Kingdom of Khal: Redeeming Davik

by Madison Hayes

  “I do trust you, Davik,” she said to the ground, then raised her eyes. “Can you trust me?”

  “Enough to let you go? Even if I could, Warrik would never allow it,” he said, knowing he was making excuses, treading water, buying time, while he tried to figure out how to stop this, how to make all this work. “You can’t run away from this. You’re going to have to find some other solution, Petra.”

  Disappointment flashed in her eyes and he felt like shit. He wasn’t giving her much. He wasn’t giving her anything! But, with her eyes fixed on the ground, she nodded.

  “Give me your hands, Petra.”

  She raised her eyes, saw the cord in his hand, and started. “No!” This time her eyes held absolute terror. “No, Davik. Not now!”

  “I’ll untie you tomorrow, after I’ve discussed this with Warrik, and have more sentries posted.” He set his jaw, approached her with determination, and grasped her wrists.

  She fainted again.

  Davik had only just finished tying off the knots at her ankles when Warrik pushed into the inn. “Bondage,” he grinned. “I like it.” Then he saw her white face, her closed eyes. “What! What are you doing man!” He knelt to untie her.

  “She tried to escape, Warrik.”

  Warrik stopped and blinked at him in surprise. “Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said savagely. “Maybe she doesn’t like being a slave. Maybe she doesn’t like submittal—to us—to both of us—at the same time.”

  “She appeared to like it.” Warrik checked her bonds and assured himself they weren’t tight.

  “Maybe—she was faking it. Until she could escape.”

  Warrik shook his head. “You know she wasn’t faking it. At least, not with you. Look, she’s coming back.” Warrik caught her up in his arms and kissed her. Full on the lips. He kissed her, Davik thought with dismay.

  She looked at her wrists, ankles, and groaned. “I’ve made a mess of things, Warrik.” She buried her face in his neck.

  “We can fix this darling. Whatever it is, we can fix it. Only promise not to run away.”

  “I promise,” she said swiftly. “Only untie me, Warrik.”

  “I’ll give you your ankles tonight, sweetheart, and your wrists tomorrow.” Then he touched his lips to hers again and grinned at his brother.

  “I thought you didn’t like kissing,” Davik grumbled.

  “I’ve bought in,” he told his brother. “My conversion’s complete. And as you might expect, there’s nothing worse than a recent convert.”

  She clung to Warrik that night, buried her face in his chest, and did not look at his younger brother. It seared a hole in Davik’s heart. Confused, crushed beneath guilt he considered well earned, Davik couldn’t know if her behavior was in response to the cords knotting her wrists, or if she only craved the protection of his brother’s massive thews. Either way, it hurt his soul. He couldn’t watch Warrik make love to her.

  He left the inn and kicked his way through the camp, wishing he could kick himself. At this point, he had only himself to blame. He could have freed her. Could have told her how he felt about her. Told her he didn’t want to share her. Could have told Warrik. Could have done something!

  He could have—at the very least—had the decency to walk out this dawn, when his brother started in on her. What must she think of him! He’d known she hadn’t wanted Warrik, and he’d done nothing. Worse than nothing. He’d waited for his brother to finish with her—waited with jutting cock—for his turn to mount her. Then he’d fucked her right after his brother, like she was some sort of…

  He’d gotten in line like a slavering cur waiting his turn to mount a bitch in heat.

  He slammed around on his heel in frustration. He was worse than an animal. Animals at least fought for the female. Most of them. Deer. Elk. Even a pronking goat would fight. It would serve him right if she chose the stag with the biggest rack.

  Dragging back to the inn after midnight, Davik frowned when he found his brother up and sitting before a crop of empty jars. The Heir seldom drank to get drunk; it was too big a job. Davik sat down across from the big man and helped him drain the last jar. His eyes went to the girl, asleep on the mats, her hands tucked beneath her cheek, her bound wrists against her neck.

  Warrik was silently moody.

  “What?” Davik prodded him.

  Warrik shook his head. “Nothing,” he said reluctantly. “Ah. Nothing.” He looked at his brother and gave him a slim smile. “She…ah…doesn’t come for me.” He looked away. “Unless you’re holding her.”

  He should have felt some sympathy for his brother. He should have, but he didn’t. Any potential for sympathy was swept away in a rush of relief and gratitude. “It’s…it’s only you’re so big,” he managed to croak and hoped he sounded a little contrite.

  Warrik nodded then shook his head. “It’s not like you’re so much smaller.” He smiled with melancholy. “I think she likes you, Davik.”

  With hope thus renewed, Davik took a breath he felt he’d been holding several days. “We need to talk, Warrik,” he said intently. “About Petra.”

  “You’re right. We need to talk.” Warrik gave his brother a somber smile. “But not tonight, Davik. I’m feeling a little defeated tonight.” Pushing himself out of his chair, Warrik staggered over to the sleeping mats and threw himself down beside the sleeping captive.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The girl stirred against him early in the dawn, bringing his restless sleep to an end. Rolling toward her, Davik smiled crookedly. “Have you been awake long?” he whispered.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to wake,” she said in a quiet rush. “Make love to me, Davik. Now. While Warrik sleeps.” The thought alone made his cock jump. Rolling half his body onto her, he put his knee between her legs. She stretched her bound wrists over her head to get them out of the way. He slid his thumb over the high ridge of her pelvic wing then ran his hand up her side to her nipple and fingered it lightly. “I was afraid you wouldn’t forgive me. For tying you.”

  Tears were suddenly in her eyes. “I am afraid, too,” she whispered.

  His heart ached. How did she do it? It was the vulnerability thing again. He rolled off her and reached for his steel, slid it between her wrists and tossed the blade aside. Sliding his hand up her neck to her ear, he lowered his chest against hers and helplessly surrendered his lips. She returned his kisses with hunger, or was it desperation? “Wait. Petra, wait.”

  She struggled beneath him, her eyes wild and distracted.

  He gave her a pained smile. “If you’re going to leave, you’d best do it now, before The Heir wakes.”

  She didn’t understand, right off. And then she did. Her eyes filled with anguish as she shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “The Gods are not so cruel.”

  But he knew better, or would soon enough. The Gods were cruel, all right, although they didn’t lack a sense of humor, a damned cynical sense of humor.

  Her hands knotted in his hair and she pulled his face to hers. Voraciously, her lips swallowed his kisses whole. Her mouth opened aggressively and her tongue fought its way into his mouth.

  Relief flooded through him like strong drink. She wasn’t leaving.

  Her arms went behind his neck. Her body! Her body undulated beneath his in a powerful wave that wouldn’t quit. She was rushing him! He moved off her so he could slide his hand between her legs. She was rushing herself, his hand discovered. He broke away from her voracious mouth to lick his fingers and return them between her legs. He pulled his wet fingers through her slot. But the girl had her own agenda. She struggled to roll on top of him. Wonderingly, he helped her over. Immediately, she opened her legs for his shaft and brought it inside her, her elbows on the mat beside his neck. Having attained this position, she rested her forehead on his and quit her exertions, panting against his mouth. He let her rest, barely moving his hips in small oscillations, just to keep her place, should she wish to take up where she h
ad left off.

  With a shuddering breath, she angled her head and kissed him with her wide full lips. And this kiss was a world apart from the hunger and desperation she had exhibited earlier. It was a long, slow, tender kiss with as much love in it as he had ever felt and, in the middle of it, she began to move on him slowly.

  Sounds of struggle from without the inn finally reached him. Warrik was on his feet and pulling on his breeks, reaching for his sword belt. Davik swept the girl off him, rolled onto his knees, and pushed her behind him to shield her—and felt a knife at his throat.

  He watched his brother freeze, staring at a point beyond Davik’s left ear. At the girl, he realized.

  “Don’t—move,” she shouted at Warrik. “If you do, your brother will die. If you step outside, you’ll die, Warrik. Don’t move. Let me—”

  She had appeared so fragile. So vulnerable. But that fragile girl had taken the steel he’d used to free her and now held it tight against his throat. With a roar of angry betrayal, he ignored the blade’s threat and tore himself from the girl’s grasp. The steel slipped across his neck in a cold line followed by warm blood and sharp stinging.

  “No!” he heard her scream, as Warrik went through the door. He kicked her away as he tried to follow his brother. She launched herself at him. He stumbled through the door and tripped, tangled in the slender arms that confounded his steps, and crashed on the ground outside the inn. Then her body was crawling over his before he shrugged her off, got to his knees, and saw his brother dead on the ground beside him.

  It stopped him a bit.

  It shouldn’t have. A disciplined soldier shouldn’t have lost those three seconds staring into his brother’s sightless eyes. By then, several men wrestled with him. He kept trying to shake them off long enough to see his brother, to be sure. Were there really so many cruel shafts buried in his chest? His world blurred around the edges. Sound dulled. And—like an idiot—he slowly registered the number of enemy soldiers present in his camp. Long severe lines of them, standing with arrows drawn. The line of soldiers who trained their bows on him stood motionless, but throughout the camp his men were waging a battle of retreat, unable to rescue him without endangering his life. A tall, lean man with violent red hair was taking orders from a woman wrapped in a cape. His woman.

  “You fucking whore!” Davik catapulted to his feet and hurled himself at her. The wrestlers pulled him up short before he could kill the harlot.

  The tall redhead moved himself in front of the girl and watched as his men subdued the angry Prince. Wincing at the look of snarling hatred on the young man’s face, the redhead turned and smiled apologetically at his captain.

  Her face was grim. “Ambitious,” she said in a pale voice.

  The redhead raised an eyebrow slashed with a jagged tattoo.

  “He left out ambitious. Ambitious, fucking whore. Give him a shovel,” she said limply, “and his clothes. Let him bury his brother.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The army of Southern Khal remained outside the walls of Veronix, then slowly withdrew after receiving orders from Taranis. Locked in a small gray room, the Prince enjoyed two nights of the Pretender’s hospitality. The room was windowless, bare, with cold stonewalls. With his back to the stone, he sat on the floor and stared across the room. The Rebels would hold him hostage and sue for cessation of hostilities. It would be a long time—if ever—before they could afford to free him. Upon Warrik’s death, he became the current heir to the Khallic throne and nothing would change that—except his own death. Kartin would want very much to keep him alive and keep him hostage.

  Food and drink was delivered; he wasn’t hungry. It was a while before he realized he was thirsty, and even then he stared at the jug a long time before he moved toward it. On the third day he was moved.

  * * * * *

  “It is vital he be kept alive and healthy,” Petra had argued with Kartin. “If he dies, Hadi’s Storm will rain down on us from Southern Khal.”

  Prince Kartin’s eyes shifted around the hall. He hated to be seen as giving in. ‘Keep your enemies as near as your friends’ had been his father’s advice. He wondered how the old man had known the difference. But then, his father had been immensely popular. With only a remote claim to royal blood, he had welded together the independent tribes long enough to rip the Northern Mountains from Stavrig’s grasp, as Stavrig fought his own battle to hold onto the throne he had stolen from his brother’s son. Now, a generation later, his Southern throne secure, Stavrig had sent his sons and his army to march on Veronix, determined to bring the Northern mountains back into the Kingdom of Khal.

  Prince Kartin didn’t enjoy his father’s popularity. Not by a longbow shot. Ten years on the Northern throne had only been long enough to erode any popularity and goodwill he had inherited on the death of his father. He wasn’t his father’s son. Neither in looks, charm, sense, or mannerism. And, at over thirty—and having failed to interest a Khallic Princess in his suit—he was still unwed and without an heir. As long as the respectably legitimate Southern Princes were available, every noble lass was keeping her options open, hoping for a match with one of the handsome brothers. They might want to rethink their positions at this point, Kartin mused sardonically.

  He returned his slinking eyes to the girl, his sloping chin resting on his chest. Even this girl of a captain enjoyed greater popularity than he did. Certainly her unit’s respect. The Prince’s eyes shifted to the man at the back of the room. Of course that might have a lot to do with the tall, dangerous redhead, her sergeant. And now, after capturing the Southern Prince—saving the city at the eleventh hour—no doubt her popularity would soar in the North Country. He regretted the field promotion that had elevated her to captain, but that was none of his doing, so he could not blame himself. Again, he suspected the redhead was the true brains in the unit, and responsible for her promotion.

  He never felt comfortable around her. What was it—beside the fact that she seldom addressed him as anything other than Kartin? Just Kartin. It was insolent—disrespectful—but he couldn’t correct her publicly without pointing up his own weakness. It was safer to allow his captains to think she enjoyed some sort of special favor with him. His lips twitched as he considered this idea, confident of the assumption that would first jump to mind.

  She was all proper and respectful today, however. Kartin’s lips twitched again with sardonic amusement. She must want this really bad. Why?

  He snorted.

  Whoever held the Prince, held all the cards, all the power against Southern Khal. Not that anyone could do anything but hold it. But if she wished to look important, he could afford to be generous and act like he considered it a small matter. And she was right, they couldn’t allow the Prince to die; he must be kept healthy. She had a nice airy home on the west side of the city.

  “And you have suitable accommodations,” he said finally, as she waited quietly for his decision. “Thank you for reminding me of my intention to place the Prince under your supervision.”

  The girl received this lie smoothly; he had expected no less from her.

  * * * * *

  Davik was installed in a bright open viewing cell; a tall room with smooth plastered walls that rose halfway into the upper level of the house. A hangover from the days of slavery and designed to hold slaves, the ancient home would not have been complete without a viewing cell. Although slavery in Khal was rare these days, viewing cells remained popular; women found them useful as playpens for their children, or to showcase their prized possessions. In Davik’s case, the room reverted to its original purpose; to allow the cell’s occupant to be observed—and guarded—from the upper level. Davik ignored the sleeping mat on the bench built against one wall and threw himself on the floor, propped his back against the wall, and brooded.

  His eyes cut to the top of the wall. At the moment, no one watched but he guessed there were guards nearby. He was to have some privacy, then. He had to assume others would observe him, that she in
tended to watch him or even communicate with him, safe from his reach. Oh, it was her house, he knew. On his way in, he had seen enough to ascertain that. It was not large. Plain, clean, unadorned, and quiet, filled with the hated scent of her. And because he thought she might come to the wall at night, he took care to sleep on his stomach. More than one night, he lay awake—listening for her—but if she came, he never heard her.

  At the end of the first day, a stack of books was delivered. He glared at them from across the room but didn’t move to open any of them. Two days later, parchment and pen were delivered along with ink. These he glared at for a day before he retrieved them the next morning in a sudden burst of energy, carried them to his bench, and began to write. He wrote all that day and continued into the night, as lamps were solicitously lit for him. The next day his work was delivered to his hostess. It was entitled, The Harlot. The last six stanzas were devoted wholly to his revenge, wherein the fifty men of her unit were forced to rape their captain, utilizing every accommodating orifice in her body, repeatedly and—to whatever extent possible—at the same time.

  * * * * *

  She sat at her table, looked up from the parchment, and attempted a smile. “It doesn’t say here whether or not I enjoy it. I suppose that’s left to the reader’s interpretation.” She handed the parchment to the redhead and watched him as he scanned the last page, his eyes that riveting blue found at the hard edge of lightning.

  “I think he’s made it clear enough,” Dye said, argumentatively. “At least, I don’t need an interpreter.”

  “Neither does it mention if my men are willing.”

  Dye grimaced. “Well, you can count me out,” he said emphatically.