Chapter 7 #2
Pleasure and arousal flared within him, and he tried to pull his wrists apart so that he could touch her.
The chain linking his shackles clinked, restraining him.
A burst of fury at being denied the ability to embrace her made him flex muscles enhanced by dragon magic, and he jerked his arms apart with a snapping of iron.
As Vorik succeeded in wrapping his arms around Syla and pulling her close, Fel swore and stepped forward, raising his mace.
Syla turned her mouth from Vorik and lifted a hand toward her bodyguard, even as she molded her body to Vorik’s. “It’s all right, Sergeant.”
“He snapped his chains,” Fel barked, his fist clenched around the haft of his mace. Before, he hadn’t looked like he wanted to brain Vorik, but he seemed to be reevaluating that.
“It’s his dragon magic,” Syla explained.
“He’s not human.”
“He’s amazing.” Syla turned her mouth back to Vorik, and he leaned forward, capturing her lips with his. She was amazing. And he wanted her.
Fel groaned with disgust.
Vorik didn’t care. With his wrists free, he had no trouble lowering his arms and cupping her ass, pulling Syla tightly against him.
Maybe he should have been worried about Fel, but all he could think about was the heat of her body, the adoration in her eyes when she looked at him, and the fiery passion in her kiss.
If he had to be a prisoner, Vorik could think of no captor he’d want more.
And by all the gods, he wanted her. As he deepened his kiss, tongue sliding between her eager lips, he slid his hands along her body, relishing in her full curves, growing harder as she pressed into him.
The chains clanked, but he scarcely noticed, other than to make sure he didn’t let them hit her.
Though she might not have noticed. She moaned hungrily as their tongues stroked each other, and her hands slid over Vorik’s shoulders and chest.
“Queen Syla,” Fel whispered, his back to them as he pointedly looked at the door. “This isn’t appropriate. He isn’t appropriate.”
“Send your bodyguard away,” Vorik said against her mouth. “I want you.”
“Prisoners don’t get what they want,” she whispered even as she rubbed against him, pushing against his cock, making him harder by the second.
“Captors do. And you want me too.” Vorik crushed his mouth against hers, stealing further words, but she moaned what could only be agreement.
A knock sounded at the door before she could send away the bodyguard.
At first, Syla ignored it, and Vorik stroked and kissed her in approval, but it came again. Insistent.
“Your Majesty?” someone called from the corridor. “There’s a wounded soldier badly in need of your gift, and others who aren’t doing that well either. The temple healer asked if we could get you to help.”
Syla drew back. Vorik didn’t want to release her—his penis especially didn’t want him to release her—but he knew that her duty would call her away from her own pleasure.
He had some small satisfaction in seeing her panting from their exertions, her spectacles drooping down her nose.
Gods, when had he started to find that sight so arousing?
“All right,” she said, her voice raspy before she cleared her throat, her gaze still locked on Vorik. She swallowed and managed a louder, “All right,” that the man might hear through the door, then nodded toward Fel.
With palpable relief, he sprang to open the door and step out of the cell.
“I don’t think your bodyguard enjoys our encounters as much as I do,” Vorik murmured softly enough that those in the corridor wouldn’t hear.
“Strange.”
As Syla stepped toward the door, it occurred to him that he hadn’t asked her what Wreylith’s favorite foods were.
“He is,” Vorik said. “How odd that he accused me of being inhuman.”
“He was awed by your strength.”
“Alarmed by it, I’d think.”
“I need to do what I was trained to do.” Syla nodded toward the waiting men. “But I’d like to… speak further with you later.”
“Speak?” Vorik twitched an eyebrow, wondering if she’d come down to question him before being distracted. But, by now, she knew he wouldn’t answer inquiries about the plans and movements of his people.
“Vigorously.” Her own eyebrows twitched. Or maybe that was a seductive waggle.
Whatever her intent, it made his aroused body want to spring to the door, slam it shut, and return to what they’d been doing.
“What is Wreylith’s favorite meal?” Vorik blurted, less because he was worried about satisfying Agrevlari’s curiosity and more because he didn’t want Syla to leave.
He knew she had to help her wounded troops, but she looked so tired.
Shouldn’t she rest first? Perhaps while cuddled in his arms in the aftermath of…
Syla looked back at him. “I’m not sure about her favorite, but she enjoys elioks and horn hogs.”
“Thank you. Agrevlari wondered. He has offerings in mind. He enjoyed their cactus-flower-induced dalliance.”
“Ah.” Syla stepped into the doorway, no suggestion on her face that she would dally. “May I have your word that you won’t escape?” She waved at his broken shackles. “I suspect there’s nothing I could do to hold you if you wanted to leave.”
“I…” Vorik’s penis wanted him to give his word without hesitation, but his brain managed to hold rein over his tongue.
He was a prisoner, and his people were at war with hers.
If an opportunity presented itself, he had to escape.
More, he should try to complete his mission and kidnap her.
If he voluntarily stayed here, it would be a betrayal of his orders, his duty.
By the eyes of the moon, why was it all so complicated?
“I don’t think I can give my word on that. ”
“Ah.” Syla looked disappointed but not confused or surprised. “I would promise to reward you for staying, but that would be manipulative.”
Contemplating what kind of reward she had in mind excited his groin all over again, but he tried not to let eagerness show in his eyes. “I think you’re supposed to be manipulative with enemies. And conniving.”
“I don’t want to win a war that way.” Syla lifted a hand, then stepped into the corridor, letting the soldier and Sergeant Fel lead her away.
Vorik closed his eyes, glad she hadn’t promised a reward. That would have left him even more conflicted if the opportunity to escape arose.
Long after the door thudded shut, the lock turning with a thunk, he stood with his broken shackles dangling from his wrists and debated what to do next.
Syla woke when someone prodded her shoulder.
She blinked a few times before remembering where she was.
She half-sat, half-slumped across a stool and the lower half of one of the narrow bunks in the warship’s infirmary.
A couple of bumps under the blanket confused her until she realized they were someone’s legs.
After healing five people, she’d fallen asleep, utterly exhausted, before finishing the sixth.
“Sorry,” she murmured to her patient, her eyes gritty and achy.
Her entire body ached. Her back and neck were stiff, the arrow gouge she’d received stung, and her hip throbbed when she shifted upright.
She’d been exhausted when she’d stumbled off the weapons platform, and she hadn’t gotten an opportunity to rest after that.
Before going to check on Vorik, she’d been drawn into a meeting with the fleet commander.
Surprisingly, he’d consulted her for direction, wanting to know if their ships should only occupy the harbor or if he should send troops into the city to search for wounded and free prisoners.
Not sure how long they would have before the stormers retaliated, Syla had told him to send as many men as he dared and that they could take anyone who wanted to go back to Castle Island.
Unfortunately, she still didn’t have a shielder to make the reclaiming of this island permanent.
And, she reminded herself, they only had part of it.
“It’s all right, ma’am,” came the amused voice of the soldier she’d fallen asleep on. “Er, Your Majesty.”
Sunlight beamed through the porthole behind his bunk. Was it dawn already? Past dawn? It had been early nightfall when she’d gone to visit Vorik.
“How long was I out?” she wondered.
“All night,” came a dry voice from behind her. Aunt Tibby. Was she who’d woken Syla?
Tibby set a mug of coffee and a muffin on a small table for her. Sergeant Fel stood by the door behind her, bags under his eyes. The poor man must have stayed up all night watching over Syla. He needed a break. She wished she could give him the retirement he deserved so he could truly rest.
“Was I sleeping on…” Syla looked back to the soldier. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get your name.”
“Corporal Genlikar, Your Majesty. I was unconscious when you started healing me, or I would have properly introduced myself.” He glanced to the side, as if wondering if he should get out of bed so he could drop to one knee.
Syla lifted a hand to stave off any such effort, especially since she hadn’t finished healing him.
“And it’s all right,” he added. “You sleeping on my legs, I mean. It’ll be a story I can tell my kids someday.”
“As if someone as reckless as you will live long enough to have children,” a grumpy male voice said.
The major that Captain Vonla had been avoiding stepped into view. Syla barely kept from grimacing.
Was he here to lecture her about her prisoner? Or to assassinate her while she was in a groggy and weakened state? Maybe both.
Having delivered breakfast, Aunt Tibby left as the man removed his uniform cap and stepped up to the bed. The corporal raised his eyebrows and looked around, as if wondering if he should leave. The major lifted a staying hand toward him.