Her eyes dart down to his waist before sliding back up. Up his waist. His chest. His neck. Snaking along his skin as if she’s branded him, before locking her eyes with his. As if she doesn’t dare look anywhere else. As if she can’t help it, as if she wants to look right back to the evidence of his arousal. Where it’s clear that her presence is affecting him as much he’s affecting her. To his satisfaction her cheeks flush.
But her voice is calm when she speaks.
"Nothing I haven’t already seen," she says, a clipped British accent giving away her origins.
Nevertheless, she jerks her head to his wardrobe door.
He walks towards it, pulling out a pair of jeans. Then he deliberately drops the towel before slipping into them, and is rewarded by a quick indrawn breath from her. By the time he turns around, buttoning his shirt, her features are schooled into straight lines.
Her eyes stare at him, wide, unblinking.
Those same indigo eyes.
A startling contrast to the dark honey of her skin. It’s as if the sun has burnt right through her, turning a shade of brown, bringing out a golden glow to her skin. She couldn’t have been very light-skinned to begin with. High cheekbones, a firm jaw, slashing features which indicate a mixed-race, perhaps half Asian background.
The overall mix of features is exotic. And very attractive.
She’s thin, almost scrawny, and yet he senses the curves below that oversized shirt.
A gust of breeze blows through the open window, bringing with it the scent of the sea and a smell of vanilla and something earthy, mysterious. Like black coffee on an early morning. It’s her smell. Light yet dark.
Contrasts.
She’s all about contrasts.
He wants to find out more about her. Disregarding the weapon in her hand he asks, "From New Britain…aren’t you?"
"Yes, genius," she bites out. "Clever of you to figure that out."
He ignores the sarcasm and asks, "London?"
She nods, a quick jerk of the head. As if she doesn’t want to think about her home country.
"How’d you get here?" he asks, then swears inwardly.
Stupid question. She’s a refugee. She has to be, the way she’s dressed in clothes which are little too large for her, worn down in places.
And there’s only one way for them to cross to the subcontinent from New Britain.
"How do you think?" she asks, her voice dripping sarcasm. "I flew in an aircraft."
A reluctant smile tugs his lips and he half-tilts his head, conceding his mistake.
Air travel has been extinct for over a decade, ever since oil reserves began to run out and jet fuel became too expensive for airline companies. The use of land vehicles is now restricted for law and order purposes, or for the army.
When he doesn’t say anything more, the silence drags on.
She is still pointing the gun at him and she hasn’t moved from her earlier spot. Her eyes are wary and she bounces a little on the balls of her feet as if trying to contain the pent-up energy inside.
"You need to change out of those clothes," is all he says, his voice mild, conversational.
"Sure, and I need a bed to sleep in, and a roof over my head and clothes that have seen better days. But we can"t have everything we want, can we? Not unless you are the son of the Mayor of the city," she adds.
There it is, the resentment at his so-called high status. Jai’s lived with that kind of jealousy all his life, so much so, he doesn’t pay any attention to it. But coming from her, someone not from this city, a refugee, brings home the extreme difference of their situations.
He, the son of the founder of a city, one soaring in economic prosperity, while she has nothing. Literally, nothing.
She’s left everything behind to travel for weeks, maybe months by ship and road to make it here. Only to end up in limbo. Here in the Jungle, where the refugees await their turn to be handpicked based on their skill set.
The only catch is that if they don’t get chosen for a job, they have to leave or volunteer for one of the missions to kill the shifters. No one has come back from one of those alive, so no, that wasn’t an option. You’d have to be stupid or, have a death wish, or be desperate to go on one of those missions.
The kind of gut-wrenching desperation that’s vibrating off her in waves. That makes her dangerous and unpredictable.
And sexy.
Something about the way she stands.
Legs apart, feet planted on the ground. Gun in hand, she looks down its barrel at him. Her eyes narrow in concentration. Her gaze sweeps down his chest, down his stomach muscles, and lower still, and a tug of desire tightens his groin. It surprises him too. Makes him want to go up to her. Brush his lips against hers. Taste her. Run his hand over the curve of her waist, over the flare of her hips, squeeze it…
He pushes that thought away and his eyes dart over her shoulder, to where he’s dropped his sword on the living room floor.
At which she takes a step forward, waving the gun at him.
"If you were going to shoot me, you’ll have done it already." His voice cuts through her thoughts.
She starts a little, "You’re right," she says. "I’m not here to kill you but you can understand I feel safer with the gun pointed at you."
She lowers the gun, still clutching it, but lets her hand fall to her side.
The breath he’s not aware he’s been holding whistles out. Still he doesn’t relax his muscles nor stop watching her as she runs her free hand through her hair messing up her shoulder-length dark brown locks further.
Then she begins to pace the room. Towards the window, then back to the end of the bed. Back to where she’d been standing earlier.
He can sense the coiled tension in her, arms stiff by her side. She finally drops back into the chair, keeping the length of the bed between them. Her right hand brushes against her sword, propped against the chair as if to reassure herself.
He just stands there, watching her squirm in the too-wide-for-her seat as if she’s stalling for time.
She looks half-starved, a hunted look in her eyes, one which makes him break the silence, But he resists. Satisfying himself with watching her.
She’s here for something, but what?
He resists looking at his sword again. She isn’t going to hurt him, but yeah, he’d have been a lot more reassured if he had some kind of weapon in hand.
"You like to read?" She looks at the wall opposite the bed covered with books, floor to ceiling.
After the tsunamis wiped out many of the forests on the planet, physical paperbacks had become too expensive for most of the world.
But Jai can still afford them.
Now when he sees it through her eyes, she who’s lost everything…he realizes what an indulgence it must seem.
"A man without words is like a woman without a secret," It slips out before he can stop myself.
"Ha! A poet too? Who’d have thought, Jai Iyeroy, dedicated soldier, the only son of the Mayor of the city actually has a heart?" She crows but he barely hears her.
Only son? He hadn’t always been an only child. If she only knew the cross he’d had to bear for becoming one.
If she only knew what being cursed to carry the weight of that sword has done to him. To his family, to his long dead mother and his father…his father!
He must call in his report of the mission too. Though by now Gilbert has doubtless already updated the Mayor about their victory.
Springing to her feet, the girl begins to pace again. The barely leashed energy bounces off her, reaching out to him. It tugs at him. He wants to go to her, and grab her and fling her on the bed and—
"Stop!" he says, talking as much to himself as to her.
She halts at the foot of his bed, the gun still gripped in her right hand. The shirt she’s wearing slips to reveal the curve of her shoulder and his eyes are drawn to the strip of skin showing there again.
"Sit," he commands, using the same tone that gets erran
t soldiers in his team to behave.
She hesitates, then to his relief drops back in the chair.
"What do you want? Why are you here?" he asks.
The silence lengthens and he continues looking at her, taking in her hair now curling in long winding strands that fall to the middle of her back. The pale skin on the back of her palms hints at the creamier flesh below. She holds his gaze for a beat, then finally her eyes slink away towards the gun in her hand, now pointed downwards.
Away from him.
"Will you sleep with me?" she asks.
Chapter Five
I should have just fired at him, wounded him when I’d had the chance. That was the plan. Not this. Not propositioning him.
I swear to myself, I hadn’t meant for it to come out that way. As if I’m offering myself up, whoring myself out to him.
Which you are.
Sometimes there’s no mincing words.
Besides, when your family’s life depends on it, you just have to say it as it is, right?
Jai looks as taken aback as I feel.
"Excuse me?" His amber eyes snap at me. In them I see the shifting sands of time, burnt sienna and russet. Like autumn leaves from my hometown. Golden sparks shimmering off a lake. And for a second I can see right through him, to his soul. It’s as if he’s reached out to me and tugged at me and pulled me to him. I get the full effect of that glare and the breath whooshes out of me.
My hand slips into my pocket and I look for the familiar feel of the coin, but of course it’s not there.
I swear inwardly.
His eyebrows shoot up towards that thick hair falling over his forehead. Sculpted high cheekbones, a firm jaw that hints at determination. Strength. It’s more than just physical strength – though there’s plenty of that too – it also hints at an inner resilience. A toughness that says he’ll be there. That he’s not going anywhere. That he’s not one to run away when things gets difficult. No, he likes to face life head-on. Like he’s facing me now. Firm. Legs spread slightly. Powerful thighs clad in trousers that cling to chorded muscles.
As if aware of my scrutiny, his jaw hardens and he goes still.
A military stiffness creeps into his limbs. Arms at his side, a pulse beats at his temple. And his chest rises-falls-rises.
Heat spools out of him, reaching out to me, and my mouth goes dry. He’s not as unaffected as he’s pretending to be. And neither am I.
I trace the lines of his shoulders with my eyes. Broad shoulders. He’s only a few years older than me, in his early twenties, but his muscles are already filling out, hinting at the man he’s becoming.
Hinting at the amount of time he spends taking part in intense physical activity.
Unable to stop myself, my eyes track to his chest. Through the open ‘V’ of his shirt I can see a brown, smooth, nearly hairless chest, sloping down to sculpted abs. Flat stomach, muscles silhouetted under the shirt.
I have his gun and yet I can’t bring myself to shoot him. I’m not sure why. After all, that’s what privileged scum like him deserve, right? I might have been like him once but now I know what it means to be helpless. To sleep on the floor night after night with mosquitoes feeding off your blood.
No, he’s never known that.
And when he’d dropped the towel, I’d got a glimpse of that long expanse of his naked back. And I’d wanted him to turn around then so I could see him fully. See that part of him which I know even now is reacting to my words.
I know he’s aroused but I don’t dare glance at the bulge in his trousers.
As if sensing my thoughts, he folds his hands, leaning back on the balls of his feet.
The biceps stand out on his upper arms. His chest strains against his half-buttoned shirt. A smooth brown expanse of skin.
He clears his throat and my eyes flee back to his face.
Features composed into that faceless mask, he bites out the words, ‘To repeat the obvious question, what was that about. Are you propositioning me?" His voice is cold, formal.
A contrast to what his body is screaming.
It’s obvious he’s turned on, for he shifts a little as if to accommodate the blood rushing to the muscles lower down.
"Look at you going all so tough-soldier on me…" I drawl, perversely satisfied that I’m not the only one affected.
He doesn’t reply and the silence stretches on.
His eyes bore into me. Glinting. Fire sparking out of them. Oh! He’s not as calm as he’s trying to be. He’s mad. Angry.
Another cloud of heat spools off him, tugging at my belly and a shudder runs through me. He’s turning me on just by looking at me. Through me. Those eyes, as if looking straight into my soul.
Can he see the ghosts of my past life? Can he tell what I want from him?
"You have no idea what you’re getting into, do you?" he snaps.
He gives me a pitying look. One mixed with disappointment.
This is not the first time he’s been propositioned. There’ve been other desperate souls like me before this. Just, he didn’t expect this from me. A flicker of anger runs through me at the judgment on his face. It’s so easy for him to think the worst of me.
"I know it all too well," I say, my voice bitter. ‘When you’ve lost everything, the only thing you can barter is yourself. What’s wrong with that?"
My voice lowers at the last few words but I know he can hear me.
A resigned look comes on his face.
"What’s your name?" he asks.
I hesitate.
When I don’t speak immediately he says, ‘You know my name. Besides, if you want me to sleep with you, the least you can do is tell me your name.’ He lets that hang in the air between us.
"Ariana," I say reluctantly. "Ariana West."
It’s not like he can’t track me down. Besides it shouldn’t matter. By the time he figures out why I’m here, I’ll be gone.
"Pleased to meet you. You’ll forgive me if I don’t welcome you with a cup of chai. You’ve put me at somewhat of a disadvantage, as you may have noticed," he says in a droll voice.
A reluctant smile tugs at my lips. And the breath I’ve been holding whistles out from between my teeth.
"It’s the one thing I like about this promised land, the chai. The spices they put into it, the fragrance and all those flavors. Just yummy!" I half-smile. "There’s a tea shop up from our place in the Jungle where the chai boy makes a mean cup."
"I hope it’s sweet enough for the spoon to balance upright when you stir it." He chuckles.
I grin back, a smile tugging my lips. "No, my tastes haven’t stretched that far, but the way Kiran makes it…"
"Kiran?"
"The chai boy…" My voice fades a little. I hope he’s still OK. I don’t say it aloud, but his eyebrows shoot down over his nose as if he can sense the unspoken words.
"So what are your other haunts?" he asks, then frowns. "Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way—"
I slice the air with my palm, silencing him. "Well, the Jungle has bars, nightclubs, corner shops where you can buy stuff. Everything you need to survive. It’s a proper town. One that everyone wants to leave," I add, my voice bitter.
My words hang in the air.
"Why are you here?" he asks, his voice terse.
When I open my mouth to reply, he stops me with, ‘And don’t give me the bullshit of wanting to sleep with me."
"I want a place to stay in this city," I snap back, angry that he’s seen through my discomfort in the role I’m trying to play.
Even before I complete my sentence he’s shaking his head. "Not happening," he says. "Even if I wanted I couldn’t let you stay here. The numbers are tightly regulated."
"Come on. One more person, it’s not like a big thing, is it? Not in this city of thousands."
"You don’t get it," he goes on as if I haven’t spoken. "Everyone has an ID card here and our movements are tracked. Everything is controlled. The council knows everything each citizen does. There’s
not a chance in hell you can jump the system."
"And you call this the new world? Seems more like a prison—" I say.
He raises his hand and the implicit command in them shuts me up.
"But a clean and healthy one," he says, "where everything works. Where the air is pure. Everyone has a decent life, and besides, it’s 99.99 per cent crime free."
"What happened to the 0.01 per cent?" I ask aloud, only half-joking.
His voice goes cold. "If you hate the thought of living in this city, why are you here? Why are you so ready to offer your body in return for a place to stay?"
So that’s what he thinks I am. A whore.
I did offer to sleep with him, of course.
Yet, now that he’s actually thinking of me that way, I am upset. It makes me angry. And before I can stop myself, I jump up to my feet and, walking up to him, press the barrel of the gun squarely between his eyes.
"I have you right where I want you," I say.
Locking eyes with him, I stare into those stormy, swirling depths. I could finish him just now and take what I want and walk away. And no one would know.
But he doesn’t blink, he’s not even afraid.
"Do you now?" He looks from me to the gun and even as a flicker of doubt leaps into my eyes, he’s moving. So fast that before I can blink he’s in front of me.
The next instant he’s holding the gun to my head. And I’m flat on my back on the bed and he’s on top of me.
Over me.
All around me.
The hard planes of his body press down on me, his hipbones digging into my waist. Heat from his chest slams into me and a leap of desire twists my gut.
His leg is between mine and feeling the bulge in his jeans I go rigid. Not like this. I don’t want him to take me like this. And yet the heat in my belly flares once again. Despite myself, a groan escapes me and I shut my eyes, mortified. How can I still want him right now, when he’s holding a gun to me? Why does a part of me insist that he will not hurt me despite the threat dancing off him?
The breath heaves out of me in a rush. My heart thunders in my chest, slamming against his body, crushed against him. A ripple of desire, of fear shudders through me. And I know he can feel it too.
Legends of the Damned: A Collection of Edgy Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels Page 126
