Captive (4 page)

Sensing movement at the study door, Tristan half turned and saw the wolves stalking
into the study.

“Lord Mar.” Tristan glanced in alarm at the tall man.

“A lesson must be learned, Tristan,” Bosque told him, keeping Frederic locked in his
gaze. “Guardians are exceptionally skilled at their work. To forget why they serve
us is a dishonor to our cause and their special place among us.”

Tristan’s throat constricted, knowing there was nothing he could do to help Frederic.

The Guardians silently approached Bosque; when they reached him, the wolves dropped
to their bellies and licked the tips of his shoes.

“Frederic.” Bosque smiled at the shaking, sobbing man. “Let me show you how proficient
Guardians are in their work.”

Tristan didn’t even see Bosque signal the Guardians to attack, but in the space of
a breath the wolves were on their feet. They wheeled around, snarling at Frederic.

Frederic only had time enough for utter horror to register on his face before the
wolves were on him. Their teeth tore through his clothes, seeking flesh. Frederic
screamed as the Guardians ripped chunks of skin and muscle from Frederic’s arms and
legs.

Despite the appalling scene, Tristan knew he wasn’t permitted to leave the study until
Bosque said otherwise. Tristan went to a table where several crystal decanters rested.
He poured himself a scotch before he turned to face Bosque. He wasn’t surprised to
find the tall man’s assessing gaze fixed on him. Tristan had the sudden sensation
of the two of them in a space apart from the brutal execution taking place only a
few feet away.

“You don’t care for Frederic,” Bosque said. It didn’t sound like a question.

As if that matters now.
Tristan shrugged. “We have different passions.”

A slow smile overtook Bosque’s lips. “And what are your passions, dear Tristan?”

Cursing his choice of words, Tristan quickly said, “I only meant that I prefer a brisk
day and a hard ride, where Frederic would as soon watch others at sport rather than
exert himself.”

With a nod, Bosque turned to gaze upon the flames in the fireplace. “You speak the
truth. At times I fear I’ve given too much to my children of Earth, let them grow
idle with power so they enjoy the ripe fruits of the harvest but remember not the
labor of the sowing.”

“Is that how you think of us,” Tristan asked, “as children?”
So you don’t mind feeding your children to the wolves?

“At times,” Bosque replied. He looked directly at Tristan. The silver of Bosque’s
eyes made Tristan force back a shudder.

“Do you feel like a child?” Bosque asked.

Sensing he was not unlike a fly caught on a spider’s web, Tristan said carefully,
“You mean on this island?”

“It was an open question.”

Hardly,
Tristan thought, but he said, “At times it feels overly confining. But I am ever
the servant of your will.”

The answer seemed to please Bosque. He left the fireside and settled into a high-backed
chair.

“Frederic acted a child,” Bosque told Tristan. “Petulant and spoiled. And he had no
grasp of the consequences such behavior might lead to. I wish I could spare you better
friends, Keepers more equal to your station, but the most worthy among them are needed
elsewhere. Even so, I’m sorry to take one of those I could offer as a companion away
from you.”

“I understand,” Tristan replied stiffly.

Bosque shook his head. “Don’t misunderstand me. You aren’t sequestered on this isle
because you lack maturity. You’re not cut from the same cloth as Frederic or his ilk.”

Bolstered by Bosque’s praise, Tristan said, “Then let me join the others—the ones
you speak of as worthy. Surely I could serve a greater purpose in the world than remaining
here. Alone.”

“No.” Bosque breathed the hint of a sigh. “With Lumine and Efron serving near Haldis,
we can’t risk exposing you. You’re safest in this keep. Out of the fray. The bloodline
must be protected.”

I’m fucking Rapunzel.
Tristan knocked back his scotch.
At least the drinks are good here.

“I don’t want you to be unhappy here, Tristan.” Bosque appraised Tristan for a moment,
then said, “I thought perhaps Lana would be a welcome distraction. But she’s suggested
that you’re already bored with her.”

“Lana isn’t the issue.” Tristan poured himself another whisky. “And I understand why
I’m here. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your concern, but the island, the castle . . .
it can be a bit limiting.”

“Of course,” Bosque replied. “And I sympathize. You’re a young man and I’m certain
you feel compelled to be out in the world—what’s the saying? Sowing your wild oats.”

Tristan couldn’t stop himself from cringing at Bosque’s choice of phrase.

With a placid smile, Bosque continued. “But you are exceptional, and because of that
you must make certain personal sacrifices for the good of your people.”

My people.
Tristan sipped his scotch.
Are the Keepers really my people? Besides Frederic, who comes to visit me? Who even
knows where I am?

And Tristan was convinced that Frederic had been, like Lana, there on Bosque’s orders.
Frederic to offer fraternal companionship; Lana to bed him. Frederic’s motivation
was obvious—having spent more than two hundred years on this Earth, he would soon
face his own end. By swearing a blood oath to Bosque, Keepers accessed the dark power
of the nether—the realm over which Bosque ruled—but while these magics offered Tristan
and his kind preternaturally long lives, it didn’t make them immortal. No Keeper lasted
past 350 years, and those who lived past 250 were the exceptional players in their
violent game of life. Frederic, aristocrat and playboy, could hardly be called exceptional.
This current, personal favor to Bosque had probably represented Frederic’s last-ditch
effort to eke out another half-century. A poor wager, as it turned out.

Weariness pressed down on Tristan’s shoulders. He no longer wanted to be having this
conversation—he simply wanted it to be over.

“I’m grateful for the comfort and security of this castle and the island,” Tristan
said, trying to sound earnest. “Sometimes the isolation gets the better of me. But
I understand why I’m here.”

“Good.” Bosque’s assured smile gave Tristan the small relief of knowing that he wouldn’t
be harried further on this issue.

“Will you be staying long?” Tristan asked.

“No,” Bosque answered. “I simply wished to look in on you and to know that you’re
well. And of course, Frederic had to be dealt with.”

“I’m well enough,” Tristan said quickly, as an afterthought adding, “and thank you
for your concern.”

“Of course,” Bosque replied. “I’ll return next month, but should you need anything,
you know how to summon me.”

Tristan couldn’t imagine any scenario in which he’d feel compelled to summon Bosque
Mar. The man’s presence was nigh unbearable. And the summoning ritual . . . far too
bloody for Tristan’s liking.

“If you’ll pardon me,” Tristan said, “I’m weary from the day outdoors. I think I’ll
retire.”

Bosque nodded in reply, but when Tristan had almost reached the study door, he heard
Bosque call, “Would you like me to send a replacement for Lana?”

Tristan glanced over his shoulder.

Bosque’s silver eyes were fixed on Tristan, gleaming with something Tristan thought
could have been either contempt or amusement.

“Or perhaps another companion or two,” Bosque continued. “To complement Lana’s . . .
talents.”

“Ah.” Tristan tugged on the collar of his shirt. “I think Lana’s talents are quite
sufficient. And I don’t think she’d appreciate the suggestion that she needs assistants.”

Bosque’s teeth flashed in the firelight when he laughed. “You’re a wise young man,
Tristan.”

Frederic’s screams had become gurgles, but he still wasn’t dead. The Guardians knew
how to take their time in killing a man when their masters willed it so.

Bosque turned his gaze back to the macabre scene, but said to Tristan, “I understand
if you prefer to go.”

Without hesitation Tristan turned away from the bloody mess that had once been a man,
and walked out of the study.

He found Seamus waiting for him in the hall.

“Is he dead yet?”

Tristan shook his head, continuing down the hallway. Seamus fell into step beside
him.

“You’re well rid of him,” Seamus growled.

The wolf’s comment drew a rough, sickened laugh from Tristan. “I wasn’t particularly
attached to Frederic, but I hardly wished such an end on him.”

Seamus was the only Guardian—at least in Tristan’s imagining—that would dare criticize
one Keeper to another. But Tristan and Seamus had a rare bond. Seamus was something
of a lone wolf. The eldest of the island pack, he played the part of their leader,
but the bonds that a wolf pack would normally share were absent. Tristan didn’t find
that surprising, given that the wolves had been picked up from their home packs and
shipped off to this remote assignment. He doubted they had any love lost for him,
either—but Guardians were born and bred to be the Keepers’ loyal servants. And they
knew better than to so much as raise an objection, much less directly refuse an order.

Since the pack spent most of its time patrolling the island and the castle, ready
to rip any trespasser to shreds, Tristan had little occasion to interact with them.
Seamus, however, had become something of a steward and confidant to Tristan. Finding
the wolf’s dry humor and gruff sensibilities welcome, Tristan had put Seamus in charge
of the castle’s security.

“You should ask Bosque to send someone else,” Seamus told Tristan. “There must be
at least one Keeper who’d appreciate the wildness of this place.”

“I don’t think you actually believe there is, old wolf,” Tristan answered. “I know
you better than that.”

Seamus grinned. “Just don’t want you to despair, my boy.”

They stopped in front of the door to Tristan’s bedchamber.

“I hope you rest well.” Seamus gave a short bow when Tristan reached for the doorknob.

“And I suppose the night’s just beginning for you?” Tristan asked the wolf.

“There’s a good moon in the sky,” Seamus said, nodding.

Tristan managed a tired smile. “Then I hope you enjoy it to the fullest.”

Entering his room, Tristan closed the door and leaned his head against the cool wood.
His temples were beginning to throb and he wondered if another scotch at this point
would relieve or amplify the pain.

“There you are,” a husky female voice called from within the room. “I thought you’d
abandoned me.”

After briefly considering opening the door and walking out, Tristan turned and went
to his bed.

“Good evening, Ms. Flynn.”

Lana had been draped across Tristan’s bed, but she crawled into a kneeling position.
Her ink-dark curls fell loose over her pale shoulders. She was wearing a leather halter
dress with a zipper running from its already-plunging neckline to its hem. The zipper
was open to just above Lana’s navel, which allowed Tristan more than a glimpse of
her generous breasts.

The dress was one of Lana’s favorites, and Tristan knew it well. The garment’s halter
style accommodated her black leathery wings, which were presently folded in mock docility.
Tristan didn’t buy her submissive posturing for even a moment. Succubi were never
meek.

“Oh, dear.” Lana’s tongue wet her lower lip. Despite the fact that she wore no makeup,
her lips were perpetually a deep shade of crimson, as if she’d lacquered them with
fresh blood. “Whenever you get formal it means you’re cross with me.”

She slid her arm beneath one of the pillows and withdrew a riding crop. His riding
crop. “Shall I be punished?”

“Please don’t take my things,” Tristan said. He was cross with her, and it was making
him feel and sound much older and stodgier than his twenty-five years merited, which
made him even more annoyed. “You have plenty of your own toys.”

“I thought you’d like the feel of your own crop.” Lana ran her hands up and down its
length. “You certainly never use it on that beast of yours.”

“Ares needs a firm hand, not a cruel one.” Tristan replied, taking the crop from her.

“That’s all well and good.” Lana turned her back on him and lowered herself to all
fours. The dress was short enough to offer Tristan a fine view of her ass. Unsurprisingly,
Lana hadn’t bothered to wear panties.

“Not tonight,” Tristan said, biting back a curse. Sending Lana away would probably
mean further complaints from the succubus to Bosque, but Tristan had no desire for
her company. He’d just witnessed Frederic’s transformation from man to hunks of meat.
Hardly an aphrodisiac.

Running her fingers up the front of her dress, Lana slowly unzipped the garment. Her
breasts spilled out, revealing areolas and nipples almost as dark as the leather of
her dress—a shocking contrast to her ghost-white skin.

Lana pushed the dress off and lounged back on the bed. Teasing her nipples into such
hardness that they almost appeared sharp, Lana dropped her head back and moaned with
pleasure.

Tristan’s jaw clenched. His cock hardened with an urgency that he found difficult
to ignore. As he watched, Lana spread her thighs and moved her hand from her breast
to the folds of her sex. She stroked herself and in the firelight Tristan could see
glistening wetness as she readied herself for him.

Tristan started toward the bed, but Lana gave a sudden cry of pleasure and Tristan
heard the echoes of Frederic’s screams in the sound.

“Get dressed, Lana.” Tristan ignored the stiffness of his cock and the ache in his
balls. He was certain it would please Bosque to no end if Tristan let Frederic’s torment
meld into the pleasure of sex with Lana. But Tristan never wanted to become what so
many Keepers were.

Lana sat up, pouting. “But won’t you be cold?”

“If I’m cold, I’ll send for more blankets,” Tristan answered drily. “Now get out.”