Лори Девоти - Unbound

Venge’s eyes flashed in response, but his lips stayed firmly closed.

“Ah, why must it always come to this?” With a smile she raised her arm, adrenaline surging through her. Pain. Sweet, sweet pain. Without it life would be so dull.

Sated, Lusse fell against the fur cushion of her chaise longue. Her arm and shoulder were tired, but in oh, such a satisfying way. Smiling, she allowed one of her female servants to knead oils into her overtaxed muscles with smooth steady strokes.

Venge had exhibited the same tenacity as his father. Rewarding, but also a problem. She was no closer to learning what had happened to her favorite.

Hours had passed. Something had to have gone wrong. With Risk or the plan? A line formed between her brows. Lusse had been sure he was ready and she so hated to be wrong, but she couldn’t think of anyone with the exception of a very select group of gods, and herself, of course, who could touch Risk.

“Bader,” she yelled.

He looked up from where he knelt, a bloodstained cloth clutched to his chest.

“Leave that.” She waved her hand in the air. “Let one of the others tend to it.” Why the old servant was so fixated on cleaning up every little drop of blood as soon as it was spilled was beyond her. She rather enjoyed the scent herself.

“Bring the horn. I think it’s time we called Risk home.”

His eyes darting from side to side, Bader gave a slight bow and scurried from the room.

Her hands fisted at her sides, Kara watched as her captor spun away. His fingers, just seconds before wrapped into her hair, now gripped the silver chain at his neck. The firm muscles of his back tensed as if engaged in some kind of internal disagreement.

Now would be a good time to escape, but how? Keeping her body immobile, her breath soft and steady, she let her gaze flit around the room. There was a small window over the kitchen sink, but unless she quickly developed the ability to fly, there was no way she could reach it before the man in front of her realized her plan.

Her cell phone — where was it? Not in her clothes, that was for sure. She would have felt the weight of it when she’d dressed. Probably still lying on the cold asphalt outside the Guardian’s Keep. She tilted her head back, letting it bang softly against the wood.

What good was conquering your fears if it didn’t help save you from reality?

A sudden wave of heat swept over her. She leveled her gaze to see her captor had settled whatever battle he had been waging and again stood facing her.

Every muscle in his body was tense, like an animal ready to spring. A vein in his neck pulsed a steady primitive beat. Even his wound seemed darker, angry. His eyes focused on her as if looking for any sign of movement.

No place to run. No way to defend herself. What was left? Words. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. All she had ever been very good at wielding.

Biting her lip, she looked up.

His eyes flickered back at her.

Kara pressed her palms flat against the door behind her, unable to remove her eyes from those of the man in front of her. Unblinking, he stood there, his pupils barely visible in the surrounding glow, like a pebble tossed into a pool of molten lava. Instinctively she knew when that pebble sank all hope of saving herself would be lost.

Drugs? Some virus? Whatever was causing this strange condition didn’t matter. She had to bring him back from whatever hell he was descending into.

Feeling unreal, as if she were watching the scene from within someone else’s body, she asked, “You feeling all right? You want me to call someone?”

Muscles still tensed, the man took a deliberate step toward her. “Who are you?” The question fell from firm lips that barely seemed to move.

Kara swallowed. A name. He wanted a name. That was simple, normal. She could supply that. She clung to the feel of the hard wood door behind her to keep her centered. “Kara. Kara Shane.”

He held out his hand, brushing the backs of his fingers against her cheek. “What are you?” he asked.

At the simple gesture, a tingle of awareness rippled through Kara. Refusing to acknowledge it, she concentrated on his question.

What was she? Fair enough. Hadn’t she been asking herself the same thing for as long as she could remember? Her throat closed in, making it hard to answer. “Poet, baker, candlestick maker. That’s me.” She pressed a hand to her neck willing the muscles to relax.

The man in front of her seemed to vibrate with a raw sexual energy, and her own body, ignoring the screams of her rational brain, pulsed in response. Everything was unreal, surreal. Her hand stole out toward him, wanting to touch his chest, check to see if his skin was warm or hot like the simmering in his eyes.

He made a small movement as if to move closer and she stopped, her hand frozen in midair. This was unreal. It had to be.

Grasping at the moment of reason before it slipped away, she closed her eyes and willed the nightmare she was captured in to dissolve, focused on waking as she had so many times before, alone and terrified, but safe in her bed.

“Poet?”

The soft questioning word caused her eyelids to fly open. He was still there. Still tense, and still emitting a strange energy that made her heart quicken and her breath turn to small shallow puffs in her chest. “Yes, poet.” Her voice seemed loud in the quiet room. Suddenly annoyed with his response, she dropped her hand to her side and continued. “There’s nothing wrong with poetry, you know. We can’t all rape, plunder and pillage for a hobby.”

Her captor froze, the carmine-tint of his eyes deepening to a dark burgundy. “I do not rape.”

“Oh, sorry. Just the pillaging then? My mistake.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glowered back at him, all the fear inside her draining away, leaving just an exhausted shell of resentment. How dare he bring her here, strip her naked, and then question her, as if she were the guilty party?

He looked back at her, a furrow of doubt, perhaps even sadness, etched between his eyes.

And despite all rational thought, she felt it again — the tug toward him, but this time it was less sexual and more kindred, a recognition of pain and a desire to alleviate it. Suddenly calm, she blinked. His eyes, now a swirl of green, gray and brown, not a single dash of red, seemed to hold as much confusion as she felt.

Swallowing hard, she forged on. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Risk.” The name came out in a low growl.

Strangely, Kara didn’t feel intimidated, though, more…intrigued.

“Strange name. You’re what? A rock star?” Her tone was dry, the question brazen, the type of thing Kelly would have asked.

Kelly. Her gaze dropped to the paper at her feet.

“What’s that?” Bending his knees, the man slid down to retrieve the flyer, his body brushing hers as he did.

Kara reached out to snatch it away.

“Patience, please.” A frown settled on his face as he studied the paper, his body now close enough Kara could smell his warm masculine scent. She shifted her stance, long-neglected muscles at the apex of her thighs tightening.

Keeping her gaze steady, she ignored the quickening of her heart and the dampness forming in her too-tight jeans.

“I thought you said your name was Kara?” He held out the flyer; a picture of Kelly dressed for kickboxing stared back at them.

“I did.” She reached for the paper again, but he simply slid closer, his arm extended over her head, less than an inch separating them now.

“Then this is…?”

He was too close. His chest brushed her breasts, and his breath moved her hair as he lowered his face back toward her neck.

“Then this is…?” he whispered against her ear.