Chapter 3 #3
In the darkness, I saw his tusks gleam as he grinned.
“I should have kenned better than to assume ye’d let yer guard down, wee wildcat.”
“I am not a wildcat.”
Feeling bold, I braced my free hand against his chest and leaned my weight against the blade threateningly. Unfortunately, the movement also shifted me further down his body until my thighs straddled his hips, and I could feel his belt—he hadn’t removed his kilt for bed—against my arse.
“Fierce, independent,” he murmured, “and ye have claws.”
Mayhap I was a wildcat.
“I told ye I would escape.”
“There’s nae one keeping ye here, Rowena—”
“I am in your home! Your world!”
In the light of the full moon coming in through the window, something like regret flashed across his face.
“Aye, and ye’ll no’ be able to return for another month.”
Before I could answer, he flexed his hips, and a hardness pressed against my arse. My eyes widened as I realized what that hardness was, and how his body had reacted to me straddling him.
“Which means,” he murmured, “I have a month to convince ye to stay.”
Convince me to what?
I was so shocked by his words, I drew back slightly. Convince me? Was I not his enemy, his captive? And why would he want me to—
Unfortunately, I’d let down my guard, and when he lifted me from him, I didn’t have the leverage needed to plunge my blade into his throat…if I even wanted to. I was too confused by his words, his casual ease.
But he still moved faster than any warrior I’d met before. Between one heartbeat and the next, I was lying on the mattress once more, both my wrists pinned above my head, and he was wrenching the knife from my grip.
I kicked at him, and he pinned my legs between his, moving atop me. The moment he covered me, I stopped breathing.
He was hard, and yet…
Our noses were inches apart. I was breathing the same air he was. Unconsciously, my gaze dropped to his lips—to those tusks—and I remembered the way they’d felt pressed against me.
As if beckoned by the memory, I felt his cock stir against my hip, and I sucked in a breath at the sensation. He’d grown hard, just from having me pressed against him?
Of course! He is a typical male, after all!
But the way he was staring down at me, the way he was pinning my hands so easily above my head…
I squirmed beneath him, and he growled.
“Cease, wildcat.”
“My name is Rowena,” I spat.
His dark gaze softened and he bent closer, moving his lips toward my ear. His tusk scraped lightly—so lightly—against my jaw, causing me to shiver.
“And mine is Vrogul,” he murmured, his breath teasing the sensitive parts of my ear. “Ye have yet to use it, Rowena.”
This time, my shiver was more of a shudder, and I felt something begin to throb between my thighs.
I pressed my legs together, hating my body’s response to his nearness, and prayed he couldn’t guess. When a rumbling sound came from his chest and he shifted against me, his cock settling over my sensitive core, I guessed my prayers were being ignored.
“Say it, Rowena.”
Say what? Oh, his name. My chin rose, daring him to do his worst.
“Or what? You will rape me? Use me? Break me?”
I saw the flash of his grin.
“Ye have a poor opinion of me, little one.”
Oh God, why did my core throb harder at that smile? Beneath my bodice, my nipples hardened in response to the gravelly tone of his mocking, and I had to tamp down another shudder. I squeezed my thighs together even harder, but I wasn’t sure if ‘twas to hide my response, or to prolong it.
Still, I couldn’t allow him to think me beaten. “How could I not? Your desire is obvious.”
Since his cock was pressed against my skin, I bucked my hips, letting him know what I meant.
He made a show of leaning closer, inhaling against my skin.
“So is yours.”
Oh hell.
I froze, resisting the urge to squeeze my eyes shut in mortification. He could smell my arousal?
Damn him. Damn me.
Suddenly, he straightened, pulling away from me.
“Say it, Rowena. My name.”
It seemed easier to give in.
“Vrogul,” I whispered.
His grin flashed, and he released my wrists.
“I’m no’ going to fook ye, Rowena. No’ until ye beg me.”
As if that would happen. What threats and tortures would he use? What deprivations would be worse than begging his touch?
Glaring at him, I rubbed my wrists as I rolled away from him. He let me go.
In the moonlight, I saw the amusement on his face as he propped himself up on his elbow, balancing my father’s blade on his thick fingers. Was he mocking me?
I sat on the edge of the bed, fingers wrapped around one wrist as I watched him warily.
“I will not beg you.”
“We’ll see,” he quipped.
In one movement, he flipped the knife about so he held it by the blade, the hilt facing toward me as he rolled onto his back.
“Here, love. It’ll make ye feel safer.”
Hardly daring to believe my luck, I snatched the weapon back.
“This was my father’s.”
The Stormseeker—Vrogul—stacked his hands behind his head.
“Good. It belongs in yer hands, no’ my boot.”
And then the arsehole closed his eyes, giving every impression of sleep.
I sat there on the side of the bed in a fierce sea raider’s home, clutching my father’s blade, and trying to swallow down the jumble of confused emotions in my stomach.
What was I going to do?