Warlord and the Waif by Chloe Parker
CHAPTER EIGHT
CALDER
THE HUMAN WOMAN has no concept of what it means to serve.
Her first dinner as a worker in my household goes even worse than expected, as she defies my every wish, spills drinks, and knocks over dishes. I hear Portia’s laughter from the kitchen, and Lucien’s occasional scolding as he guards the threshold between here and the kitchen. The little Ardaxian keeps his eyes on me like I might pounce the next time Ella walks through that door.
Maybe I will.
Ella makes her way out of the kitchen with a scowl, carrying a fresh plate of Talerian Crab after she dropped my first serving of it in what I assume was a purposeful act of disobedience. Portia seems amused with her, but I don’t have nearly the same feelings about our newcomer.
The more impressed the Hyperborean Delegation are with my performance upon their arrival, the more they may be willing to help me with my curse. And I cannot have arrogant household staff. They would not look kindly on Ella’s attitude.
I should have her sent back to the market, and Lucien has been supportive of the idea. But I can’t seem to bring myself to get rid of her.
She frustrates me, but she brings fresh air in to this old, musty castle.
And there are moments when something simmers between us. She is certainly beautiful, but it’s more than that. I dream of her almost nightly, of pressing myself into her, taking her to the heights of ecstasy in my bed, against the wall, in the bath. Her ferocity reminds me of something I thought I’d lost, a stubborn rage at her bondage that simmers under the surface at all times.
Though I should hate everything about her temperament, it attracts me. Sometimes more than I can bear.
When she finally approaches the table, holding her dish precariously, I watch her closely, barely able to contain the heat I know she sees in my eyes. The blue has always betrayed what I feel, ever since I was a boy. And all I can think about right now, watching her defy me in that tight bodice, is how much I would like to undress her.
“Are you going to take this?” she says, holding out the dish.
I don’t humor her.
“Place it in front of me.”
“Why can’t you do it yourself?”
“Place it on the table,” I growl, leaning forward.
She leans in to place it down, bringing her less than a foot from my face, and she glares at me as she drops it the last few inches with a loud clink.
If anything, she’s grown bolder since I locked her in the tower.
We stare at one another, Ella leaning forward with a dare. I’m unsure of what she wants me to do, but as I see her lick her lips and the intoxicating scent of her arousal envelops me, I start to get some idea. I don’t know if the thought has yet crossed her mind, but her body is begging me to take her innocence.
I hear liquid on the stone floor, and I look down to see that the force of her dropping the dish onto the table has dislodged some of the stew. It runs off the table and onto the floor, while Ella completely ignores the mess it’s made of her apron.
“Clean it.” I tilt my head at the floor.
“No.”
I glare, a warning growl rumbling in my chest.
“You will do as I command,” I say.
But she lifts her chin, proud even in the face of my threats.
“I’m not your slave.”
“That’s correct,” I raise my eyebrows, “But you are my charge until the terms of your indenture are complete, and you will take orders from me.”
“That’s not how it works on Earth.”
“But that’s how it works in my castle.”
I reach for her, catching her by surprise as I yank her over the table and into my lap with one strong arm. She lets out a delicious squeak of surprise, and I suppress the urge to capture the sound with my mouth on hers.
“What? Is this how you control people?” She narrows her eyes. “Do your worst.”
That serves as confirmation that she’s only grown more fiery in her isolation.
“You behave as if you despise me, yet your body sings a different song,” I murmur, “How curious you humans are.”
She flushes bright red, the pretty pink spreading over her sun-flecked cheeks. I wonder if she blushes like that in other places.
“My body doesn’t speak for me,” she says, even as her lips part at our proximity.
“You fight me because you hunger for me,” I growl, “Admit that it’s true, and I will take you to my bed and show you pleasures you’ve never dreamed of. Let us be enemies no longer.”
She raises her hand to slap me and I catch her by the wrist. Her breath hitches in her throat, and she blushes even deeper, this time the color spreading to her breasts. My eyes settle there, and I can’t help but smirk at how her desire betrays her.
“You are not so frigid as your talk suggests, woman,” I tell her. “In fact, you feel quite warm.”
“It’s hot in here,” she complains.
But she makes no move to escape my grasp.
I raise a tentative hand and trail my fingers over her collarbone, maintaining eye contact with her. As close as we are, the calming effect of her presence graces my skin, and I feel no pain in my tattoos, leaving me able to focus only on the pleasure. The curve of her breast is perfect, and she almost imperceptibly trembles under my touch when I lower my hand to the edge of her bodice, where the supple flesh is most bountiful. She gasps when I press my fingertips into her skin, inching my way underneath her chemise—
She slaps me hard with her other hand.
“My body doesn’t belong to you,” she hisses.
I seethe, but I hide my face as I shove her away.
I don’t want her to know how much pleasure I took from that pain.
“Of course it doesn’t,” I mutter. “I would never take what isn’t freely given.”
“You take my labor as you please,” she fumes.
“But not that,” I cut her off. “Never that.”
She goes silent, sitting stock still, and I finally drag my gaze up to her eyes, near starved for her. I feel the twinge of pain on my shoulders, and I want nothing more than to pull her back to me.
But I keep my hands to myself.
“I have plundered cities and killed thousands, taken what I wanted and destroyed what did not please me,” I tell her. “But believe me when I promise you that I have never bedded a woman who did not first beg for my cock."
Ella gulps, her eyes wide, the anger still clear on her face. I wonder if she’ll hit me again.
I almost hope she will.
Lucien coughs from the entryway, an awkward sound that echoes on the stone.
“Ella, Portia could use your help in the kitchen,” he says, “I’ll clean up m’lord’s meal.”
Ella steps away from me, fast as her feet can carry her, and I glare at my aide.
“I can clean it myself,” I roar. I pick up a linen cloth next to the cold stew in front of me and set to work.
Ella turns and looks at me one last time before she disappears.