Warlord and the Waif by Chloe Parker
CHAPTER SIX
CALDER
I HEAR HER before I see her, the waif’s small feet echoing loudly in the hallways of Kaer Idunn. It surprises me that her stride should be so powerful when she herself is a slip of a woman.
She rounds the corner with fire in her brown eyes, her red hair framing her sun-kissed face, and she strides toward me without even a hint of hesitation. I try not to outwardly register her presence, glancing up at her with a cold stare, but I feel anything but that distance as her magnetism draws me in.
Even in her rage, I starve for her. I hate this power she has over me.
I regard her from my throne, leaning back and resting with a wide stance to make myself as big as possible. I want to frighten her away, just as I do all others. But she stands before me like I’m little more than an insect.
I want to rush forward, to take her by the thighs and push her skirts up until she’s splayed open to me. I want to taste her. I want to pleasure her until she knows no anger or pain, until she’s crying out in a haze of desire.
“Why did you take me?” she demands.
I narrow my eyes.
“I didn’t offer to answer any questions, handmaiden,” I growl.
Another set of footsteps sounds in the corridor, and Portia enters behind Ella. My housekeeper stands stock still in the entrance, watching us, yet she doesn’t interfere.
She should, if she knows what’s good for the human woman.
“I deserve an answer,” Ella says, “Why did you take me away?”
“I bought your contract,” I rumble, “That is the way of things in Oddí. You should learn before you speak out of turn again.”
“I don’t mean from the city,” she says, “I mean from my family.”
I do not understand.
“I wasn’t the one that took you,” I tell her.
“Portia said the Hyperboreans kidnapped me from my planet and kept me in stasis for a hundred years—”
“Silence!” I roar, slamming my fist against the arm of my throne, “I am not Hyperborean.”
She stills, but the reaction does not quell my rage. I dislike being questioned and criticized. But even worse, I despise being called Hyperborean. The Empire has promised me a cure to my curse for centuries, yes, but they have always been enemies to my people, the Skoll. When I roamed the stars, I fought them at every turn.
The girl doesn’t know any of that. But I don’t want her questioning who I am.
I stand and stalk toward her, my fists clenched at my side.
“Do not ever call me Hyperborean again,” I order, getting close enough that I can see the slight tremble in her hands. “I am Skoll, from a mighty line of warriors.”
She gazes up at me, defiant, but I can see the tremor that gives away her fear.
“I don’t care!” she shouts, “If you’re not part of this, then how did I end up enslaved in your house?”
“You are not enslaved,” I hiss, “Your term as my servant will eventually end.”
“I didn’t have a choice in coming here,” she fumes, “I don’t want to be here.”
“And if you wish to leave, I can throw you into the Elixir Mines.”
Her lips press shut, her mouth and cheeks flushed from our shouting match. I’m close enough that I could scoop her into my arms with ease, capture her mouth and swallow her protests. I breathe deeply, resisting the temptation. This woman is fresh out of stasis. She is still recovering, not in the peak of health as is my taste.
And the pain in my chest and shoulders, always burning…I haven’t taken pleasure like that in the many years since I was cursed. My body won’t allow it. My curse will not allow it.
It’s the pain that drives me to do what I do next.
“You will learn to respect me, woman,” I growl, shooting out a hand to grasp her wrist. She’s so small underneath my touch, and I feel a tremor go from her wrist up toward where her shoulder trembles. Even the crook of her neck shakes just slightly, and it takes all my control not to tilt my head and bite the sensitive place under her ear, marking her over her pulse.
“I am the master of this house,” I continue, “And I will not tolerate impertinence.”
“Manners have never been my forte,” she glowers, and I tighten my grip on her wrist until she winces.
“You will address me as m’lord, as my lineage and my battle scars demand,” I say, ignoring her.
“Okay, m’lord,” she mutters, undaunted by my hold on her.
I’ll show her how she should fear me.
I press her hand against the long, jagged scar across my chest, and she inhales sharply as her fingers splay out over my bare flesh. I’m scarcely able to suppress the same reaction in myself, as her touch sends a shockwave rippling across my skin.
“This is from the Beast of the Seven Deserts,” I tell her. I drag her fingers along it, and I take great pleasure in the way her mouth falls open as her eyes fall to my chest. “I slew the creature with a cut to its throat, and a dagger to its heart. It fought, but ultimately, it recognized that I was its master and the fire went out of its eyes.”
“Why should I care?” she says boldly. Though she still glares at me, her fingertips press into my skin when I drag them to my abdomen, and I smell her arousal. The scent I get rolling off of her goes straight to my cock, and I wish again that I could take her right now.
But I derive no pleasure in taking such a thing when it is not freely offered.
“I tell you this because you should know that I do not wish to hurt you, but that I could if I desired,” I tell her. I step closer, and she makes a small noise in the back of her throat that drives me mad. “I would prefer you remain and join my household, but I will not tolerate your insolence.”
She narrows her eyes, staring steadfastly at my chest.
Then she drags her fingers to my tattoos.
I almost stop her, but a strange calm comes over me. My tattoos—the scars left from my curse—normally sear when anyone touches them. But her hands are soft, her presence calming.
And her touch cools the old wounds like a healing salve.
“What are these from?” she murmurs.
I watch her closely, unable to tell what she means to do next.
“From the Witches of Myste,” I tell her, “The marks of my curse. My pain. My bondage.”
The hurt in her eyes is tangible when her gaze comes back to mine.
“It sounds like you got what you deserved,” she hisses.
I recoil.
Bitter woman. Insolent, stubborn, cruel woman.
I tighten my grip on her wrist once again, pulling her flush against me, and she cries out. I want to show her my power, at the same time that I want to ravish her. My blood boils at her very presence, the heat in my body at odds with the cooling relief she brings to my flesh.
I must get her away from me.
“You know nothing of what it is to be trapped,” I hiss.
I yank Ella closer to me, then pull her away, eliciting a startled cry from the human. I drag her through the entry doors, past Portia, and up the stairs. Portia tries to stop us as we pass, but I’m deaf to her requests, Ella’s protests drowning her out. I can barely register anything other than where Ella and I touch, and her shouts grate on my senses. I haul her around the spiral staircase, then down the corridor, toward the farthest tower of the castle.
I need her away from me, in a place where she will understand my plight.
The stone door looms ahead of me and I swipe at the display, desperate for distance so I can quell my desire in my quarters. Ella pulls away from me as I yank her toward the door, dragging her in after me.
“You’re hurting me!” she cries.
I hate that I’ve hurt her, when she seems to ease my pain. But her words cut me, and I can’t contain my rage.
I release her and she tumbles to the ground.
Ella stares up at me, still defiant, while her posture is bent and broken. Her glare is sharp enough that I can almost feel her hatred, and I return the look in kind.
“You will remain here until you learn to obey me,” I hiss.
She exhales, her expression grave.
“I will never obey you.”
“Then you’ll rot,” I spit out at her, then I whirl around, exit, and slam my hand against the control panel to shut the door.
Portia stands aghast, her eyes wide.
“You really are getting worse,” she mutters, the spite coming across clear in her tone.
I should punish her, too. But instead, I say nothing, and stalk back down the hallway as my tattoos once again begin to burn.