A Warlord's Lady (17 page)

He was surprised to see a Bright Light Team scouring the dark corners with lasers. They were clearly taking no chances.

‘Doctor Bosca?’ A grey-haired man strode towards him, extending a large hand and muscular forearm.

‘Yes.’ Cain smiled easily, profoundly glad he’d disguised himself, and extended his own hand to grasp the sergeant’s firmly. For a moment, something tingled in his hand and Cain fought the urge to pull his arm away. There was more to Sergeant Hollis than met the eye, that was certain.

Sergeant Hollis’s eyes stared into his searchingly. Cain smiled back. Finally, Hollis released his hand.

‘Let me have a look at the patient,’ Cain said and turned toward Sabra.

His heart ceased to beat.

She’d been moved onto the theatre table, her head lolled to the side, her eyes half open. His gaze absorbed her face; she looked wan and sickly, and a bandage still covered her throat where Jürgen —
damn him
— had sliced her. Her skin was fluctuating wildly.

My rainbow.

He walked towards her, and as he did the theatre nurse reached down, lifted Sabra’s leg and placed one, then the other, in the gynaecological stirrups. The pathetic gown lifted revealing the bush of her pubes, and the slick folds of her sex.

Cain stared, his blood heated with anger.

All these men, looking at her.

He felt his teeth involuntarily grate together, and he took a deep breath to try and calm the raging anger the situation inspired.

A long moment passed as they waited for the Bright Light Team to finish their check and line up along the walls, all eyes on Sabra.

My Sabra, exposed, vulnerable.

The rage rose again, red and purple, it filled his brain and body like a rapid tide.

‘Doctor?’ a nurse said, her brows furrowing at his evident anger and his ungloved hands. ‘Umm.’

Cain turned to look at her, willing away the burning anger, determined to remain in his professional role, and walked slowly around to Sabra’s head.

‘Hello, Miss Westwood, can you hear me?’ He bent close to her face and inhaled her natural perfume, his heart pounding in response.

‘Mmph,’ Sabra gurgled, and Cain saw the drool pooling on the pillow behind her cheek.

‘Just get on with it, Doctor Bosca. Don’t you understand that this woman is wanted by the Warlord, Cain Dath, the Magical Mafia and Shadow Men? We need to get her
compos mentis
as soon as possible in case of an emergency, so we need to get this procedure over with.’

Cain looked up at the sergeant, unable to disguise the anger and irritation in his eyes. ‘Is that so? Well get these guards out of here, and we can begin.’

Hollis clearly rankled at this. ‘No, doctor. Didn’t you hear me? She’s wanted by every powerful force in the known world. She cannot afford to be left unguarded.’

‘She isn’t unguarded. You’ve swept the room for shadows, and the guards can remain outside during the procedure. Give the woman some dignity.’ Cain fought to keep the passion from his voice.

‘Dignity? This little whore spent six months in the Warlord’s harem, or haven’t you read the book?’

Cain gritted his teeth. ‘I’ve read it,’ he snarled, ‘and she isn’t a whore.’

There was a split second of inactivity.

‘Seize him!’ Hollis barked, and within an instant Cain found his arm caught by strong hands. He tried to heave himself free and Hollis yelled, ‘Shoot! It’s Cain Dath!’

How did they know?

Cain looked around wildly, as Sabra’s wide grey eyes flittered open and caught his. ‘Cain?’ she murmured and her head lolled again.

There was nothing else for it — using a powerful spell, the room erupted in flame. Surprised cries arose from the guards and the Bright Light Team, and blessedly in the pandemonium Cain found his arms released. Men scrabbled for fire extinguishers as the fire alarms squealed with hysterical intensity and water gushed from sprinklers in the ceiling.

Pushing through the toxic smoke and heat, Cain made his way to Sabra. As he drew closer, he saw a blond curly-haired doctor swiftly disconnect the saline drip and scoop her up into his arms.

‘Stop!’ Cain snarled, ‘Give her to me or you die.’

The doctor’s eyes reflected the red of the flames. ‘This woman deserves better,’ he retorted.

‘She’s mine,
mine!
’ Cain growled.

The doctor did not release her, and Cain jerked forward to grab her.

‘Dr Elliot?’ Sabra interrupted the moment. She looked up and coughed from the smoke.

‘Yes?’ the doctor replied gently.

Despite the shiny golden ring that reflected in the flames of the fire, jealousy burned through Cain with more ferocity than the inferno around him.

‘I want to go home,’ Sabra mewed, then coughed, her head lolling again.

‘Sabra…’ Cain’s voice was thick with longing. ‘Give her to me, man, I’m — ’

‘The Warlord, Cain Dath, I heard,’ the doctor replied coldly, his arms still tight about Sabra’s body. Flames roared around them, tables were melting, and screams of panic echoed from every angle. The doctor seemed as unaffected by it as Cain himself. ‘What is it that you want her for? Eggs? Like the rest of them?’

‘I want her for my wife,’ Cain replied, shoving a panicking guard away, sending him careering into the wall of flame around them. The man howled. In the corner of his eye, Cain saw Hollis pull his gun. ‘Give her to me. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for her.’

The doctor’s eyes seemed knowing, suggesting that he did.

‘Take her then, and get her away from these men. Keep her safe.’

Elliot stepped towards him and extended Sabra to him.

‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ Hollis howled, and redirected the weapon to Elliot. ‘I’ll have you for this, you son-of-a-demon.’

Cain didn’t miss the look of pure loathing the doctor shot at Hollis before shoving Sabra into his willing arms. ‘Go, don’t worry about me.’

There was a whizzing ping as a shot was fired, skimming past Cain’s arm and grazing the flesh as it did. ‘I wasn’t planning on it,’ Cain retorted, ignoring the sharp pain and smiling at the doctor who looked cool and easy despite the wildfire around him. Without further word, Cain doubled his spell before disappearing in a fluttering of magic, relief singing through his veins.

***

Sabra coughed and dimly realised that the strange sensation in her throat was that of magic, namely the
motus
spell, whisking her away. When she opened her eyes she was in a room, an unfamiliar room — not a particularly unusual circumstance these days. Still, this one was much more pleasant and significantly less institutional than her previous two.

Her eyes still felt as though lead weights were attached to her eyelids and everything seemed slightly skewed, like a Salvador Dali painting.

‘Hello?’ she called, her voice still husky. She looked around nervously. Shadows were everywhere.

Two blowflies buzzed past and she flinched from them. She sat up, and surveyed the surroundings, trying to steady the powerful throb in her head and the swirl of hunger and nausea in her belly. She was in a neat apartment or unit, decorated in a definite 1990s fashion with garish patterned pelmets in blues and greens, and vertical blinds blocking out the waning sun.

‘Sabra…’ A gentle, quiet, distressingly familiar voice spoke to her left. She turned her head and he was there. As gorgeous and flawless as a portrait. Her Warlord.

It has to be a dream.

Dressed in medical scrubs, his skin was dark against the green fabric. His eyes were hooded and heavy.

Surely this was just some anaesthetic-provoked dream? She’d wake up soon, in the hospital or in the Mafia’s hands, minus however many eggs. Or perhaps this was a cruel trick of the mind on her sexually frustrated body.

‘Sabra,’ he said again, and this time his hand reached out and gently stroked her cheek. His touch was hot and electric. It ran down the line of her face and down her neck and fluttered over the bandage still covering her healing wound.

‘How did this happen?’ His voice was soft.

‘Jürgen, an accident, I think…’ She tried to explain but her tongue felt swollen. Her heart thumped treacherously loud in her chest. ‘This isn’t a dream, is it?’ she asked numbly.

He didn’t appear to hear, instead his hands worked at the bandage on her neck, peeling it back to reveal what she presumed would be a pink and shiny scar.

Cain’s sharp intake of breath startled her, then he answered. ‘Not a dream, my little rainbow. Not a dream.’

Warmth suffused her body at his words. It flowed through her from where his hands gently touched her wound. She could smell his magic: exotic, rich and gentle. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel, rather than think.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d stayed like that, but eventually she opened her eyes again, and she knew without him saying that the wound and its scar had gone. She felt clear-headed and calm. He was a mightily powerful magician.

‘Sabra,’ Cain whispered, inching closer to her. She felt her eyes widen as his hands found hers. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry about all of this. It was never meant to be this way.’

She stared at him drowsily, a smile tugging her lips.
The apologetic Warlord
…it could have been a title to a sequel.

His smell was intoxicating and her traitorous body stirred in reaction.

‘Cain?’ she whispered, trying to gauge the look in his dark eyes.

His head shook slightly. ‘I should have spoken to you, I should have told you…’

The words were coming quickly but she barely heard them, unable to concentrate until he kissed her. His effect on her was as strong as ever.

Then, as if she’d commanded it, Cain dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers. Whatever tenuous control Sabra had over her body disappeared. Nothing else mattered. Not the shadows, not the doubts.
Nothing
.

A tear scurried down her cheek, yet she hadn’t realised she was crying. Concern rippled over his expression, and he gripped her face in his hands and pulled her to him, crushing her against his chest and running his hands through her hair. ‘Sabra…’ he rasped, ‘it’s been so long, so long. I didn’t know if…’ His words faded off, drowned out by the rush of blood in her head.

All Sabra could do was make weak mewling sounds of agreement. With gentle, warm hands, Cain reclined her back on the bed and pressed his weight into her. His body pushed the air from her lungs and made her heart pound and her body melt.

‘Cain…’ she whispered and kissed the cheek that rested close to her mouth. She could feel him beneath his thin scrubs, pressing his rigid length into her. ‘Oh God,’ she sobbed, the words catching in her throat. ‘Yes. Cain.’ She thrust her hips up closer, trying to feel more of him against her. She’d dreamed of this since she’d left Laos — she wanted him now as desperately as she had that first day in Vientiane. Such passion couldn’t be real. ‘If this is a dream, don’t stop.’

He ground his hips against her, and the strength behind it told her it was no dream. He pushed himself up onto his forearms above her. With him looking down at her, she felt delectably vulnerable. Her hospital gown had ridden high. It was scorched and stained, but with a gentle whisper under his breath, she felt it disappear in a puff of magic. She realised with wry amusement that her legs were splayed, her body open and ready for him — as it always had been.

‘Sabra?’ he asked, and she watched his lips as they formed her name, displaying the white perfection of his teeth as he did.

‘Yes, it’s always yes.’ She groaned in answer to his unspoken question.

Cain clearly needed no further urging; his hand delved south and his manhood sprung high and proud from his pants. It nestled close against her. Sabra held her breath and waited, feeling the heat of its head pushing at the very gateway of her femininity.

Cain made one sharp movement forward and instantly she felt herself filled with him. She cried out and her legs wrapped themselves around his waist and goaded him to move against her.

The rightness of the moment made tears leak from her eyes again. She’d wanted this, she’d needed this.

‘Cain,’ she murmured against him, and he dipped his head and took her mouth. His tongue mimicked those other parts of him thrusting into her. Heat built and grew within her, his body seeming to touch those deepest parts of her that she’d thought had withered and died from neglect over the past 18 months.

He was slick and impossibly smooth with her body’s liquid desire. The groan of their lovemaking echoed around the room as the Warlord heaved above her. She opened her eyes and found him staring down at her. His gaze was filled with something she hadn’t expected.
Affection
blazed in the angular plains of his face. She held that look, her body absorbing the force of his thrusts readily. Soon, perhaps too soon, the ferocity and speed of his thrusts increased with urgency. Sabra felt her body tighten in reciprocal excitement. Her body tingled, heat like electric sparks gathered deep within her and she let out a guttural cry.

Then it hit, an orgasm like no other cascaded through her body and flooded every fibre of her being. Cain’s eyes widened, and his lovemaking intensified for a few rapid, hard plunges as her body continued to contract around him.

‘Sabra,
I love you
,’ the Warlord whispered as his own orgasm racked him.

***

When Cain lifted his head, to his great astonishment, he found Sabra limp beneath him. Her eyes were glazed pools of grey, and an amused smile curled her cupid lips. Shame crept through him, stealing through his confidence like rot. He’d done what he always did. Let their bodies speak without any words, when it was words, not sex that was needed. He knew it and cursed himself for his lack of self-control.

‘Sabra?’ he said softly, unwilling to break the moment, but concerned all the same for her wellbeing. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Mmmhmmm,’ she agreed drowsily.

Without a word, he slipped from her with a wet sucking sound. Sabra giggled and yawned. Cain could see that the excitement of the past few days was catching up with her, and post-coital hormones were preparing her for sleep.