A Warlord's Lady Page 5

  Before I could stop myself, I was in his arms, moulded to him like putty. He raised a hand and tilted my chin so my lips could meet his. I’d wanted this from the very first moment I’d seen him, and despite the fact he’d kidnapped me and slaughtered my travel companion, I waited breathless for his kiss.

  That one kiss was more than I could have hoped, or ever dreamed — and it doomed me to six months of captivity. His lips met mine in an explosion of desire. We kissed, experimenting, tasting and exploring. Every fibre of my brain told me I should stop, that what I was doing was dangerous and extremely wrong, but my body and, dare I say, my heart convinced me it was right.

  Without moving his mouth from mine, the Warlord’s searching hands slipped up my sides and discreetly loosened the ribbon that held the wrap closed. The silk, smooth as it was, slipped from my shoulders and fell to the floor like liquid. He caught my gasp in his mouth and soothed me with his hands, stroking my back, my hair, my bum. Yet instead of soothing, his hands seemed to arouse me even further. They dusted my body with exquisite sensations and left me weak-kneed and wanting. I didn’t fight when he scooped me into his arms and walked back from the balcony toward the mosquito-netted bed. I couldn’t have fought even if I’d wanted to, which I’ll confess here and now, I certainly didn’t.

  I lay back on the mauve linen of the bed; the air was warm and sultry, and swiftly replaced by the hot length of the Warlord’s body over mine. Was it magic he used? I had the sense to wonder, if only for a moment, but swiftly discarded the thought and relegated control to my body rather than my mind.

  My hands roved over the Warlord’s back, and he nestled between my legs, strong and wanting. He was still fully clothed, and I found this absurdly irritating. The soft cotton of his tee-shirt seemed abrasive against my naked skin, and I could feel him strain beneath the confines of his zipped-up jeans. A need so great it was crippling swallowed me, and I found my own hands tugging and tearing at his cotton shirt with a strength I didn’t know I possessed. I wanted to be an animal, to tear off his clothes and goad him into taking me, as brutally or as gently as he cared.

  Unsurprisingly perhaps, my wishes were shortly answered. His kisses became more frantic, his hands more demanding. They slipped between our bodies and found me wet and desperately wanting. I cried out at his touch and, with a final jerk, I tore the remainder of his shirt away. He sunk onto me, chest to breast. I groaned, feeling the heat from the divinely sculpted planes of his body crush against me. I opened my eyes to see his heavy-lidded gaze on me intently. There may have been a question in their depths, a question I didn’t need to answer, because in a shimmer of magic the barrier of his jeans was gone.

  I felt faint as the warm, large part of him nestled closely to my most intimate parts. I wanted this so badly I could scarcely breathe. I knew my skin was a riot of colour; I could feel the electric spasms of my cells shifting and changing, and saw it reflected in the darkness of his eyes. It was all the consent he needed.

  With a grunt I was suddenly impaled. I was gloriously, outrageously filled by him. The thick heat of him nearly brought me to tears for the sheer pleasure of it. I rocked beneath him, goading him further and faster. The Warlord obliged me, as I later learned he would always oblige me in such things.

  Even now, I do not know how long I spent in bed with him that day. Hours were meaningless; I wanted nothing but his touch and he gave it without reserve. I know you must all think such terrible thoughts of me, because for a long time I thought them about myself. For the next six months of my captivity I couldn’t refuse him, and didn’t want to. A love slave in the truest form, I felt I could survive on his sex alone. It was only when I realised there were others that my brain finally took control. The man who spent hours in my bed, sating and pleasuring me, had a harem of other women — all ready and willing to perform the duties I so readily and joyfully did. I confess to you now, it was jealousy that made me find my brain, my consciousness, again. I found this truth so painful that even though I still melted into his every embrace, and allowed him liberties with my body I still blush to admit — secretly, I began to plan an escape.

  Chapter 5

  Cain shook his head without a word. With a gentle utterance beneath his breath, Sabra jerked and suddenly found herself enveloped in a snug pair of jeans and a woollen sweater.

  She waited for the Magical Ion Sensing Device to alert. It stayed silent, flashing a lone green LCD bulb.

  ‘I said I’m not going,’ Sabra cried, fighting the urge to tear off the clothes he’d so quickly supplied.

  ‘Why?’ Cain grated, irritation evident in his tone.

  ‘I’m not going back to be your sex toy!’

  ‘I never said you were my sex toy,’ he replied stiffly, and ran a hand down her arm leaving a trail of heat in its stead.

  ‘That’s how I felt.’ There, she’d said it, petty and ridiculous as it sounded.

  Cain was silent and impassive, and the silence compelled her to continue.

  ‘I don’t want to live like that again. You’re a murderer, a criminal…’

  He didn’t deny it, but his touch grazed her skin again. For a moment Sabra struggled to not succumb and stay focussed on her anger. ‘Don’t touch me. You treated me like a toy. We barely spoke. We’d just fuck! What kind of life is that?’

  ‘A very good one, I’d imagine.’ Jürgen’s dry tone chipped in from behind.

  Sabra turned and scowled at the massive blond.

  ‘I’m serious, Boss, we’ve got to go, unless you want to use more magic…’

  Cain seemed to consider it for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Not necessary,’ he rumbled.

  ‘Then, let’s get out of here,’ Jürgen urged.

  ‘No!’ Sabra cried, as Cain caught her hand to pull her.

  Again, her heart stilled at his touch, all breath left her. She caught his eyes and found them near black with desire.

  For me…

  Jürgen rushed down the stairs and fired some shots through the glass of her front door as a warning to the special task force that waited outside.

  ‘Round the back!’ Jürgen called up the stairwell, but Sabra stood fast. She glared at Cain, though internally she wanted to rip his clothes off and lick his chest like a wildly excited puppy.

  ‘Sabra.’ He breathed her name and she felt it against the skin of her cheek. Beneath his magically-conjured sweater her skin rippled with anticipation.

  I can’t let him take me away, she thought weakly, and retreated deep inside herself to try and stem the desire to just meekly follow.

  ‘Sabra,’ he breathed again, and this time she knew he hadn’t even spoken. He was using his magic, his sex-inducing magic to coax and tempt her.

  He is a murderer, he treats me like a sex toy, he has other women… The thought ripped through the fuzz of her mind with the edge of a serrated knife. Lots of other women.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Sabra cried out, and lurched away.

  ‘I’ll tell you soon enough, be patient,’ he soothed, speaking as if to a dementia patient.

  Sabra shook her head. ‘Why?’ Without awaiting his answer she snapped to action, her ankle twisting on the edge of the landing as she made to escape.

  He didn’t answer, instead caught her arm and tugged her to him.

  She collided into the hardness of his chest and his mouth covered hers in heat.

  Oh, good Lord.

  He tasted so good, and she kissed him back before she could stop herself. There was another round of gun fire and it did the job her will was too weak for. She jerked away, looking about frantically. Cain’s heavy-lidded gaze met hers.

  ‘Come on,’ he urged, a small victorious curl licking the edge of his delectable mouth. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Boss!’ Jürgen sounded worried.

  ‘No.’ Sabra breathed, and then it happened.

  It happened as it had all those months ago.

  Cain looked around wildly. ‘Sabra?’ The whites of his eyes we
re incredulous. ‘What the fuck?’ he snarled, and took a swipe at the air before him.

  Sabra watched him silently. How had she done this? Literally, all she’d done was take a step away from him, yet now he couldn’t see her at all. She had all but disappeared from his view, but she was still there. Clearly this was no ordinary camouflage job.

  ‘Sabra!’ Cain bellowed, swearing and cursing in Lao at the same time. He stalked around the room, still evidently unwilling to use magic to find her.

  ‘Boss. We’ve got to go.’ Jürgen’s voice sounded strangled and there was another volley of shots.

  ‘I know you’re still here,’ Cain growled as he stalked around the space she occupied, but missed the spot on which she stood every time.

  It was uncanny. How was she doing this?

  Sabra didn’t dare move, and breathed shallow, gentle breaths.

  Cain let loose another curse and raked over the bottles and perfumes on her dresser in frustration. The motion sent them raining down in a shower of jewel coloured glass. The gesture epitomised the anger his face managed to contain. ‘Come out of hiding. We don’t have time for games.’ He paced around the room, each time missing where she stood.

  Games? Who’s been playing the games? she thought. Not me.

  ‘Boss!’ Jürgen’s voice carried up the stairwell, and it sounded genuinely worried.

  ‘Please,’ Cain’s voice fell low, ‘where the hell are you?’

  Sabra stared at him — with his body clad in black military-style clothing and a gun slung over his shoulder, he looked like something from a gun fanciers’ magazine. Sexy, desirable and dangerous. Her heart sped up, and it was all she could do to control a sharp inhalation of breath.

  As she watched, Cain bowed his head, and at the sound of more gunshots fired downstairs, he didn’t even flinch.

  With a deep sigh, he moved forward in the room and stopped before her, though he still clearly had no idea she stood only centimetres away from him.

  The smell of him made her weak. Spicy, with a twang of sweat that didn’t diminish the attraction in the least. Frozen where she stood, her fingers itched to run the length of his chest, to feel the sculpture of his muscles beneath the rough material of his black shirt.

  Cain sighed again, and this time his sweet breath made her hair flutter. Yet he seemed oblivious to her nearness. He closed his eyes, and Sabra barely dared to breathe. His breath caressed her, running down her cheek and neck as his head bowed low. Her nipples puckered underneath her clothes at this respiratory caress. They were so hard and erect, if he moved a centimetre closer he’d brush against them. Her body burned with want at this closeness and all she could do — was hold her breath and wait.

  Abruptly, Cain gave a low growl of pure frustration. He whirled away from her, the heel of his boot digging into the soft carpet. Clicking his gun into his hand, and checking it was loaded, he leapt down the stairs and was gone.

  Sabra released her breath, her starved lungs screaming and her body tingling with need.

  He’d be back, she knew.

  ***

  For what seemed like a long time, Sabra stayed motionless listening somewhat worriedly to another skirmish as it took place below. Guns snapped, men yelled, thuds could be heard.

  Lord it sounded worse than a video game down there.

  To distract herself, she tried to ponder this new skill of camouflage. What exactly had she done? She didn’t feel particularly different. Was she still invisible? This was definitely a development and a skill she was going to need, as well as hone and practice, in the coming months…or maybe even years.

  What on earth am I going to do?

  After a while, Sabra’s legs began to ache with the inactivity. She needed to move, and the sounds of fighting seemed to have moved out into the front yard. She really needed to get some of her things and get out of the house while everyone else seemed distracted. Would the government people think she’d gone with Cain and Jürgen? Or would they think she was dead? Was that a good thing or a bad thing?

  As silently as she could manage, she crept down the stairs. There was a black-clad special forces man collapsed near the open front door. Blood was pooling around a hole in his chest. She glanced out the front door. Hollis was there, not dead, but groaning. His radio crackled and he lifted a blood-stained hand to touch the speaker button.

  ‘It’s been carnage…’ he growled, and Sabra didn’t wait to hear more. She skirted close to the wall back into her living room; she had a safe in there, with a fair amount of cash and credit cards. She’d need it to get out of town for a while.

  The living room looked like a bomb site. Broken glass and shattered furniture lay everywhere. Something sad pinched her deep inside.

  My home, ruined. Why? What for?

  She’d bought this house and worked hard to keep it, that is, until the royalties from the book came in. The furniture she’d scoured antique and second-hand shops for was destroyed; splinters of wood lay like toothpicks all over her floor.

  Struggling to stem the welling sense of depression, she turned to her left and saw Elka’s twisted corpse; there was blood pooling beneath it on the cool white tiles and soaking into her Persian rug. Sabra suppressed a shudder but couldn’t take her eyes from the gruesome sight. The shattered skull and blood-splattered hair looked like a revolting abstract painting she’d seen once in an art gallery.

  Shaking her head to dismiss the bizarre and unwelcome thought, Sabra gingerly stepped over the body to reach the Art Deco credenza which hid her safe. As her right foot stepped over the corpse and landed gently on the squelching blood-soaked rug, she thought she heard something.

  She froze, unwilling to move or turn, and she waited. It had sounded like a shuffle, maybe a slight groan. She couldn’t be sure.

  Her heart hammered as she willed herself not to completely freak out and run screaming in a circle.

  For a long moment there was nothing more, so Sabra took the next step over Elka’s body, her left foot landing shakily beside her right.

  Again, she froze; something was moving in the room and it sounded close. Spinning around, her eyes scoured the whole room. There were no more sounds, nothing except the wail of sirens in the distance and the gentle autumnal breeze flicking the shredded curtains.

  Her body reacted before her mind did — her ankle was suddenly caught in a vice-like grip.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Sabra screamed, certain she was about lose control of her bowels.

  Her heart raced faster than ever, and she clamped her hand over her mouth to stem any further cries. The sirens in the distance got closer. Terrified of what she might see, Sabra looked down at what gripped her ankle with such strength.

  The moment she did, she wished she hadn’t. Elka, or what remained of Elka, reared up from the floor, hissing through shattered teeth. She was absolutely monstrous and ruined.

  How could she possibly be still alive?

  Sabra began to struggle, vomit boiling up to her throat. This was a nightmare. She wailed and in her distress collapsed to the floor, all the while Elka’s grip remaining furiously tight about her ankle.

  ‘Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!’ Elka hissed, small shards of tooth falling from her bloodied lips. The only feature still recognisable were her eyes, and Sabra stared at them, frantically trying to calm herself. It didn’t work. It was just too horrible, too gruesome. Black spots floated before her vision, and though she struggled against it, she could feel darkness beckoning her.

  I will not faint. Sabra gritted her teeth and struggled some more, but Elka’s grip was like iron and the horror refused to fade.

  The black spots turned to little sparkling stars; in her shock, she’d forgotten to breathe.

  Belatedly Sabra tried to take an enormous gulping breath, but it was too late. The horror, the shock and hysteria were too much. Blackness came swiftly, easing her mind and taking away her terror.

  Chapter 6

  It was like swimming through thick pea soup — diffic
ult and a little weird. Sabra struggled through the warm cloying thickness of her unconscious mind, trying to reach the surface. At first it seemed like an impossible task. Every time she neared consciousness a horrid memory of Elka’s shattered skull hammered through her mind and she sank back into blackness.

  Eventually, the horror of the memory lessened and she broke through, and peeled an eyelid open a crack. She was lying on a bed, at least she presumed it to be a bed, judging from the mildly soft mattress sensation beneath her back. Her head lay on a pillow, and she could see lamps above her.

  Sabra heard the inane ring-tone from someone’s telephone. It seemed to echo in the room.

  Feeling more than a little worried, Sabra peeled her eyes open wider. She went to brush a strand of hair from her face, but found her right hand was stuck.

  Stuck?

  She tugged again, then craned her head around to see what gripped her wrist so tightly.

  Straps. Brown leather straps trapped her hands and tied them to the bed. The ever-present panic boiled through her body and, praying silently to whichever god might listen, Sabra tried to lift her feet — but swiftly found that they too were strapped.

  ‘Help!’ she bellowed, then instantly regretted it. Screaming would probably only attract those who’d captured her in the first place. She twisted her head around wildly, absorbing the room to see if her cry had alerted anyone to her newly-conscious state.

  The room was hideous, institutional grey, and the lamps that surrounded her were reminiscent of those you’d find at a dentist, although, instead of just one there were three.

  The lamps beamed down on her and they felt warm against her skin. She took a quick and terrified glance at her body, and sighed instantly when she saw the clothes that Cain had conjured were still in place. Again ignoring the over-paced racing of her heart, she looked around the room; the lamps and the sterile-looking metal wheelie-table made the room seem more than a little medicinal. She shuddered. Where was she? Who had her?