The Wolf's Captive (10 page)

But he had to know. For both their sakes.

“No one is arrested without cause in J’Amel,” he said slowly.

“It’s something to do with the Vintner’s Guild,” she blurted out. She sounded angry; she was not one to cry easily. “The soldiers came after his still, asking about his vintages. And that’s why I came here with Paolo; his father is the Guild’s banker, and I thought he might know, maybe he would help if I agreed…”

One of Cesare’s skills as an interrogator was knowing when to stay silent. He did so now, but Lucia seemed unable to finish that thought.

“My father is not good with figures and records, and with…paperwork,” she continued at last, the anger draining away, leaving only sadness. “Taxes, and import duties, and…I help him, with things like that. It’s possible…”

“Yes?”

“It’s possible that I made a mistake,” she said quietly. Cesare watched the horror of that possibility play out on her face, as though it were occurring to her for the first time. If she were innocent, he was a monster to do this to her. To the woman he inexplicably knew owned his damaged heart.

If she were not…well, they were both doomed, in that case.

Of course she could never care for you
, a voice inside his head sneered, a voice he remembered well.
Of course she would rather see you dead. How could she care for a monster like you?

Even if she were innocent—the voice inside his head laughed at that—even if she were innocent, he’d still have to prove it, or watch her hang alongside her father.

Think
, he implored himself, and looked at her inscrutable face. Of course, hers would be the one mind that would be difficult for him to penetrate.

“Why am I here?” she asked him directly, and there was that flash of steel again. Of intelligence, and resistance. And yet he was certain he’d felt the desire to yield in her. The beast in him had delighted at her quick obedience, had
felt
the thrill run up her spine. The two traits, opposed and yet twinned, putting her at war with herself: that, he understood. He wished to tell her that he understood. He wished to
show
her.

And suddenly he thought he saw the way in.

“What did you think of the Severille festivities?” he asked.

She jolted. Her eyes flew wide open, and her hands clutched at her skirt, bunching the fabric in her small hands. The scent of sex—of her—grew heavier, and the blush crept up her neck.

He felt an answering growl rise in his throat.

“You liked them.” It was a statement. She nodded. He rose, every fiber tense and ready. Her chest fluttered with every step he took towards her.

“Lucia,” he said, reaching out a hand to trace the line of her jaw, down her neck, to that delicious hollow at its base, “Lucia, you are intelligent. You know that you are my captive.”

She had closed her eyes at his touch. Again she bit her lip, her brow furrowing. “Yes.”

“You are mine to do with as I will.”

He felt her pulse beat a mad rhythm in that beautiful, smooth neck, and the heat coming off her in waves, and all but lost himself. 

“If I were a different sort of prince,” he continued, “we both know how this would end. But that is not all I want, Lucia. I want more than just your body, and I will make you an offer for it.”

His finger danced lightly upon her skin, down into the warm valley between her breasts, slick with sweat. He could smell her pussy now, hot and hungry. Every second in which he did not rip her dress to shreds and plunge into her was an effort. Every effort coiled the spring tighter.

He pushed aside the material of her dress and released her breast, his mouth watering at the sight of her pink, pebbled nipple. Her knees dipped slightly.

“Submit to me for Bacchanal,” he whispered, his fingers playing with her so casually, “submit to me
completely
, and I will help you.”

He leaned his forehead down to hers, his hand mercilessly working her soft breast, and silently begged. He no longer cared, truthfully, if this was the best strategy. He needed her to submit. He knew it would take more than one night; he knew someone with that steel in her would not, could not, give all of herself on a whim. He would make her offer everything to him, willingly. It was the only hope—for both of them—even if she learned to despise him in the process.

He would have her submission. And he had to pray that he did not lose control of the beast in the process.

“Lucia,” he growled. “Answer me.”

~  ~  ~

Lucia tried to speak, and found that she couldn’t. It wasn’t that the words wouldn’t come; it was that too many conflicting words all fought to find their way to the surface at once.

What did ‘completely’ mean? No, she could guess: it was that old nightmare, the way formerly brilliant and lively women ended up as miserable, trained pets. It would mean letting her guard down, as her grandmother had told her never to do. It would mean he would see her for what she was, and what man would want that? A headstrong, ambitious, ornery woman? Would he help her if he really knew her, or would he let her father rot in the Basiglia?

And yet her body craved him. Not just him: she craved his commands. His
ownership
. His body, so close to hers; the scars on his chest, just visible at the top of his loose, white shirt; the smell of his sweat, the feel of his hair has it fell down around her head…

He left a trail of sparkling joy along the surface of her skin wherever he touched her. She had never imagined anything like this. Of course she hadn’t; it was nothing like it was in the books she had read. There was nothing innocent, or pure, or even gentle about it. Her desire for him was violent. Was necessary. She needed him inside her like she needed air in her lungs.

And she needed his help. Her family needed his help. And she very much needed him
not
to find the stolen bottle of the Duke’s Blend that she’d hid in the crevice.

So he could have her body. But she would keep her mind. She would remember her grandmother’s warnings, and keep her promise.

“Yes,” she said.

She opened her eyes, and looked up, into his rugged, scarred face. He blinked, his hand still on her breast, his black eyes opening wide.

“You know of my…tastes?” he asked, his voice strained.

“I’ve heard only rumors,” she said. “Gossip.”

“You must have a safeword,” he said. “It is part of the covenant of the Severille.”

Lucia found it difficult to think. All of her being was centered around her breasts, where his body made contact with hers. Gradually, a word rose to the surface.

She said, “Valsace.”

Lord Cesare stared at her for what seemed like a long time. Evaluating. Judging. She knew she should be frightened. She knew that. She was. But she could hardly hear the fear over the rising hum of
want
.

Lord Cesare took a long, controlled breath, and tore her dress from her body.

Lucia stumbled, shocked, naked, more vulnerable than she’d ever felt in her life. Lord Cesare caught her. The fine silk of his shirt was smooth against her skin, his hands calloused and rough on her flesh. Being naked against his clothed body, powerless, defenseless in his arms…she shuddered, and moisture leaked from between her thighs.

“I didn’t tell you to move.”

She snapped back into place, her back straight, her breasts out, her eyes on him. He didn’t say she couldn’t look, after all. And he was a sight. He prowled around her, as he had at the Dance. Like an animal, stalking its prey. Claiming its mate. Again, she shuddered.

“Your nipples are erect,” he said. His words had an odd, stilted rhythm, as though they required extra effort to say. She wanted to scream for him to take her then, there, immediately, no longer caring about whether he would know she was a virgin, whether she would be bad at it. She didn’t understand why he hadn’t. Why he wasn’t even touching her. What was wrong?

“Yes,” she finally answered.

“You are aroused.”

She swallowed. Somehow she still retained the capacity for embarrassment. “Yes.”

“Prove it.”

Lucia looked at him in open-mouthed surprise, and then shame. The weight of her inexperience felt heavier than ever. She had no idea how to do that. He waited for a response, and then narrowed his eyes.

“Come here and put your hands flat on the table,” he commanded. He picked the heavy wooden chair up and tossed it aside, sending it skidding across the hard stone floor, into the shadows. His strength was frightening.

Lucia took a step towards the table, her hands instinctively moving to cover her breasts as they bounced gently with her gait. Lord Cesare only glared, and shook his head slightly. Her hands came down. She was glad to have somewhere to put them when she reached the table.

He had spared no expense in the settings. She still had no idea why.

“Bend over, with your forearms flat on the cloth.”

Lucia managed to suppress a small gasp.  She couldn’t have explained why this felt so depraved, like she was just a piece of merchandise, a mere commodity to be inspected. That humiliating thought only aroused her more, and she hung her head to hide the blush spreading to her cheeks, only to let that gasp escape when her nipples brushed up against the chilled metal of the dinner plate.

And then she waited. In agony, she waited.

She heard him move behind her, just to the side. And yet he did not speak, did not move, for what seemed like an eternity. With every passing second she grew more aware of his presence, more conscious of her vulnerability, and, to her confused shame, more swollen and hungry for his touch. For his cock.

She’d never known what that was like, and yet all she could think about it was how it would feel to have him inside her.

Instead, she felt his soft boot between her ankles, and, without warning, he pushed her legs apart.

“Keep them spread,” he said.

Dumbly, she nodded. She tried to understand what she was feeling, and was surprised to discover that she wanted to please him. Not just for him to have her, not just for the hard hand of the Severille. She wanted to
please
him while he took her. The tiny part of her mind that still cared about pride at that moment screamed and shouted its defiance.

Before she could rebel against her body, his hand was on her inner thigh. His touch sent an immediate pulse through out her long, prone limbs, and burned through the rest of her thoughts.

Lucia sighed deeply, and as she exhaled the last of her resistance left her. She no longer cared about anything else. Her back arched her hips towards him all on its own.

“Let’s see,” he said, slowly running his hand up her thigh, toward her soaking wet slit. A shiver ran through her. Slowly he let his fingers feel their way along the delicate crease of her leg and her vulva, and brush lightly against her outer lips. She was already so wet that her juices had spread, and his fingers were slick, sliding along her skin.

She dropped her head to the table, her flesh quivering. Lord Cesare chuckled.

“You
are
ready, aren’t you?” he murmured, and slipped a finger inside her.

She tensed, her back arched, and let loose a small cry. He only teased her around the sensitive rim of her entrance, round and round, testing, probing. That mere contact, after so long, after wondering for so long, was enough to startle her into sputtering little spasms, her legs shaking, her stomach contracting. Not enough to sate her; no, Lucia needed more, was suddenly desperate for simply
more.
She bucked back against his hand and looked over her shoulder helplessly.

He put his giant hand flat on her back.

“Stop,” he said. She groaned. He moved his finger around inside her, in and out, around and around, and she dropped her head, panting. Even his finger felt large.

“Have you ever known a man?”

She closed her eyes. Why was this so difficult to admit? Because she prided herself on her competence, on her confidence? Because she was far too old to be a virgin in a city like J’Amel, to have never fully celebrated the Bacchanal? She didn’t want to explain all the years she had spent helping her father in the distillery, she didn’t want to try to explain that she was not really a pariah, not really frigid, just wary of the demands that men made
after
sex. She didn’t want to explain her grandmother’s warnings. She’d never told anyone about that.

She didn’t want to have to explain her life. She didn’t want to have to think about it. If she did, the fear might return. This isolated room, deep below the heart of J’Amel, with this man who was larger than life—this was what she wanted, right now.

“Please,” she said. Her voice was deep and hoarse. She closed her muscles around his finger, and willed him farther in. Instead, he pulled it partially out.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

She started to stand upright, pushing herself up from the table—with what wild, angry intent, she didn’t know—but his hand on her back slammed her back down onto the table, her breasts pressed against the cold metal plate, her chin inches from the bottle of amberwine.

“I did not say you could get up,” he said. His tone was hard. “
Tell me
, Lucia. This is our agreement.”

She wriggled under him, furious and frustrated. His finger still burned in her, still made conscious, rational thought difficult. She clung to the feeling that it was important to keep the private things about her private, but he didn’t just ask for her physical vulnerability; he wanted all of her to be vulnerable. He wanted everything.

Complete submission.

Even as the thought repelled her, it attracted her, too. For the first time she considered what it might be like for someone to know those secret parts of her—her ambition, her pride, her intelligence, her strangeness—and love her for them.

“Lucia,” Lord Cesare growled. And then he began to move his finger, and rational thought became impossible.

He fucked her with his finger in short, rapid strokes, moving in ever widening circles, stretching her out. He grabbed her hip, and braced his leg against hers.