Page 24 of WarBride

The bitter irony burns in my belly.

Opening my eyes, I twist my arms again, determined to get free. The silk cuffs dig into my skin, but my right hand—it seems to be making progress. I concentrate on that one, contorting, tugging, relaxing, and tugging again. Suddenly my wrist pulls free, and my fingers slip through the silk. I gasp and close my eyes, momentarily so flooded with relief, I can’t think or move. Was it just luck that someone didn’t fasten this cuff as tight as she should? Or did that fae woman purposefully loosen it, just to give me a chance? It doesn’t matter. One hand free isn’t enough. Drawing a deep breath, I reach for the lefthand cuff. Triumph swiftly turns to frustrated disappointment. I cannot seem to pull it free; the strap simply will not give. I’m no better off than I was before, except . . .

Wait a minute. What about that knife? Slipping my hand under the pile of cushions, I feel around cautiously. And there, there! Cold metal, just at my fingertips. I grip a thin hilt and pull out the small weapon, so tiny and delicate. So deadly. And right here, in my hand.

My mouth goes dry. I stare at that knife like it’s the key to freedom. This time, when opportunity presents itself, I won’t hesitate. This time I will plunge the blade straight into my captor’s throat.

Footsteps sound at the pavilion entrance. My heart leaps. I have a split second in which to decide what to do. Then I’m shoving the knife back under the pillow and reaching out to grasp the cuff from which I’ve just freed myself. My only real weapon here is surprise. So let him see me as he expects to: bound and helpless. Just how he wants me no doubt. But I’ll show him. Very soon now.

The tent flap rustles then pulls to one side. My bridegroom steps through.

He stands on the far side of the fire, so I cannot see him clearly. Just an impression of his wide-shouldered frame and the glitter in the depths of his black eyes. Those eyes fasten on me, lying on the bed. In all my writhing and twisting, my already flimsy garment has become twisted around my legs, revealing my calves, knees, most of my thighs. One breast is all but escaped, the sheer fabric only just clinging to the peak of my nipple. But this is good. Isn’t it? Distracted by the sight of so much bare flesh, perhaps he won’t notice that one of my hands is free.

I’ve forgotten how to breathe. I can only lie here, gripping the binding cords with both hands. Staring at this man who has somehow, in the last few hours, become my husband.

The warlord passes a hand over his face.“Shakh,”he growls. It sounds like a curse. Then he shakes his head and begins to stalk around the fire toward the bed. He’s washed himself since last I saw him. His armor is gone, and his torso is naked, every finely-tuned muscle gleaming in the fire light. A wide leather belt spans his waist, and I note the two knives sheathed there, both much larger than my own secret weapon.

I can’t help scrambling as he draws near. It’s a reflex, this need to put space between us. I kick, and my flimsy gown hikes up even higher than before. He stops short, his expression stern. “Please, little one,” he says and holds up both hands. “I meanyou no harm. I vowed to protect you. To shelter you. I should bring terrible dishonor down on my head if I betrayed those vows now.”

I draw a long breath through clenched teeth. “Easy enough for you to say. You’re not the one tied naked to a bed.”

He looks away, the muscle in his jaw tense. Then, reaching for one of the velvet blankets, he picks it up and, much to my surprise, drapes it over my body. There’s something tender, almost reverent in the way he does it. As though I’m something to be cared for, something precious. The fire in my belly churns. How dare he? How dare he behave with this mock chivalry, when it’s his fault I’m here to begin with?

The warlord takes a step back from the bed, his gaze flicking to my bound hands then swiftly bouncing away again. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was nervous. Which makes no sense, under the circumstances. “I’m going to release you,” he says, “if you will permit me.”

He waits a beat, as though expecting me to give my permission. I say nothing; I only glare at him. At last, with a slight tilt of his head to one side, he draws closer, reaches for the cuff around my left wrist. This is it: my one and only chance.

Dropping hold of the righthand rope, I dart my hand under the pillow, whip out the knife, and lunge straight for his throat.

He catches my wrist.

He moves with such fluid grace, he doesn’t even seem fast. It’s too easy, the way he takes in what I do, anticipates where my blow will fall, and simply prevents it. As though he expected as much all along.

Without apparent surprise or discomfort, he turns my wrist and studies the blade still gripped tight in my white-knuckled fingers. “Lurodos,” he says, and his brow darkens. His eyes flash back to meet mine. “Who gave you this knife?”

I don’t answer. I grind my teeth and stare at him, daring him to do his worst. He’ll punish me—of course he will. I just tried to kill him, after all. He’ll punish me, he’ll hurt me, and I won’t let him know how much I fear him and the pain he’s about to inflict. I must hold on to my rage at all costs.

He grimaces. Firelight flashes off sharp canines. “This knife bears the sigil of House Uldreyin, of which Lord Lurodos is head. He must have bribed one of Ruvaen’s servants to slip it to you. Did she loosen that manacle as well?” When I hold my tongue, he squeezes my wrist ever so slightly. My fingers splay; the knife drops. He releases his grip on me and catches it, all in one deft motion. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he tests the balance of the blade across his fingers. “This is a fine weapon,” he says softly.

Then, quicker than thought, he slashes out. The other cuff falls free.

I don’t know how long I sit on that bed. Staring at that broken bit of rope, that silk restraint. At the dark warlord seated beside me, my knife still in his hand. It feels like hours. Hours before my lungs finally remember how to draw breath.

Suddenly I’m scrambling out from under that blanket, half-falling to the floor. I pull myself upright, clad in nothing but that sheer gown, feeling the glow of the fire against my cold skin. I wrap my arms around myself, trying in vain to cover my nakedness.

The warlord simply averts his eyes. He tosses the knife, catches it by the point of the blade. Then he hurls it. I let out a gasp, but the knife lands harmlessly in the soft rug at my feet.

“Pick it up,” the warlord says.

I hesitate only for a moment. Then I whip that knife off the ground and hold it between us, ignoring the way the little blade trembles in my grasp. He watches me for a moment, still sitting there on the edge of the bed. Finally he breathes a heavy sigh, plants his hands on his knees, and stands up. Gods, he’s so huge!Earlier, when I’d compared him to the other fae man, I’d said he wasn’t as big or bulky, but I must have taken one too many knocks to the head. Just now, standing here in this pavilion, I cannot imagine anyone taller, broader, more powerfully built. Yet nothing about him is gratuitous. Each muscle is so perfectly honed, like a work of art labored over for many years.

He approaches me. I back away, but he keeps coming, until I hit one of the supporting tent poles. My heart races wildly, and my chest heaves as I struggle to breathe. He looms over me, firelight playing across his beautiful features. The line of his jaw is sharp enough to shatter marble. Hair as black as a raven’s wing flows over his shoulders, and I suddenly have the inexplicable urge to reach out and touch it, to discover if it is as thick and glossy as it looks.

Hastily I drop my gaze to the knife blade between us. For the space of five breaths, neither of us moves.

Then one of his big, scarred hands wraps around mine. My heart sticks in my throat. He turns my wrist, angling the blade, and presses it up against his bare torso. “Here,” he says, his voice a deep rumble. “Right here. Thrust up, and if you put enough force into it, you may just strike the heart. Then I will fall before you, my death’s blood pooling at your feet. You will be free of me.”

I stare down at that point which even now makes a small indentation into his flesh.Do it,I tell myself.Go on! This is your chance, your only chance.But I’m frozen.

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