Page 25 of WarBride

“I would suggest, however,” he continues softly, “that you wait until I tell you the whole truth of your situation. A truth I myself did not know until . . . recently.”

I glare up at him. “Fine. Speak your piece while you yet have breath.”

Though I know exactly how foolish, how pathetic I sound, he doesn’t laugh. It’s strange; I’m so used to being mocked for anydisplays of defiance. My father loved to provoke me to lash out just so he could delight in my futile rebellions.

But this man only nods. He draws a long breath. “The buying and selling of warbrides is not practiced by my own people,” he continues at last in that low rumble of his. “It is a Noxaurian custom. Do you understand this?”

I blink once. Then shake my head.

“The fae who dwell in the Realm of Noxaur are a strange, dark brood who honor strange, dark laws. I am told they commonly sell captive women to the highest bidder as brides. Spoils of war. This is what they intended for you before I intervened.”

“Right.” I’d gathered that much already. “So I am yourbridethen?” I push the bitter word past the lump in my throat.

“You are. But only because I did not realize the full extent of the Noxaurian law. My intention was simply to win the bid and return you to your own kind at the next convenient opportunity.”

Hope surges inside me, almost too painful to be borne. “And will you? Return me to my people, I mean?”

He closes his eyes, breathes out through his nostrils. And still that knife hovers between us, the tip resting in that indentation just below his sternum. “When I paid the price, I entered into Noxaurian law,” he says at last. “It may not be the law of my own people, but it is binding, nonetheless. I must abide by it or accept the consequences.”

“What consequences?”

“If I deny you as my warbride, you will, by law, pass into the possession of the next highest bidder. In this instance Lord Lurodos Uldreyin of Noxaur.”

Ah. I nod slowly and lick my dry lips. So that is what the fae man who met me outside the pavilion meant. He expects this warlord to give me up. My stomach coils. As much as I fear this man, I fear Lord Lurodos more. Something tells me if he hadbeen the one to enter this tent, I would still be bound to that bed. I might never have risen from it again.

I begin to shake. My grip on the knife weakens, and I fear I will drop it. I straighten my spine, firm my hold, and stare up into the warlord’s black eyes. “All right then, I understand. You took me as your bride and must maintain appearances for the time being. But there is no reason, is there, that you should not follow through on your original plan?”

He looks down at me. There’s compassion in his gaze, which unnerves me more than I like to admit. It makes me want to trust him. Which is the last thing I need.

Then he speaks his next words, and all chance of trust scatters to the four winds: “If we do not consummate this marriage before dawn, the law of Noxaur states you must be handed over to Lurodos.”

I stare at him. His words resound inside my head, a hollow echo without meaning. I don’t seem to be connected to my body anymore. When my knees buckle, it seems to be happening to someone else. The knife starts to slip from my fingers.

Swiftly the warlord takes the blade. The next thing I know, his strong arm is around me, and he’s helping me away from the tent pole back into the middle of the pavilion. For a wild moment I think he’s taking me to the bed, and I don’t even have the strength to fight. Instead he leads me to one of the little scrollwork chairs by the fire. With unexpected gentlemanliness, he sits me down, then sets the knife in my lap and places my hand over the hilt. Rising, he leaves me and crosses the room to a tall, upright chest. I hear the slide of drawers, the clink of crystal, the sound of liquid pouring.

He returns to me with a delicate silver cup in one hand. “Here,” he says, kneeling and holding the cup to my lips. “Take a sip. Just one—it’s strong.”

I obey. It burns all the way down my throat. I cough but manage to keep it down. The warlord sets the cup aside and remains kneeling there, watching me as I pull myself together. The brew, whatever it was, has a strengthening effect. It takes the fire of fury in my chest and seems to diffuse it through the rest of my body.

Placing my hand to my breast, I look into the warlord’s face. His eyes are a little above mine, though he is kneeling. “Let me see if I’ve got this right,” I say in a voice of unnatural serenity. “You must ravage me. For my own good. Is that what you’re saying . . .husband?”

He turns his head, his face shielded by the thick curtain of his hair. After several long breaths, he looks at me again, and I’m struck all over by the absolute beauty of his face edged in firelight. “Littlezylnala,” he says, “I swore an oath to protect you. I know I am a rough man, a man of war. But I am also a man of honor. I would never touch a woman without her consent. Whatever happens between us tonight, it will be your decision.”

“Oh, how nice.” I laugh, my head whirling with the aftereffects of that drink. “So I get to choose between being ravaged by you or by your rival. How gentlemanly of you to leave the decision up to me! You should be decorated for your chivalry.”

He takes another deep breath through his nostrils. Then he stands and backs away from me, his expression solemn. “I wish the circumstances were other than they are.”

“They might be,” I snarl, “if you hadn’t taken me captive in the first place. If you hadn’t manhandled me and knocked me senseless and left me in that cage on wheels.”

“My only intention in the moment was to save your life.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that? You attack a temple, slaughter the priests, kidnap me and my sister, but oh! You never meant any harm by it. Perhaps I ought to thank you for the courtesy of not disemboweling me on the spot.”

He turns away. His powerful shoulders are stiff and set. Is he angry? At me? Good. I would rather meet him wrath-for-wrath than deal with one moment more of his gods-damned gentleness. It’s too much, too much! And the whole time I’m sitting here, chatting with him over a cup of fae wine, Aurae is . . .Aurae is . . .

I leap from the seat. Knife clutched in my hand, I sprint across the room. Heedless of the fact that I’m wearing practically nothing, I grab the tent flap, push it aside.

A sea of darkness spreads before me, punctuated by points of red light. I am blind, stupid, standing there in that opening with my mouth gaping. Then the voices start.

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