Page 54 of Sins of His Wrath

“No,” she said, alarmed. “I’m not trying to do that! I just wanted to do some drills, try the weapons out.”

“They are dangerous,” he barked.

Indignation flared through her. "I’ve handled sharp weapons since I was five years old, Akoro. Are you forgetting I was trained as a warrior of Lox? I used to get scrapes all the time—it’s not serious. Just because I’m on your knot for days on end doesn’t mean I was bred for your pleasure."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. “I don’t want you touching them again.”

“And what do you expect me to do while you’re gone?” she shot back at him. “There’s nothing to do—nothing to read, no one to talk to, nowhere to go. I don’t even have clothes.”

“You don’t need clothes,” he thundered.

For some reason, that incensed her. “I’m fucking bored in here! What did you expect? That I would cease to exist when you don’t need me.”

"Bored?" He repeated the word as though it were foreign to him. "You are here by your own choice. To be mine. Not to slice yourself up with weapons you clearly can’t handle."

“No?” she said, feigning surprise. “Why? Is that pleasure reserved for you alone?”

His nostrils flared, and for a heartbeat, Naya thought he might snap. Instead, he yanked her against him. But in her anger, she shoved him back hard—pushing him back to the bed. In his surprise, he let her.

And then everything dissolved into raw, reckless need.

What followed was not gentle. It was a frantic, ravenous, and perverse, a clash of wills expressed through bodies. Naya fought him to let her climb on top and then rode him hard, impaling herself on him, slamming her ass down with almost the same strength that he fucked her. Akoro bellowed, releasing a string of foreign words in the sexiest raspy voice that made her slick froth. He groaned, grabbing at her hips, but she kept slapping his hands away, until he roared, flipping her over to take back control.

The wound on her arm reopened, but she barely felt it.

Blood streaked their bodies, smeared across his chest, her thighs, the tangled sheets beneath them—war paint on the battlefield of their bed. But neither of them noticed, too consumed with their latest clash.

When it was over, when the last tremors of pleasure faded and left them gasping, Akoro retrieved a fresh cloth and a small vial of healing balm from a carved wooden chest near the bed. He returned to her side, his movements slower now, his touch surprisingly gentle as he wrapped the wound with precise efficiency.

Naya lay still, watching him, barely able to keep her eyes open.

His fingers trailed over her body, exploring, caressing, "Do not touch those weapons again," he said, his voice quiet but leaving no room for argument. Then he pulled her against him, her body molding to the heat of his.

Naya was too exhausted to argue, but she murmured her dissent against his skin as she drifted to sleep.

Two days later, after they bathed, Akoro dressed and handed her a tunic.

Naya stared at it, confused. The fabric was rough, dark gray—plain, almost crude. She glanced up at him and stilled.

Something was wrong.

He looked agitated, angry even. “Do not speak.”

Naya blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“You are not to speak,” he said, the warning in his tone clear and grating. “No matter what comes next, don’t say anything. Do you understand what I’m saying? Not a word.”

A ripple of unease curled through her. “What is happening?”

Akoro stepped forward, slowly. “In two days, you’ll get your first opportunity to work on the Solution.”

At that, Naya straightened, her mind lurching in a thousand directions at once.

“But if you speak,” he continued. “If you say one word between now and tomorrow night, you won’t get it. Do you understand?”

Naya nodded, her mind still working to figure out what was going to happen between now and then.

“Put that on.” He gestured to the tunic.

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