“I wasn’t hungry,” she said quickly.
Too honest to lie, too noble to complain, he thought with irritation. He glared at his brother.
Warrik responded slowly, with guilty revelation. “I’m sorry girl. I didn’t give you much of a chance, did I?”
“Her name’s Petra,” he grated through clenched teeth.
“I know that!” Warrik remonstrated, at a loss to understand his brother’s ire.
“Is that all she is to you,” Davik ground out, his anger accelerating. “Just a girl?”
“Brothers.” Petra’s smooth warm voice was a soothing balm. “Don’t argue.” She shifted in Davik’s arms. “Take me to the river Davik.”
He struggled to subdue his anger, then threw it off with a lurch. He took in the girl’s heavy eyelids and hesitated. He’d like to, knowing what she probably had in mind. He’d take anything, right now, to relieve the aching pressure throbbing along his length. “It’s late. You’re tired,” he repeated. “Leave it until dawn.”
“Take me to the river,” she ordered quietly.
He told her to be quick and watched her from the bank, refusing to enter the water himself. He was irritated she’d forced him this far; she’d force him no further. As she lowered herself into the water, he watched her disappear beneath the smooth black surface. He was getting edgy before she finally resurfaced downstream. She disappeared again and he held his breath to see if he could match her for lung capacity, but found himself sucking for air just before she broke the surface. Almost immediately she went under again and he watched a point downstream where he expected her to surface.
Then, suddenly, it had been too long. Next thing he knew, he was splashing into the river, fully clothed, boots and all. He threw himself at the place he had last seen her, grappling at the bottom stones, kicking himself along, groping for her in the empty, obsidian water. She rose beside him, grasped his soaked jerkin in her fists, threw herself on top of him, and fixed her mouth on his. Flailing beneath her, he was swept a few paces further downstream before he came to a dredging halt and dragged her to her feet. “Don’t ever do that again!” he gasped. “Don’t you ever disappear like that.”
Ignoring him, she returned her lips to his.
He pulled away and backed up a step. “Not tonight,” he said, a sharp edge on each of his words.
She dropped to her knees and dragged his sopping breeks down with her. He was cold and wet and, as a result, not at all in the mood—until she sucked him into her mouth. Her palms dragged the length of his flanks then moved behind him and pulled his lower body tight against her mouth. He warmed up almost immediately. Groaning, he ran his hands into her wet hair. “Be quick, then Petra,” he told her for the third time that night.
Chapter Ten
Somehow in the night, she’d worked herself out of The Heir’s arms. No small task. Dawn found her long body snuggled against Davik’s, her arms around his waist, her cheek against his chest. He shifted onto his side, stroking her hair. As she stirred into wakefulness, her hand wandered down his naked flank.
Then Warrik was awake. Warrik’s big hand was suddenly between them as he gave the girl’s breasts a cursory pass then quickly traveled between her legs. He was on his side, with his front against her back. He pulled her legs apart, put her knee high on his thigh, pulled her ankle behind his back and entered her.
Davik felt like winter water had been thrown on him.
But Warrik wasn’t done stealing his girl. He rolled onto his back, taking the girl with him, though a part of her clung to his brother. He pushed her upright so she sat astride his loins and, with his hands on her ankles, coaxed her legs to fold underneath her, at his sides. When he had her where he wanted her, she was straddling him.
Warrik watched her back with half-closed eyes as he stretched into her. “Good dawning, darling,” he rumbled.
Davik stared at them in frustrated disbelief.
She caught his gaze and looked quickly away.
Davik spared his brother a few seconds of his resentment, then reached for his clothes. The girl’s eyes were still lowered. He watched her cheeks color as she moved obediently to satisfy The Heir, her expression part hurt and part guilt.
Mithra. Why should she feel guilty; this wasn’t her fault. She didn’t want to do this. They’d forced her into this. Taken her captive and made her their slave. They should have given her the choice. Should give her the choice now.
She didn’t want Warrik. Didn’t want him at all. God that he was—and The Heir to Khal—she didn’t want him. She preferred…the lesser son. The revelation was accompanied with relief as well as shame. Guilt pricked him for his part in her sexual coercion.
Swamped with regret, he moved swiftly to her side. “Hey,” he said softly, kneeling beside her and running his fingers into the hair above her ear. Her hand wrapped around his wrist and her face turned into his hand, but she didn’t look at him. He tried to lower his face to hers, but it was awkward. He had to straddle his brother’s legs to get to her. Catching her bottom lip with his finger, he nudged her lips up to meet his.
It was one of those kisses that starts out as minor earthwork; not meant to result in major earth moving. A little dozing, a little scraping, he’d not planned to re-contour her mouth completely. But, Mithra, the earth moved. Her lips were crushed and scraped and pushed up onto her teeth then dragged into his mouth. When he finally pulled away from her they were on their knees, his hands in her hair—fingers spread—manipulating her skull with both hands.
Breathlessly, they stared at each other a silent, longing moment, momentarily unaware of their surroundings.
“Don’t mind me,” Warrik was saying with amused indulgence.
The girl’s eyes widened an instant before she lowered herself back onto The Heir’s shaft.
Davik straightened on his knees, glancing down at his own steel with startled recognition. Shaking his head, he started to move away but the girl’s arms wrapped around him, pulling him against her body as she slid vertically on his brother. By convenient chance, his cock was positioned to take maximum advantage of her deep, generous cleavage. When she eventually released his legs, he had decided he wasn’t going anywhere after all. Lust spurted along his steel, tall and thick, pleasantly at first, then with growing insistence. He gazed down on her head fondly. With her hands cupping her heavy breasts, she pushed them up to crowd his sex. The slick silk of her skin seemed to touch him everywhere, or at least everywhere that mattered. He slid between her breasts as she moved on his brother.
This could almost work, he thought as he gave himself over to sensory appreciation that started and ended in the hot center of his sex. Allowing sensuality to burgeon, he watched his cock’s response. This could almost work, he thought again. And then it almost did work, as he felt moist lips against his hood, swelling dark and needy between her breasts. At the same time, her hand rounded his testes. It was almost all over. He gritted his teeth as he stared down at her, only vaguely aware that neither her lips nor hands were anywhere near his sex. “Mithra,” he breathed, blinking hard to hold back his arrival.
“Mithra!” Warrik exploded through clenched teeth at the same time. The girl’s movement stopped as Warrik clutched at her hips and forced her down hard onto his steel. With strained expression and jutting cock, Davik waited in a red haze of blurred need, just about mad to take his own release. Her eyes were locked on his. She hadn’t arrived with Warrik, he realized. He was glad.
But mostly he wanted to ream into her.
As Warrik’s erection died inside her, the big man moved to sit behind her, supporting her head against his chest. Years of experience worked to smoothly slide the girl into position for his brother. Grasping her ankles, Warrik brought them all the way to her bottom. “Relax darling,” he whispered. “Open your legs for Davik.” Swiftly he moved her feet to the outside of his legs then ran his hands up to her knees, pulling her legs open.
With rigid arms supporting his weight eit
her side of the girl, Davik rose on her and slammed into her. By now he had forgotten how this had all started, forgotten how Warrik had robbed him, stolen the girl from his arms. He was hardly even aware of his brother’s presence or that his presence was an issue; he’d forgotten everything except the need to release inside her. Forgetting even to be gentle, he drove into her in pure frenzy.
Something wasn’t right, he realized in the middle of that frenzy; her body, the sounds she was making. He stopped in mid-stroke though his angry cock chastised him with throbbing vigor. Checking her face, he cursed; he’d seen that look of panic before. “Warrik!” he croaked. “Her ankles. Release her ankles!” As if in response, she exploded beneath him, her body fighting to throw itself against his tip while at the same time threatening to thrash itself right off of his erection. Her violent contortions battered his steel cruelly—at gale force—and he could do nothing but ride the wave of her body, balanced on the edge of arrival. He balanced and teetered then went off the deep end as she sucked his release right out from under him. For a final long moment he was hard, strong and thick inside her, then his release charged through his cock in an angry torrent and raged into her.
Chapter Eleven
“Slavery’s all well and good,” Davik was saying, “for slaves.” Warrik shot him a look of amusement as he directed two of the supply wagons down slope toward the bulk of his army. “But she’s not a slave.”
“Of course she is. She’s our slave. Spoils of war; perfectly legal.” Warrik grinned at his younger brother.
“She’s one of our countrymen! Do you intend to enslave all the Northern Rebels when we take Veronix?”
“Only the women. All of them, if they’re anything like her.”
“She reads and writes and plays the lyre. She speaks”—he held up his fingers as he counted off—“Khallic, Agryppan, Thrallish, Yute, Rhyssian.”
“Thrallish doesn’t count as a language! They have—what—a vocabulary of twenty words!” Warrik shrugged at his brother’s stubborn expression. “So she’s a well-educated slave.”
“She’s read Chay!” The significance of this evidence was lost on The Heir. “Vauchn’s memoirs were lost after his death. They’ve only recently come to light.”
“And?”
“There can be only ten copies in the entire world, and she has read one of them.”
Warrik shook his head. “Most like, she’s heard the ballads, like everyone else.”
“No! She knows details she could only learn from reading the memoirs. What does she call you?” Davik burst out in exasperation.
“What do you mean?”
“What does she call you? Sir? My Lord? Prince Warrik?” Warrik pointed the last wagon toward the inn while he thought about this. The two men turned their horses and followed. “Because she calls me Davik. Just plain Davik. She says she’s a farmer’s daughter yet she calls you—The Heir to Khal—by your name, as though she were your peer.”
“Well—we are on intimate terms.”
Davik continued as though he hadn’t heard. “I’m telling you, Warrik, she’s something more than a farmer’s daughter. We should give her her freedom,” he grumbled. “Now.” Before it’s too late, he thought. Before…what? Before she hated them for enslaving her.
“Fine,” Warrik agreed shrewdly. “But get me her forwarding before she leaves.”
Davik stared at his brother, his expression alarmed.
Warrik laughed. “What! You were going to free her, but not let her leave? How are you defining freedom, Davik?”
“I thought…”
“That if she were free, she would choose to stay with you?” Warrik shrugged. “She might; it’s a bit of a gamble though. She might skin-it out of here. She might choose me instead. I am The Heir, after all, and she might be ambitious.” Warrik smiled kindly at his younger brother. “And Davik,” he said announced glibly, “I love you…like a brother. But I’m not giving her up. At least, not this early.”
Warrik called to a soldier by name as he swung off his destroyer and pointed at the wagon. The man hurried to unload it. A young recruit took the Princes’ reins. The Heir sauntered toward the inn, an arm around Davik’s shoulders. “I think we should offer to wed her first; then free her only if she accepts.” The Heir opened the door for his younger brother, and followed him into the inn. Catching the girl up in a hug, he pulled her to join him on the chair. Warrik spread a big hand over her stomach and squeezed her to him. “Can you bear children?” he asked abruptly.
She looked puzzled and offended. “Why do you ask?”
“Duh! Because I’m The Heir. Which means I must have heirs.”
Davik took in the girl’s stricken expression. “Mithra, Warrik, don’t scare the child.”
Warrik grinned at her pale face. “Don’t you like children sweetheart? It’s not as if I want to wed you,” he said consolingly. “I want Davik to wed you but…he refuses to share his wife. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. He won’t listen to me.”
Davik watched the girl’s face. She had decided the men were teasing her.
“Are Princes allowed to wed common s-slaves?”
“No. Only uncommon ones. I think she falls into that category, don’t you Davik?” Davik nodded distractedly. “Besides, I know a good genealogist. He’d find nobility in my horse if I asked him to.”
Davik frowned at his brother, not certain his brother was teasing—about wedding, at any rate. “I don’t know how you’ll convince Mother The Heir should wed a North Country girl. She has her heart set on a wedding alliance with Thrall.”
“And you can’t wed a woman you’ve only known three days,” the girl pointed out.
“She’s right you know,” Davik put in quickly.
Warrik sighed. “You’re probably right.” Then he grinned. “I’ll ask again tomorrow.”
“Come on, then,” Davik was saying as he stood.
“What?” Warrik complained with a pained expression.
“We’re supposed to join the men for lastmeal.”
“They’ll never miss us.”
“Good for morale,” Davik said shortly, tightening his sword belt. “And we need to shake up our schedule a bit. Don’t want to fall into routine. It’s dangerous. Come on, a few ales and we’ll be back.”
“Save something for me,” Warrik winked at the girl as he bumped her off his knee.
* * * * *
It was past dusk when Davik returned to the inn. He’d left Warrik in the middle of a song, but expected him to follow soon. He would write Taranis, he’d decided, and find out what could be recalled about the girl who had robbed Fastig and spent five years there in prison. First thing tomorrow, he thought.
He stepped through the door and experienced a panicked moment of searing loss. The girl was gone. Immediately he rationalized. There were no guards at the door. Most like, they had escorted the girl somewhere. To the river, or for a walk even. Still, he felt uneasy. It was late for a walk.
The door broke open and the girl was propelled into the inn, shoved from behind. Two of his men followed her in. “She tried to escape,” one of them reported angrily.
Chapter Twelve
Davik took in the girl’s disheveled condition. Her arms and legs were scratched and dirty, her hair in a wild tangle. Her skirt had been torn off above her knees; the blue silk was full of snags and burrs. “Her dress?” he addressed his guards coldly.
The two men stared at each other in dismay.
“I ripped it off short so I could run,” she said, swift to defend the men.
“You’re dismissed,” he told the two guards, never removing his gaze from the girl. “Ask my captain to post six men outside henceforth; two at the door, one at each corner of the building.” The door closed behind the men. His eyes remained fixed on the girl, as he tried to understand. His heart thudded dully in his chest; he leaned back on the table for support. Conflicting arguments vied within him; ‘I-should-have-freed-her’ warred with ‘how-could-s
he-run-away?’ How could she leave him, actually. How could she leave him; that’s what bothered him.
She stood quietly before him.
“Petra. The only reason you’re not bound is because you promised to submit.”
“I’ve submitted. Now let me go, Davik.” She delivered this like a command. “I can’t do this any more.”
He felt breathless, stunned, as though he has just witnessed some unexpected tragedy. Unexpected! Any idiot could have seen this coming. They should have freed her. Or let her choose. Or even asked first, if she wanted to be drilled dawn, noon, and night—by the two biggest dicks in Khal. The two biggest dicks—literally as well as figuratively. He and his brother had treated her as though she was nothing more than a good pronk.
She was more. Mithra knew she was more. But this was no time to be defensive. He’d been a soldier long enough to know that a strong offence was the best defense.
She held his eyes with hers. “You must let me go, Davik. I’ll come back,” she offered. “Only let me go now.”
“You’ll come back?” Why should she! “How can I trust you when you’ve just tried to steal away without—? I don’t understand, Petra,” he stated sternly. “Explain it to me.”
“I can’t explain. But my presence here endangers you.”
He grasped at the chance to divert the blame somewhere other than himself. “Does this have something to do with the bowman? The man who tried to kill you? Do you…belong to someone of importance? Are you afraid someone is coming for you? Is someone threatening you Petra? Is it Kartin?” She looked at the ground and shook her head. “Whatever it is, Petra. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” She groaned and turned from him. “Even if I failed to protect you, Warrik would crush the man that threatened you.”
“It’s not me, Davik.”
He shook his head uncomprehendingly. “Then who, what? Tell me, Petra. I can’t help if you won’t share your problem with me.” He waited several moments for her input. “You can trust me, Petra,” he said softly.
Kingdom of Khal: Redeeming Davik Page 6
