Dark Devotion: Dark Series 3 (5 page)

“To new acquaintances,” he murmured darkly, looking at her over the lip of his glass. Away from the red-tinted light she looked younger than he’d first thought. Her age didn’t matter though. He had to get what he needed, inflicting as little damage as possible, then get the fuck out of there.

Finishing his drink, he reached for her glass and placed it back on the table. With one hand behind her neck, he pulled her close and claimed her mouth. With his free hand, he wrapped it around her waist and drew her closer to his body.

Cat raked her hands through his hair, running her fingers down the back of his neck. Digging his fingers into her ass, he lifted her off the ground and placed her on the desk, bending over her until her back hit the hard wooden surface.

More.

She gasped when his fingers found their way up her inner thighs. Impatient, he pushed aside her underwear and sank two fingers inside her.

“Oh, fuck,” she hissed. A growl sat perilously close on Rhys’s lips. Pressing his lips together, he denied the sound. Inside his head, his beast bared its fangs and snarled. Sex would eventually soothe the beast, but not before aggravating it further. It was the release that Rhys was looking for. It was the release that brought him true peace.

Impatient and afraid his control would slip if he prolonged the act, he tore the underwear from her body and dragged her closer to the edge of the desk by her thighs. She gasped again when he shoved the bottom of her shirt up to get to her breasts, suckling on one through her bra. Rolling her tight nipple in his mouth, he bit down on the tender flesh then flicked his tongue over it, easing away the sting.

She arched her back, her hands fumbling to undo the clasp at the back.

“Leave it,” Rhys commanded. “We don’t have time.”

Cat’s hands fell away. His attention went to her other nipple, standing erect and begging for the same treatment. Another moan passed her lips, and Rhys could smell she was ready for him.

He lowered his fly.

“Wait,” she said, propping herself up on her elbows. “I want to have your cock down my throat first.”

His eyes slid shut. As good as that sounded, they didn’t have the time –
he
didn’t have the time. His beast was getting more and more impatient. Each pant and sharp intake of breath was just another broken rung on the ladder of his self-control.

“No time,” he bit out. He flipped her over onto her stomach. Planting her feet on the ground, Rhys pressed a hand against the center of her back, forcing her to bend over further. When she was right where he needed her, he stepped back to look at the offering.

Want,
his beast whispered.

Even though he shouldn’t have, Rhys slapped her on the ass. She groaned in pleasure. He shut his eyes for a moment, mentally tightening his hold on his beast. He would have to be very careful now. He positioned himself against her opening, pushing in a little, giving her a few seconds to adjust before pulling his hips back and slamming into her. She inhaled sharply. He stopped. When she encouraged him with a moan, he started to move again.

A steady rhythm began to build, and he found himself getting lost in the sensation. His beast moved forward in his mind, trying to dominate Rhys’s thoughts. Holding her more securely in place, he increased his pace, getting faster and faster. That was when his vision changed to red.

His beast was taking over.

Placing his hand against her mouth, he said, “Bite me.”

“What?” she replied breathlessly. All the air was being forced from her body each time he slammed into her.

“Bite. Me.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then he felt her lips wrap around his hand, and her teeth sink home. The pain refocused him, allowing him to push back against his beast’s hold. He couldn’t hold it forever though. He needed to finish. Reaching his free hand around Cat, he found the sensitive flesh between her legs and applied a little pressure.

“Jesus,” she breathed, grinding back on him. “Do that again.”

He pressed against her again, feeling her inner walls beginning to spasm around his length.

“I’m going to come,” she panted right before her whole body tensed and a scream rolled out of her throat. Her body constricted around him, and he felt his release coming too. He was so close, and he would finally have some peace. After Cat’s orgasm crested, though, she stopped writhing against him and forced him back a step as she straightened.

No, no, no
, Rhys thought desperately, his hands still vice-like on her hips.

She turned around, forcing him from her body. She started to tug her skirt back into place. “That was amazing,” she said, face flushed. “Was it good for you?”

More. Blood. Now.

The animal was pacing back and forth, growing more aggressive. It bayed loudly in his head, commanding Rhys to take what he wanted. He was resistant though. He was the product of rape; he didn’t ever want to force a woman. And with Galen gone, he was never in more danger of doing exactly that. Rhys gritted his teeth and shook his head. “No,” he ground out.

He was stunned when Cat raised her hand and slapped him hard across the cheek. “You goddamn son of a bitch,” she snarled, marching past him and out of the office.

Tove yelled in triumph as she brought the wooden sword down toward Soren’s stomach, stopping just before the blade struck. She was breathing heavily through her nose, her chest heaving up and down. Tossing her long braid over her shoulder, she stepped back and grinned fiercely. The dust their boots had kicked up was just settling, rays of sunlight cutting through it.

Soren slowly sat up, his brown eyes watching Tove. A frown was firmly in place by the time he stood. “How did you do that?” he demanded, rubbing the back of his head. Soren’s skinny arm was sticking out of his coarse tunic. The fabric was smeared with mud and dusted with fine grit from the floor.

Tove placed her sword back into the scabbard on her hip. “I watch my father spar with his men.”

“Can you show me how to do that sweep thing you did?”

“Sure,” Tove said, beaming. Soren was older than her by a year, but he was her best friend. All the other boys didn’t want to play with her because of who her father was, and Tove had never liked playing with the other girls in the village. They were too concerned with dolls and sewing, and they never wanted to fight with swords like she did.

“Pretend like you’re going to attack me again,” Tove instructed. Soren brushed the dust from his tunic and took position. Tove nodded. “Good. Now when your opponent is standing there with both feet on the ground, sweep your leg behind both of theirs and drive them backwards at the same time.”

Tove completed the move, shoving Soren in the chest and sending him to the ground again. He grunted as he landed, but instead of scowling at her, he was smiling. She offered him her hand, hauling him up out of the dirt.

“Okay, you try it on me now.”

Soren got the idea pretty quickly. He pushed Tove into the dust and grinned. He pulled her up. She was just finding her feet when she and Soren were surrounded by three boys from the village.

“Is that your girlfriend, Soren?” one of them taunted.

“Yeah, Soren. Are you going to marry Tove?” another said.

“Leave her alone, Jarl,” Soren said, putting himself between Tove and the boys.

“What were you two doing anyway?” Jarl asked again, his eyes taking in the swords they were practicing with. “Don’t tell me you were teaching her how to fight.”

“Girls can’t fight!” another boy said, trying to grab Tove’s scabbard. She whirled around and punched him in the face. Blood streamed from his nose, his hands doing nothing to stem the flow.

“Sefi, are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m all right, Roland,” Sefi replied, spitting blood from his mouth. He turned his eyes to Tove. “I’ll make you pay for this.”

“I’d like to see you try,” she shot back.

The boy wiped a hand under his nose, wincing a little. “Why don’t you go home and practice your sewing with your mother? Oh wait! You can’t, can you?”

All the boys laughed at Sefi’s comment. Tove ground her teeth together, the reminder that her mother was no longer there like a rusty knife in her gut. She could feel tears stinging her eyes, but she refused to acknowledge them.

“Look, she’s going to cry like a big girl,” Roland announced, laughing at Tove’s pain. The other two joined in.

“Don’t listen to them,” Soren said, hugging her. “You might not have your mother, but you have mine. She loves you just as much, Tove.” Soren’s parents, Gaia and Reiner, were like her own, but Sefi’s words still hurt, and they were still tragically true. She let herself have the comfort for just a moment before pulling away. She looked up at her best friend, shook her head and turned away.

“Tove! Wait!” Soren called after her.

“Tove! Wait!” they all mocked. Tove ran from the marketplace, the echoes of their voices following her. Her scabbard bounced painfully on her hip, slapping her thigh and calf. She weaved through the people walking around the streets, leading horses pulling carts full of vegetables and animals.

She finally made it home, running up the shallow stairs and into the house she shared with her father. He was the chieftain of the village, so he was rarely alone. He was sitting in the great hall, a fierce fire burning in the center of the room. Her father’s advisor, Ivor, stood to one side while her father listened to the complaints of the village folk.

“My wife has been unfaithful,” a man said, looking disdainfully at the woman by his side. Tove walked through the shadows at the edge of the room, seeing that the woman was with child. She looked no older than fifteen – only five years older than Tove. Was that what it was going to be like for her? Was she going to be someone’s wife in five years’ time?

“What proof do you have?” her father asked.

“I found her in the bed of another, my lord,” the man said.

Tove’s father turned his attention to the woman. “Is what he’s said true?” he asked, his tone softening just like it did when he spoke to Tove.

“No, my lord. I have been faithful to my husband.”

“Whose child is it that you bear?”

“My husband’s,” the woman replied, her hands protectively cradling her swollen abdomen. Ivor leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. Her father’s eyes cut to the woman’s husband.

“I’ve just heard that you are the one guilty of being unfaithful, Sweyn.”

“I …” Sweyn sputtered.

“I’ve heard that you have taken another wife in the neighboring village. So, I think the only one guilty of infidelity is you. Your case is dismissed.” Tove’s father took the silver arm ring from around the man’s forearm and looked to Sweyn’s wife. “As recompense, I will give you this.” He offered it to the woman who carefully approached the dais.

“Thank you, Halvdan. You are a truly gracious ruler,” she said, accepting the silver circlet.

Ivor stepped down and escorted the couple from the room. Her father slumped back in his chair, rubbing at his face. Tove skirted around the room, but stopped when her father spoke.

“Why are you crying, child?” he asked.

Tove froze. “How did you know I was here?”

He dropped his hand and stared at her. “I always know where you are,” he said in reply. Tove rubbed the tears from her cheeks before stepping into the light. Her father studied her. “What has happened?”

“It was nothing.”

“You cannot lie to me, Tove. Remember?”

She let out a breath and walked on to the platform, climbing into his lap. Leaning against his arm, she said, “Some boys from the village told me I shouldn’t be fighting. They said I should be learning how to sew from my … from my mother.”

Her father’s brows drew down. “Who are these boys?” he demanded.

“It doesn’t matter who they are,” she replied.

He stroked the side of his face with his finger and sighed. “Perhaps they are right, Tove.”

She stiffened in his arms. “What do you mean, Father?”

“I mean, you are going to have to stop playing around in the dust and dirt and learn the skills a woman should have. You could be married in a couple of years, bearing children of your own.”

“I don’t want to get married, Father. I want to fight.”

Her father picked her up and set her on her feet in front of him. “You know that cannot be.”

“Why not?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips defiantly.

“Because you are too precious to me. You are my only daughter and you could get seriously injured if you fight. Those boys will soon grow into men and they will be stronger than you in every way. I don’t want you to practice anymore. Leave swordplay for the boys.”

“That’s not fair,” she pouted.

Her father laughed gently. “Life is not fair.”

“Halvdan? There are still more people to be heard,” Ivor announced, walking back into the hall.

“Yes, of course,” he replied. To Tove he said, “Go and get cleaned up. You’re covered in dirt and you have straw in your hair.”

Tove walked toward the back of the hall, but stood in the shadows when her father’s conversation with his advisor caught her attention.

“I have just heard that some houses on the farthest fringes of the village have been attacked,” Ivor said, his voice grave.

“By who?” Halvdan demanded.

“Canute Borg and his men. They left one boy alive who was told to report to you.”

“With what message?” His voice was tight.

“That they are loyal to Vadik Dalgaard and only him.”

There was a crash as her father swept away the cup and plate of food from the arm of his chair. “This is the third attack this month,” he roared. “Who else will join Dalgaard in his quest to unseat me?”

Halvdan’s question surprised Tove. She didn’t know her father’s position as chieftain was a point of contention. Were there some people out there who wished to see him gone?

Shaken, Tove left the hall and went to the area where she slept. She was still so angry with the boys, but also angry with her father for not allowing her to fight. She was good with the sword. She was even better with a spear, but she would never be able to use either skill if her father denied her the opportunity to practice. Well, she wasn’t going to listen to him. If what she’d overheard was true, he would need every able-bodied fighter he could find, including her.

Without changing out of her dress, Tove snuck out and made her way to the beach. She walked on the shore, watching the fishing boats coming and going. She kicked at the loose stones, sending them skittering into the water.

“Did you go and cry to your father?” someone asked snidely.

Tove looked up and found Sefi glaring at her. Blood had dried under his nose and on his chin. Patches of red were splashed on the front of his tunic. She smiled. “Did you?”

The boy’s hands curled into tight fists at his sides. He seemed to be shaking with rage as he pulled on the handle of his wooden sword. He drew it and held it in front of him. Tove reached for hers too, matching his stance. Jarl and Roland, Sefi’s friends, ran up, drawing their swords too. Tove looked at them, then glanced behind her. She was too close to the water. Her boots were sinking into the sand already. As if the boys had heard her thoughts, they began closing in.

“We’re going to teach you a lesson, Tove,” Jarl said, taking another step closer. Tove licked her lips and shuffled back another step. Her foot landed in the water, her shoes flooding with the freezing liquid. She looked at all of them, trying to decide who was going to strike first.

Her world slowed down then. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears, could smell the briny water. She blinked slowly, and when her eyes opened again, she gasped. Hovering above each of the boys’ heads was a shimmer of color. Jarl and Roland’s was red, but Sefi’s was black and Tove knew deep down in her gut that that was very, very bad.

Sefi wanted to hurt her.

He was the first to strike. Tove deflected it, letting Sefi’s momentum carry him forward. She shoved him in the back, sending him sprawling into the water. Edging away from the shore, she looked to Jarl and Roland. Roland swung his sword and hit Tove in the leg. She limped back a step, prepared for the next time he struck. Roland brought his sword above his head and lunged at Tove. Getting down into a crouch, she swept his legs out from under him and pushed him into the water with Sefi.

Jarl was the only boy left now. With a cry leaving his mouth, he rushed Tove. The fifteen feet between them was quickly being swallowed up. At the last moment, Jarl’s foot hit a stone deeply buried in the sand and he was propelled forward. Tove stepped out of the way, watching the last of her attackers land in the water.

All three boys stayed where they were, too shocked to move. Tove stepped back, bringing her sword up, ready for round two. But they didn’t move. A bubble of laughter burst from her lips as she looked at them, soaked to the bone with their teeth chattering.

She put her sword away and turned around, wandering back the way she’d come.

When she returned to her house, her father was lifting himself from his chair, finally done with his work for the day. He took one look at her, a deep scowl lining his face.

“What has happened to you?” he demanded. The few servants in the hall startled at his raised voice before quickly returning to their work.

Tove looked down at herself. The front of her dress was covered in water and mud. She looked back to her father and shrugged.

“You’re bleeding.”

That was when Tove felt the warm trickle of blood down her thigh. Roland must have struck her a lot harder than she realized. She tried to keep her gaze on her father, not acknowledging the injury.

“Tell me what happened, Tove.” His voice was a command she could not ignore.

“Those boys attacked me first. They ganged up on me!”

Fury flashed behind his eyes. “You fought them?” he hissed. She nodded minutely. “How many?”

“There were three of them.”

“Who? I want their names.”

Tove crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. If she told her father and he punished them, they would continue to bully her. He looked at her expectantly, but she wasn’t backing down.

He frowned. “You won’t tell me, will you?”

She shook her head.

He continued to give her a hard look, then shocked her when he began to laugh. Throwing an arm over her shoulders, he led her toward the dais. He gestured for her to sit down in the huge wooden chair, but she hesitated. She was never allowed to sit in it.

“Go on,” he encouraged. “Sit down while I go and get some water to clean up that cut.”

Tove lifted herself onto the seat and swung her legs, waiting. Her father returned with a small bowl of water and a rag. He wiped away the blood slowly.

“You’re just like your mother. Do you know that?” he told her, his focus still fixed on her leg wound.

Tove held her breath, waiting for her father to say more. He hardly mentioned her mother, and never willingly talked about her. All she knew was that her name was Bodil and she was a shield maiden who had died on the battlefield.

“When she was your age, she was always getting into trouble and fighting the boys.” He sighed, rinsing the rag in the water. “I guess the acorn does not fall far from the tree.” Her father met her eyes. “You have spirit, Tove Norling, just like your mother did. I’m more proud of you than I could ever say, but I cannot bear the thought of losing you in battle too.” Tilting her chin up, he stared into her eyes. “That’s why I cannot allow you to play with swords anymore.”