The Nymph King (14 page)

Their eyes locked as he walked toward her. Gods, she was lovely. Her pale hair was pulled over her shoulders, an erotic curtain.
Kiss her.
Instead of placing the tray in her outstretched hands, he leaned down, slowly, giving her ample time to realize what he was doing.

He couldn't resist. He had to do this, was helpless to stop.
Not petting,
he rationalized.

His lips lightly brushed hers. A gentle kiss, no tongue, but arousing all the same. Her snow-sweet scent filled his nostrils as he captured her gasp in his mouth. “Thank you for tending me,” he said, his voice as soft as his touch.

Her eyes had widened and now they glinted with a trace of fear. Of him? Or herself? “I'm not known for my gentleness,” she warned. Her voice trembled. “So you might want to save your thanks.”

He fought a smile and straightened. “Then what are you known for, little moonbeam?”

“Being a bitch.” Biting her lip, she appropriated the tray from his grasp and spun on her heel.

“That is not a compliment, I take it?”

Her shoulders lifted in a shrug as she moved toward an amethyst chest. “Not to some.” She anchored the tray on the surface.

After he explained what she needed to do with each item, he hefted the room's only chair—trying not to grimace—and placed it next to Shaye. “You like people to think you are cold and unfeeling. You have even tried your hardest to convince me of this. Several times. Why?”

Her lips pursed, and she motioned to the chair with a wave of her hand. “Just sit down and shut up. My mom made me see shrinks when I was a kid, so I don't need an amateur diagnosis right now.”

“Tell me,” he beseeched. He remained standing. She might think she wanted to be cold, but he saw the moments of warmth and softness she tried so hard to hide. He noticed the way she sometimes hesitated before she issued an insult, as if she had to force herself to say it. And when she spoke of her uncaring nature, there was wistfulness in her brown eyes, a neediness she hadn't yet accepted.

“There's nothing to tell, really. Over the years, I learned that emotions bring only pain and upset.” She pushed on his shoulders. Her strength was no match for his, but he eased into the chair nonetheless.

With somewhat shaky fingers, she brushed the dark sand from his shoulder, careful to avoid his wound. He winced as sharp pain radiated from one corner of his body to the other.

He frowned. “I would not be suffering right now if you would simply accept the inevitable and make love with me.”

“Don't be a baby. I warned you that I wasn't good at this sort of thing.” She soaked one of the rags with oil. “This smells good. What is it?”

“Soap, I think your people call it.”

“Our soap doesn't smell like this, like orchids and magical waterfalls.”

His chin tilted to the side, and he eyed her. “You wish me to think you aloof and yet you enjoy pleasing your senses with delicious smells.”

Scowling, she slapped the cloth against his wound. He laughed, for he was beginning to see a pattern to her bouts of anger. When her sense of detachment was most threatened, she reacted with waspishness.

As she gently rubbed the flesh around the wound, cleaning away sweat and dirt, she said grudgingly, “You did good out there.”

His amusement died a quick death; shock pounded through him. A grunt of relief even gusted past his lips. Perhaps violence did not bother her as much as he'd feared. He was glad, for that meant she might more readily accept her life here, where wars constantly raged. “Are the men of the surface allowed to combat each other with swords?”

“No. Not without consequences.”

“What do you mean?”

“If a man on the surface maims another man like you did today, he is hunted down and locked away. If his victim dies, he can be executed.”

He rolled her explanation through his mind. “What if the man is protecting himself or those he loves?”

“There are still consequences, they simply aren't as severe. People in my world sue for the dumbest stuff imaginable. I heard about one case where a man broke into another man's house. The thief fell off the roof and sued the homeowner. He actually won the case, too. How dumb is that?”

“I do not think I would like living on the surface, then.”

“Well, I like it,” she said defensively.

He sighed.

“This cut is pretty deep,” she muttered, probing the edge with her fingers. “I think you need stitches.”

He bit his lip to hide his wince. He'd never had to deal with his wounds before. After a battle, he immediately made love to a woman and his wounds disappeared of their own accord. “What I need is sex.” He tried for a seductive tone, but sounded reproachful. “With you.”

She scowled, even as she tenderly dried the injury. “I'm more than willing to go get one of the other women for you.”

As her words echoed between them, she pressed her lips together. A combination of rage and trepidation— that he would take her up on the offer?—flitted over her expression.

“Ah, little moonbeam. When will you learn that only you will do?”

She relaxed, her expression softening. “Yes, well, when will you learn that I don't sleep around?”

“Have I not already explained that you are my mate?” He did not want to listen to another of her denials, so he added, “Your protests are silly.”

“A mate is a willing partner, right? I think we both know I'm not willing. Nor am I your partner. Or queen. I am
not
a queen.”

Unable to help himself, he plucked the ends of her hair and sifted the silky strands through his fingers. He brought them to his nose and sniffed. Ah, sweet heaven. “You smell so good.”

“I can't say the same for you.”

He didn't take offense. “I am most definitely in need of a bath. Would you care to join me?”

A quiver raked her, and she dropped the rag to the floor. “Damn it. Stop saying stuff like that.”

“Why? I want you. I am not one to deny my desires.”

“Yeah. I get that.” Bending down, she scooped up the rag and tossed it into the unlit hearth. She picked up a clean rag and scooped sand into a gaping pocket. “You do realize I'm about to put sand in an open sore, right?”

“Right.”

“And you still want me to do it?”

His brow puckered. “Of course.”

She shook her head, incredulous, then shrugged. “Whatever. It's your infection.” But she hesitated a moment before smearing the grains into his injury.

He didn't speak for a long while. He concentrated on her breath, gently fanning his shoulder. He concentrated on her teeth, nibbling on her lower lip. His cock grew increasingly hard.

“Desires are a natural thing, moon,” he said. “The more you deny them, the stronger they become, until they are all you can think about, all you can see.”

“Stop right there.” Her voice shook, and he knew she wasn't unaffected by what he'd said. Her nipples were hard little points against her shirt. “Don't try to engage me in a conversation about desires, okay? I'm not interested.”

He grabbed her wrist, closing his fingers around her delicate bones with soothing finesse.
Still not petting,
he assured himself. He tugged her in front of him. Her gaze slid to his mouth, to his erection. A surprised gasp slipped from her.

“You're right,” he said. He needed her so badly. “We
should not talk about it. I should
show
you. Tell me to show you, Shaye. Tell me.”

Suddenly panicked, she leapt away from him and to the wall, where she grabbed one of the smaller swords. She held it in front of her, looking very much like the warrior queen she so vehemently denied being. “No. No! Do you understand?”

Shaye had been fighting a fierce desire for him since he'd first sat down, and every time he touched her, every time he looked at her, every time he spoke to her, her resistance crumbled a little more.

He froze in place, a blank shield shuttering over his expression. Only his eyes revealed any hint of emotion. They were blazing with need and rage and disappointment.

“Very well,” he said. “Tonight is yours. I will not touch you.”

No,
her body wept.
Don't listen to me. Fight for me.
“Thank you.” She had to stay strong. She couldn't give in. The ramifications were simply too great.

They stared at each other, locked in a silent battle. “Tomorrow, however, belongs to me. There will be no more denying me. Do
you
understand?”

She gulped, didn't dare speak.

“If you attempt to leave this room, you will regret it.” He stood and left her then, striding away without a backward glance.

D
R
. B
RENNA
J
OHNSTON
tied her black curls on top of her head with a thin strip of cloth. As always, a few of the shorter curls escaped confinement and cascaded down her temples.

How did I get myself into this situation?

She gazed down at the man lying unconscious on the bed of sapphire silk. His beautiful dark hair was spread over his large shoulders. His eyelashes etched shadows on his cheeks. His nose was slightly crooked, his lips lush.

He looked like a fallen angel.

A dying, bloody, pain-entrenched fallen angel.

Blood oozed from the thick gashes on his chest and thigh. His skin, she knew from seeing him earlier, was usually tanned. Now it was pale, tinted slightly blue because he'd gone into a mild form of shock. She was a surgeon, but she would have preferred
her
tools in
her
hospital with
her
nurses. Not the jars of oil and sand she'd been given, not the nonsterile environment, not the lughead standing guard at the door. Still, Brenna couldn't let her patient die. She wouldn't.

She had been terrified since she'd been taken by these giant, hulking beasts, but for the first time since
entering this…whatever it was, she felt in control. Like herself. Confident and in her element.

Brenna motioned to the guard stationed at the door, and he approached her. She didn't back away, but forced herself to stand her ground as she signed what she needed.

His face scrunched with confusion, and he held up his hands, a command for her to be still. “I do not understand what you are doing. Can you not speak?”

She sighed inwardly. Her vocal cords had been severely damaged years ago. There weren't any scars on the outside; no, her scars were internal. She'd been attacked—a blurred, blackened, hated memory she could not allow herself to relive at the moment, not if she hoped to function—and while she could speak, her voice was…ugly.

“Needle,” she croaked. “Thread.” Primitive that he obviously was, he probably wouldn't know a scalpel from a butter knife. “Operating tools.”

He cringed at the rough, broken sound, but nodded and raced off. When he returned a short while later, he handed her a lumpy black satchel. She unrolled it, finding a bronze scalpel, long, thin hooks and several iron needles.

“Fire,” she said. “Hot water.”

Understanding, he grabbed a lit sconce from the wall and tossed it into the hearth. The logs inside quickly caught flame, crackling and burning. After he had gathered the bowl of water, she heated the instruments over the fire.

Once everything was as sterilized as she could get it, her hands scrubbed clean, she at last approached her
patient, ready to act. He had yet to move, had yet to make a single sound. His features were relaxed, unaffected.

That both elated and worried her. At least he wouldn't feel the pain of her needle. But such a deep sleep… Brenna squared her shoulders and got to work. She cut off his pants, cleaned the gaping wounds on his legs and chest, and did her best to repair the torn tissue—which was in better shape than she'd dared hope. Sounded easy, sounded quick, but she was by his side for several hours and sweat beaded over her skin. Toward the end, fatigue shook her arms and back.

That will have to do.
She would have liked to give him a transfusion but knew such a thing was impossible here. The man who had chosen her last night, Shivawn, had attempted to ease her distress by explaining where she was and why she'd been brought here. Of course, his explanation had only intensified her fear.

Nymphs. Atlantis. Sex. At first she hadn't wanted to believe him. However, after everything she'd witnessed today, she no longer had the luxury of disbelief. Sword fights and bejeweled walls. Silk pillows lining every wall and warriors having sex atop them. Mermaids and a crystal ceiling that produced light. Women going mad, becoming sex starved.

Shivawn had expected the same easy (and enthusiastic) response from her. How surprised he'd been to be met with slaps and kicks and, she was ashamed to say, sobbing. But he'd finally left her alone. He'd been oddly…sweet about the entire situation. Surprisingly protective.

Still, he regretted his choice already; he had to. This morning she'd caught glimpses of other warriors
(naked) in bed with their chosen (also naked). Some of them hadn't been sleeping. Shivawn had to want that for himself, but she couldn't give it to him. She simply couldn't.

Brenna had only allowed him to pick her so that she would be taken away from the large group of men. One warrior she could (possibly) fight. But all of them? No way.

She sighed. For the next several hours, she remained seated beside the unconscious man—Joachim was his name, she recalled—sponging a warm, wet rag over his forehead and doing everything in her power to make him comfortable and keep him from getting cold. As much blood as he'd lost, he was susceptible to hypothermia.

“Brenna,” she suddenly heard Shivawn say from the door. He sounded hopeful. “It is time I took you to my chamber.”

Her heart kicked into overdrive.
Remain calm.
Bit by bit she turned to face him. He stood beside the guard, who was pretending to study the wall. Shivawn was a handsome man, with brown hair and green eyes, and a part of her wished she was a normal woman who could enjoy someone like him. Truly, just looking at him made her feel…achy inside. But she shook her head.

His shoulders slumped, and his lips compressed into a thin line. “Why do you continue to deny me? Have I hurt you in any way?”

She shook her head a second time. He hadn't, and that still shocked her.

He stepped forward. “I only wish to give you pleasure.”

Again, a shake. “I stay.”

He'd heard her voice before, so he didn't cringe this
time as he had at first. Would her continued refusal cause Shivawn to erupt? Would he try to force her? Morph from nice guy to beast? A terrible trembling began in her limbs and spread to her stomach, twisting and turning.

His expression softened as he peered at her. “You do not understand the ways of the nymphs, Brenna. We must be with women or we grow weak,” he explained patiently, as he would to a child. “
I
am growing weak, while the others become strong.”

“No.” When she finally decided to be with a man, it would be with one far less…intimidating. Someone who couldn't snap her neck with a flick of his wrist. Besides, she had a job to do. She pointed to her patient. “Needs me.”

Shivawn regarded her for a long while, a play of different emotions on his face. Disappointment. Regret. Resolve. He spun on his heel and stalked away. She breathed a sigh of relief and, shockingly, disappointment.

Get back to work, Johnston.
She rotated back to the injured warrior and smoothed a hand over his too-cold brow. Would he survive? He'd lost so much blood.

He was bigger than Shivawn. Probably stronger. More dangerous, surely. But she found herself leaning forward, as if pulled by a power stronger than herself. She placed a soft kiss on his lips, willing him to get better. She hated to see anyone suffer. No one knew better than she how it felt to lie in bed, broken, beaten. Near death.

His eyes blinked open, as if that one action had given him the strength he'd needed to awaken. He spied her hovering over him and frowned, confused. She quickly straightened.

“Did I die, then?” she heard him say.

His voice was weak, strained. Still…she had to force herself to remain in place.
He's feeble. He can't hurt you.
Hand shaking, she again touched his brow. His eyes were opened only slightly, but she could see the pain-ripe gleam of his sapphire irises.

“Did I enter Olympus?”

She shook her head.

His gaze darted around the room. “Why are you here? Why am I—” His words ground to a halt. “Valerian,” he gritted out. “The fight. Lost. I lost.” He tried to sit up.

She gently pushed him down and smoothed his hair from his face, trying to soothe him and defuse his anger. Brenna didn't know what she'd do if he decided to fight her. Surprisingly enough, her touch seemed to appease him. He relaxed.

Drawing in a deep breath, he reached up and wrapped his fingers around her wrist.
Remain calm, remain calm, remain calm.
She tried to pull away but he held tight.

“What are you doing here, Shivawn's woman?”

Her pulse hammered in her neck as she pointed to his bandaged wounds.

His brows drew together as he studied her. “You are a healer?”

Brenna nodded and once more tried to free herself, but his grip remained strong. He should have been weak as a baby.

“Can you not speak?” he asked.

“Broken,” she said, motioning to her neck with her free hand.

He didn't flinch at the sound of her voice, and amazement filled her. He released her hand and raised his own to her neck, where the pulse still fluttered wildly. His fingers brushed the soft skin, as if searching for an injury. She shivered, both appalled and needy. What was wrong with her? She hadn't reacted to a man in years, yet she'd responded to two today.

“How?”

People always asked, as if they were inquiring about the weather or about where she bought her shoes. In the beginning, the question had thrown her, brought back the horrible memories of being pinned down and choked by her enraged, jealous boyfriend. Now she always answered with a casual, “car accident,” but she doubted this archaic warrior would understand what that meant.

Brenna bit her lip and leaned toward him. Tentative, she wrapped one of her hands gently around his neck and shook, then pointed to her own neck with the other.

His eyes narrowed, and his hands closed over her wrists, far more gently than before. “Someone choked you?”

Nod.

“A man?” The words were so quiet she barely heard them.

Again she nodded.

“No touching,” the man in the doorway said, probably just noticing. “The king's orders. Release her, Joachim.”

She'd forgotten about him.

Joachim's eyes darted to the guard, and he scowled. The two men engaged in a heated conversation in a
language she didn't understand. During it all, Joachim retained that gentle grip on her.

She finally managed to jerk herself free, though. Relief swept through her, and she rubbed her wrist. Where he'd touched, the skin was warm. Sensitive. The man was frightening, volatile,
violent;
qualities she abhorred. She should not like his touch.

“Would you like me to kill him for you?” Joachim asked, surprising her.

She blinked in confusion and pointed to the sentinel at the door.

“No. The one who hurt you.”

She hesitated a moment, then shook her head.

“Power is good,” he said, his voice suddenly growing weak. “Hurting a woman is not.” His eyelids drifted closed, but he pried them open.

She didn't know whether he believed what he'd said or not. Either way, he struck her as one of those people who could not control their actions when they were enraged. After today's sword fight…

“What's your name?” he asked.

“Brenna.”

“Brenna,” he said, the name like a treat savored on his tongue. But in the next instant, his mouth pulled tight in a grim line. Fury darkened his eyes, churning like a violent sea. “Where is Shivawn?”

She found herself rising from the bed, trembling. In the blink of an eye, he'd become angry. Why? What had she done?

He frowned as his eyelids dipped shut once more. “Why are you backing away from me, woman? Are you going back to your lover?” The last was sneered.

Before he could rise from the bed and grab her, she turned and fled the room, unsure where to go. Only knowing she had to leave this place. Had to leave
him.

 

J
OACHIM FORCED
his eyelids to open and cursed long after Brenna had gone. He'd never felt so powerless, and the feeling infuriated him. He didn't want her to go to Shivawn. He wanted her to stay. With him. Wanted her to talk to him.

Had he been able, he would have vaulted from the bed and forced her to return.
He
was master here. But he couldn't even comfort her or thank her properly for taking care of him. Instead, Shivawn had the privilege. Not that the man would thank Brenna for helping
him.

“Follow her, damn you,” he commanded Broderick, who stood in the doorway. “Make sure she arrives at her destination safely.”

“You had best watch who you order about,” the warrior growled before taking off after Brenna.

Joachim wanted to blame Valerian for this predicament, but he couldn't. He'd issued the challenge, and his cousin had beaten him fairly. As a man who valued power and control above all else, he respected Valerian's win. And, at the moment, he understood his cousin's need for the pale woman, his willingness to do anything to keep her.

Joachim would have done anything just then to have Brenna.