Dare has gained great wisdom during his ordeal,” Glendar said, rubbing at his bearded chin once more. “But there are those who will say their prince is soft, that he has been broken by the Coalition,” the older man said thoughtfully. “What say you, Captain?”

  Shaylah shrugged. “I say that there are fools among every people.”

  Unexpectedly, Glendar laughed. His eyes, yet another shade of Triotian green, this time the deeper green of the odd, needle-shaped leaves of the trees she’d marveled at—had it only been this morning?—glittered with amusement.

  “I see,” he said, and Shaylah had the oddest feeling that he indeed saw much more than she had intended.

  “I will speak with you later, Glendar,” Wolf said, as if made uneasy by this exchange. “Please, leave us now.”

  The older man hesitated, looking at Wolf as if loath to let him out of his sight. But at last he nodded. “Later, then.”

  When he had gone, Wolf turned to Shaylah. “Now will you lie down?”

  “Is that an order . . . Your Highness?”

  Wolf sighed. “No. Stand until you fall over, then.”

  “Very well.”

  He tried again. “I am sorry about Renclan. He will be disciplined.”

  She shrugged. “He is your minion. Do with him as you wish, but not on my account.”

  Wolf let out an exasperated breath. “He struck you.”

  “He thought it appropriate. How was he to know his newly returned prince thought differently about the treatment of prisoners?”

  “You’re not a prisoner,” Wolf grated out.

  “So you’ve said . . . my lord.”

  He let out another compressed breath at her last words. “Stop that.”

  “What?”

  “I am the same man I was when you called me Wolf.”

  “No,” Shaylah said, shaking her head. “You are not. You are every inch the prince now.”

  Wolf smiled wryly. “Then why can’t I get you to lie down on that bed?”

  Shaylah stiffened. “Is that . . . what you wish?”

  “I told you—” He stopped, his eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

  “I was told that you would . . . wish me to service you before . . .”

  “Serv—” He broke off, swearing sharply. “Is that why you refused to come? To leave that . . . cage?”

  Shaylah shrugged. “Which did you prefer, slave? Your own cage or being ordered to someone’s bed?” He drew back sharply. “That’s what I thought.” Then she shrugged again. “But it might be interesting. I suppose not many women can claim to have mated with both a slave and a prince.”

  “Interesting?” Wolf’s voice had taken on that dangerous calm again. “Is that what you call it, Captain? Is that your word for what happens between us? For how we go up in flames the moment we touch? For what we did in the observation port, when you rode me as if I were an Arellian steed?”

  His words set off an explosion within her and left her so thoroughly aroused she shook with it. He was advancing on her, and Shaylah shook again at the quick, flashing glint in his eyes, and at the memory of those frenzied moments he spoke of.

  “You had another word for it aboard the Sunbird,” he said softly. “You called it love.”

  She rued those words as she did no others. Desperate, knowing that if he touched her she would be lost, she summoned up a retort; she could not lose herself again to the man who just might be planning her execution.

  “You were Wolf then. Not . . . Prince Dare.”

  “I’m Wolf now. A part of me always will be.”

  For you. Shaylah gasped. She knew he hadn’t said the words, but they echoed in her head as strongly as if he had. And then all words vanished, along with her will, as he grabbed her fiercely, possessively.

  Shaylah had thought nothing could ever surpass the wildness they had found together on the Sunbird. She knew in the first instant she was wrong. T
his was more than wild, it was a savage, driving thing that swept them both along with a power and strength that surpassed their own combined. The only trace of control was in the gentleness of his lips against the swollen side of her mouth.

  They went down to the bed together, clawing at each other’s clothing, pushing aside then tearing away interfering cloth. Shaylah’s need for his nakedness beneath her hands seemed matched by his need for hers, and his groan met her sigh of pleasure when she at last had nothing but golden skin to caress.

  He was everywhere, stroking her with hands and mouth and body, and she was panting, gasping out his name, begging him to take her long before he finally did. It was fast and hot and hard, unlike anything she’d known, even with him. She knew it was only for the moment, that when it was over she would have to face the fact that he had no need or desire for her beyond this, but for now the hungry male flesh thrusting into her was enough, because it was Wolf. For now, at least, he wanted her.

  He drove deep one last time, shuddering violently as he growled out his pleasure. His guttural cry sent her over the precipice. She clung to him, riding out the surging convulsion of her body, aware that the cries of pleasure she heard were her own, but only caring she would have one more precious memory to keep safely stored against the time when she would lose him. If he let her live to remember.

  It was a long time before he moved, sliding off of her and pulling up a pillow to cushion his head. “Interesting?” he asked, one brow lifted.

  “Very,” Shaylah murmured.

  Reality came flooding back, and she felt the pressure of it crushing the lingering sweetness of the pleasure he’d given her. It wound tightly inside her, until she couldn’t look at him. She struggled to regain her composure, to reestablish the distance between them that enabled her to survive the knowledge that her love was not returned. When he reached out to lift her chin to make her face him, she lowered her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I know you were . . . satisfied, Shaylah.” He smiled, a smile she’d never seen before, a smile of infinite masculine confidence. “I felt it.”