Second Son

by Brenna Lyons

  Michael viewed her reaction in concern. “Was that why you took this journey? So you wouldn’t become like that woman?”

  She paled. “No. I was offered a position. It was simply a position I could not bear. Scrubbing floors surrounded by children in a hovel would be preferable.”

  “What position?”

  Danellan squared her shoulders and gave him a hard look. “I fear I would offend your naïveté.”

  Michael felt his temper rise. “Offend me then.”

  She flicked an uncertain look at him. “You are an honorable man, Michael. Not all nobles are. Not all soldiers are, even officers.”

  “Then there should be punishment when they are not. No one is exempt from the laws or they mean nothing.”

  “Then they mean nothing. I would not argue that point. Do you think royals follow the laws? I’m sure some of them are as forthright as you are, but others—”

  His blood ran cold. “Like Prince Mik?” he spat.

  Her eyes widened. “I do not know the man. I would not cast stones when I have no knowledge of what drives him.”

  Michael paused, furrowing his brow at her proclamation. “Then you are a better soul than most.”

  She shook her head. “His actions— The prince seems— You know him?”

  Michael nodded. He knew himself better than most men dared. He knew what he would do when he was desperate enough. He hoped he never knew that side of himself again.

  “People judge him too harshly, don’t they?”

  “In what way?”

  “He seems simply a man who gave in to desperation. Who hasn’t?”

  He looked at her in surprise. “You know the prince well.”

  Danellan laughed harshly. “I know him not at all. I know desperation.”

  “If not Prince Mik, what royal were you speaking of? Surely not Prince Jole.” Michael couldn’t imagine anyone casting stones at the image of perfection his older brother presented.

  She smiled. “No. I’ve only seen him once, but he seems a good man. I know him not a whit better than his brother.”

  “That leaves only Kell Ri,” he noted. Not that it would surprise Michael to learn that his father was dishonorable. It would merely surprise him to know that it was public knowledge.

  Danellan shifted nervously. “I do not seek to add treason to my reasons to hide.”

  “How has the king injured you?” However it was, Michael would find a way to make it right. No person deserved to be hunted as she was. He had no doubts that she ran from someone or something. No woman would choose this course unless she had to.

  She scowled and poked at the fire with a stick. “He hasn’t.”

  “But he would? Or you fear he would?”

  She didn’t answer. Her hand fisted on the stick.

  “Danellan?”

  “I do not choose to be injured. I choose to create options for myself, to make myself an honorable servant of no family rather than live by unjust laws in the station I was born to. It is that simple.”

  “What laws?” he asked, desperate for insight into her plight.

  She threw her stick into the fire, her eyes hard. “The king’s law. What other law is there? No other law binds against his whims.”

  Michael startled at the venom in her voice. “You’ve seen this? You’ve seen Kell Ri step around the laws?”

  Danellan sighed. “Mag’s justice. Yes, I’ve seen it.”

  “You know what drives him? It is not like you to judge without knowing.”

  A tear wound down her cheek. “I know what drives him. It is treason to say that our king is not an honorable man.” She met Michael’s eyes. “But he is not, Michael. Do not cross him, or Kell Ri will have no mercy on you.”

  A chill breeze ran in Michael’s heart. She knew Kell Ri far better than she should. His father was ruthless.

  *

  Veril 36th

  Her skin was softer than silin. The fragrance of the iri soap she used to wash and heavy musk filled the air around her. Mik was drunk on her scent. It’s fear. She fears you.

  No. It’s not fear. She wasn’t trembling in fear. She wanted him. She moaned as his hands caressed her back. It was arousal. His cock hardened painfully in the knowledge that she would accept him.

  The clothing was in his way. He had to get rid of it. What fool allowed this precious blossom to wear a man’s clothes? A woman shouldn’t wear trousers and tunics. She should wear silin day dresses that would bare her to his thrusts with a single pull.

  He kissed her, and she shook under his mouth. It was new, their first time. Mik had no patience. He pulled his dagger and sliced her tunic, ripping it from her body. She covered her breasts as if she were virginal. She was wonderful.

  Mik pushed her back onto the bed, pulling off her trousers, rougher than he should be for a first time. Her body was slick and waiting. He plunged into her to the hilt, groaning at the sensation of her body pulsing around him, his hands in her hair.

  “No. Please.”

  Her voice chilled him. Mik looked into her face. “Danellan?” He breathed the question, uncertain of her complaint.

  “No. Mik, please.”

  The eyes. It was Danellan’s face and voice, but the eyes were—

  “Susan.”

  Michael shot upright, venting his howl of horror at the uncaring stars. His heart battered at his ribs. I didn’t. I never did. Thank Mag, I never went that far. Barely. He groaned in the realization of how true it was.

  Danellan jumped back from the fire, shaking like a limb in a high wind. She stared at him warily.

  “A dream,” he rasped, scrubbing his hands over his face. Michael wished he could wash away the dream as easily. “Forgive me.”

  Michael wrapped the blanket tighter around his shoulders as a freezing wind whipped over the rocky plateau they chose for the night. It was below the snow line, but it was still high enough that there was only sparse tree cover to break the high winds.

  She nodded, somber. “What was it?” she whispered. “What do you fear?” Danellan looked haunted, as if dreams of that type plagued her nights as often as they did his.

  “Ghosts. Just ghosts.” Ghosts of a man better left dead.

  Danellan raised a hand, and metal glinted in the firelight.

  Michael looked at her in confusion. “What are you doing?”

  “Cutting my hair.”

  “No,” he protested. “Why?”

  “It leaves a lump under my cap. It’s showing. I can’t have that. I was trying not to— I have to cut it much shorter.” She shivered in the evening chill and bent to warm her hands over the flames.

  He scowled. Danellan should have long hair. He cursed whatever ghosts drove her to this life. “Was it long?”

  She looked at him, her brow furrowed. “Was what long?”

  “Your hair. Was it long before?”

  Danellan nodded sadly. “Very long. My father liked it that way.”

  “And you?”

  “Yes. I liked it that way. I’ll grow it again — in Caran.” She raised the dagger to him. “Will you help me? I’ll need it short, above my shoulders.”

  Michael paused, heartsick at helping her embrace this horrid life. “Yes. I’ll help you.” It would keep her safe. Michael swore to keep her safe.

  He crossed the clearing to her and crouched to her back. Michael tried to ignore the ache in his gut as he sliced her hair off as she wished, throwing handfuls of the thick black curls toward the fire beside them.

  Satisfied that he’d done as she wished, Michael placed his hand on her shoulder. A flash of a memory assaulted him, nearly knocking him off balance.

  Let’s see if you can work with that, love. Had Mik laughed when he said that to Susan? Michael couldn’t recall. He hoped he hadn’t laughed.

  Michael sheathed her dagger with shaking hands and retreated to his pallet. He wouldn’t do that to Danellan. She could trust him. He hoped she could trust him.

  “Thank you, Michael.”r />
  He nodded, pulling his blanket around him, shivering but not from the cold. I’m not that man anymore. If I’m ever a danger to Danellan, I’ll walk away. Mag, give me the strength to walk away.

  *

  Iric 1st

  Michael reached his hand toward Danellan, stopping half a finger width from the dirt smudge on her cheek. He shook himself mentally and pulled his hand back. He was mad to consider touching her.

  The dream had only been the start for him. His eyes followed her constantly. He hardened every time she straddled Frelang behind him. Her scent taunted him, and he longed to clasp his fingers in her hair, to ease her mouth to his. Even before the dreams, he wanted her. The last two days had been pure torture. He couldn’t seem to get her out of his lust-choked mind.

  Michael growled, crossing his arms and lying back on his blanket. He’d been too long without schente. He needed release. That was all.

  He closed his eyes. Danellan was waiting for him behind his eyelids as she always was. She was dressed in a presentation gown. Fion! Why do you persist in this madness? Or is it Len trying to seal my fate? He pulled his blanket over himself fully. Release was all he needed.

  Under the blanket, Michael unfastened his trousers and took his cock in hand. In his mind, it was Danellan who held him. He shuddered.

  She stroked him, her short nails raking up his length and teasing at the bundle of nerves beneath the head. Danellan leaned over him, her curls teasing his cheeks as her mouth brushed his.

  Michael held her face between his hands, drawing at her mouth with his. Still, her hand played at his cock. Her tongue sparred with his, passionate, increasing speed in time with her hand.

  “I want you, Michael.”

  He groaned. She’d call him Michael. He wanted Danellan to call him that. “Come on top of me.”

  Danellan slid her leg over, mounting him as she would a hottel for a ride.

  Michael tightened his fist on his cock, his breathing ragged. She’d be tight, gripping him in her heat.

  Her eyes closed on a moan as Danellan took his full length. She rode him. Faster. Harder. Little mewling cries escaped her.

  Michael ground his teeth to hold in his cry at release. He lay in the aftermath, come still warm on his hand and stomach, his cock thickened but not properly wedged in a woman as it should be. Still, Danellan taunted him in his mind.

  He cleaned himself with a grumbled curse on Fion, grabbing a handful of soft Eir leaves from the branches that made up his sleeping pallet, branches that would feed the morning fire with fragrant green sucre wood. All his life, Michael had heard stories of men satisfying themselves when they didn’t have schente. As far as he could tell, it didn’t work.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Iric 3rd

  Danellan realized that danger was lurking an instant before the man struck. The nuglin cut off her air and bruised her throat as he yanked her into the shadows behind the stable. The packages of food Michael sent her to buy fell from her hands as she reached for the rope. She pushed back panic. She couldn’t panic, or she would die. She had to think.

  It was no use. Danellan was wasting precious moments when she should be regaining her air. She would never be able to force the loop loose of the locking mechanism. The nuglin was a hunter’s tool, used by poachers who took jaglin and other large carnivores for pelts and menageries.

  She pulled the dagger from beneath her travel coat and sliced the rope. Danellan spun as the man fell back, slicing his throat and taking the large artery in his hip. Cro insisted on the basics in defense training for her, so slaying the man was a simple task.

  Danellan stared at the blood on her hand in shock. She’d never had to use her skills in battle before, except for Michael, and she’d never drawn Michael’s blood. She wiped her blade on the man’s tunic and then her hand. Danellan turned to collect her packages and stopped in dismay.

  Six more men crowded into the small passage. They were big men, armed men, and they blocked her only way out. Danellan swallowed hard. If she screamed, she’d bring Michael, but she’d also bring the soldiers at the inn. Even if the soldiers ignored her, she’d be drawing Michael into a trap.

  One of the men reached down and picked up a package of meat from the stores she dropped. Her mouth watered as he peeled back the steri-wrap. Danellan blinked back tears. She and Michael had been without decent meat for more than a day, but she didn’t dare balk this whole band. She couldn’t win. Danellan raised her chin a notch as he bit into the meat, ignoring the twisting in her gut.

  “Good,” he commented, handing it off to one of his fellows.

  Of course, it’s good. I bartered well for that meat. Danellan nodded, giving her grudging consent to their ownership of the stores. If it got her out of the passage, she’d willingly starve a week.

  Another of the men advanced on her, and she retreated, putting the dead man between them and raising her dagger in warning. He scowled at her and knelt to the man she killed, examining his wounds. This one frightened her for some reason. If he were alone, Danellan was sure he would still frighten her.

  “This is how you fight? Throat to cut sound and cause panic. The hip wound to kill more quickly, before he can hurt you in return.”

  Danellan met his cold eyes without flinching. “I know other ways. The three silent killers. The six bleeders. The five quick deaths. I wish only to leave here. The man attacked me. Let me leave in peace, and the food and his belongings are yours.”

  He sighed, pushing his shoulder length hair from his eyes. “Strom was stupid. He was supposed to wait for us. You wouldn’t leave without your man. Would you?” He stood slowly, every muscle tense in preparation to fight her.

  She backed off another step, searching for a way out of this trap. They set it well. There was nothing but walls three times her height on all sides and six men blocking the exit.

  The man loosened the ties on his tunic. “You can scream. In this village, only your man would answer.”

  Danellan waited for him to draw a blade, but he didn’t. That made her distinctly nervous. This man was sure in his training, if he felt himself above needing a blade to best her when she was armed. She’d killed his companion. He knew she was trained, but he saw no need to arm himself.

  He pounced. Danellan moved quickly. She landed a wound on his ribs, her hand knocked off course by his blow. It was a flesh wound, nothing that would still his fight.

  She spun away, and he followed, ducking her blade as it came at him. His hand caught her wrist in a crushing grip that made her eyes water and the air burn in her throat. Danellan threw a series of kicks and punches at him, but he deflected them easily with his free hand. He was well trained, definitely a soldier.

  Danellan cried out in frustration as one of the other men immobilized her other arm, stretching her back uncomfortably in the process. The soldier passed the arm he held to a third man, and the two new arrivals pinned her forearms to the wall behind her.

  The soldier pried her father’s dagger from her aching fingers. She pulled at the hold they had on her, desperate to save the blade. It was all she had left of Cro. Two more men grasped her legs and pushed her back again. He examined the dagger, smiling a feral smile that made her sick to her stomach.

  “A general’s blade? A commendation from Kol Ri, no less. Are you his daughter or his mistress?”

  Danellan raised her head proudly. “He’s dead.”

  The dagger cut into the skin of her throat, releasing a thin trickle of blood. She ground her teeth. She wouldn’t lead Michael into this trap. This heathen wanted her to scream. She was Danellan, daughter of General Cro, granddaughter of General Brai. This son of Len— This vow breaker would have a long way to go if he wanted to break her.

  “You care for his blade well.” He brought the blade beneath her chin, the point denting the soft flesh behind the bone. “Daughter or mistress?” he demanded.

  “Daughter.”

  He pulled the cap from her head and let her curls fal
l to her shoulders. His smile widened. “Danellan, daughter of Cro,” he growled. “Your brother is looking for you.”

  The air went thick and heavy. Her head spun. They’d do their worst. She’d been prepared for that from the night she escaped. But, they would also turn her over to Tranol’s wrath and Kell Ri’s lust. That was too much. She’d rather die.

  “You’ll have to kill me,” Danellan promised.

  The soldier raised Cro’s dagger and cut the ties at the neck of her tunic one by one, his eyes bright in excitement. “You underestimate me.”

  “I think you underestimate me.”

  His fellows laughed heartily at her cheeky reply, and he scowled them down.

  He played the blade over her stomach. “Call to your man,” he crooned.

  Her mouth went dry. Danellan clenched her jaw. They couldn’t kill her. If they wanted the money Tranol offered, she would have to arrive alive and without serious injuries. The blade bit into her ribs lightly, and Danellan closed her eyes against the pain. No serious injuries, but they can cause me quite a bit of pain. She pushed that thought away, panting through the burning in her chest.

  “Call your man to you,” he ordered.

  Danellan pulled against the arms holding her ineffectually. She’d never harm Michael while she lived. Tranol sent these beasts for her. They were her difficulty, not his. If it killed her, she’d keep it between herself and Tranol.

  The soldier grasped the back of her hair and crushed her mouth beneath his. Danellan bit back the bile rising in her throat. He released her, challenging her with his battle-face.

  She stared him down, fighting for an unwavering voice. “You don’t intimidate me. You won’t be the first man I’ve known.” Though Fion knows, I’ve known precious little. “The worst you can do is kill me.”