To The Princess Bound (16 page)

She frowned.  “A shovel?”  She cocked her head.  “He killed me with a shovel?”

“No,” Dragomir said, “But he did save your life.  The villagers routed your party—on the way to the raid, you and most of your men caught the flu, and you made the decision to push on anyway, but you did so sick, and there were more villagers than you had anticipated…  Anyway, they routed you, and they were combing through the remains of the battle, looking for survivors to put on the rack, when the villager who flattened you threw you over his shoulder and scurried you off to his homestead in the woods.”

She gave him a dark look, obviously knowing where this one was going.  “Tell another.”

“You were a pirate,” Dragomir said, no longer bothering to filter as the images came up.  “Big.  Male.  You took pleasure in raiding government ships.  You captured yourself a galleon, found yourself suddenly rich.  You took the galleon’s captain—a nice little brunette, about 5’2”—and chained her to your bed to entertain you as you fled that sector of space.  You settled down in a mansion outside a pirate colony, had great sex with the woman you’d captured, and eventually married her.”  He turned to scowl at her, the truth beginning to settle painfully into his stomach.  “And oh, yeah, that was me, too.”

The princess laughed.  “I knew you were lying.”

“I’m not lying,” Dragomir said, frustrated.  Irritated, he reached to his core, began sorting through his own memories.  He found the connection their souls shared, watched it spiral between their soul-beads, every once in awhile tying them together, interweaving their lives throughout the ages.  He found the same theme, again and again.  Each time they met, it was under duress, with a knife to their throat or a gun to their head.  Each time, it ended in the deepest, most earth-shattering passion he could imagine.  Each powerful lifetime for him, each time he remembered dying old and happy, she was there.

“Um,” Dragomir said, caught between the joy of finding her and the irritation that she was a spoiled princess that wouldn’t give him back his hands even after being beaten half to death, “All things considered, will you just trust me that I’m not going to hurt you?”

“You won’t?” the princess sneered.  “Surely you harbor hard feelings for me chaining you to my bed and using you for my entertainment.”

Dragomir glanced up again at the eye-hook bolted into the headboard above him.  “Well, no hard feelings yet.  But you string me up there and there’s gonna be a few.”

She blinked, obviously not having considered that she was, in essence, doing just that.  She cleared her throat, sounding embarrassed.  Finally, she said, “Since you are such a good storyteller—and because I am letting you live despite the fact you’re an Emp—perhaps you could tell me the story of your life.”

She’s gonna be stubborn.
  Dragomir groaned and leaned back against the headboard. 
Gods,
his shoulders hurt.  Even sitting up, the pain was lancing down his arms, setting his elbows and wrists on fire.  “Lady,” he said, “We’ve both had a miserable week, and my arms feel like someone is jamming a red-hot rebar through the marrow, so it’s hard to concentrate.  Take off the shackles, then maybe we can talk.  Until then, I’m gonna try and sleep.”  Then, desperate to find some way to relieve some of the pressure in his arms, he scooted down the bed, rolled onto his stomach, and closed his eyes, trying to push the throbbing into the back of his mind.

He had fallen asleep again when he felt a hand gripping the back of his neck, hard.

Touched by an Emp

“Just stay where you are,” Victory cried, when the man jolted awake and started to sit up beneath her.  Seeing the huge muscles in his back flexing, fear lanced through her like an unwelcome jolt of hot ice.  She spasmodically tightened her fingers on his neck, digging her nails into his vertebrae and jamming his face back into the blanket.  Into his ear, she snarled, “You
move
without my permission and I’m going to put this thing through your skull, do you understand?”  She hefted her statue where he could see it, her fingers clammy on the mermaid’s golden tail.

“You know,” he said, his voice muffled by the covers, “I need to add this to my list of Least Favorite Ways to Wake Up.  I think I just peed myself.”

Victory swallowed, hard, trying to find the same force of will that had put her on the bed in the first place.  “Just don’t move,” she said, trying to fight the terror building within her.  Quieter, she said, “I’m going to release your hands.”

She knew he heard her, because he went absolutely still.

Oh gods,
she thought, holding him down, horrified at the way their bodies were touching, yet too terrified to let him go. 
What am I doing?!
 

But her greatest foible—the greatest foible of anyone with the Royal gene—was curiosity, and the stranger had piqued it beyond endurance.  “Just stay very still,” she said.  She looked down at the key dangling from where her fingers were wrapped around the statuette.  Ever so slowly, she released his neck.

He remained stock-still, only the rise and fall of his bandaged ribs giving any indication he was still alive.

“You make any wrong movements and I’m going to make the world less one Emp,” she warned.  Then, before she could change her mind, she ducked down, grabbed the short chain holding his wrists together, and started undoing the locks.

The shackles fell off, and he groaned as his arms slid off his back to rest on either side.  “Oh my gods, thank you,” he moaned into the blanket.

Suddenly, seeing his big arms free, it was all Victory could do not to curl into a terrified ball.  She slammed her palm back to the base of his neck, pressing down hard.  “Just don’t move,” she whispered, her knuckles aching around the statue.  Terror was driving upwards again, and the images of six years of brutality began filtering through her consciousness.  She remembered big hands, on her breasts, between her legs, holding her down.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said.  “I swear.”

“I’m the Royal Princess,” she babbled.  “Of course you’re not going to hurt me.”

“You may be a princess,” he said, “But you’re also scared shitless, otherwise you wouldn’t be trying to press my spine through my esophagus.”

She couldn’t do it.  He was too big, too close.  She was beginning to shake with the images pouring from within.  “Put your hands back.  I’m going to shackle them again.  Maybe you can work on my ankles later.”

This time, he stiffened.  “Princess,” he said, “You’re going to have to trust me.”  He left his big hands at his sides.

He’s not going to do it,
Victory thought, her panic rising like a hurricane within.  “Please,” she whimpered, scared, now.

Instead, his big shoulders bunched, and his arms slid forward, slowly, under him.

“What are you
doing
?!” she gasped, unable to get enough air.  “Lay down.  Stop.” 

Slowly, like a big cat, he pushed himself to his hands and knees and slid away from her, dark blue eyes fixed on her face.  In moments, his head was out of range of her statue.

Seeing him, naked, free, disobeying, with his manhood dangling low between his legs, the switch in Victory’s brain tripped.  She felt herself slide away, distancing her from her body even as it began to rock back and forth, crying.  She closed her eyes against the image of him on her bed, watching her like a wary predator.

Just call the Praetorian,
a voice within her demanded. 
Just call them and tell them he’s an Emp.  They’ll get rid of him for you.

Then, in misery,
They already know he’s an Emp, and they chained me to him anyway.

She started to sob in despair, the terror becoming too much. 

She felt the warmth settle around her again, making her feel safe and secure despite the way her chest was sucking in too much air, the way her hands were tingling from fear and over-oxygenation.

That’s him,
she thought, horrified.  She started to pull away.

Her terror ratcheted upwards when she felt his big hand settle on one of her ankles, holding her in place. 

“Sorry I’ve gotta do it this way, Princess,” he said softly, “but there’s something I have to show you.”

Sorry I’ve gotta do it this way…
  She shuddered and froze, staring at where he was grabbing her, so wrapped in terror that she was unable to even call for the Praetorian.  A whimper escaped her lips as she felt his warm fingers move against her skin.

“Shhh,” he whispered.  “Feel that?”

Something was flooding through her ankle, washing up her leg, leaving exquisite golden warmth in its wake.  Despite her terror, it relaxed her almost instantly.  It swept through like a ball of glorious sunshine, brushing the horror out, burning the fear to dust upon contact.  It flushed her from head to toe, then settled into her chest, a pleasant, tingling heat.

“You still afraid?” Dragomir asked softly, after a moment.  His blue eyes were worried, his big, tawny body tense.

Victory stared at him, her mouth open.  “What did you just do?”

His big hand still on her ankle, he grinned shyly.  “I opened up your gi meridians.”

For the first time in six years, she was totally and completely without fear.  Tensions she hadn’t even realized her body had seemed to melt into the blankets, and she kind of slumped backwards onto her elbows to stare at him, lest she fall over completely. 

“It’s only temporary,” he said quickly, “a quick fix until we can get your ramas working again.  Basically, you’re not getting the outside energy you need, so I fed you with some of my own.  I can do it once a day, if you’d like, though I’ve gotta have my hands free.”

She continued to stare.

“I’d do more, but I’m using up my own reserves to do it,” he said quickly, obviously growing nervous under her stare, “They should be built up again by tomorrow, though.”

Victory fought to find something to say, and failed, finally giving up to just soak in the delicious relaxation within her. 
The Imperium kills Emps…why?
  Suddenly, the fact that they were genetic freaks didn’t seem all that important.  Only the peace—after so many years of fear—seemed important.

“So,” Dragomir said, starting to sound uneasy.  He sat back and pulled a pillow over his crotch.  “Still want me to work on your ankles?”

Her…ankles?  Come to think of it, they were still throbbing, and it seemed a different sort of ache than the rush of relaxation that had flooded her.  Victory flopped onto her back and stuck a foot in his lap.  “Could you have done that all this time?”

“Yes,” he admitted, gingerly picking up her foot with hands that dwarfed it, “but it really
is
hard to concentrate when they’re twisted behind me like that.”

She peered at him with one eye.  “You lied to me.”

“Uh, stretched the truth a bit, maybe.”  He closed his eyes, and she jumped as she felt spikes of warmth lash downwards through her ankle, into her foot.  It started to soothe the throbbing, there, and within a minute, she felt the blood in her toes start to circulate again, driving cold up her leg as her heart carried it away.

“It’s going to take a few weeks,” he said, once he came out of his trance, “But eventually, your mind will start recognizing your feet, again, and forgive them.”

In any other situation, Victory would have tilted back her head and laughed until she was hoarse at the ridiculously sentimental idea that she subconsciously hated her feet.  But lying here, one foot warm while the other was still ice cold, pain-free when none of the doctors’ medications or procedures had helped, she simply nodded.

Dragomir’s big hands moved to the next foot, swallowing her ankle between them.  She watched this time, fascinated, as he closed his eyes and the spikes of warmth began pulsing down through her bones once more.  “What I wouldn’t give to be able to see what you see,” she whispered, as the ice began flowing up her leg and her foot began to throb with blood-flow.

“Maybe someday,” he said, setting her foot back on the bed, “I can show you.”  He leaned back against the headboard, looking exhausted.

Victory muttered something to herself about uncouth native cads, but savored the feeling in her feet.  She fell into a light doze, reveling in the warmth and calm she felt within.