Moon Borne (Halcyon Romance Series Book 1) (3 page)

As they descended the steep path, he wasn’t sure if he should help her. Offer his arm? He wasn’t that man. No, his life and circumstances had made him something different entirely. A monster. The gentleman he’d been, Aden, was long dead. He sighed. Too late to care about that. Besides, she was making headway down the cliff. He doubted she would even accept his help. Untouched she might be, but he would soon hand her over to be raped.

Bloody hell.
The depths of his stomach churned at the notion. He’d always refused to handle the
raptio
, or sexual slaves. At least before Kyme.
This capture is no different from any other.
He took in a deep breath.
Naught I haven’t done a thousand times.

“What is your name?” he asked, keeping up his ruse of not knowing who she was.

“Kyme.” The sound of her name parting her lips was sweeter than nectar.

She didn’t ask for his. He didn’t understand why it bothered him. “My name’s Arsenius.” The words escaped before he’d had a chance to check them. What had he said? Had he told her the right name?

“I don’t care to know your name, Arsenius.”

Her exotic accent rolled over the letters of his name, her tongue caressing the “r,” gently pressing the air out of the
esses
.

Focus. Need to focus.
All he had to do was reach his ship, transport the Amazon, and then he’d have what he required. Aye, he must finish this mission. Gods, everything depended on it.

He could not fail
her
again.

Not when he was so close.

The path led them to a small port, where they dismounted, and he returned the horses to the stables. He seized Kyme’s arm with a firm grip, warning her not to attempt an escape. The port wasn’t busy at the moment. Even so, he’d docked away from the other ships, in a secluded cove. Humans wouldn’t detect his ship, thanks to a cloaking enchantment, but he didn’t wish to draw attention. Soon, they would disappear as they boarded her.

The
Adrasteia
was a proud brigantine. He’d named her after one of his half-sisters, the goddess of revenge and balance. Her name meant “she whom none can escape.” A fitting name for a fast ship. Indeed, she was rigged for speed, and had ten guns and a crew of one hundred. A smile tugged at his lips. It hadn’t taken him long to scrape from being nothing to owning everything.

At the water’s edge, they climbed into a longboat and Arsenius raised the oars. With long, even strokes, he rowed toward his ship. He studied the fierce Amazon as she sat, her hands folded in her lap, her sharp gaze focused on the clear blue waters. She seemed so fragile. He almost forgot what a warrior she was. Almost. Her gaze met his and he read her deadly intent. He grinned at her, loving the challenge.

Without waiting for his sailors to hoist the longboat aboard, Arsenius waved for Kyme to ascend the ladder onto the deck. He followed his new slave, hoping to avoid the questioning stare of his quartermaster. Thereus was a loyal, albeit nosy, centaur, and the Amazon beside Arsenius would lead to a tidal wave of questions, such as why he bore the frenzy markings. He met his first mate’s widened stare across the ship and grumbled, “Not one word.”

Thereus nodded. He’d hold his tongue. For now.

Chapter 3

The slaver—Kyme refused to consider him by his name—had left her alone in his cabin while he went about preparing his ship to set sail. No chains, a simple lock on the door. Aside from a couple of curious glances, his crew hadn’t paid her much attention. Were they used to unbound slaves?

As much as she’d hoped to hate his ship, it was a beautiful two-masted vessel, with lovely tall ivory sails and a sleek, rapid-looking frame. Sailors, most of whom were not human, crowded the decks. The ship must be worth a fortune. Which meant the slaver was very successful.
He’s made his wealth by selling people. Ugh.

As the shipmates released the sails and prepared the vessel for voyage, a symphony of masculine voices drifted into the cabin. She caught a few words of the tune, something about drinking and women.
Argh. Filthy criminals. Pyrates.
She paced the floor of the captain’s cabin. The scent of rich wood filled her nostrils, the creaking was more soothing than irritating, and the singing pleased her ears more than she liked to admit. It was enough to unnerve her warrior’s composure. Her nails dug into her palms, and she had to force her jaw to unclench.

How long would it take to reach wherever it was they were going? Would he deliver her himself? It made sense that he wouldn’t sell her at any of the local markets. As one of the rare, untouched Daughters, she would fetch an obscene amount, making the slaver an even richer man. Enough to live in luxury for the rest of his existence.

Icy gusts chilled across her spine. Someone was buying Amazons for the sole purpose of breeding them. Why? If she killed the slaver, she would never uncover who had hired him. Her sisters would be at risk for future abductions. A heaviness dropped like a stone into the pit of her stomach. She had to follow this through, all the way, or she would never find out.

Once she discovered who the buyer was, and after approval from her Queen, she would execute the slaver. A death long and slow. She dared not risk Ares’s retribution against her family without permission. Hippolyta would have to sanction her actions first, once Kyme had secured proof.

She scanned the cabin, analyzing her new environment. The room was immaculate. It also contained nothing personal. Not so much as a painting, book, or personal artifact of any kind. Nothing to reveal any clues about its occupant. The cabin contained a desk, a wardrobe, a weapons cabinet, and a bed. All tidily arranged. Neatly stacked map scrolls and sailing instruments lined the desk.

A large, elaborate bathtub graced one corner. Those with blood of the gods in them considered cleanliness a necessity. It drove Kyme mad not to be able to bathe every day.

She peered into the tub. Hot, steamy water greeted her. She dipped a finger in and sighed. What she wouldn’t do to steep inside. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

Though the slaver wouldn’t ravage her virginity, he might taint her. She refused to offer him any excuse to do so. Already a dangerous heat burned between them. It would be unwise to trust him, even fleetingly. No, she shook herself. More than unwise. Deadly.

Kyme eased into the leather chair at the desk and tried not to allow her gaze to wander toward the far cabinet, the one which screamed death. She struggled not to eye the weapons inside, not to imagine their glorious strength in her hands. It was very difficult.

She didn’t need a weapon. Her powers were strong enough, most of the time. Unfortunately, they were also far too easy to drain. Even with her powers replenished, she still had to return to the Amazon’s protected meadow. This new revelation about the slaver’s buyer kept her feet planted where they were. She’d have time to execute them, one by one. Later. She sent a swift prayer to Artemis for their journey to take them until the next full Moon.

Her attention drifted back to the cabinet, and she caught a glint of metal. Yes, a knife. Blades were her favorite weapon. Soon the slaver would learn their intimate joy. How many of her sisters would he have captured and sold like breeding stock? She smiled, imagining the admiration on the other warriors’ faces once she returned and delivered the slaver’s head to her Queen.

The cabin door opened, revealing her captor. She masked her grin, lest he should mistake her humor for a welcome.

With the smooth movements of a predator, he scanned the room, sniffing the air and cocking his head ever so slightly. His hard charcoal gaze came to rest upon the bathtub.

“You have not bathed.” He turned his stare on her. “Do you share Artemis’s modesty?” The corner of his mouth lifted, but the rest of him did not soften.

His jest struck her as anything but humorous. “You dare to mock a goddess? Are you foolishly brave or just very thick-headed?”

“Neither,” he quipped. “I was mocking you, not the goddess.”

Her blood ran hot. “You are an arrogant ass.”

“That’s master arrogant-ass to you, slave-girl. Time for you to learn how to behave like one.” He removed his boots and stored them by the door. Off came the ivory shirt. His dark leather breeches. Whatever modesty Kyme possessed, he did not mirror it.

“It’s a shame you didn’t bathe earlier. I’m afraid once I’m finished, the water will be quite soiled.” He presented his massive bare form to her with no inhibitions as he crossed the length of the cabin, climbed into the tub, and sighed, sinking into the heated water.

The slaver pointed to the wardrobe. “Soap and washcloths are in there.” He barked out the simple orders, his too-big body slumped in the tub.

She sat speechless, fighting the flames searing her cheeks. “I am not going to bathe you.”
Whew, found my tongue.

He shrugged. “You’re my slave. You will obey my commands.”

She crossed her arms. “No. I will never be your slave.”

He rolled his shoulders, the bunched muscles rippling as they flexed. “Then you’ll not bathe, nor eat, nor change your clothes.”

As simple as that, he plundered even the most primal of necessities. Kyme narrowed her eyes. Now she truly hated him. She inhaled sharply, steeling herself, as she weighed her options. Was he trying to challenge her, train her, or break her?

If the latter, he would not succeed.

Bathing him was not such a terrible task. He was beautiful, after all. Her hands clenched and unclenched, far too eager to skim that delectable masculine skin. She’d never touched a male before, if she discounted newborn babes, and the men she’d killed. If the slaver forced her to bathe him, she would use the situation to her advantage as her sisters would.

And seduce him.

For decades, she’d had to listen to her sisters recount their sexual exploits. Amazons were as ferocious in bed as they were on the battlefield. Blood or carnal, lust was lust. Because of her vows, she was fated to never experience such pleasures… Yet here was the slaver, offering her just that—intimacy without repercussions.

Kyme shook her head at this reasoning. The truth was, the Amazon in her desperately craved freedom. The fury of a passion long ignored and buried deep cried out for its release. Yes, she would do this.

She padded to the wardrobe and removed a soft cloth. Unwrapping a bar of soap, she held it to her nose and inhaled the rich, woodsy scent of sandalwood.

If the slaver anxiously awaited her decision, he didn’t show it. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed, and his erection was unabashedly visible. He was aroused? Why did he desire her—a slave he couldn’t have? More importantly, why didn’t he make some effort to conceal himself? Not that much could be done. She bit her lip. He was far too large.

How would his shaft feel in her hands? Inside her? Kyme jolted. That was not what she should be imagining. Enjoy this moment, but never make it personal. He was an exceptional specimen of the male form. Nothing more. She would study him like a sculpture.

Then identify his weaknesses and break him.

She dipped the cloth in the water and lathered on the soap. The fabric brushed his skin, erasing his markings and causing the waters to run dark with blue ink. A gasp escaped her lips.
How?

Keeping his eyes closed he droned, “I told you the water would be soiled.”

Determined to reveal more of his smooth, bronzed skin, she resumed scrubbing. Deep satisfaction filled her as she stripped away the menacing war paint and revealed the warrior underneath. She traced the marking which led from his neck, along the pulsating vein up his strong jaw, and finished half circling his right eye.

“Why?” she breathed. “It must take hours.”

“‘Tis a battle ritual, nothing more,” he muttered, his voice rough as he plucked her hand from his face.

There was more, she sensed. “Why the lightning bolts? They are not symbols of Ares.”

“No questions,” he growled.

“Fine.” She extended his arm. Clasping its heavy weight, she was unable to deny the allure of all that muscle. Even his hands. She’d not noticed them before. His fingers were long, thick, and callused. His hand was large and warm. She stamped down an unwelcome yearning to caress it against her cheek.

His skin was soft and smooth, yet he was so rigid underneath. Like he was made of steel instead of bone and muscle. As all descendant males, he was hairless except for his head and his sex. Stepping behind him, she slid her arms across his chest, all the way down, stopping tauntingly short of his neglected arousal.

She would not wash that. Yet.

Instead, she released the leather thong binding his hair and held in a moan of appreciation as those raven locks fell free. Seizing the bucket beside the tub, she dumped the water over his head and lathered the soap into his hair. It was far too pleasurable to run the shoulder-length silk through her fingers, so she worked as quickly as she dared.

“Move forward, I cannot wash your back.” Instead of doing as she asked, the slaver stood, ripples of water glistening and cascading down his muscles.

Standing on tiptoe, she swept the cloth across his broad shoulders, and sucked in a sharp breath. Across his back, underneath the paint, were the faded lines of lash marks.
Dozens
. Some thick, some thin, and so many of them that little pure flesh peeked between the gleaming tissue.