Warlord
CHAPTER FOUR
The scent of earthiness, the copper tinge of blood, and leather clung to him like a second skin. Sapphire droplets splattered across his cheek and melted into the fibers of his ivory tunic.
Twice desperation drove me into attempting an escape, and twice I had failed. Both escape attempts were foolish and rash. I was not a fool . . . but also not a fighter. Even if I wanted to fight, physical strength eluded me.
Compose yourself, Amara.
I inhaled a gust of breath and slowly let it out.
I repeated the act, filling my lungs until they could not expand any more, then exhaled in a steady stream.
Escape was futile. First, I needed to learn the lay of the Kingdom.
To learn him. His habits and temperament.
Then I had to have a plan, not an act of desperation.
He reached the landing. An iron staircase sat at the end of the long hall, and he headed toward it. The Warlord’s breath didn’t stutter despite the distance he’d hauled me. He climbed the steps with an easy glide.
My pulse began to slow into a steady rhythm, no longer threatening to drag me under the wave.
Understanding an opponent was key. Perhaps getting him to understand me would garner my freedom. I was willing to try anything.
At the top of the stairs, a chamber was open. Iron bars criss-crossed the pane from one wall to the other, allowing sunlight to beam onto the bed. The big bed had soft-looking furs laid across the end of it. Iron bars stretched up from each corner of the base frame and arched upwards.
He kept walking past, through the rounded archway, and across the polished tile. As we rounded into a new chamber, the rush of water falling from the spout grew louder. Lady Drusilla leaned over the end of the bath, quickly straightening when she caught sight of us.
He dropped me to my feet, and I could not keep balanced. I gripped the edge of his tunic, bunching it in a fist. He whipped his head toward me, eyes narrowed. The intensity of his gaze stole my breath.
He looked pointedly at my hands, and I ripped myself away from him.
“Your bath is prepared,” Lady Drusilla announced and curtsied. “Shall I send your maids or your feeders to bathe you?” She shuffled past.
“I will have my Vessel tend to me,” he announced.
Lady Drusilla hesitated at the entrance, darting a look at me, then bowed her head. “Yes, my lord.”
My lord . . . His Highness . . . so many titles.
She left, and I returned my focus to him. He studied me with those intense eyes framed by thick eyelashes that were a few shades darker than his hair.
“Disrobe me.”
A flash of groping hands invaded my memory, bringing with it a swell of nausea.
“I . . .”
He took hold of my face with a single hand that engulfed my jaw and stopped me from flinching away.
“Do not mistake me, Vessel,” he breathed, his cold breath puffing against my lips. “I am not a haven for you.”
He kept digging his fingertips into my cheeks until tears gathered. He finally let me go, shoving me away. My knees buckled, but I managed to regain my balance.
“Now, do as ordered.”
I exhaled shakily and burst forward, settling into my practiced role as a lady’s maid.
As soon as I moved behind him, I hesitated.
There were no usual sashes to undo. Disrobing a man would be ruinous.
Something I could not return from, but there was no choice, so I clung to the memory of him saving me from the fate of having that man touch me, both of those men, because it was clear they would have both assaulted my body.
He saved me from that. I released another shaking breath, and with it came a wave of calm.
I tugged the sleeve of his long velvet coat until an arm was free, then I moved to the other side and did the same. The black fabric fell off his shoulders, and I caught the heavy material, folding it over the wooden stand beside the bath. Without his coat, what he wore underneath stole my breath.
Over the black linen tunic were leather straps stretching across his shoulders from the spaulder.
A secondary collection of bands crossed down his sides where blades were fastened against his torso.
I made quick work of finding where to unlatch the fasteners on the leather, and the spaulder fell from his shoulders.
I flipped the leftover strap at his shoulder attached to the blades and tugged until the metal hook came out of the hole.
Once free, I tugged at the leather and they slid off his arms, pooling in my grip.
I held it away from my body, not wanting to get cut by the sharp, dangling blades.
Without the coat and leather, he was left in a tunic. Not wasting any time, I untucked it from his trousers. The fabric fell over his front. This wasn’t so bad . . . Reaching up and pushing onto my tiptoes, I unlaced the bindings near his throat.
He watched me with a steady gaze. I’d never felt more exposed. I reminded myself to breathe and pushed his tunic up. Fortunately, he helped me tug it off him. It would have taken me forever and a dawnlight rotation if I had to do it without help.
I caught his shirt and froze, staring at his nude torso. A carved abdomen. And pale, perfectly smooth skin. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. Faced with a naked man and I couldn’t form a sound.
Indents of muscle made up his wide, hard body. Dips formed at his stomach, and each dent expanded with his steady breathing. His waist, for all that it tapered, was still barrel-sized. He was the definition of a perfect masculine physique.
He let out a deep sigh and it pulled me out of whatever had taken hold of my body. I reached for the front of his trousers, hooking my hand into the front. The back of my knuckles touched his bare skin.
I inhaled sharply, a hot flush working down my throat. With a peek up at him, I found him studying me, a molasses-like pulsing where the red and gold met in his irises. My heartbeat quickened, and I pursed my lips.
What was this wave of warmth assaulting my senses?
As green as I was, I’d been privy to scandals. Not much else was discussed by other lady’s maids. I had been witness to carnal desires in action since most of the time we were invisible. Fluttering flooded my chest and sent a flush to my face.
It was that feeling that spawned deep in my belly right now. My body betrayed me. I was disgusted with myself for noticing him. For this depraved temptation.
I dragged the fabric down and it easily pooled at his feet.
He stepped out of the trousers. I couldn’t look away from the monstrosity.
He had a thick length with a rounded tip that pointed upwards.
But there was more, an unnatural aspect that had never been present in the suggestive drawings I’d found on a shelf in the Bjorn library.
His length led to a swelling at the base. I choked on a harsh breath.
“Had your fill?” His deep voice wrenched me from my staring. He studied me with those unfathomable eyes, the corner of his lips lifted at one side.
“A-apologies,” I blurted. My face was dangerously hot.
He made a noise closer to a scoff than a snort, and he turned, striding to the porcelain clawfoot tub the same color as the tile.
Muscles undulated under his skin; his wide shoulders tapered to a slim waist and lower. I never believed a bottom, much less a male one, could look so . . . firm and muscled. Water sloshed as he settled, arms bracing the sides of the tub.
He turned, and his hair hung in his eyes.
“Bathe me.”
I darted toward the side of the tub, masking my shock and unease. Bathing a man . . . What had my life become? There was no time to recover, to tend to my aches. To process my new reality.
I collected the soap and the thin, rough cloth derived from the espon plant, sitting atop the circular table beside him. Placing the soap in the middle of the cloth, I folded the fabric around it, taking my time to tuck the edges into place.
Nerves swirled in my stomach. I couldn’t continue to hold off from touching his body.
I shuffled behind him, stepping onto a slim platform surrounding the tub fit for his frame, and dipped the soap into the water. Droplets plunked as I lifted it to his shoulder and ran it over the lean limb, scrubbing until suds formed. With each swipe, I worked on relaxing.
Bathing Miriam was part of the routine. I excelled at efficiently bathing someone. Exhaling to calm my nerves, I set in on washing his back until his pale skin was pink. Then I worked on his arms, gently making my way to his hands. He tilted his head back and exhaled, his eyes falling shut.
I allowed myself to peek at his slack features. To the fall of his tawny hair over his thick brows, to the arrogant curve of his mouth. If he were to enter the ballroom, he’d strike an imposing figure. Undoubtedly the center of attention of both ladies and lords.
Undeniably, I was trapped and at his mercy. If I wanted to live, I could not continue rash behavior.
I moved to his other arm, running suds over his body, and dipped the soapy cloth into the tub, dragging it out to run it across his chest. Liquid trickled down his front, following the hollows and dips of his physique until it reached where the water met above his navel.
Stopping short of reaching under, I retreated, trying to keep my eyes from trailing to his . . . maleness bobbing under the water.
Fire licked through my veins, reviving that odd, simmering ache.
His breathing caught, and my gaze clashed with his as he remained impassive. I began to suspect he didn’t have many other facial expressions.
He sat up so abruptly that I startled and moved my hand purely on instinct. Which meant my palm clashed with his chest. The first man’s bare chest I had ever touched. He tensed. I couldn’t breathe, much less think.
No man had the right to be so achingly beautiful while being the epitome of masculinity.
We sat there, suspended, watching each other. My vision wavered. I have not breathed!
I sucked in a gust of air and it ripped him out of his stunned silence. A sneer curved his lips, exposing a fang that curved slightly inward.
Fear rushed through my veins.
That was why Warlords were avoided by even Hollows. They were the deadliest thing to walk the realms. And the apex predator was staring at me as if I had greatly insulted him. I remained unable to move as he reached down to his maleness.
He wrapped his palm at the base and glided his hand up. The length twitched, and the veins seemed to bulge.
“Like my cock, Vessel?” he murmured, his voice lashing out like a physical blow.
“Th-this is not proper,” were the only words that escaped my lips. His grin widened, taking on a cruel edge.
“Propriety?” he drawled. “You are concerned about propriety when your existence will be extinguished?”
I floundered for what to say, but there was no appropriate response because it was true. My face burned even hotter.
He snorted, studying the redness on my face as he plucked the washcloth and soap out of my grip.
Sudsing it up in his broad hand, he gripped his cock.
Without removing his gaze from mine, he dragged his hand down to the bulge at the base.
Air whooshed through my ears, rendering me deaf to the swishing water. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
How does one insert that?
I let out a shaky breath, studying the curve of his tip before my eyes moved lower. He released his length. It bobbed, still stiff and pointing outwards. His large hands rubbed soap into the rest of his body, and he quickly rinsed off.
“Fetch my robe,” he commanded.
In truth, I did not have a choice.
After a quick sweep of the bathing area, my gaze snagged on the material hanging on the back of the door. On my way to the rack, I swiped my moist palms on the front of my sleeping gown. I had been so lost in my thoughts that I had not realized how damp the fabric had become as I washed him.
Quickly, I grabbed the velvet fabric and returned to his side. He finished drying himself with the towel and stepped out of the tub to tug on the robe.
His steps ate up the ground. I stayed in place, watching the water drain away. Even the Bjorn Estate did not have such advanced plumbing, much less a tub as magnificent as this.
“Vessel!” he barked, and I jumped to follow him, but I didn’t need to. He was already back inside the bathing chamber, firmly gripping my nape below the metal collar. I stumbled, falling over my feet as he forced me to the side of his bed.
He latched me to the end of a chain attached to the leg of the bedframe. Saying nothing else, he slid beneath his fur blankets. With the way the mattress hugged his body, it had to have been full of ostrich feathers.
His arms stretched behind his head, and his eyes closed. Meanwhile, I stared, trying to ground myself. I eyed the space beside him and knew it was not meant for me.
“Could I ha—”
“Silence!”
I jumped at his booming shout.
No blanket for me then . . . or much of anything else.
I studied the hard ground, then down at my sleeping gown that was still damp from bathing him.
Another night on the ground. As I lowered myself, the hard floor pinched my knees.
I sank onto my side, curling my legs up to my chest. Cold seeped through the fabric.
I readjusted, tucking my arms between my legs for warmth.
The chain dragged on the floor with loud clinks.
There were four moon rotations left until Nocturn. Four moon rotations to figure out how to escape the Warlord’s clutches.