Slaves of Love (10 page)

Over the weeks aboard the trader ship, she had learned very well what happened when she disobeyed whatever man happened to be master at the time. Her back still stung from the lashes she’d received, a punishment she’d been told many slave owners preferred, probably for its entertainment value. Just like her father had. She preferred to avoid any more, and she felt certain sitting without being given permission would be considered disobedient.

A door opened, not the one through which she’d entered. She did not look at the man. That would be a sign of insolence. She kept her gaze cast downward.

“Look at me.”

She glanced up at him with unfocused eyes, making out the vague image of a tall, bearded man with dark, piercing eyes.

Keern stared at her, acutely aware of the hollows at the base of her neck and the gaunt look of her face. She had lost weight.

She stared up at him with eyes dull and lifeless, until her gaze caught on his -- and held. A glimmer of fear and possibly ... pain? ... rippled across the placid blue pools, but no recognition.

He savored the effect, committing it to memory, tucked away in a place he could retrieve it often to soothe the vivid recall of pain too long subdued. Inflicted by her. Of a heart too long shattered. Broken by her.

“You lied to your father. You told him I’d stolen your virginity. He and his men attacked my family. He killed my brother, thinking it was me.”

“There is one reason, and one reason only, why you are here. So I can punish you for the pain you have caused.” His jaw clenched around the words.

He stepped toward her. Her back stiffened, and she refused to step back, but she couldn’t quite hide the flicker of trepidation in her eyes.

Keern expected her to retreat, to step back from his looming presence, but she stood firm, claiming a small piece of ground as her own.

Surveying her with a cool sweep of his eyes, intending to shake her damnable calm, he felt his body tense with anticipation of what was to come. Her simple white gown followed the curves of her body in an alluring fashion -- and only two thin straps held it up.

He’d waited so long. He’d imagined his revenge a thousand times. Now he could barely restrain himself. But he would. He planned to enjoy this to the fullest. He would linger over every step. Her breasts rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm, though she held her head high and didn’t flinch at his perusal.

He could wait. To feel her body writhe beneath his own as her vulnerable flesh succumbed to his strength. To taste her sweet flesh with his tongue, especially the honey-tipped nipples that remained in his dreams, perpetually glazed with shimmering droplets of water. To smell the womanly scent of her as she responded to him with the slippery glaze of feminine readiness. To see her face, tilted back in the agony of blissful passion, overwhelmed into vibrant submission. To hear her beg for the release only he could provide, as he was so sure she would, then the strangled moan of pleasure as she slipped from this reality to the “little death” of orgasm.

Yes, he would enjoy this. But if his desire was for revenge, why did his fantasy include her pleasure? Perhaps it was simply the male need to know he could satisfy his woman.

He grabbed her, dragging her into his arms. Her bound hands jerked up between them, sweeping across his groin, triggering a pulsing heat through him. Her palms jammed against his ribs, and she shoved against him, hard, but her struggles were insignificant against his greater strength. He loosened his hold on her, pleased to see the scarlet anger coloring her face as she realized she’d lost control of her composure and belied her claim.

He brought his teeth to her neck and nipped.

“I don’t mind if you fight. It’ll be all the more challenging. On the other hand, a quiet submission on your part could provide its own reward -- to us both.” His hand skimmed her form from her hip to the side swell of her breast.

“If you actually participate, we might both enjoy this.”

The stiffening of her spine gave him his answer -- the answer he wanted. She would not willingly enjoy this -- did not intend to give him the satisfaction. That would make his revenge even sweeter. Because she would enjoy it, making her humiliation more complete.

“I won’t fight you. And I won’t enjoy this. If you prefer taking defenseless women against their will, that’s your weakness, not mine.”

She glared into his eyes with a fierceness of utter strength, of spirit if not of body. Anger prodded him at his growing admiration of her, but he pushed it aside, not allowing anything to spoil this experience.

“It’s no weakness to carry a battle through to completion. You started the war. I am simply finishing the fight. If I am victorious, you have no right to complain.”

She sucked in a breath, seemed ready to say something, then shook her head and looked away. He stepped forward and tore the straps of her gown, shoved the fabric down her body until it slid to the floor. She stood before him, tall and proud, even with brief white panties her only protection from his eyes. The only sign of her trepidation was her averted gaze. Her breasts, as full and tempting as he remembered, swept forward in a graceful curve, the taut nipples beckoning to him. He covered her firm white breasts with his hands, pressing against the soft flesh, feeling her nipples peak in automatic response to his touch. The feel of her sent tremors of need thundering through him.

He wanted her. More than he’d ever wanted any woman before. Once again he tried to convince himself it was because he wanted to hurt her, to make her pay for Will’s death. He wouldn’t take her life -- though as her master, he could do so legally -- but he could take her innocence. With one as strong as her, that would be worse than losing her life. Still, the pulsing need within him threatened to make him slave to her, not the other way around. It would be so easy to succumb to the desire to hold her close, to whisper sweet words of love in her ear, to beg her to love him with all the gentleness he knew she had inside her. Something deep inside him wanted to hear her speak words of loving encouragement, wanted her to want him in the most basic of ways. He wanted her to invite him inside her body, to beg for his love, not because he wanted her to submit, but because he wanted to fulfill her wish with loving intent.

Anger flared as he realized how vulnerable he’d become to her. If she were a man, this would be simple. They would battle with weapons until only one remained standing.

With a conniving woman like this one, things were far more complicated.

Thrusting away the unwanted feelings she’d aroused in him, he similarly thrust her onto the bed. He flung her hands over her head, pinning them with one of his while he claimed one taut nipple with his mouth. He savored the feel of her soft skin pebbling under his tongue, the thrust of the nub hardening in his moist warmth. His teeth nipped gently, and she cried out in distress, though more imagined than real, since he’d been careful not to hurt her. Though she may deserve it, he would not hurt a woman as part of love play. He might enjoy her trepidation, but he would not inflict real pain. Turning his head sideways while he stroked her other nipple with his index finger, he watched as the flesh puckered erect. Her chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm under his cheek, and her heartbeat sounded erratic. Lifting his head to stare at her face, he saw her eyes scrunched tightly closed, as though she were undergoing some unbearable agony. Searing pain slashed through his chest.

His whole world seemed to tilt beneath him, sending him off kilter. He had wanted her to fear him, had needed it for what seemed like forever, but now ... but now he needed her to want him. Needed it so desperately, it almost consumed him.

She shook her head. The clinking of the chain as she shifted her hands drew his attention, and he snatched the key to her cuffs from the shelf at the head of his bed. She flinched, shielding her face with her linked hands. Clearly, she’d thought he’d intended to strike her. His protective instincts lurched to the surface, unwanted and dangerous.

Darg’ra!
He couldn’t let her get to him. On the other hand, he couldn’t look into those blue eyes -- calm surfaces that hinted at levels of pain so intense, he dared not allow himself to be drawn into them -- without wondering what had caused that intensity. He jerked to his feet, desperate to get away from her.

“Yes, but I’ve tired of the game for now.” He strode across the room, toward the door. “Sleep. You’ll need your strength later.”

He hazarded one last glance at the bed, to see her curled into a ball, her back toward him.

Snaky red lines marred the surface of her soft white flesh. Most were the fresh markings of the lash, a result of discipline inflicted during her captivity with the slavers. As he moved closer, barely aware he’d changed direction, drawn to her like a mother grizzly to a wounded cub, he noticed older scars, healed over, but a map of previous ill-treatment. They were faint enough that he had not noticed them when he’d first seen her, but now, highlighted by the new scars, they stood out clearly.

Shena felt his overwhelming presence behind her. She hugged her knees tight to her chest.

Why didn’t he leave? He’d just told her he’d tired of her for now. Why didn’t he just leave her in peace? Give her time to build up her immunity? She felt herself weakening. She had caused him pain, and he needed to strike out at her. She felt his pain, like a hideous weight crushing her body.

He wanted her to fear him, but what she feared most was her need for him. Could she survive this with her heart intact?

The bed compressed under his weight as he sat behind her. His finger traced a crooked line down her back, probably following one of her scars. She flinched at the remembered pain.

The searing heat of the lash cracking against her skin. Barely able to stop herself from crying out, she lay rigid and still, waiting for him to leave. A moment later, he rose, and she heard his footsteps as he left the room. Sighing, she relaxed a little, wondering when he’d return and what he would do then. She had little time for such contemplation, as he returned moments later. She felt him apply a thick ointment to her back with gentle strokes of his fingers.

“With one as bold as you, I assume you were beaten to force submission.”

“No worse than the others,” she replied, remembering the tawny redhead who’d lain battered on the cell floor beside her. The girl, no more than seventeen, had died in her arms.

She could almost believe he was teasing her, if it weren’t for the hatred she’d seen in his bronze eyes. She remained silent, allowing herself to enjoy the gentle flow of his fingers along her back, the soothing feel of ointment relieving the stinging pain of her wounds.