Hunted Warrior (7 page)

He pressed his thumb back across her cheekbone, right where her heart-shaped face was at its widest and most graceful. Dirt gave way to pale, luminous skin. “I'd wager that wasn't on your list of advantages an hour ago.”

Smiling tentatively, she quickly kissed the inside of his palm. “And I'll likely reconsider an hour from now.” Off in a flash, she knelt beside him. The loss of her slight weight was as disturbing as knowing their kiss was finished—the first and last of its kind. He had liked the solidity of her body, as if this wildling could keep him centered. Deeper urges told him that being centered wasn't what he really craved. He wanted a return to their unique stalemate, when peace meant sharing space with her in the heart of a passionate storm.

It was then that he decided this kiss would not be their last. He would not give up searching out those hot, daring sensations again.

The Pet.

She needed a name. She must have one, or had one a long time ago.

“Your shoulder's a mess,” she said. “But at least you caught the blade there rather than across your hand. I don't know if your wrist would've survived a cut this deep.” She tipped his head and ran her fingers over the cauterized slash. “You are a handsome man. Your shoulder will not be. I recommend long sleeves from now on.”

They watched each other. Together they'd come through a startling attack and a flash of unexpected passion. Their disagreements remained.

Mal rolled his eyes to the darkened sky. Three Dragon Kings dead . . . by the hand of the Giva, who was sworn to protect their kind.

Right then, he didn't care.

He was bare-chested and bloody in front of this woman. Although she maintained an air of indifference, she kept flicking her gaze over his lips and torso, where he sat against one of the blackened half walls. He felt appreciated as a man, not an entity or a symbol, for the first time in years.

She leaned close, so close, as she wound strips of his shirt around his shoulder, then secured it with a loop of cloth around his back and chest. A neat field dressing. Then she used her belt to secure the scraps firmly in place. She smelled of copper and sweat, but he caught the scent of her womanly essence. A wild thought hit his mind with the strength of a boulder.

I could take her. More than kisses. I could have her, right here.

“It's still seeping,” she said, businesslike. “You should wait to use it until morning at least.”

Mal closed his eyes, although that forbidden thought followed him into the dark. His coat as their blanket. Her body his playground. Her kiss, furious and freeing. He'd never lost control of his gift when in the throes of passion, but something about this woman made him think control—of his desire, of his gift—would be the ultimate test when it came to taking her.

How long had he indulged in the idea of such a simple, straightforward challenge? No politics. Nothing but the feel of limbs sliding against one another, of lips warring for control, and sinking into her softness.

The images were as dangerous as they were compulsive. Whether it was because of their kiss, his long, self-imposed abstinence, her mysteries, or the violence of the moment, it didn't matter. The fact remained. Simple. Primal. He would have her.

Finding her gaze—a rather amused gaze, if his ego felt like admitting the truth—he cleared his throat. “We need to get out of here. A single attack won't be the only one.”

Her amusement faded. “Because three random Pendray don't just decide to try and murder the Giva.”

“I can't remember any history of its like.” Eyeing her, with his veins icing over, he asked, “Can you?”

“No. But then again, I can't remember mention of any Giva being in your tenuous position of power.”

“You're tactful. You didn't call me the Usurper.”

“Because you're not.”

She sat back on her haunches and wiped her hands on the dressing that crossed between his pectorals. Again, she seemed businesslike—but her dusky hazel eyes never wavered from his, and a new awareness shone in those depths. A dare. More than a dare when her fingers left the safety of the wrapped, stained cotton and trailed down his ribs. He nearly groaned, but held it back.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” Had the crooked tilt of her lips been a smile, now tucked away for another time? Nonetheless, a certain lightness in her demeanor remained. “I can see why you'd ask.”

She stood and stared at the dead. Such a waste. Kneeling without fanfare, she retrieved one Pendray's head—the man who'd first attacked Mal. Was she the sort to kick the skull across the labyrinth like a kid with a ball? Or smash it with a rock?

Neither.

She smoothed the man's distorted features and slicked what remained of his charred hair back from his warped, motionless face. She found his body, lined it up flat, and returned its head. Silently, without glancing at Mal, she repeated the process until all three Pendray lay like matchsticks across one of the pathways.

“Great Dragon. They're yours,” she said.

Mal closed his eyes, overcome by confusion. She didn't crush skulls, but she didn't pray for them either—at least not using the traditional funeral rites of any particular clan. Just four words of benediction any Dragon King needed when he or she should go home to the Chasm, where dead souls went to rest. She did that for her enemies, no matter how plainly?

“If you suspect this isn't the last of the rogue hunting parties, then we need to leave,” she said.

The belt, cinched tightly around his shoulder, was a dam. The pain was the water backed up behind it, building toward the point of overflowing. His gift built just as potently. He was going to burst, no matter how he struggled to rein in desire, screaming nerves, and the knowledge that other Dragon Kings wanted him dead.

She straddled him again—the most striking, stormy, beautiful gargoyle. She combined balance and fearlessness, with eyes deeply shadowed as the sun dipped lower. “You'll either leave here with me, or you'll tear yourself open, wondering if there's a grain of truth to all I'm saying.”

“You've seen that, have you?”

“I've seen a lot of possibilities for you. Maybe one day I'll share.” She actually poked his shoulder. “Our kind has survived worse. And for longer.”

“In the labs.”

“I know a dying patient when I see one, and I know a patient who will lose a limb. I don't see one here.” She stroked the insides of his wrists with her thumbs. “Now get up.”

They locked gazes. “As soon as you do.”

She hopped away. Mal stood, dusted off what remained of his suit, and picked up the Dragon-forged sword.

They began the trek, picking their way to the north end of the labyrinth where Mal's powers had pried open an exit. Only when they were free of the strangely claustrophobic place did Mal take an easy breath, although breathing intensified the pain in his shoulder. He needed a day or two to rest up and let his Dragon King physiology work its wonders, but he needed to do so without losing his captive.

Captive
. He chided himself internally. She was walking beside him because she wanted to.

But no matter her self-assurance, he refused to lose her again. She was an almost complete unknown. Now he had to contend with his reawakened sexual needs—and a possible assassination attempt. Could she be involved?

“Tell me about Cadmin.”

“She's a redhead. Her parents were Tigony, but from the north. The Balkans. Only after I touched this quiver did I see her future more clearly. She was in the heart of the crumbled building. People everywhere.”

“You hadn't seen that before?” He couldn't help keep the cynicism from his voice.

“No. We've taken one step closer. I know that when she fights, she can do so with these weapons.
Can
. Many variables remain.”

“Then there must be a bow, I suppose.”

“Of course. The question now is whether you'll be with me when I find it.” She shrugged. “I don't like surprises. You, Giva, are full of them.”

“Maybe it's part of my gift,” he said, half smiling.

“Then I
should
carry on without you.” She shyly returned his grin.

“Not a chance.”

He wasn't used to sounding so rough. His people were cultured—or he'd thought them so, long ago, when he'd first come into his own. His initiation into adulthood had disillusioned him of the idea that the Tigony were in any way elevated. He was a savage at heart. Maybe all Dragon Kings were—a people born of chaos and fire.

“You need a name,” he said as they walked, with the last dregs of dusk at their backs. “I refuse to call you the Pet.”

Her dark brows drew together. Her hands fidgeted with a belt loop. “I wouldn't know where to begin.”

“Have you always been called . . . that?”

“No. I grew up with a nomadic family of Garnis.”

“Garnis? Where?”

“We call them the Lost, but they exist everywhere. That way,” she said, abruptly pointing toward a rocky outcrop barely visible in the distance. “We'll find shelter for the night, and a cache of supplies.”

Her smile was sure and calm, not shy and quirking, as if she were a child seeking praise.

Dragon damn.
That kiss . . .

He cleared his throat. “You were saying? About the Lost?”

“This family was native to the Yukon Territories. I stayed with them until I was twelve, but they didn't name me. It was thought that if a family named a foundling and that child died, it would haunt the souls of its name-bearers.”

“What did they call you?”

“The Garnis word for
girl
.”

“Then you became the Pet.”

She stopped. Streaks of midnight and starlight made her skin seem to glow. “Yes.”

“So . . . choose.”

*  *  *

“I can't just choose out of thin air.” She marched on, with an agitated gait and tight shoulders. “How does anyone do that? We're
given
names.”

“Unless you've been given degrading names all your life. This is your chance to be your own person. Your terms.”

She snorted a derisive laugh. “With you as my would-be captor, and visions of the future filling my mind, little about my life is on my terms.”

“So take this opportunity.”

She noticed how Malnefoley walked with the bearing of a king. And why not? He was the leader of the Five Clans. Because Dragon Kings had a natural life span of nearly two hundred years, he could be in charge of what remained of their dwindling people for another dozen decades, at least. She liked his long gait. He moved fluidly. Dr. Aster had always walked slowly, with so much deliberation, caught between the world of the living and his own demented thoughts. The Giva was a man of the present. A man of purpose.

He held the Dragon-forged sword as if it weighed nothing. That he strode beside her clad in nothing but dusty, blood-splattered slacks—his chest bare save her makeshift bandages—added an extra charge of awareness to her admiration. He was unspeakably handsome. Even the evening light conspired to make his features otherworldly in their masculine beauty. In profile, his brow elegant yet strong, with hollow cheeks and a nose as straight as the arrows in the quiver across her back. But his mouth was his most fascinating feature, by far. Glimpses of starlight and the moon on the far horizon outlined his mouth in luminescent white.

He was arrogant and handsome. He was royalty. He was devastatingly powerful.

And he was the only man she had ever kissed. Was he so special, or was it the novelty? Was their kiss proof of what she'd envisioned so many times since their first meeting?

Lovers.

Some futures were malleable. Some were set. That they would eventually make love was as certain to her as his presence at her side.

“I want a fresh start,” she said quickly. “Something strong.”

If she was going to be the Giva's lover, she needed to feel the power to keep up—or even lead the way. Having sex would be easy. Making him believe in her higher purpose was another matter. Although she couldn't pinpoint why, she would need him. Cadmin would need them both. Together. That was why she took no pains to hide herself from his pursuit. If only she could see a glimpse of why they were meant to travel this path together.

He walked in silence for a long time, until she gave up awaiting an answer. She fell into step. Every two of hers matched one of his.

“Avyi,” he said at last. “What do you think of Avyi?”

She rolled it around in her mind, then gave whispered voice to its appealing syllables. “Avyi. What does it mean?”

“Maybe one day I'll share,” he said, echoing her previous teasing.

He still hadn't looked at her. Just eyes forward, chin lifted proudly. But she got the sense that he was expectant. He wanted to know if his offering met with her approval.

If she would bear the name he gave her . . .

An exciting shiver crept over her skin. She'd been owned before. Literally. This didn't feel like ownership. It felt like he was doing his best to accommodate what she craved. Almost as though he was giving her a gift.

“I like it.”

He nodded curtly. They walked on in silence, although her mind would not quiet.

I have a name.

Avyi.

The night was quiet except for the wind that whipped up the swell and buffeted their backs. She thought of that prison, and how the elements would be just as maddening as walls that promised only death as release. She could imagine men and women going mad, but she could also imagine them forging a certain sort of existence, as she had done in the labs. Dragon Kings, humans, animals of all kind—the strong adapted.

And now, she would need to adapt to her own new life. She was free of the Asters, but not free of the Honorable Giva. Of Malnefoley. He was her burden now, just as she had been his. Oddly enough, she didn't begrudge him the months of her imprisonment in Greece. She would've done the same, had she been in his position—with the vitality of their entire race at stake and the Giva as their leader. She wouldn't have trusted herself either.