How the Warrior Claimed (Falling Warriors Book 2)

by Nicole René

  He brought his fingers to his mouth.

  “Don’t—” she protested weakly, but it was too late. He kept eye contact as he placed them inside his mouth and licked them clean.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured when he was done. She should be disgusted, but the sight was so erotic that she wasn’t. It embarrassed her when she felt another pool of arousal at her center.

  She looked down to see the same stuff that was on his fingers trailing down her inner thighs slowly. She gulped, looking back up. She felt another bout of embarrassment when she saw that his eyes were following the same trail. His blue gaze was smoldering when he looked back up at her.

  “Looks like I need to clean you up.” He sounded pleased.

  She didn’t know what to say, so she stayed silent and instead just nodded her head meekly in agreement. His eyes flashed, and he grinned naughtily at her. It was the only warning Namoriee had before she found herself once again airborne as he carried her, laying her on her back on Tristan’s bed.

  “Tyronian, don’t. This is Tristan’s hut . . .”

  “Shush, Namoriee,” he ordered, and Namoriee’s eyes widened when he jerked her legs apart so that he could settle between them. “I need to clean you up.” He grinned cheekily at her, then he bent, nestling his head between her thighs, and did exactly what he said he would do. He cleaned her up.

  With his tongue.

  Tyronian sat and stared at the sprawled form of Namoriee as she slept peacefully in his bed. Her hair was wild, and he could see the lingering dampness along her hairline from her sweat. Her cheeks were a rosy red in color . . . well, one of them was.

  He scanned the left side of her face, and his mood darkened as it always did when he gazed upon the massive bruising. Rage filled his veins, the need to kill flowing strongly.

  Someone had attacked what was his.

  Fists had marred her perfect bronze complexion, tarnishing something beautiful. Tyronian could admit that he lost himself a bit. He was so consumed with his need for her, his worry and anger, that he couldn’t focus on more than having a taste of her and making her moan his name. Making her realize, at least for a little bit, that she belonged to him, and it was his job to protect her.

  A job that he failed at.

  The door opened delicately, and Tristan poked his head in. His eyes landed on Namoriee, and a look passed over his face briefly before he brought his gaze to Tyronian. He motioned outside with his chin then disappeared behind the door as quietly as he appeared. Tyronian frowned, but stood and followed Tristan outside. He checked to make sure Namoriee was still sleeping before he closed the door and gave Tristan his full attention.

  “Did you find out who attacked her?”

  Tyronian stilled, thrown off at the question. “No.” He eyed Tristan suspiciously. “Not yet.”

  “You need to be smart about this. You can’t just go and kill him, not after we just got the chiefs to agree to fight with us.”

  Is he serious? Tyronian thought to himself in disbelief. “Someone touched what’s mine. I’m not just going to let it go. The fact that you’re asking me to makes me want to punch you more than usual.”

  The corner of Tristan’s lips lifted, as if he wanted to smile, but he didn’t. His eyes, however, reflected something different.

  “You know who it is,” Tyronian accused. He took a threatening step forward. “How?”

  “I’m not telling you that you can’t retaliate,” Tristan replied, ignoring his question. “I’m telling you to be smart. I know it’s a hard concept for you.”

  Tyronian scowled. “I’ll have you know that I’m the smartest one in the family. You and Xavier might as well be as dense as rocks.” It was untrue, of course. In all actuality, Xavier was probably the smartest one out of them all . . . well, usually. Leawyn had kind of brought his thinking ability to a standstill lately.

  But Tyronian was prettier, which he told Tristan.

  “My point is,” Tristan sighed, exasperated, “wait for the right time to strike.”

  “And when might that be? She’s my woman, Tristan. You can’t just keep her attacker’s identity a secret!”

  When Tristan continued to hold his tongue, Tyronian grabbed him and jerked him forward. “Tell me who it is!”

  He didn’t even flinch. “The Warrior Choosing is coming up soon,” Tristan pointed out, and Tyronian knew where he was going with that. “You can challenge him there.”

  The Warrior Choosing took place once every five winters. It was when all the tribes of Samaria came to a specific location and participated in games of battle with each other. It was designed as a way for the young men in the tribes to be selected to train as warriors. It also gave the seasoned warriors like himself the opportunity to challenge a warrior from a different tribe. The challenge was not made lightly, however, for to do so meant that they fight to the death. If Tyronian were to challenge Namoriee’s attacker, his actions would be pardoned by the chiefs when he won.

  It was quite brilliant. But that didn’t change the fact that Tristan betrayed him.

  “Why won’t you tell me?” he asked seriously. “Are we not like brothers?”

  Something in Tristan’s expression changed, but before Tyronian could try to decipher it, it was gone.

  “Challenge, and Namoriee will be forced to reveal who it is.”

  “Fine,” Tyronian sighed, releasing Tristan. Clearly, he wasn’t going to get anything out of him. For whatever reason, Tristan had taken a vow of silence. Tyronian had to believe he had a good reason for it.

  “I’ll wait until then. But I don’t like it,” Tyronian grouched, pointing a finger at Tristan.

  “You’re making the right choice.” Tristan chuckled when Tyronian just mumbled incoherently at him.

  “Oh, one more thing,” Tyronian said, clapping Tristan on the shoulder to stop him when he went to walk away. He threw a quick uppercut into Tristan’s stomach, causing Tristan to double over in pain.

  “That’s for not telling me,” Tyronian told him before he punched him in his ribs. Tristan fell to one knee, holding his side, gasping for breath.

  “That’s to ensure it never happens again.” He winked, patting Tristan’s back hard as he stepped around him and went back inside his hut.

  Namoriee wasn’t sure what woke her, but when her eyes slowly peeled open, she had a moment of panic when she didn’t recognize the room she was in before the fog lifted and she remembered.

  Cantos.

  Her attack.

  Tyronian finding out.

  She felt warm, and it wasn’t just from the memory of what Tyronian had done to her body with his tongue. She glanced down at the arm draped over her waist, anchoring her to the hard chest that pressed against her back.

  Tyronian.

  He had carried her out of Tristan’s hut after taking another of her firsts by using his tongue on her. She flushed at the memory. He had looked carnivorous, devouring her as if his life depended on it. The way he wouldn’t let up, bringing her release repeatedly with just the flick of his tongue . . . it was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

  She never thought that she would experience pleasure from a man again without thinking about . . .

  Cantos.

  The name was akin to a knife to her heart. He had touched her, tried to violate her, yet she let Tyronian do those acts to her. She didn’t try to fight him, didn’t cringe or feel aghast at the thought of his touch, at his desire to please her body.

  She welcomed it. Wanted it . . . enjoyed it.

  Instantly, she felt dirty. She felt like bugs were crawling over her skin, and her blood cooled. Her breathing sped up, and she was consumed with this unnatural need to bathe and scrub her skin raw.

  Choking on a cry, she lifted Tyronian’s arm off her carefully, sliding out from under him and stumbling to her feet.

  She was barely aware of her actions as she dressed.

  The scenery of her village was blurred from tears as she stumbled out of his hut
and down to the lake. She was dirty, and she had passed it on to him. Why? Why did she think she deserved his touch? Why didn’t she fight him? Why . . . did she want him?

  What was wrong with her?

  You’re selfish, a horrible voice whispered to her subconscious.

  She clawed at her dress desperately, the fabric suffocating her. She gasped around a sob as she scooped handfuls of water and began to scrub her skin. The word “dirty” became a mantra with each splash.

  Gentle hands gripped her wrists, and she looked up with bleary eyes. She blinked to bring the person into focus, causing more tears to drip off her lashes.

  “I’m dirty,” she croaked, anguished.

  Tyronian lowered her hands, eyes taking her in. She knew she had rubbed her skin completely raw, and there were thin trails of blood mixed with water from where her nails had nicked her flesh.

  He cleared his throat, but his voice was still hoarse when he said, “Then let’s get you clean.”

  He dropped her wrists and cupped his hands into the water.

  Tyronian stayed with her. His hands scooping water was the only sound between them as he helped Namoriee get clean until there were no tears left for her to shed and her body was shivering from the cold.

  3 MONTHS LATER

  Leawyn was lying to her.

  When Namoriee had gone to collect her to begin their travel to the sacred grounds where the Warrior Choosing was taking place, she had heard her. Leawyn was throwing up, and she sounded . . . off.

  But remembering how she had been snapped at before, Namoriee hadn’t mentioned her concerns and instead had taken the bags her lady mentioned and loaded them up on the horse she would be riding. That was two days ago. The Izayges had merged with the other tribes, Asori and Siraces, as it was custom for them to travel together, and Namoriee’s concern for Leawyn grew when she became sicklier with each day that passed.

  “What’s going on up ahead?”

  The question brought Namoriee out of her musings. She looked to Castic, who had asked the question, and followed his line of sight to the crowd that was gathered a few yards in front of them. Her brows knitted together, and dread slithered through her. She didn’t know how, but she knew that the crowd had to do with Leawyn.

  “Stay here,” she ordered to Castic before she took off with hurried steps.

  “Evil!”

  “Possessed!”

  “Witchcraft!”

  Those were only a few things Namoriee heard as she pushed her way through the gathered crowd standing and looking down at something on the ground, their faces a mixture of concern and apprehension.

  Even fear.

  Shouldering her way past a particularly obtuse form, she finally pushed her way up to the front to see what all the fuss was about. She gasped at what she saw.

  With a panicked cry, Namoriee threw herself down onto her knees and cradled Leawyn’s head as her body convulsed violently on the ground.

  “Get a healer!” Namoriee shouted at the crowd, who continued to just stare at them both.

  “What are you waiting for?” Namoriee cried, her voice thick with tears of frustration and panic. Helplessness filled her as she tried to keep Leawyn’s head protected as her body thrashed around. Leawyn’s body gave a particularly sharp jerk that made her back bow, and a low growl ripped through her clenched teeth. The crowd gasped and pushed themselves farther away, like Leawyn was going to spring at them at any moment.

  “Possessed,” someone in the crowd hissed in alarm.

  “She’s not! Don’t you see who this is?” she cried. “Please, get help!”

  In the back of her mind, she realized that she wasn’t stuttering for some reason. Was it because she knew that it was vital that she gets the crowd to listen to her?

  “She’s a darkling, that’s what she is!”

  She watched as the obtuse man pushed forward, his expression locked in anger. Dimly, she was aware that he bore Siraces armor as he unsheathed his sword at his hip and stalked towards them. “She needs to be put down before she dispels her dark magic on us all!”

  “No, you’re making a mistake,” Namoriee said fearfully. She clutched Leawyn’s head tighter to her chest when he continued to stalk forward. “She’s not evil, she’s—”

  “Get out of the way, slave,” the man sneered, now upon them so that he could look down his nose at them both. “Or you perish as well.”

  She shook her head, her body jostling with both Leawyn’s tremors and her own. “Please,” she begged, close to tears. “Please don’t . . . Let me explain first. Help us!”

  “Last chance,” the man warned dangerously.

  She shook her head and held on to Leawyn tighter. Even if she were somehow able to leave Leawyn to get help, she knew that by the time she arrived, the man would have taken Leawyn’s life anyways.

  “If you dare to risk your life for that evil doer, you deserve to die.” The man sneered, raising his sword high above his head. She threw herself completely on top of Leawyn’s thrashing body, shielding her as best as her sixteen-year-old form could to try and take the brunt of the killing blow.

  She squeezed her eyes shut tightly against the pain . . . but it never came.

  There was a scuffle, and the shocked gasps that followed made Namoriee look up right as the sharp clang of a blade meeting a blade echoed.

  She stared dumbly at the two locked swords hovering in front of her, mere inches from her neck. Her gaze traveled up the length of the steel that was underneath the first, past the tan muscled arm, and straight into the face of Tristan. His face was the picture of masked fury as he stared coldly at the man who had nearly ended Namoriee’s and Leawyn’s lives.

  “Tristan . . .” the Siraces man said, obviously in shock. She could hear the fear in his tone. His eyes widened further when, with a quick flick of his wrist, Tristan twirled their locked swords away from Namoriee and Leawyn. The force of the shove caused the man to stumble back a few paces.

  She flinched when a hand rested on her shoulder before Tyronian kneeled beside her, his eyes hard and his lips pressed in a firm line as he looked at her.

  “Let her go.”

  “Help her,” she whimpered, and if anything, Tyronian’s expression grew stormier. Shooting a thunderous glare at the man with whom Tristan still had locked in a heated stare-down, he seemed to collect himself and returned his attention back to her.

  “I will, my sweet, but you need to let go of her first.”

  She realized with a jolt that Leawyn was no longer convulsing in her grasp and was now lying still on the ground. Namoriee lifted her arms, scooting back so that Tyronian could slide his hands under Leawyn and lift her up. They both stood and turned their attention to Tristan as he confronted their would-be attacker.

  “What is your name?” Tristan asked in a flinty tone.

  “Ati’yer.” The hitch in Ati’yer’s voice was a sign of his growing unease.

  “Ati’yer, explain to me,” Tristan started coolly. “just what you were planning on doing to my brother’s wife?”

  The look Tristan speared Ati’yer with instantly brought a chill down Namoriee’s spine.

  “I . . . C-Chief Xavier’s wife . . . !” Ati’yer clearly didn’t know what to say, sweat gathering across his brow and temples. “I-I didn’t know . . .” Ati’yer trailed off, shooting a look to Leawyn. “She was possessed!” he said desperately, jabbing a finger to where Tyronian had Leawyn cradled in his arms. “Evil claimed her body! I was only doing what was expected—what was right!”

  It became deathly silent as everyone held their breath at Ati’yer’s words. Ati’yer—sensing that his words of wisdom probably did more harm than good—gulped in fear.

  “It didn’t occur to you,” Tristan growled out to Ati’yer, “to come to me instead of raising your sword? Did it not occur to you to listen to her handmaiden instead of so quickly going into action purely fueled by your fear and cowardice?”

  Tristan had been advancing on Ati’y
er with each word until the Siraces warrior stumbled to a stop when he bumped someone. Shooting a panicked look behind him, Ati’yer’s face paled further when he was met with the cold eyes of another Izayges, clearly blocking his escape purposely.

  Ati’yer’s attention went back to Tristan, who now stood in front of him.

  “Sir, I—”

  “Silence,” Tristan snarled right before grasping Ati’yer’s shoulder and jerking him forward, right onto his sword.

  Namoriee gasped with the rest of the crowd, staring in shock at the steel protruding from Ati’yer’s back. Ati’yer made a wet, gurgling noise as blood pooled inside his mouth, and a pained grunt escaped him when Tristan yanked his blade out and stepped back, letting Ati’yer fall face forward.

  Dead.

  Tristan swept his bloody blade around at the horrified people who surrounded him.

  “If any of you touch, or threaten, my brother’s wife again,” Tristan pointed his sword down to Ati’yer’s body, “then you will meet the same fate as him.”

  He didn’t spare the corpse another glance and marched over to Tyronian, taking Leawyn from his arms and settling her into his own.

  “What happened?” he barked at Namoriee, setting a brisk pace over to his horse.

  “I-I don’t k-know. I was farther down when it happened, but w-when I got h-here she was on the ground, c-c-con-convulsing,” Namoriee said, frustrated that she couldn’t control her stutter like before. Tristan handed Leawyn over to Tyronian long enough to mount his horse before reaching down and taking her into his arms again. Using one hand, Tristan turned his steed around and met Tyronian’s stare.

  “Send word to Xavier,” he ordered.

  “Understood.” Tyronian nodded, and no sooner than he did, Tristan was kicking his horse’s sides, and they took off.

  “Tell me she’s going to be okay,” Namoriee whispered, staring after Tristan as he galloped away, people giving him a wide berth. Tyronian draped his arm around her shoulders; she leaned into him, eager to accept his comfort.