The Taming

by Imogen Keeper

  He studied her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “Did you want me to carry you off to bed?”

  A nervous laugh bubbled out. “No, I just… I thought you might have something to say.”

  “I’ve got a lot to say.”

  “Some assurance, maybe, that I don’t look absurd.”

  “You want a compliment?”

  She shook her loose hair over her shoulders. “Tutor Meilon used to say that a compliment is never remiss.”

  He tugged her closer, leaned in so his lips touched her ear and the sensitive tips of her breasts rubbed against his chest. “Your tits look amazing.”

  A frisson fluttered through her belly. Whenever she wanted hot, he gave her cold. When she wanted serious, he gave her jokes. When she wanted poetry, he gave her coarse. He kept her eternally off balance.

  She put her hands on his stomach, in the center of the soft fabric of his togata, planning to push him away, and met a solid wall of warm muscles. She pushed, but somehow, he only ended up closer.

  “I’d have been severely reprimanded if I showed up like this at the Institute.”

  “It’s got nothing on that vest thing you wore on Araa-Ara.” His breath tickled over her ear.

  “My bodice?”

  He hummed. “Whatever. I wanted to fuck you the first time I saw you in it.”

  “You hated me then.”

  “I didn’t hate you. I just didn’t understand you.”

  “And now?”

  He pulled back, his eyes crinkly and warm. “I still don’t understand you, and I still want to fuck you. No matter what you’re wearing.”

  She let out a shaky breath, looking around the long hall. People sat on sofas and chairs down the entire length, grouped in clusters, stood around pillars, many of them casting curious eyes their way. “That won’t happen.”

  His hands moved down to grip her waist. Her feet left the ground. “What are you doing?”

  “I decided to throw you over my shoulder after all. You annoyed me, which means it’s time for another orgasm.”

  “Don’t you dare,” she hissed, batting at his shoulders and kicking her feet, trying desperately to maintain some degree of dignity. “You’re causing a scene.”

  There was a minor scuffle.

  She lost.

  And ended up bottom-up, head-down, over his shoulder, blood rushing to her face, and kicking.

  Everyone in the hall stared. A few of them laughed.

  “Put me down!”

  “I will. In bed.” He took a long stride down the hall.

  “No. Stop! Let’s go to dinner.” Her hair streamed down, and her nose bumped against his rock-solid back.

  “Dinner?” He paused, humming. Resumed walking, past a cluster of chairs and surprised people. “I think I’ll have you instead.”

  “You’re causing a scene,” she hissed, twisting, catching him in the side of his head with a stray elbow that made him grunt.

  He got hold of her wrists with his hands and held her still, striding across the hall.

  She hung over his massive shoulder, her bottom embarrassingly displayed. “You can’t just manhandle me whenever you strike a fancy.”

  “I’m going to have to disagree with you there.”

  She tried kicking and twisting again, her cheeks, nose and her ears, burning furiously. She’d never been so humiliated in her life. “Put me down.”

  He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and nonchalantly greeted a few of the more overt starers before speaking in low, conciliatory tones. “Let’s make a deal.”

  “A new deal?”

  “A second deal. You pretend you’re happy here. Just for tonight. No fights. No arguments. No talk of leaving. Just sit beside me, eat a meal, drink some wine, and have fun. With me. Forget for one night that you hate me.”

  She didn’t hate him. She realized that with an acute sharpness that had her sucking in air. “Fine. Done. Anything. Just put me down!”

  He rested his big boot on the steps, right below her head. “ ‘Fine. Done. Anything,’ as in you want me to put you down in bed?”

  “No!” She pressed into the hard skin of his belly. At this point she’d agree to anything just so he’d put her down. “Fine, I want to have fun with you!”

  “Bed would be fun,” he murmured, his broad, hot palm caressing her bottom. “Trust me.”

  “I won’t mention leaving or pick a fight. Just put me down. Please.”

  He lowered her back to the floor, and she swayed on her feet when the blood rushed from her head. “Good. The chef made babjian, my favorite. You’re going to love it. And Gaspart has arranged entertainment for you.”

  She brushed her hair out of her face, steadfastly refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. “Would you have actually skipped that, or were you bluffing?”

  He grinned, but didn’t answer, and led her into the banquet hall, to his seat at the head, tugging her in beside him.

  Others filed into the room, chatting and laughing, and no one seemed particularly shocked to have just seen their leader toss his selissa over his shoulder and smack her bottom. In fact, the atmosphere was almost festive.

  Gaspart and the younger brother, Jeor, came in and sat nearby, slender and almost frail beside Tor. As did Tor’s mother, with a slanted look her way.

  Tor spread his arm along the back of the chair behind Klym’s head and gazed down at her with eyes so hot and happy, truly happy, that it was easy to let herself relax and enjoy this.

  Pretend all this color and light and laughter with Tor was real and true and that it hadn’t been born of abduction and lies.

  She must have been frowning because he tapped her forehead between her eyes and leaned in close. “You promised to enjoy tonight.”

  “I am.”

  His eyes did their crinkly thing, and he tugged her closer and toyed with her hair. “Then stop scowling.”

  She chewed on her lip. “All the fun I had was at the Institute, but it was in the between times, by-accident times. Never in the open. We were always supposed to be dignified.”

  “Your Institute sounds boring.” He took a long pull on his wine, and the muscles in his throat moved distractingly. “Just do whatever you want.”

  “What if what I want to do isn’t polite? What if it violates some manner or custom?”

  He leaned in close. “It’s okay. You can touch me if that’s what you really want.”

  Her face heated. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant, what if I say the wrong thing, or do the wrong thing?”

  His mouth quirked in a dismissive frown. “Do it anyway. You’re the selissa. Nobody will mind. And if they do, who cares?”

  She chewed on her lip.

  “Don’t think, amiera. Have fun.”

  “Show me how.”

  And he did. He told her stories, and his brothers told her stories, they drank until her head spun, and still they all laughed and talked, interrupting and shouting over one another. Even their mother told a story from Tor’s childhood that made Klym laugh so hard her cheeks hurt. She captured some of it on the holo-cam, the color and the laughter and the drums, but no holo could capture the smells, or the way Tor made her feel inside.

  He kissed her constantly, for no apparent reason other than that he wanted to, and he played with her hair, and smiled at her, and no one found that to be inappropriate.

  The red sun set, the fires were lit, and the starflies overhead fluttered and glowed. The meal was intense, spicy and rich. Juicy. He speared bites with a fork and held them to her lips, laughing at her faces when she tried them. Gaspart pressed her to try new foods. Even quiet Jeor teased her into sampling a bizarre salty whipped egg pudding and, when she gagged, laughed so hard he choked.

  Not even the herd of glowering felanas on the other end of the hall could dim the fun.

  “See,” Tor said after a dessert of spicy cake, toying with the ends of her hair, the starflies reflected in his eyes. “Fun. Admit you’re having it.”

&nbs
p; She squeezed her napkin. And then the dancers came in, and thought fled her mind.

  Men, bare-chested but for elaborate swirls of white paint on their chests, wore drums that hung from thick leather straps around their waists. They danced and chanted and banged the drums hard enough to rattle the silverware. Their muscles and tattoos rippled and stretched under the flickering lights. Not one of them had quite as many tattoos as Tor, though. She took strange, perverse pride in that. The music was as rich and heady as the wine. It was barbaric and thrilling.

  And people all around the hall chanted too, stomping their feet or banging their fists, even Tor, in a low rich voice that made her skin vibrate and her blood pulse.

  And when the dancing was done, he did drag her off to their chambers and toss her into the bed, and her brain liquefied.

  Words dissolved on her tongue, and she found herself beneath him, with his mouth and his hands doing all those wonderful things, kissing and dragging, stroking and pulling, demanding, encouraging, warm and soft… and hard. So hard. But he never asked. And she was glad, because if he had, she honestly wasn’t sure what she’d have said.

  27

  No one’s business

  KLYM RESISTED the overwhelming urge to pat her hair when the gate to the garden opened and the first of the cassia’s women trailed in. She’d gone to the breakfast room and publicly invited them all that morning, hoping the allure of a previously forbidden place would entice them.

  It was a subtle distinction, but it would force them into a space they’d consider hers and it would shift the dynamic. Everywhere else felt like their territory. This felt like hers.

  His mother was among them, dressed in a pair of deep-blue pants, her gray hair in a braid down her back. She stood with some of the other wives-regent, but when she saw Klym, she left them. She didn’t quite smile, but she seemed somehow slightly less austere. She stopped beside the low wall around a pool, where Klym sat in the shade. “Tell me why you and my son aren’t sleeping together?”

  Klym coughed to cover her surprise. “We sleep together every night.”

  His mother lifted a brow. “Why are you not having sex with him?”

  “Excuse me.” Klym sucked in a breath. “Please call me Klymeni, or Klym if you feel comfortable. What should I call you?”

  His mother straightened, her mouth hardening. “Selissa-Regent. Or Layanna. Whichever you prefer. And then tell me the answer. Why do you not have sex with him?”

  Klym froze, and belatedly became aware of the ridiculous face she was making, nostrils flared at the sheer, monstrous awkwardness of the question, from his mother, her mouth hanging open. She schooled her features back to some degree of normalcy. “That’s no one’s business.”

  “Until it becomes an international incident.” Layanna leaned down closer, and the look in her eyes was one of unbreakable, boundless determination. This was a woman who didn’t tolerate slights on her family. “Do you not like my son?”

  Klym had about a million responses to that one, but not one of them would go over well.

  Yes, I like your son, but only when his tongue is between my legs.

  No, I hate your son, he’s a bully and he stole me.

  Yes, I like your son, but only when he’s laughing.

  No, I hate your son and the fact that he turns me into a wild beast.

  She stared up at Layanna’s dark, Tor-like eyes, with absolutely no idea how to respond.

  And luckily, she didn’t have to, because Staria came up at that exact moment and sat beside her near one of the cool bathing pools.

  Layanna’s eye twitched.

  Klym smiled broadly at her.

  Layanna left, the braid swaying across her back as she walked.

  “What was that about?” Staria asked, tugging off her own curled slippers and pulling her pants up around her knees. She dropped her feet in the water. “I hate that lizard.”

  “She was just welcoming me.” Klym trailed her hand along the pool, and Staria sent her a sly look, her dark, slanting brows amused.

  “It won’t work, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Getting her to like you.” Staria grinned, and Klym realized it was one of the first times anyone but Tor had smiled at her since she’d arrived. “She hates everyone.”

  A fish nibbled at Klym’s finger. “Did she like Dillan’s wives?”

  “No.” There was that smile again, spreading across Staria’s face. Enormous and white and just slightly sneaky. “Why are you bothering trying to get to know us?”

  When the fish swam off, Klym pulled her finger back. “My father sold me to a man I’d never met.”

  “Tor?”

  “No. A different man. Tor helped me escape.” Funny, she’d never thought of it that way. She’d always thought of it the other way around.

  “Not really the same thing. You ended up with Tor. My father is giving me to the Prime of Lasseron. He rules one of the northern countries. It’s cold up there. He’s sixty-eight, and I hear he’s had both his hips replaced recently.” Staria slapped her feet together. “Maybe I’ll get to rub balm on his bunions.” The sneaky smile flashed.

  Despite herself, a bubble of laughter burst from Klym’s mouth.

  “Or maybe I’ll get lucky, and his cock won’t work anymore.” Staria smiled. “Or maybe it will be his son who sees me through my next heat.”

  “Does he have a son?”

  Staria nodded. “He’s no Dillan, though. No Tor.”

  That she could easily believe. Tor was special, even among his own kind. Klym wiggled her toes in the water. “Did you love Dillan?”

  Staria made a face. “I loved him as much as a woman could love a man who had a kingdom to rule and twenty-seven wives. I didn’t see him often. He was good, though. Kind. Honest.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “ ‘Sorry’ is useless,” Staria said dully.

  “I know,” said Klym. She’d learned that after she’d locked Tor out of his ship, and Jasto’s body had been mangled by birds.

  “It’s not fair that you get him all to yourself. There’s room for all of us here.”

  Life’s not fair. How many times had she heard that? Her father. Multiple tutors. And Tor. It wouldn’t help Staria any more than it had helped her to hear it said.

  And it wasn’t her choice. Tor wanted the women gone for his own reasons. It wouldn’t help Staria to hear that either.

  She kicked her feet, sending ripples across the water, the filtered sunlight flashing in her dark hair. “Two of the other women are going to Lasseron, Janna tells me?”

  Staria looked toward the central building to where Janna sat in the sunlight beside one of her sisters, and her sharp brows lowered. “Don’t trust that one. She reports everything to her mother.”

  Klym was careful not to make a face. She’d assumed as much. Janna had, after all, known her mother for her whole life, and Klym for only days. If Klym had known her mother, she’d have told her everything. “That doesn’t make her a liar. Is it true? Will you have friends there?”

  “Monna will be there. We are friends.” Staria sighed. “Maybe someone will come along and save me. Maybe I’ll meet a handsome man at the feast, and he will take me away to some other planet.” She kicked at a fish that darted too close. “What are you wearing to the feast?”

  She frowned. The feast would come on their last night together. Her stomach tightened. She’d be gone by then. She’d sworn it. “Does it have to be something special? Tor had all these outfits sent for me.”

  “Half the reporters in Tamminia will be there, along with all the nobles, and officials from the other countries, not to mention emissaries of the Alliance. Everyone will be staring at you.”

  “How do I get something new?”

  “A few of us are going to town this afternoon. To visit my cousin. She’s a tailor.” Staria leaned back on slender arms, her palms on the stones behind her, and made the sort of face people make when they are about to volunteer f
or something vile. Her friend Malina had made that exact face when she’d claimed ownership of a forbidden book when Tutor Heilani had found them reading it. “I guess you could come.”

  It was a step. A huge one. If Staria started to trust her, maybe the others would too.

  “I’d love that.”

  Staria slid her feet from the pond. “It won’t take long. We will be home before dinner.”

  Klym glanced at Janna at the other end of the courtyard. It would be so much fun. To go into town with the girls, to go shopping, to feel just for a moment in this strange and confusing place as if she belonged. But first… “I need to check with Tor.”

  Staria’s brow quirked. “He keeps you tightly watched.”

  “Is that unusual?” She pushed out her lower lip. “Dillan let us do as we pleased as long as we didn’t interrupt him when he was working. Or if we were nearing a heat, he always insisted we stay at the cassia.”

  Klym hesitated. “How long will it take?”

  “An hour, maybe two.”

  “I’m going to go ask.”

  TOR WAS IN HIS STUDY. Klym hesitated outside the door, rehearsing the speech she’d planned. Historically, Tor did better with her when she asked in a polite and dignified manner, laying on just a touch of emotional plea, like on Friggoria when he’d taken her into town. He did not respond well to threats or demands.

  She sucked in a breath and pushed her hair over her shoulder.

  He was deep in conversation with Gaspart. They sat in the broad leather chairs in the seating area, staring at a wall screen with a map of Vesta on it. Gaspart’s fingers were threaded over his massive belly. Tor’s legs were sprawled negligently wide, surprisingly wide, given the state of affairs under his skirt.

  There was no one to see, but still.

  She cleared her throat, and his gaze snapped to her face, brows low.

  When he registered her presence, his frown disappeared and he held out a hand. “Come in, Klym. Gaspart was just leaving.”

  “I was, was I?” Gaspart heaved himself up from his chair with both hands.

  Klym pursed her lips, toying with her pearls. Better wait for him to ask.

  Tor drummed the flats of his hands on the sides of his chair, studying her body. “You look happy.”