Malachi (2 page)

And quickly.

Malachi had been the fifth slave purchased for just the reason. The last four had been put to death for failing the Master and Mistress.

Like a stallion in rut, he was to service her. And he was told she had best get with child.

* * * * *

Fucking her had become something he did without truly thinking about it. Malachi stared a hole into the wall in front of him as he pumped against her, his cock moving a slow, steady rhythm as he waited for her to climax. She liked her pleasures, this Mistress. If he climaxed before she had taken her own release, he would be beaten.

He had been with these owners a long while now, and he had not been beaten once. Making her come was an easy enough chore. Sometimes it was reaching his own climax that was difficult. But it was required.

She had born one child already, and both the Master and the Mistress desired more.

Malachi suspected she was already pregnant again, but that offered no reprieve for him. She had wanted sex almost until she delivered the first babe. No doubt this would be the same.

The Mistress arched under him and her sheath began to convulse around his cock. Her nails bit into his flesh and he could feel the hard press of her nipples against his chest. Now was the more difficult part. Hunkering lower over her body, Malachi blocked out the scent of her, the sight of her, picturing another woman in his mind.

This woman was unknown to him—her face always hidden by shadows, her long, pale body with its subtle curves. But it was
her
he imagined whenever he climaxed. Without thinking of her, he did not know if he could achieve release.

The first time she had come to him was truly the sweetest memory he had. Touching her was a pleasure, not a duty, not a chore and she gave as much pleasure as she received.

At first those dreams had been welcome escapes. But then he began to wish for more than just dreams. Much more.

To truly hold her. To truly touch her.

To know her name.

In his self-induced fantasy, she wrapped slender, strong arms around his neck and cried out his name as she came.
Who are you…

He did not make a sound as he climaxed and the second it ended, he rolled away and moved to his pallet on the floor. Lying with his back to the Mistress’ bed, he closed his eyes.

Perhaps tonight, he would dream of
her
again.

* * * * *

The Mistress was with child.

Malachi stared at the room the Master had led him to. “Yours,” he had been told. “We are pleased.”

Pleased.
Malachi kept his eyes on the floor and hoped nobody could see the sneer.

“Perhaps tonight you could provide some entertainment,” the Master said as Malachi finally stepped into the room before him.

Entertaintment—
Malachi suppressed a bitter smile. In other words, they wanted to see one of his other skills at the celebration tonight. The celebration was in honor of the Master and the Mistress. The entire household was moving at frantic speeds to get ready for it.

Entertainment—a fight. Truly, he did not understand any of these people. Their idea of entertainment was watching as Malachi beat the life out of somebody.

How was that an amusing thing?

Until then, though, Malachi was allowed to go into his new room and rest. He spent the afternoon lying on the bed and staring out the window at the mountains.

Run.

That was all he wanted.

His mind drifted and he found himself dreaming of
her
again. The room was dim and he could see just the vague outline of her body as she came to him, lowering her warm, soft body against his. She was soft, but there was a strength in her that was unlike any he had ever felt in a woman.

Her laugh rang in his ears like angel song as they mock wrestled, their tussle ending with him flipping her onto her back. She gasped as he touched her. Vicious hunger ripped through him as he covered her mound with his hand and felt how wet she was. Making her sigh and moan with pleasure was a pleasure all its own. Listening to her cry out as he brought her to climax had him wanting to throw back his head and scream out his triumph.

Touching her was like nothing he had ever known. “Who are you?” he asked as he pushed her thighs wide and moved between them.

“Shhh…” She never spoke to him. In all the months since he had first dreamed of her, this was the first time she had any sort of response when he demanded to know more of her.

“Tell me,” he urged as he pushed into her. The slick wet tissues of her pussy clenched around his cock like a greedy fist. Pulling nearly completely out, he said it again, “Tell me.” Driving back in.

The only answer was a hungry female cry. Malachi tried to pull away—he wanted to have her name before he came inside her again. But he did not have the strength.

Anger flooded him and his control went flying out the window. Hunkering low over her body, he fucked her. He was greedy, quick and demanding—taking his own pleasure without much regard for hers, but she came anyway, arching against him and screaming out his name.

The silky wet folds of her sex clenched around his cock, milking him, drawing his climax out until he thought he would die from the pleasure.

He almost prayed for it. At least if this killed him, he would not have to wake up and know she was not there.

“Tell me who you are,” he asked once more, feeling the unfamiliar burn of regret and guilt.

There was silence, but then she finally spoke. Her voice was hollow, more of an echo than true sound. “I am nothing. I am no one. For now—”

“Just your name. Just tell me your name.”

“Yours,” she murmured, her hands caressing his shoulders. “I am yours.”

And then she was gone. Again.

* * * * *

“Wake up. Come on, Malachi, please wake up.”

Malachi came out of the dream aching. In his gut. In his heart. And between his legs—the thick length of his cock was rock hard and pulsating, although he could feel a dampness on his clothes. Pressing a hand to his flesh, he swore silently. She did this to him always. A witch. That was what she was. A demon. Bewitching him, bespelling him, pleasuring him in his dreams until he spilled his seed like some boy.

He saw the lad standing a few feet away, shifting from one foot to the other, staring at Malachi with nervous eyes.

Malachi could not remember the boy’s name. It was Li’s youngest. The boy helped his mother in the kitchen.

Li supervised the arena slaves and he reminded Malachi a great deal of old Yen.

Like Yen, Li had golden skin and dark slanted eyes and he fought in the same quick deadly way.

The boy had his father’s looks, golden skin, brown eyes, slight of stature and fast—eventually, he would be trained for the arena, Malachi suspected.

Likely Li did as well, which is why the boy still stayed in the kitchens.

“We need more wine.”

Malachi scowled. “Wine?”

“For the guests. We have not enough for all of them and the others are all busy.”

Fetching wine
. Some time later, Malachi was fuming over it as he headed into the village for more wine. The Master had plenty of his own, but apparently none of it was rich enough for the party he planned to throw, so Malachi was once more playing fetch.

Malachi knew his anger was irrational. It was just a walk to town with the cart, easy enough labor. Better than rutting on the Mistress, better than fighting, even better than lifting. But he was ridiculously angered by it for some reason.

He could have refused. It truly was not his job, but if the Master wanted wine and Li’s pretty wife, Heta, did not produce it, she would be in trouble. The thought of seeing her take the whip was enough to make Malachi ill.

So he was fetching wine.

Would have been nice if the Master and Mistress had decided on this a bit earlier, though, he thought morosely as he trudged closer and closer to the village. By the time he had made the purchases and loaded them into the small wheeled cart, it would be nearly dark.

And it would be nightfall before he reached the Master’s lands.

Run…

Malachi blocked out the seductive whisper. Now might be as good a time as any. He had a little money. Heta had given it to him for the wine and it would be a while before he was missed. The celebration had already begun and Heta could bring out the wines the Master did have—when the guests were drunk enough, they would not care they were drinking a lesser vintage.

It could even be morning before Malachi was missed.

But he kept seeing the fear in the boy’s eyes, the gratitude in Heta’s.

No. He would not run.

* * * * *

Hours later, he was swearing bitterly as he made his way through the darkened forest. The torch on the cart did a damn poor job of lighting the way. Although he knew these paths as well as he knew the back of his hand, traveling them in the dark, hauling a heavy load of wine was enough to have his anger returning in waves.

Lifting his eyes to the sky, he studied the angle of the moon. His mouth was dry, his belly was an empty knot and he was not looking forward to being forced into another fight.

It was that thought that made him do it.

Abruptly, Mal dropped the handles of the cart and turned, grabbing some of the wine. Jerking the oiled rag from the mouth of the jug, he tossed it onto the cart. Leaving the cart behind, he moved off the path and dropped onto the damp grass.

Tipping the jug back, he let the cool, sweet wine run down his throat. Damn a fight anyway. As late as it was, maybe they had all drunk themselves blind. After a little bit of wine, they’d never know if they were switched from the good stuff to the every day wine anyway, now would they?

For a moment, the image of Heta’s face danced behind his lowered lids.

But instead of pushing to his feet and heading on, he took another drink of wine. Then another. And another. He kept drinking until the edge of his mind went blurry and the anger gnawing at his gut finally eased off.

He never noticed when his lids lowered. When the jug fell to the ground with a hollow thunk, he never even stirred.

The woman came to him like a whisper on the wind, moving on silent feet through the trees. The wind blew long golden strands of hair around her narrow shoulders, across her face. She reached up and brushed a strand out of her eyes, staring at the man sleeping under the tree.

She had sad eyes and as she studied him, her expression grew even more despondent. “I am sorry.” She moved a little closer, kneeling on the ground beside him. He did not move as she reached out and touched a finger to his cheek. “I have been watching you.”

As she sighed, her breasts rose and fell under the gleaming white of her gown. “Part of me hoped that you would never come to me. Each time I called, you turned it aside. Such a strong man.”

The deep red of his hair seemed nearly black under the silvery light of the moon. She had watched him, night after night, as he bedded the lady of the house, and her instinctive fear had warred with curiosity. How would that lovely hair feel wrapped around her hands? To feel that powerful body moving over hers? He never once used a cruel hand—she suspected even if he had not been bedding the Mistress, he still would have used such care.

This was not a cruel man.

Did he enjoy making his Mistress cry out in pleasure?

And she had also watched him fight. Yes, she had been watching him for months and months. Fear sometimes forced her to leave, but always, she came back here. To watch him.

He was the one.

In her gut, she knew. Tears thickened her voice as she moved closer, brushing the deep red of his hair back from his neck. “I am so sorry.” He started to wake as she leaned closer, and Alys began to sing quietly under her breath, stroking her hands up and down his arms, lulling him back into sleep. It was a lullaby she remembered from childhood, one in a language she barely remembered.

Just the lullaby. It calmed him as easily as it had calmed her and Alys moved in again. But she could not get close enough. Fear snaked through her body but she shifted and drew the long folds of her gown higher, straddling his hips. He felt warm beneath her—

An unfamiliar heat streaked through her and she paused, her hands tightening on his biceps. Her voice faltered and as it did, his eyes opened. He stared up at her with dark eyes as he mumbled, “Did not realize I had drank that much wine.”

He reached up, touching the tip of his finger to one fat curl as it lay over her breast. Then he palmed her breast and the heat of his hand shook her to the core. He was gentle, this man was, gentle and persuasive, so unlike what she was used to. She could feel the power in his body and part of her wanted to flee.

But she needed him. Reaching up, she fisted a hand in his hair, baring his neck. Lowering her head, she ran her fangs over the taut golden skin. The rush of blood under the surface called out to her.

But before she could strike, he slid his hands under her skirt and she leaned back, only a heartbeat from tearing away in fear. But his hands stayed gentle as he eased her skirts up. “You smell sweet,” he muttered against her skin, nuzzling her breasts through her gown. His hot mouth closed over the tip of her breast and she arched against him with a startled cry.

Pleasure like nothing she had ever felt streaked through her and she fisted one hand in the loose cloth draped across his chest. Fabric tore but she barely noticed because he was busy stripping her clothes away. Seconds later, the heat of his body was pressed against her own cool body.

“I like this dream,” he whispered, rising to his knees. Malachi kept his hands at her hips, holding her against him as he moved. He moved easily despite the added weight of her body. “I can see you…”

He took her to the ground and spread her thighs. Alys could not fight down the panic that filled her, but he did not shove brutally inside her. He did not even drop his body onto hers. Instead, he returned to her breasts, biting softly at her nipples, sucking them deep into his mouth. Between her thighs, she felt heat.