Hunter's Season: Elder Races, Book 4 (10 page)

The moist warm heat of the words felt like a brand. The shiver settled low in her abdomen, and a liquid heat bloomed between her legs. Surely he would not notice if her hand trailed stealthily down her torso to press at the sharp, empty ache.

“Don’t play with me just because you’re bored.” The words were meant to wedge some kind of distance between them and allow sanity back into the room, to cool the insane heat that built so that she could not focus for wanting to tear off all her clothes. Instead they sounded pleading.

“I would never dream of treating you in such a self-indulgent and cavalier manner.” He stroked her back, another feather light touch that explored the contour of her shoulder blade and the indentation just underneath where her ribs curved to her spine. “Xanthe, I have not heard you say my name yet.”

The same pleading she had heard in her own voice was in his too.

Her regard mattered to him.

Her knees weakened further, and her lips trembled.

She whispered, “Aubrey.”

He was silent. She could hear him breathing. Then another brush of sensation at the back of her neck—those were his lips. He had kissed her.

“Thank you, my dear,” he whispered in return as he pulled away.

Chapter Six

Sacrifice

Aubrey backed from Xanthe, his emotions more unruly than ever. Arousal coursed through his body, more powerful than the lingering aches and pains. He had grown hard, and his swollen cock, surprised into life after a year of dullness and disinterest, demanded attention most urgently.

The sensation of her soft, warm skin lingered on his lips. He licked them.

He wanted to lick her so much more.

Restlessness, irritation, his growing awareness of her as an attractive female, it had turned into an all too potent cocktail. Teasing her had been impulse. Pursuing as she retreated had been instinct. He had not thought through any of it; it had just happened, and that was unlike him as he was usually thoughtful and deliberate about everything.

His intellect wrestled with his bucking instincts. It was a tough tussle, but intellect—just barely—won.

He turned away and muttered hoarsely, “I’ll start helping by laying a fire.”

“That would be nice.”

Her voice shook, a telltale, vulnerable sound from such a strong, bright woman. The impulse to sexual aggression flared hot and insistent. His instincts weren’t going down without a fight.

At the hearth, he forced himself to go down on one knee, and he poked at the ashes of the previous fire to see if any live embers remained. He disturbed a few charred sweet potatoes, and he rolled those over to the side then quickly laid the wood. A few glowing coals remained, and soon the fire was blazing.

He straightened from his crouch and moved to a nearby armchair to tend the fire unnecessarily. The soft sounds of movement behind him seemed as loud as a shout, proclaiming that her presence was close and vital.

He glanced over his shoulder and almost laughed. The crazy woman had put more things on the table again. This time, though, he could see that it all had a theme, fruits and vegetables, so no doubt she had meant to do it. She was chopping greens.

Her face was calm, smooth, perfectly expressionless.

Reaction roared through him. He shook with the urge to stalk over, take the knife from her hand, press her up against the wall and cover her lips with his. Spear into her mouth. Anything to strip away that façade and see what really lay underneath.

Her breathing had been unsteady. She had asked him not to toy with her. Her voice had trembled when she had whispered his name.

She had not been indifferent, gods damn it.

He rubbed his face. Maybe he really had died in the attack, and a demon of lunacy had taken over his body. This kind of impetuosity was completely outside of his normal behavior and deeply unsettling.

His wretched cock still wouldn’t bend to his rule either. The air in the cottage had turned much too close and stifling. He rose to his feet and walked out.

Outside, the early evening air was much cooler. After a moment’s searching, he found the covered well and drew a bucket of ice cold water.

First he drank thirstily. Then he dumped the rest of it over his head, gasping and shuddering as it cascaded all over his body.
Holy shit
. The sensation was keen as a knife, and just as painful, and a fitting way to force him to contemplate the magnitude of his own folly.

He leaned his palms on the rim of the well as water dripped off of him.

The thing of it was, he couldn’t remember a time before when he was ever this attracted to a woman. No doubt it had happened; he had lived a very long time, after all.

But that would have been a younger self in another time. A less tried, greener self.

It wasn’t here and now, where he embodied the totality of all of his experiences.

When the beauty of the spirit had come to mean so much more to him than the beauty of the body.

Where he knew a multitude of sorrows and reasons to be wary, and yet he still felt this slow burning, excruciating build-up of need.

Naida had caused him a vicious hurt precisely because he had loved her, but he had never felt anything for her that was remotely like what he was coming to feel for Xanthe. He and Naida had gone through a considered courtship, discussed together the advantages of a partnership together and had come to a mutual agreement. Everything had been very much in character, laid out, predictable.

At the time he thought it had been so very civilized, their relationship solidly grounded in friendship. Really, nothing could compare to the shock of a civilized man who came face to face with his own barbarity.

The smell of cooking steak wafted out of the cottage, and his stomach growled. His appetite for food had come back with a vengeance. It was a solid metaphor, as his appetite for other things had now resurfaced. He had sustained two serious injuries, one spiritual and the other physical, and it appeared that he would end up surviving them both after all.

As for the quiet, reserved Xanthe—he could see nothing to hold him back from going after what he now acknowledged that he wanted. He no longer had any ties or previous commitments. He was free to act on whatever he desired.

Now it was time for his own hunting season.

When she saw him step into the cottage carrying the water bucket, she rushed at him from the hearth, scolding. “You should not be carrying something that heavy so soon!”

He smiled and tilted the bucket slightly to show her the contents. “You are such a ferocious mother hen. It’s only half full. I said I would help and I mean to do it. I’ll draw all the water for the supper dishes. It will take me twice as long, but that is quite all right as there are no urgent appointments this evening.”

After glancing into the bucket, she looked up at him somewhat shamefaced. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself any further.”

“I appreciate that,” he said, warmed by the evidence of her caring. Deliberately, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, a full, firm, yet brief caress. All too soon, he pulled away. The sensation of her lips, softened in surprise, was branded on his mouth.

She stood absolutely still, her lovely dark eyes very wide.

He would not smile. It might reveal too much triumph. He sidestepped neatly around her and went to the basin to pour water into it. Then he went outside again. By the time he returned, she had hunched over the grilling steaks and she did not look up.

He made three more trips to the well before she set the steaming steaks on the table, and he surveyed the results of his effort with satisfaction. He had drawn plenty of water for the evening dishes. Then he turned to the table. She had created a salad of greens, fresh vegetables, apples and berries, lightly dressed with oil and herbs, to accompany the steaming sweet potatoes and steak.

She also looked exceedingly spooked.

This would have to be a gentle hunt, or his prey might skedaddle.

As he took his seat at the table, he said gravely, “Thank you for another wonderful meal.”

Unaccountably, she flushed as she sat as well. “I do not know how to cook the complex delicacies you are no doubt used to eating.”

He kept his gaze on the contents of his plate. “Do not confuse what you imagine my lifestyle must be with what you witness at the palace. I much prefer meals like this on a daily basis.” He sensed rather than saw her relax a little. They ate in silence. Now that he had turned the corner, he could almost feel the return of health and vigor with every bite of the healthy fare. As he finished, he said, “I would like to take advantage of that bathing alcove this evening, if I might.”

She said quickly, “Of course. I’ll draw water and put it on to heat while I do the dishes.” She glanced up at him and then away, her gaze skittering off like a frightened mouse. “You will carry some scarring from those wounds. It will be good for you to soak in a hot tub with a little oil poured in the water.”

He nodded. He would fetch his own bath water if he could, but he had already reached his limit. “If you would be kind enough to draw the water, I will wash the dishes—no, I do not want to hear it, Xanthe.” He added that last in a stern, no nonsense voice as she began to speak. “We have already agreed upon this.”

She closed her mouth with an audible click of her teeth. After a moment, she muttered, “Agreeing in theory and watching it in practice are two different things.”

He said in a very gentle voice, “But you would not deny me anything that is good for me, would you?”

“Of course not,” she replied in a strangled whisper, while she looked at him exasperation. He bit back a smile.

By the time he had washed the dishes and put them away, his bath water had heated to a comfortable temperature, and he soaked in the silken, lightly oiled bath until the water had cooled. Then he washed all over, luxuriating in the sensation of cleanliness.

In the pile of clothing Niniane and Tiago had brought for him was a long, warm robe, which he donned afterward. Mercifully his aches were retreating as he healed, but after supper and the light exercise, the bath had done him in.

As he pushed aside the curtain, he saw that Xanthe must have used the basin to wash as well, for her hair was wet and slicked back, and she had donned a soft dark purple shirt and trousers. Full evening had set, and the warmth from the fire mingled pleasantly with the coolness of the air that wafted in from the still open door.

She sat in one of the armchairs, looking at the fire contemplatively, which lit her profile with golden light. Desire glowed deep within him, banked in its own hearth and waiting for the right opportunity to spark into a blaze.

Something had been tickling at his awareness for some time, but he only now paid attention to it. He frowned. “There is something of Power in this room.”

“Yes,” she said. Her gaze flicked to the mantle. “I will show it to you, if you like.”

Did she look guilty? He wondered why.

He walked over to look curiously at the items on the mantel. There was a pipe lying in a clean flat pottery dish, a beautiful piece of crystal, a small polished copper bowl and a wooden box.

“Do you smoke?” he asked, surprised. He had never smelled tobacco on her.

“No. That was my father’s pipe.”

Power emanated from the box. He glanced at Xanthe who hovered nearby, watching him closely. “May I?”

She took a deep breath, her fingers twisted together, and nodded.

He lifted the box up, handling it with care, and examined it from all sides before he opened it to look at the deck of cards inside. “There’s a tale to tell here.”

“I got it from Duncan and Seremela,” she told him. “Seremela’s niece had stolen it, and they didn’t want to be responsible for it. I said—I said I would take care of it.”

“Did you?” He turned over the first exquisitely crafted card and looked upon the fierce, golden face of Love. Then he turned over the second card to look at the sharp, ruthless visage of Law. “These cards are really quite extraordinary. You don’t have any clue as to their origins?”

She shook her head. “I think—I think the right thing to do is to take them to one of the gods’ shrines,” she said softly.

He raised his eyebrows. Her voice was filled with something complex, but he could not decipher what it was. He set the cards carefully back in the box, closed the lid and set the box respectfully back onto the mantel.

“I am no expert in items of Power, but if you are unsure about these, then offering them to the gods at one of the shrines would be appropriate.” He turned to put his hand on her shoulder, spreading his fingers over the finely sculpted shape of it, gently rubbing her through the soft cloth of her tunic. Giving in to temptation, he said quietly, “I have a very selfish desire to fall asleep listening to your voice. Can I coax you into reading to me for a little while?”

She swallowed and told him huskily, “I would be glad to.”

His conscience stirred and grumbled. She had done so much for him already. He squashed it, choosing the selfish act, choosing to explore everything he could with her. He wanted to hear her voice. She had agreed. Experience told him that she certainly knew how to say no. He could not both hunt her and simultaneously protect her from himself.