A Warlord's Lady (8 page)

Sabra stared at him; she could feel the chromatophores in her skin fluctuate wildly. ‘That doesn’t sound good.’

The man took time to consider her words. ‘Perhaps I phrased that wrong.’ He sank down onto a wheelie stool and scooted across the expanse of grey linoleum towards her. Sabra could smell the scent of magic carried in the wake of his movement. ‘It has never been
you
the Warlord wanted. Rather, it was what your ovaries contain.’

Sabra wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. ‘My ovaries?’ she repeated dumbly.

The man grinned and his wicked teeth glittered in the fluorescent lighting. ‘Your ovaries,’ he confirmed.

‘What do they contain that you or Cain could possibly want?’

He let out a round of hiccuping laughs. ‘Do we need an elementary lesson on human biology?’

‘Clearly we do, because I have no idea why you’d want
anything
from my ovaries.’ Her voice was rising with hysteria.

‘Human ova, otherwise known as
eggs
,’ he soothed. ‘When the Warlord captured you, he did so with the specific intent of trying to impregnate you the old-fashioned way…such a waste, really. All those months, waiting for
nature to run its course
,’ he sneered. ‘What was he thinking?’ He chuckled wetly. ‘I, however, have no intentions of making such a foolish, archaic mistake.’ He paused and looked at her, his eyes roving over her body once again. ‘Although…I can see the benefits…’ His gaze was heavy and Sabra squirmed.

The man looked thoughtful and then turned to fiddle with some things on the stainless steel table.

Sabra felt insanely irritated by the man’s answer. ‘Why on earth would Cain
want
to impregnate me?’ she hissed, challenging him. ‘Don’t most men avoid impregnation like the plague?’

Jayden certainly had.

‘Do you have any idea of
who
you are?’ The man asked, his glittering blue eyes catching and holding her steely grey ones.

‘I’m Sabra Westwood,’ she squeaked, more than a little alarmed at his lascivious gaze.

‘Indeed you are, Sabra, but have you any idea of
what
you really are?’

What I really am?
What did he mean?

‘I’m a Chameleon!’ she barked, feeling the chromatophores flare red and flicker in annoyance.

‘Such beautiful colours,’ he murmured and stroked her cheek. His touch was like an ice cube on a frying pan and her skin sizzled beneath his touch. Sabra twisted her head away from him. ‘SABRA — Sentience Activated Body Reaction Armour — ever heard of it?’

She wanted to explode. ‘What in hell are you talking about? Sentience what?’

‘Sentience Activated Body Reaction Armour…the acronym is SABRA.’ He held her gaze steadily.

Something sick flopped in Sabra’s stomach. ‘Sabra?’ Her voice was weak.

‘SABRA,’ he affirmed, his lips curling in a smirk, ‘a product of the Australian Government’s National Security Biotechnology Institute.’

‘What do you mean
a product?’
Sabra wheezed. Her chest felt impossibly tight and she struggled against the straps. ‘You’re talking bullshit. I’m just a kid who grew up in a foster home. I’m not the bloody product of some biological whatsit institute!’ Growing hysteria was making her mouth foul.

The man, whose name she still did not know, tilted his head and gazed at her. ‘How about a deal, Sabra Westwood? An answer in exchange for a question? I can see you’re confused.’

Sabra caught his gaze and held it, not really able to read the expression.

‘Deal,’ Sabra agreed readily. ‘If you’ll unstrap me.’

He blinked and ran a hand through his neat short hair. ‘I’ll just unstrap your hands,’ he agreed, and with an uttered spell the straps were gone.

Sabra sat up though her legs were still bound firmly. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, rubbing her wrists ruefully.

‘You can call me Faustus.’ He inclined his head graciously, as if his name should mean something to her. ‘Though I’ve had many names in my life.’

Sabra nodded, thinking, but frankly she still had no idea who he was.

Her reaction seemed to satisfy Faustus, and he smiled broadly. ‘My turn.’

It was then that Sabra noted he had a slight British accent; she realised he must be from a chapter of the English Magical Mafia.

‘I’ve read your book, Sabra.’

Sabra felt her guts squeeze, and she cursed herself inwardly again for writing the damn thing.

‘Millions have read my book,’ was all she could respond, though the words made her tongue heavy and her heart even heavier.

‘Can you explain to me exactly how you escaped from the Warlord?’

Sabra’s belly twisted in earnest now, ‘You’ve read the book…there’s not much else I can tell you.’

‘In your own words, please, Sabra.’

***

[Excerpt from
Memoirs of a Warlord’s Love Slave
, Chapter 10]

Cain’s dark eyes seemed flat and I couldn’t read them. Although, he was also not wearing a shirt — which made his face difficult to concentrate on. The muscles of his sculpted torso glistened in the humid air. It was a cruel reminder of everything I’d touched, kissed and unknowingly shared with other women. The jealousy made me want to vomit. I couldn’t tear the images from my mind.

Only moments ago I’d walked into his den and found him not alone. The scene was burned into my retina.

The Warlord’s den was a richly masculine space. It was located on the same floor of the building as my rooms, and was where he spent much of his time — on telephones, meeting with his generals and practicing magic. One evening several months ago, he had invited me to join him in his den. Typically we didn’t talk all that much, but he’d taken me against the bookshelves, and the next day bent over his desk, and the day after that — I think you get the idea. So when I walked into his den and stepped foot onto the Laotian silk carpets, the last thing I’d expected was for him to have company.

The den was a large room; in one corner was the meeting table, at the other end was his desk, and to the left of that were the bookshelves and comfortable reading chairs. It was on one of these reading chairs that the Warlord sat.

He reclined, naked to the waist, with one arm leaning on the armrest and holding up his chin. He was sitting sprawled, his legs apart, relaxed. He looked for all the world like a man readying himself for a private lap dance at a sleazy bar. Unable to resist, my eyes crawled up his body to his face. He looked smug, self-assured and vaguely amused, but it took a minute before I realised why. Standing before him were women — gorgeous women. Not one, not two, not three. Six in total stood before him.

I felt a gasp collect in my throat, and my skin roared with wild colour. What was going on?

The women were scantily attired; I noticed that much. Clad in little more than silk slips which highlighted everything from the ripple of nipple to the smooth indent of their navels. The women seemed oblivious to my presence. Their eyes were locked on Cain and his were locked on them. I could see his dark eyes shift from one to another. Roving over flawless faces, café au lait skin, and the ripe swell of bosoms.

‘My lord,’ said one woman, a stunning dark-haired Caucasian. ‘I am yours,’ she murmured, her voice husky.

I’m yours? I thought…who was she kidding? Yet Cain did not rebuke her, merely inclined his head and switched his gaze to peruse the woman beside her. I hated how his eyes lingered longer on this one.

The woman he studied was an unblemished Laotian. She had the smooth brown skin of those from the hill tribes, a generous flat nose and luscious pouting lips. Her silver headpiece was traditionally made. Disks and chains of silver hung down from her head and framed her lovely round face — but that’s where tradition ended. Instead of the customary modest dress of black and coloured beads, she was clad in the same silk slip that left nothing to the imagination.

She murmured words gently in a soft musical way. I couldn’t understand her as she’d spoken in her native tongue, but I knew what she’d said because, within a moment, the next woman repeated her words in English. They were giving themselves to the Warlord. Offering themselves like trussed hams for his appetite; submitting to his might, his power and his desires.

My throat felt so tight I thought I might choke. The Warlord had all these women giving themselves to him, and then there was pitiful me. A strange, slightly tubby Chameleon, waltzing into his den hoping for a decadent shag.

How ridiculous.

So why did I feel so betrayed?

He was my kidnapper, not my boyfriend. He was my master, not my partner. How had I got everything so confused?

It was then he noticed me, or perhaps he’d known I was there all along. His eyes slid from the last woman and locked on me. His eyes met mine and sent spasms of longing screaming through me.

‘Sabra.’ His voice was neutral, calm and soothing. ‘I didn’t expect you.’ Those hooded eyes regarded me coolly.

For a second something squelched in my throat. It was meant to be a witty response but sounded more like a squashed frog, and just as sad.

‘It’s all right,’ he soothed, his tone irritatingly neutral.

I could feel my skin roar with colour and the women’s eyes absorb my abnormality with interest.

‘No, it’s not,’ I heard myself sob, before I turned and ran.

***

I hid in my rooms, childishly I suppose, curled up on one of the soft sofas on my balcony.

‘Sabra,’ Cain’s voice called softly. I heard his footsteps nearby, bare feet padding on the cool stone floor.

I curled into a tighter ball on the sofa, hoping he wouldn’t see me there.

He did, of course.

I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder, and warmth flowed from it into my body; tears instantly pricked my eyes. I knew it was just an illusion.

I lifted my head to face him. ‘I want to go home.’ I fought the blistering burn of the tears that threatened my vision. He’d probably left the other women in his den, I realised with a sick twist of my belly, no doubt planning to return to them later.

‘I want to go home.’ I repeated and tried to hold his gaze.

The flawless, sculptured perfection of his face gazed back. I couldn’t see any cruelty there, or maliciousness, just a faint hint of amusement. ‘I’ve had enough.’

Cain flashed a smile, and despite everything my heart flip-flopped like a fish out of water. ‘No.’ He shook his head, his gleaming black hair overshadowing his eyes.

‘No?’ I asked. ‘How dare you?’

If anything he looked more amused, and it pissed me off.

‘I dare, Sabra, because I can. You’re mine. You stay with me.’

The gall! Bastard.

‘I am not yours, those women are yours,’ I screamed at him. I must have looked demented because his eyes narrowed for the briefest of moments before he took a step closer to me, his expression softening to sympathy. He opened his arms and beckoned me towards him.

I tried to fight it, I really did. God forgive me, but I went to him, again.

Inwardly, I cursed the spicy scent of him, the heat of his touch and my traitorous body. What the hell was wrong with me?

Yet when he kissed me, I couldn’t think of the women, I couldn’t curse any more, I couldn’t fight. I no longer wanted to. I shamelessly allowed myself to be lifted into his arms, and carried to the bed.

The softness of the bed cocooned me as he laid me down. I waited, breathless as his deft fingers peeled open my robe. They were all I wore these days, flimsy silken robes which allowed him unadulterated access to my body. I could feel the chromatophores on my body flush and undulate, a sure sign of my excitement and anticipation. The Warlord’s lips curled with a smile.

‘My rainbow,’ he murmured, his dark head dipping to take a nipple in his mouth.

He took me then, as he often did, crooning love-words into my ears.

Though his words filled my ears as his body filled mine, my mind knew the truth.

When he left me, in the early hours of the dark tropical morning, I’d made my decision. I was leaving.

I knew if I did not leave now, it would not just be my ears and body he filled, it would be my heart as well.

‘How did you escape, Sabra?’ Faustus asked again.

Sabra looked up, dazed.
Another damn flashback
. ‘I…’ Sabra began. Sweat beaded on her upper lip, arousal at the memory pooled between her legs.

‘I don’t know,’ Sabra whispered, a roar of heat washing over her.

‘I know, you stated that in your book, but I want to hear it from you.’

Sabra felt confused. Why? She looked up in to Faustus’s assessing blue gaze, his eyes as cold as chips of ice.

Best tell the man,
Sabra decided. His facial features seemed to harden, and he was beginning to develop the look of a nasty piece of work.

Sabra threw her murky mind back. It would perhaps help her if she actually understood how she’d escaped in the first place. ‘Well,’ she began, scratching the itch near her nose. ‘I decided one night that I couldn’t stay. I didn’t have a plan, so I thought I’d at least make some effort in surveillance. Perhaps if I knew how the Warlord’s compound operated, I’d find a weakness.’ Sabra paused, noticing the skin on her hand had turned the same institutional grey as the room. She ignored it.

Sentience activated what-not.

Questions bubbled in her brain, but she cast them aside with another nervous glance towards Faustus.

‘The next day, I actually got dressed. The Warlord did supply me with lovely clothes that I’d never felt the desire to wear.’

Faustus raised an eyebrow, clearly not interested in the fashions of a Laotian Warlord. Sabra forged on. ‘I went for a walk. There was a dirt access road a few kilometres’ walk from the house. So I walked there. I figured, perhaps, that I’d hide in the pile of refuse and cardboard boxes, wait for the waste management truck to come, camouflage and leave with the rubbish. After all, I was just a chattel, another of the many women the Warlord had in his collection. It was unlikely he’d miss me now he had all those…
others.
’ Sabra drifted off, bewildered by the sharp spear of jealousy that stabbed through her.