The Nymph King (10 page)

Feminine dresses abounded, a sea of colors and silks. They were long and flowing, barely there scarves held together by sheer luck. One in particular drew and held her attention. It was a drapery of ivory, threaded with gold. Both the hem and leg slit were twined with amber leaves and emerald flowers. Jewels sparkled from the deep vee in the bodice.

“Once you have bathed and dressed, Shaye, we will have breakfast.”

She snorted. “I'm not bathing until there's a lock on the door.”

“A lock would not keep me out if I wanted in.”

He was right, she realized with frustration.

“You will feel better after a bath.”

“I'll feel better once I'm home,” she told him darkly.

“Must I state the obvious?” He sighed. “Again?”

Her teeth ground together, causing her jaw to ache. “What about that warrior? Joachim?”

“We will deal with him when he awakens.” The words growled from low in Valerian's chest.

Her fingers tightened over the ivory fabric; it was cool and soft against her fingertips.
Do not think about Joachim. You'll only drive yourself to panic.
The dresses, she'd think about the dresses. Once more, her gaze slid over the one she held. She had never worn anything so feminine. Never
owned
anything so feminine, for that matter. This was something an ancient Greek or Roman queen would have worn. Luscious and exquisite. Not a stitch out of place or a flaw to be seen.

“Whose room is this?” she asked. Valerian had said it was his—hadn't he?—but surely he would not own this many gowns.

“The room is mine,” was his answer.

She faced the door. His silhouette paced back and forth, a large slash of black. A phantom. “Do you often wear women's clothing, Valerian?”

“Gods, no!”

She grinned at the affront in his voice. “Then why do you have all these robes?” The answer slammed into her, and she lost her grin. They were for his women. His too-numerous-to-count conquests.

“Shaye,” he said warily.

To wear the gowns was to imply
she
was one of his women. “I do not belong to you, and I will not dress as if I do.” She turned away from the closet, from the lovely ivory silk she wanted so badly to slip over her head. She'd suffer in her shells and grass skirt, thank you very much, rather than proclaim herself Valerian's lover. Even in so small a way.

Tiny allowances like that one could open the door to other, more severe allowances. Like giving in to his expert touch.

“We could bargain,” he cajoled.

What was with the man and his bargaining? “I wear one of the gowns and you'll…what?”

“Kiss you?”

She gulped and had to blank her mind against the passionate images trying to force their way inside. “You really need to work on your bargaining skills. They suck.” Had her voice shaken?

“I would like to,” he muttered. “Suck you, that is.”

Her cheeks fused with heat, and a tremor stole over her. “I don't want your kisses.” There. Finally, at long last, she knew she sounded convincing.

“A fake protest, if I've ever heard one.”

“Offer something else!” she demanded, before she pounded out of the room and slapped him.

“Such as? And do not mention taking you to the surface, for you know I will not negotiate on that point.”

“I don't know why I'm even talking to you.” She huffed out a hot breath. “Stubborn, that's what you are.”

“Do not change if that is your desire. I am not forcing you, moon. I like seeing your skin. I see it, and I imagine myself licking it.”

O-kay. So. She couldn't stay dressed in the shells and grass, after all.

Shivering, with molten lava running through her veins, she gazed around the room. Valerian's room, he'd said. She remembered seeing
male
clothing when she'd searched the place last night. Where…where…the vanity! She grinned as she raced to the thick, intricately carved marble beauty. The drawers slid out easily. Inside the top one lay stack upon stack of shirts. They were huge and would swim on her, but at least they would cover her (apparently lickable) skin.

With a quick glance at the doorway, she tore off the hated shells and tossed them on the floor with relief. She tugged on a shirt, and the black, buttery-soft material made her sigh in delight. The second drawer held pants, all leather, all black. The fact that they were folded so neatly struck her as…odd. Domestic.

These nymphs were anything but domesticated.

She wouldn't have doubted if the women she'd seen
leaving the room last night were responsible. Caring for all of Valerian's needs, even his laundry.

A spark of jealousy burned inside of her. “No, that's not true. I am not jealous,” she muttered in a futile attempt to convince herself. Motions clipped, she unwound the grass from her waist, letting it pool on the ground, then tugged on the pants. She had long legs, but even so the panels of material dwarfed her. She had to roll the hem numerous times and belt the waist with a scarf from one of the gowns in the closet. She slipped on her sandals.

There were no mirrors (unless she counted the ones above the bed), so she had to guess how she looked. Ridiculous, she was sure. Sloppy. And that, to her way of thinking, was perfect. She wanted that too-intense Joachim guy to find her completely unattractive.

Valerian, too, she reminded herself.

As she stood there, deciding what to do next, Valerian's masculine scent wafted to her, filling her nostrils. Strong, spicy. So arousing her nipples hardened, abrading the shirt she now wore. Why was she smelling him? She wasn't by the door, wasn't even close.

She twisted and turned, only then realizing the heady fragrance curled from the clothes. Her eyes widened. Wretched clothes! Wonderful clothes. Had he worn them? Had they touched his body? An ache throbbed between her legs.

She'd never been a sexual creature, and these new, continued sensations rocked her. How long could she deny them? How long could she resist? She'd wondered before, but the answer suddenly seemed imminent. She almost ripped the shirt and pants off. She did moan, the sound raw and needy.

“What are you doing in there?” Valerian asked, his voice tight, drawn.

Did he know she was aroused? He couldn't know.
Please, don't let him know.
“I was—I'm just hungry.”

For several seconds he didn't speak. She used the time to calm herself down, to recite math equations in her mind. If he knew just how vulnerable she was to him, he'd pounce without mercy.

“Come, moon,” he said evenly. “I will feed you.”

She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. She'd eat breakfast with him because she needed out of this room and needed to keep up her strength. Then she could escape him and search the palace for a way out. A way home. She couldn't stay here. Couldn't stay with this potent man a moment longer than necessary.

“Let's get this over with,” she muttered.

J
OACHIM LAY IN HIS BED
,
his arms propped under his head. Scowling, he stared up at the glistening crystal, wishing he could take comfort in the plethora of colors shooting from the jagged shards. Pink, like a woman's nipples. White, like a woman's skin. Russet, like a woman's soulful eyes.

Alas, he took no comfort.

Night had long passed, and morning was here. Through it all, his thoughts remained black and refused to settle. He shifted and eyed the wall of weapons he'd acquired over the years. A weapon for every man he'd slain. Their numbers were so vast, he'd long ago lost count. He was not ashamed of that. No, he reveled in his victories.

That was why his behavior last night cut his pride so deeply.

After leaving Valerian and Shaye, he had brought the two females to his room. He'd been about to enter one; he'd held his cock in his hand, poised, ready. She'd been willing, so willing, writhing in passion, opening herself wider. And he'd stopped. Stopped!

As he had stared down at her, the sense of all-consuming need had abandoned him. There one
moment, gone the next. An image of the dark-headed witch he'd wanted so badly at the selection ceremony, the one with the curly hair and ripe little body, had flashed through his mind. Suddenly he'd wanted her. Only her. He'd pictured her in Shivawn's arms, moaning, mindless with pleasure, and a terrible rage had overcome him.

Joachim's two bed partners had tried their hardest to excite him after that, but they'd failed. He should have taken them anyway. He needed to sate himself and regain his strength. Yet…he'd sent them away to find another lover and pleasured himself instead.

Still. He was as weak as before. But at least Valerian, too, would be weakened this day, having gone without a woman's touch. His mate's touch, if he were to be believed. Mate. How Joachim wanted to find his, that one woman who would love him above all others.

He sighed. He didn't want to take the pale woman from Valerian. She did not excite him. Not really. Not like the dark-headed one with her sensual, lush curves, her innocent and wild contradictions. What was her name? She hadn't said. Hadn't spoken at all. He wondered what her voice would be like. Low and husky? Sweet and soft? If he'd had the opportunity to choose her, the night would have ended differently. Damn Shivawn for taking her and forcing him to change his plan.

As his friend had led the lovely witch from the room, Joachim had decided to console himself by taking Valerian's crown.

He liked and admired his cousin, but he liked and admired power more.

Joachim did not enjoy being told what to do. He never had.
He
preferred to give the orders, to have others do
his
bidding. Even his women. He was master. He was commander.

His cousin ruled with an iron fist, expecting total and complete obedience. It was time to change that. It was time for Joachim to rule.

Valerian had offered to fight him, true, but Joachim could not become king that way. No, Valerian had to willingly
agree
to surrender his throne. Would he? Valerian had had a night to consider his options, to realize there was only one thing to be done to keep the pale woman.

“The crown will be mine,” Joachim snarled.

Some men were meant for greatness. Some were…not. And Valerian had made many foolish mistakes lately. The first and most important was leaving the nymph females behind to take this palace. The women were now lost, no trace of them to be found in either the Inner or Outer City. Yes, Valerian had a contingent of men searching for them even now. But that wasn't enough. They would not need finding if the king had brought them along in the first place.

The second and most unforgivable mistake Valerian had made was not letting the men travel to the surface until yesterday, when their strength was nearly drained. The palace needed guarding, true, but the men could not guard if they were weak.

I would not have allowed such things to happen.
His eyes narrowed. The pale woman was simply a means to an end. He'd seen the way Valerian hovered over her, protecting her, silently willing the warriors away from
her. So Joachim had chosen her, hoping his cousin would do
anything
to keep her.

His hope had paid off.

And perhaps, when he became sovereign, he would simply take the dark-haired witch from Shivawn. He grinned at the thought.

Oh, he was going to like being king.

 

W
HEN
S
HAYE BRUSHED ASIDE
the door cloth and stepped toward him, Valerian's breath caught in his throat, burning like the hottest fire.

Would she always affect him this way?

She wore
his
shirt,
his
pants, and even though they bagged on her slight frame, she was the most beautiful sight he'd ever beheld. The dome's rainbow flecks glistened over her cheeks. Like a siren she was, luring him, tempting him. He would willingly go to his death for her.

“If you're going to tell me to change,” she said, challenge in her voice, “save your breath.”

Tell her to change? Never. “I like you just as you are.”

Surprise darkened her eyes, making the brown velvet swirl with black.

He held out his hand, not touching her, but needing to. So badly he wanted her to accept him. He wanted her willing. Wanted her to find joy in each and every moment of contact they shared, as he did.

That glorious gaze of hers flicked to his palm. Slowly the color abandoned her cheeks. So pale now, he thought. She could have been a dream, a ghost. A phantom come to torment him.

A flicker of something blanketed her expression.
Pain? Panic? “No. No touching.” She shook her head, punctuating the words. She even whipped her hands behind her back, as if to remove temptation.

Hearing her rejection, he decided to push her—to see how far she would
allow
him to push her, really. He wanted her touch too much to admit defeat so early in the game. “Sweet moonbeam, why won't you acquiesce over something so small? I am not asking for more than a touch.” Yet.

“Please. I'm not stupid. One touch will lead to one kiss. One kiss will lead—” She flushed, returning that heavenly, rosy glow to her skin. She cleared her throat. “You get the picture.” Chin high, she sailed past him. But she stopped abruptly at the fork of doorways. She didn't turn to face him. “Which way is breakfast?”

“What if I told you
I
was the main course?” He watched her back stiffen, watched her hands clench at her sides. However long it took, he'd chip at her resistance until she caved.
I'll have you begging for me, love.
“Would you be so eager to leave then?”

Waves of anger and frustration radiated from her. “Which way?” she ground out.

He paused a moment before responding, drinking in the vision of her pale hair tumbling down her back. Some of the ends curled, some of them fell straight. What he would have given to sift his fingers through the thick mass. His home? His life?

His soul?

Yes, all of those things. The need was sharp inside him, yet so unattainable at the moment. “I will show you the way,” he said, his voice deep, nearly a croak.
He closed the distance between them, his long legs quickly eating up the short space, and brushed past her, purposefully caressing his arm against hers.

Gasping, she jumped away from him as if he'd shoved her. She even glared at him with suspicion. His lips twitched in amusement and victory.
Oh, yes. She will be mine.
Her awareness of him—for that's what this reaction was, whether she denied it or not—would ultimately be her downfall.

She might not have accepted him as her mate, but her body recognized him. Desired him. And when the physical body desired something, or someone, it did whatever was necessary to convince the mind to seize it. People could not help themselves. They wanted what they wanted, bad for them or not.

Shaye would be no different.

Soon,
he thought.
Soon.

“Don't you ever wear a shirt?” she grumbled, turning away her gaze.

“I saw how you looked at my chest and decided it was in my best interest to never wear a shirt again.”

Her lips compressed into a thin line. “I was staring in horror.”

“Who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself?”

She bared her teeth in a scowl.

He had made his point, so he let the subject drop. For now. “Breakfast is this way.” He clasped her hand (without permission) and led her out of his quarters, down the winding hallway of his army's barracks. Several couples had decided to camp there, even when the loving was done. They lay naked and intertwined in the open. Unlike the chaotic moans of last night, all was
now silent. Most likely everyone was exhausted from their long night of sexual gratification and debauchery.

How he would have liked to be in their numbers, to have experienced that same satisfaction.

Perhaps tonight…

“So, what are we going to do about Joachim?” Shaye asked. “I'm not going to be his slave. No matter what. And don't tell me we'll deal with him when he wakes up. Give me an answer this time. I hate not knowing.”

We,
she'd said. Not I. Not you.
We.
He liked the sound of that, liked that she did not reject the thought of his aid. Liked that she saw them as partners in this. “Worry not. I will do whatever is necessary to keep you with me.”

“Would you—” she gulped “—kill him?”

“If necessary.” He answered without hesitation.

She uttered a frustrated groan. “If you would just take me to the beach, he couldn't have me and you wouldn't have to commit murder.”

“If I took you back, I couldn't have you, either.”

“Exactly.”

“Your plan—what is it you told me about my bargaining skills?—sucks. Yes, your plan sucks.”

He kicked a pile of clothing out of their way and turned a corner. Finally the dining hall came into view. A fresh, warm scent wafted to him. The male centaurs and minotaurs he'd acquired from the city had prepared the usual breakfast of fish, fruits and nuts.

Beside him Shaye purred, “Mmm.” Her stomach growled.

Usually at this time of the morning warriors surrounded the table, devouring every morsel of food. Now he and Shaye were alone, the servants having already
retreated to the kitchen for their own meal, his men still sleeping and recovering from the night's pleasures.

Without a word, Shaye commandeered the chair at the head of the table. As she did so, she eyed him, expecting him to balk, he was sure. When he didn't, she shrugged and piled a plate high with food.

She swallowed a bite of coconut cream, and her eyes closed in sweet surrender. “Who prepared this? Surely not your army. They may look life beefcake, but I doubt they know how to cook it.”

“As if I would allow my men to cook,” he said, filling his plate.

“Hey, there's nothing wrong with a man knowing how to prepare a meal.” She popped a grape into her mouth.

He eased onto the bench beside her. “Warriors battle. Warriors kill. Warriors seduce. They do not cook. That is a servant's job.”

“What if all your servants get sick and can't work? What if all your servants are stolen? What will all your big, strong warriors do then, huh?”

He blinked, the idea never having occurred to him. Who would be foolish enough to steal from a nymph? “We would acquire new servants.”

“Typical,” she said dryly. Her gaze traveled the room.

Looking for a way out? he wondered. He wouldn't doubt if she'd engaged him in this conversation about servants just to distract him. He let her do it, though. Talking with her excited him. “How is such a thing typical?” He leaned back and bit into a strawberry. How he would have loved to trace the berry over her lips and lick the juice away.

“In my experience, men such as yourself are—”

“Men such as myself?” he interjected.

“Yes.”

“What kind of man is that?”

Her gaze returned to him, and she seemed to forget her search. “Arrogant. Bossy. Chauvinistic. Pigheaded. Stubborn. Half-witted. Spoiled. Demanding. Self-absorbed. Morally corrupt.”

When she paused for breath, he grumbled, “Is that all?”

“No. Horny. Overbearing. Mean.” She paused, tapped a finger against her lips, then nodded. “That's all. Anyway, as I was saying. Men are—”

“‘Mean'?” He frowned. “I have been the epitome of
nice
to you, catering to your every need. Have I not clothed you? Fed you? Kept you safe and warm? Refrained from making love to you?”

She pursed her lips. “Did you not steal me from everything I hold dear? Have you not refused over and over again to let me go?”

Unconcerned, he waved a hand through the air. “One day you will thank me for my refusal. Now, please continue with your explanation of my ‘typical' male behavior.”

“Fine.” She raised her chin, looking down at him. “But you won't like it.”

“Nevertheless. I will listen. Because I am
nice.
”

“Nice? Really? To save your male pride from doing something you consider beneath you, you would rather steal someone from their home and their family so they can do it for you.” She bit into a strawberry of her own, white teeth sinking into the fruit. Droplets of juice trickled down her chin. “I'm living proof.”

His body tensed. Once again he was overcome with the desire to lick juice off of her lips and chin, perhaps cover the rest of her with strawberry juice, as well, and lick that, too. Several sweetly tart droplets would pool in her navel, of course, before dripping to the pale, silvery hair between her legs. She would writhe when his tongue followed the liquid. She would tunnel her hands in his hair. Her knees would squeeze his temples.