Into the Shadow (9 page)

‘‘I heal . . . quickly.’’ He smiled, his teeth bright white and sharp, and the combination of his amusement and the drying smear of blood on his cheek made her rage cool, and made her realize just how untenable was her situation.

‘‘You look at me with those big eyes that are the same color as the ocean in winter and wonder if I’m going to hurt you.’’ He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head away, so he whispered in her ear, ‘‘I would never hurt you. But I promise that before I am done with you, every time you think of pleasure, you’ll think of me.’’

Did he feel anything for her? About her? Besides murderous rage? Besides lust?

He turned her onto her stomach, lifted her, and dropped her onto the mattress. It was still bouncing as she flipped over to find him waiting for her, that ferocious smile in place. He swung the rope before her eyes like a hypnotist’s dangling watch.

‘‘No!’’ She grabbed the center, tried to jerk it away.

He clutched her wrist and wrapped the rope around the bracelet. Gently—he had no reason to be rough; her struggles were getting her nowhere—he pulled her arm up, slid the rope through the brass posts on the headboard, and grasped her other wrist.

They wrestled.

He won.

When he was finished, the rope wound around one wide bracelet, through the posts, and around the other bracelet. There was play in the rope; she could move her arms twelve inches in any direction, could use the ropes to leverage herself toward the headboard—but she was tied. ‘‘I hate you so much.’’

‘‘You don’t yet. But you will.’’ He pulled out his knife.

A gush of fear struck deep into her core.

He was angry. So angry. The blade gleamed in the light of the lanterns. He pressed the tip of the knife to her throat right over her wind-pipe, and smiled into her face.

‘‘Don’t struggle,’’ he whispered. ‘‘I’d hate to slip.’’ He ran the point down her throat to the neckline of his T-shirt—and with one clean slice he cut it open down to her waist.

She shrieked, and hated herself for it.

‘‘I told you. I won’t hurt you.’’ He used the tip of the knife to move the material away from first one breast, then the other.

Her nipples hardened from the cold . . . and maybe from the slow, betraying touch of his hungry tongue to his lower lip.

That blade cut the sleeves. The T-shirt lay beneath her in ruins.

He slipped the knife into the leather holster strapped on the headboard. He used his hands, one each, to press her clenched fists. ‘‘So rebellious, ’’ he chided. ‘‘It won’t do you any good. I’m bigger, I’m stronger, and I already know how to make you purr.’’ He wrapped his fingers around her wrists above the bracelets, then slid up toward her elbow, over her straining biceps, and over her bunched shoulders. ‘‘So much tension.’’ He used his thumbs to massage her tight muscles above her shoulder blade, and his fingertips to massage the cords at the back of her neck. ‘‘You won’t be able to keep it up. But definitely you should try. I’ll enjoy watching you yield.’’

Passionate, sharp hatred burned in her stomach.

How could she have welcomed him into her tent, into her bed? He was nothing but a . . . ‘‘You’re a snake,’’ she said, the accusation dipped in poison.

‘‘No. I am a panther. And you are my mate.’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘We’ll see what you say . . . later.’’ He used his thumbs on her nipples. Over and over he rubbed them, first with the pad of his thumb, then with the edge of his fingernail, until she wanted to whimper—and not from fear.

Damn him.
If he meant to use her, couldn’t he be a man and get it over with quickly?

Instead he slid his arm beneath her, lifting her, arching her up to his hungry mouth. He suckled softly at first, then harder, taking almost all of her slight breast into his mouth, manipulating it with his tongue and teeth and lips until her eyelids closed and she found her fingernails clawing the pillows under her head.

With careful deliberation he placed his knee between her legs and thrust his thigh against her.

The hard canvas seam of the jeans rubbed against her clit, and her sensation of fullness abruptly became painful.

No, not painful. That wasn’t the right word. She was . . . needy.

The bastard who held her, who moved her on him, had chased her down, marked her as his, scared her to death, and now . . . now he was using all his knowledge of her and probably a thousand other women to make her come. Come so fast and hard she’d be ashamed of herself. Of her weakness.

So she gasped, ‘‘What’s the matter? Can’t get it up?’’

Slowly he let her down onto the sheets. Rising on his knees above her, he lowered his hands to his worn brown leather belt.

She couldn’t look away as, with leisurely care, he pulled the two ends apart, then ............opened the buttons, one by one.

He wore underwear, plain white cotton underwear made, by the looks of it, by some American manufacturer. And as he pushed the jeans down, his erection tented the material. He eased his briefs off—and abruptly the whole business was so much worse.

She’d seen his penis before. Of course. But today it looked longer, wider. It rose from among the curling black hairs, a pale marble veined with blue, and the mere sight of it made her feel a ferocious desire to touch.

But she couldn’t. He had tied her . . . his slave.

She closed her eyes and turned her head away. ‘‘I wish you’d hurry this up. I don’t know what you do all day long, but I’m sure warlords have some duties.’’

He laughed, and it sounded like a purr. ‘‘No. I’m like a hunting cat. There are great, long hours of relaxation, followed by brief bursts of furious activity.’’

‘‘Which is this?’’

‘‘My favorite combination of both.’’ Something soft and luxurious stroked her throat, tickled down her breastbone, slipped under the loose waistband of her borrowed jeans to caress her belly. And for a second she thought she felt the drag of a long, sharp claw across her tender skin.

Her eyes shot open.

Above her Warlord leaned on one elbow and examined her face. ‘‘I don’t want you to hide behind your lids. I want you completely open to me.’’

‘‘What
was
that?’’

He showed her a glorious, colorful peacock feather and whisked it lightly across her breasts. ‘‘This?’’

‘‘It felt like . . .’’ Her gaze fell on him.

His pants were gone. He wore only a tight black short-sleeved T-shirt that clung to his muscled chest. His sculpted body was tense with anticipation, yet still he coolly dusted her skin with the feather, intent on lifting her past the level of suspense to mindless craving.

He laid his palm flat on her stomach, right above the waistband of her jeans—his jeans— and slipped his hand beneath the tough material. He pressed her belly, simply pressed it, and that one point of contact felt so good. Reassuring, kind, as if he cared, not about winning, but about making her happy.

He compelled her surrender based on the most egregious lie of all.

She yanked at the rope.

He watched with interest. ‘‘Testing the knots? That won’t help. I was a Boy Scout.’’

‘‘A Boy Scout? Is
this
what they taught you in camp?’’

‘‘No, they didn’t offer this merit badge. I imagine camp would have been a lot more popular if they had.’’

Damn him for tying a good knot. And damn him for making her want to laugh.

Laugh! Now!

She used all her weight to drag herself up the bed, but the rope held, and while she moved up he held the legs of the jeans and pulled them down.

‘‘You’re a pig.’’

‘‘A panther.’’

‘‘Don’t flatter yourself.’’

‘‘And yet the pants are off.’’

They weren’t really. They were caught at the top of her thighs, and when he teased the feather over her hips, she wanted to kick the crap out of him.

She couldn’t, because he’d managed to imprison her legs as efficiently as he’d imprisoned her hands. And her.

Frustration scorched her, so she gave a warrior’s yell and walked out of the pants.

What did it matter? He would have her out of them at his pleasure, and she would not lie there while he did with her as he wished. In a frenzy of temper she kicked at his chest, hoping to catch him unaware and knock him backward and breathless. Instead he snagged her ankle and used her motion to leverage her up and onto her stomach. Her wrists crossed. Her face pressed into the pillows, and she bounded up onto her elbows and knees to scream her defiance.

Immediately he was behind her, between her legs, catching and holding her hips close to his. His erection probed, found, entered, glided.

She grabbed the brass bars. The cold metal against her palms and the heat of his hard-on formed an electric current through her body, making her arch as lightning shot through her spine. ‘‘You bastard. You lousy jerk. You scumbag.’’

‘‘That’s right.’’ He thrust hard and deep. ‘‘Hate me. Call me names. Be fierce.’’ He reached around, under her belly, and used his fingers to manipulate her clit until she undulated beneath him. ‘‘But
care
. By God.
Feel
.’’

Feel? She couldn’t stop feeling. He was deep inside her, controlling her motions with his arm around her hips, making her move for him, with him. Fruitlessly she fought him, trying to establish her own rhythm, to use him like a vibrator, to bring herself to orgasm.

He would have none of that. His motion inside her was deep, small, controlled, inciting yet not satisfying.

Her breath rasped in her lungs. She fought her way forward on the bed—and he let her— until she could pull herself up onto the brass bars on the headboard. Her cheek, her shoulders, her breasts, her belly rested against the cold metal, and still he remained below her, thrusting up into her body in those slow, hot, forbidden motions that made the lightning spread along each nerve. She no longer called him names. She begged him. ‘‘Please, Warlord. Please. Deeper. Now. Faster.’’

‘‘No.’’ His voice trembled as he fought his desires. ‘‘You wait. You yield. You call me your master and then I’ll let you come.’’

She was frenzied with lust, but she hadn’t lost her mind. ‘‘I
won’t.’’

He pulled almost all the way out. He leaned against her back and whispered in her ear, ‘‘One of us will win. Both of us will suffer.’’

‘‘I don’t give a damn if we both die.’’

He laughed, his amusement vibrating from his chest to her back, his breath lifting the hairs on her neck. ‘‘But what a sweet death it will be.’’

He’d made good on his threat. Karen had no idea how long she’d been confined in Warlord’s tent. She no longer knew if it was day or night. She knew only that she waged an endless, constant, sensuous battle to keep her pride . . . and if something didn’t happen soon, she would give him what he wanted. She would yield. She would call him
master
. She would be not Karen Sonnet but Warlord’s slave.

Because no matter what they were doing, she thought of pleasure. When he fed her the meals Mingma fixed them, she watched his long fingers and thought how skillfully they feathered along her spine. When he talked to her, she watched his glorious lips and remembered how they felt as they moved against her mouth in long, leisurely, damp kisses. When he walked away from her, she watched the firm, concave muscles of his butt and remembered how his cheeks felt under her palms as he thrust in and out and in and out.

And when she stared at the bracelets he had placed on her wrists, she thought them beautiful. . . .
Oh, God.
He had drugged her with sex.

She hated him. She hated this place. She hated herself and her own weakness.

Today, as every day, she woke with a single thought—she had to get away. She had to escape before winter set in, for then she would be trapped forever.

Normally in the morning she heard nothing but Mingma’s soft murmur speaking to Warlord, and the wind as it whistled a mocking tune. But today she lay very still, listening to a strange man speak from a position just inside the door. ‘‘Ye’ve got to come out, man. There’s trouble breaking out among the ranks. The last raid went so well it left some of the men hungry for more. The others are nervous, worried about the reports of trouble.’’

‘‘Which group are you in, Magnus?’’ Warlord’s smooth, menacing drawl raised the hair on the back of her neck.

Karen heard the sharp sound of fist against flesh, and flipped over in shock.

Magnus was short, stocky, balding, with bandy legs and a wide stance. He had a thin red scar on one cheek, and he was missing the little finger on both hands. He held his fists close to his chest like a boxer in a prizefight waiting for a fatal blow.

Warlord was a head taller, barefoot, dressed in his half-buttoned jeans. He was staring, narrow eyed, at Magnus, and wiping the blood from his mouth. ‘‘Shall I kill you now, or should we go outside?’’

‘‘Ye’ll not kill me.’’ Magnus lifted his chin at him. ‘‘Ye know I’m in the right.’’

Warlord still stared, poised on the balls of his feet, ready to spring. Then gradually, deliberately, he relaxed. ‘‘All right. Talk to me.’’

‘‘Two weeks ye’ve been in here, man, shaking the tent night and day.’’

Karen stealthily pulled the covers over her crimson face.

‘‘Ye’ve got responsibilities. These men follow ye because ye keep them safe and make them rich. But riches will do them no good if the rumors are true.’’

‘‘What rumors?’’

‘‘That the enforcers, the ones the militaries hired to get rid of us . . . that they’re led by another like you.’’ Magnus lowered his voice, but she could still hear him. ‘‘A beastie who wanders the mountains in animal form.’’

Magnus thought Warlord was a werewolf?
Oh, brother.
Warlord really had him conned.

‘‘Benjie and Dehqan disappeared while on patrol, and I found a trail of blood headed toward the army camp just over the border. I got close enough to hear screaming down there. They were racking someone. Then Benjie showed up here.’’

‘‘Unharmed?’’

‘‘Hale and hearty. He said Dehqan decided to head home to Afghanistan.’’

‘‘You don’t believe him.’’

‘‘Not for a minute. No one does. He’s jumpy as a cat, and Dae-Jung caught him signaling into the mountains with a mirror.’’

Karen peeked at the two men. They stood with their heads together, intent on their discussion, and while she didn’t know for sure who Magnus was, it was clear to her that Warlord respected and liked him.

‘‘He’s betrayed us,’’ Warlord said.

‘‘No doubt about it,’’ Magnus answered.

‘‘Benjie’s always been the one to take the easy road. I wonder what they promised him?’’

‘‘Money.’’

‘‘No. Respect. That’s what our foolish Benjie craves.’’ Warlord thoughtfully dabbed at the blood on his split lip. ‘‘Very well. Bring him to me. Let’s see if I can convince him to give me a different version of the events.’’

‘‘Down by the fire pit?’’ Magnus asked.

‘‘Oh, yes. Definitely down by the fire pit.’’ Warlord clapped Magnus on the shoulder. ‘‘Bring him in.’’

When the Scotsman left, he was whistling.

Warlord opened a chest, pulled out a long-sleeved T-shirt, and dragged it over his head. He tucked it into his jeans, buttoned up, pulled out a studded leather belt, and slipped it through the loops. Seating himself, he pulled on wool socks and heavy black boots that laced up his calf. Reaching into the chest once more, he extracted two sharp, slender knives and slipped them into his boots. He stood and shook his jeans down, then strapped a large holster around his chest and a smaller one around each arm. He placed a Smith & Wesson 952 in the larger holster, Kel-Tec P-32s in the smaller ones.

The man was gunning for bear.

He pulled on a loose black coat, checked his weapons, then glanced at Karen.

She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.

So of course she didn’t hear him approach, didn’t know he was there until he whispered in her ear, ‘‘I won’t be long, darling. You’re tired. Stay in bed.’’

She sat up so fast she cracked him under the chin with her head.

He laughed and rubbed his battered face. ‘‘It’s not my day.’’

‘‘This is real trouble, isn’t it?’’

‘‘What makes you think so?’’

‘‘Magnus hit you. You don’t let anyone hit you unless . . .’’ Turning her head, she looked up into his face—the pale skin covered by the heavy beard and surrounded by the wild hair, the strong nose, the supple lips, and, dominating the whole, those black, black eyes.

‘‘Unless I deserve it?’’

‘‘Yes.’’

‘‘Do you know what I love best about you?’’

‘‘I’m not stupid?’’ she said tartly, but at the same time she lightly touched the split in his lips.

He corrected her. ‘‘I used to lie on my stomach above the construction site and watch you.’’

‘‘You watched me?’’ That explained that prickly feeling she used to get at the back of her neck.

‘‘I couldn’t tear my eyes away. You work hard. You’re smart. You’re stubborn. You shine with an inner light, and I hated what you were doing to me, making me realize what I’d become, changing me against my will. I’ve had other women, but I remember only you. You fill my mind. You fill my soul.’’

Damn him.
How dared he try to enchant her?

‘‘It’s a little late for sweet talk.’’ She turned her head away. ‘‘Are you going to kill him? That Benjie?’’

‘‘It depends on how much he’s willing to tell us and how fast he gives out the information.’’ Warlord sat back on his haunches. ‘‘Why? Do you feel sorry for him?’’

‘‘No. Not if he’s betrayed his comrades.’’

‘‘You don’t think much like a woman.’’

‘‘How does a woman think?’’ She froze him with a steely cold gaze.

‘‘Women are always all’’—he wiggled his fingers and made his voice high and girlie— ‘‘ ‘Ooh, don’t hurt him.’ ’’

‘‘You’ve been watching too many old movies, the ones where the female always falls down and twists her ankle while trying to escape. ’’ She bared her teeth in a feral smile. ‘‘Try
Kill Bill
. It’ll give you a new appreciation of just what violence a woman is capable of.’’

‘‘You’re such a pretty woman. Such a strong woman. A construction manager.’’ Leaning over her, he slid his fingers through her hair. ‘‘What made you decide to become a construction manager?’’

Like she was going to tell him about her early private hell. ‘‘What made you decide to become a ruthless warlord?’’ she countered.

His fingers never paused, and his eyes gleamed like obsidian. ‘‘I have a natural talent for murder.’’ Yanking her hair, he tilted her head back and kissed her deeply.

She tasted his blood on her tongue and—

The first grenade flew from his hand in a beautiful arc through the bright blue Tibetan sky, right into the convoy, and landed in the lead Jeep. The little pissant of a driver screamed; then the explosion rocked the pass and blew the Chinese general into a million pieces of chicken chow mein. In the moment of shocked silence that followed, Warlord smiled with bone-deep delight; the mean son of a bitch would never again beat a woman to death and firebomb a nomad settlement in retaliation for offering hospitality to an American.

Then the Chinese soldiers sprang into action, spraying the rocks with bullets. His men returned fire. The narrow pass rang with shots. The smell of gunpowder stung his nose, and still he smiled as he fitted the bayonet to his weapon, charged down the hills, and spitted the yellow bastards until blood spattered him from head to toe.

A bullet struck him in the back. Pain exploded in his lungs. He staggered. Dropped to his knees.

But no one on this battlefield could kill
him
.

Twisting, he looked up at the guy pointing the pistol at him.

Victor Rivera was an older mercenary. He was taking advantage of this opportunity to rid himself of a raw young American interloper. He was from Argentina. And the word he screamed when Warlord speared his gonads was pure Spanish profanity—and the last word he would ever speak.

Warlord lifted Victor’s genitals on the tip of the bayonet. Blood dripped down his rifle onto his hands, and into the sudden silence he roared, ‘‘This is my enemy! Who else is my enemy?’’

The Chinese gaped, then broke ranks and ran.

Rivera’s mercenaries moved in.

Warlord laughed, pulled Rivera’s pistol from his belt, and shot the lead man in the head.

He was going to hell.

No—he was in hell.

With a gasp Karen returned to the present. She was in Warlord’s tent. Warlord was gone. She lay prone on the bed. Her heart pounded, shaking her chest. Wildly she lifted her hands and looked at them. They weren’t covered with blood. She looked down at herself. She wore a loose, pale, sheer nightgown, unstained by gore.

Porcelain clinked softly. Mingma knelt beside the low table, arranging the breakfast dishes and pouring tea into a mug. The scent of her tobacco wafted across the tent. Everything was . . . normal.

Yet Karen was not. She had been somewhere, seen something she should never have seen.

She had tasted Warlord’s blood; then she had seen a terrible event long past, and seen it through Warlord’s eyes. ‘‘Where is he?’’ she demanded.

Mingma looked up, and Karen’s expression must have been alarming, for she stood and backed away. ‘‘He left. Said to let you sleep.’’ She gestured at the food. ‘‘Breakfast?’’

Karen sat up and cupped her head in her palms. What was happening to her? How could she be in Warlord’s mind? In his past? Had she truly, finally gone completely crazy?

‘‘Miss?’’ Mingma touched her shoulder.

In a violent gesture, Karen knocked her hand away. ‘‘Don’t touch me.’’ She hadn’t forgotten Mingma’s betrayal, and right now she didn’t need some supernatural acid trip to smell trouble brewing. No matter how sincerely kind Mingma seemed, if the Sherpa had been willing to sell her out to Warlord, she would be willing to sell out Warlord to whatever forces were brewing. Not that Karen cared about him, but she knew he protected her, and in a camp of one hundred men surrounded by hostile territory, protection was a commodity to be valued.

Lifting her gaze to Mingma, she said, ‘‘Step out and tell me what’s happening out there.’’

Mingma walked to the tent flap and lifted it.

Karen heard a high, thin scream.

‘‘Benjie,’’ Mingma said.

‘‘Won’t he talk?’’

‘‘He is afraid.’’ Mingma stared out into the camp, then scanned the horizon.

‘‘Afraid of Warlord?’’

‘‘I think . . . afraid of the Other.’’ Mingma’s serenity was cracking.

‘‘What Other?’’

‘‘The men speak of the Other, a mercenary who will wipe Warlord away and hold this territory forever.’’

Karen spied the opportunity she’d been looking for.

She stood. She pulled on a robe. She knelt by the table and began to eat. ‘‘Leave me.’’

‘‘Miss, if you try to run again, he will kill me.’’ Mingma’s voice shook.

‘‘If Warlord falls, who will pay your fee? Who will support your son in America?’’ Karen prodded Mingma in her weak spot. ‘‘Shouldn’t you think about leaving?’’

The color drained out of Mingma’s brown face, and she backed away from Karen. ‘‘Miss, you see the future?’’

‘‘Only a fool wouldn’t see this future.’’ Karen ate steadily—she would need the sustenance— and didn’t look up.