Mercenaries (14 page)

“Before the Dominess what?” Nathan demanded.

The Dominor rose from his throne and began to pace. Despite his height—or lack of it—there was enough muscle on his frame to indicate he did more than lounge on a throne and enjoy the occasional blow job. “Ila has sworn to break him to the collar,” he said, worry and outrage lacing his voice.

Trin frowned. “What does that mean?”

Ferrau glanced up at her and made an impatient gesture. “Make him a Thrall, a member of our submissive class. It's a huge insult. Those of my family have been dominants since the colony was established. To imply any of us would willingly submit . . .” He clenched his fist. “I'd declare war on her for that alone, if she didn't hold Arnoux.”

“What'd you do to torch her cargo?” Sebastian asked, idly wrapping the bar around his wrist. Catching the Dominor's bewildered expression, he translated, “Make her angry enough to insult you.”

“Ah.” He sighed. “I backed out of negotiations to wed Arnoux to the Dominess's eldest daughter, Marcelle. I had discovered . . . things about that girl that put a bad taste in my mouth. She's hard on her Thralls. Very hard.” His expression grew grim. “It's said she's only satisfied when blood has been spilled.” The Dominor shook his head and began to pace in front of his throne again. “If Ila had offered her youngest child, Zaria, I might have considered it. Indeed, had she offered to wed her son, Brys, to my daughter, Seva . . . but she did not. And I did not want such a one as Marcelle raising my grandchildren.”

“I don't blame you, but it sounds as though you've managed to offend Ila's royal ego,” Trinity said. “Which means she's not going to want to give him up.”

“No.” Ferrau sank onto his throne and slumped. “She's sworn she will force my son to embrace submission. But I know him. He's a stubborn one, and proud with it. She won't break him.” He looked up at them. “I have warned Ila if she gives him to that vicious bitch Marcelle, I will have my revenge, even if I must reduce both our dominalities to ash. But I fear she will run out of patience and let her daughter have her way. You must free him first.”

“We could launch a clandestine raid,” Nathan said, his gaze taking on the distant, calculating expression Sebastian had learned to respect. “Something stealthy and fast. Liberate him and—”

“No.” The Dominor made a slashing gesture with one hand. “There is too much risk. I've been unable to discover where in the palace Arnoux is being held. If you try to find him during a raid attempt, they could kill him before you could pinpoint his location.”

Nathan inclined his head, conceding the point. “I assume you've thought of an alterative.”

The Dominor straightened eagerly. “Indeed. I have made contact with the Thralldealer who provides Ila with her stock. If you could place a man with him . . .”

“An undercover mission,” Sebastian said, looking up from the rod he'd absently twisted into a corkscrew. “Send somebody in posing as one of these Thralls. He could find out where Arnoux is and spirit him out before they even know what hit them.”

A fierce grin lit Ferrau's face. “Exactly,” he said, rising from his throne and approaching Sebastian to stare up into his face. “And you would be perfect for it!”

Sebastian blinked. “Me?”
Play submissive to some vicious female dominant? Not likely.

“Yes,” Ferrau insisted. “Ila would jump at the chance to buy you. The face, the hair . . .” He gestured from Sebastian's goatee to his waist-length blond mane. “I knew you were the man for the job the moment I saw the combat recordings your captain sent me after I contacted him.”

“Sounds risky,” Trinity said, a frown on her pretty face.

“Extremely,” Nathan agreed. “Sending him in alone, without backup . . .”

Ferrau gestured at the piece of steel Sebastian had absently mangled. “A man who could do that would be more than a match for the Dominess's entire palace guard.” His eyes glittered. “And I will pay you. Very, very well.”

Sebastian lifted a brow, though Nathan still looked dubious. “Just how well are we talking?”

Ferrau told him.

THE next day Sebastian found himself riding in a Thrallwagon on the way to the dominality of Corvo. Where he was supposed to rescue Arnoux Ferrau after submitting to some bad-tempered female dominant with pretensions of royalty.

Oh, well,
he thought philosophically, staring out through the bars of his cage at the passing landscape,
It's not like I ever minded eating a little pussy. . . .

ZARIA Orva looked at the naked man who lay sprawled on the thin pallet. She felt her gorge rise. His back was a bloody mess, scoured to raw meat by blow after blow of a whip.

“Marcelle really was in a mood last night, wasn't she?” she said grimly to the guard who fidgeted by her side. Dom Searle had bitterly protested her plan to enter Marcelle's pleasure quarters and rescue the Thrall, but she'd insisted anyway. “Mother warned her about using that steel-tipped cat on her submissives. She's going to kill one of them one of these days. Assuming she hasn't already.”

Sighing, she crouched to look into the man's pain-dulled eyes. At least the poor bastard wasn't Ferrau. When she'd learned Marcelle had beaten one of her Thralls again, Zaria had been terrified her mother had finally handed the Domince over. But no, this time the victim was a member of Marcelle's long-suffering stable.

“Domina, you shouldn't be here,” Searle told her. “If the Domina hears—”

“And who's going to tell her?” Zaria asked, glancing up in time to catch the narrow glare the guardsman aimed at her hand-maid. “And don't give Gemma that look. I ordered her to keep me informed whenever Marcelle goes too far. I don't want my mother put in the position of having to charge her own daughter with the murder of a Thrall.”

Or worse, of covering that murder up to spare her favorite. Zaria wasn't sure which way her mother would jump, and would rather not find out.

“Milady,” Searle said, sounding worried, “if your sister ever learns you've interfered—” He broke off. Dominant and warrior though he was, he couldn't quite bring himself to say that the next target of Marcelle's murderous rage might be her own sister.

Zaria felt her stomach twist in dread at the thought. But glancing down at the Thrall's bloody back, she felt her determination harden. She couldn't let this man die. And he would, if he wasn't removed from the palace tonight.

Marcelle was fully capable of torturing him again whenever another rage took her, whether he'd healed or not. And that could be the death of him.

Zaria sighed. It had all been so much easier before Brys left. Her brother was only a year younger than Marcelle, and he'd grown into a big, strapping man. He'd kept a rein on the worst of their sister's rages when their mother had not.

But five years ago there had been some kind of confrontation between Marcelle, Brys, and Ila, and he'd bought a commission in the army. Since then, he'd paid only brief visits, primarily to see Zaria.

Meanwhile, Marcelle had grown steadily more violent and out of control.

Well, Brys was gone now, and if anybody was going to save Marcelle's Thralls, it would have to be Zaria herself.

“Run and get hot water and clean rags,” she ordered Gemma, rising to her feet to glance around the small, narrow cell. “We'll clean him up here and bandage him.” To Searle she added, “Have the stable Thralls prepare a wagon with fresh bedding. I'll drive him to the Outworlder's clinic myself.” Zaria returned her attention to the Thrall's savaged back. “I fear only their doctors will be able to save him.”

Gemma was already heading out the door like the good Thralline she was, but Searle hesitated. “Milady . . .”

“Stop worrying, Searle,” Zaria told him. “She'll never suspect me.” Her mouth took on a bitter twist. “She doesn't think I have the courage.”

THE rescue went as smoothly as Zaria could have wished. The guards looked the other way as she, Gemma, and Searle carried the Thrall out and loaded him into a wagon parked in the palace courtyard. She had no fear any of them would tell her sister. They might not respect her—they knew too much about her tastes for that—but they loved her too much to let her suffer the brunt of Marcelle's rage. Besides, they had a duty to protect the royal family.

Even from each other.

She, Gemma, and Searle returned to the palace several hours later, the Thrall having been left in the Outworlders' care. The doctors at the clinic had promised to transport him to Rabican once he was healed. He could seek out a kinder mistress there.

Wearily she climbed down from the wagon. It had been a long drive to the clinic, and her shoulders ached from the reins. But as she stared across the courtyard, she heard Searle growl to Gemma, “As for you, Thralline, you will meet me at dawn in the dungeon. I feel the need to . . . deal with you.”

“Yes, Dom Searle,” Gemma said. Her breathless voice sounded more eager than frightened.

Despite herself, Zaria felt a little kick of heat of her own at the thought of Searle's discipline. With a sense of shamed anticipation, she knew she, too, would be getting up at dawn to see what the Dom intended for Gemma.

T
HE next morning Zaria rose before the sun and rolled from her warm, comfortable bed. In the dark of her room she dressed quickly in her Domina's leathers, hands shaking with eagerness and furtive shame.

She knew she shouldn't be doing this. She should get back in her bed and go to sleep while Dom Searle disciplined his lover in whatever way pleased them both.

Instead, she lit a candle and padded out into the corridor in the wavering circle of its light. The echoing marble halls of the palace were silent this early, though she thought she could hear the faint sound of voices from the kitchens. The Thralls were already at work.

Hurrying toward the dungeon entrance, she found the massive wooden door she sought and swung it open. It creaked loudly as it revealed the stone steps leading down into the darkness. Lifting her candle, her heart pounding hard, she descended.

When she finally reached the echoing chamber far beneath the palace, Zaria could hear Searle's voice rumbling somewhere in the darkness. She threw a glance in that direction as she stepped behind the decorative screen that stood across the back of the room.

“Such pretty nipples,” the guardsman said, stroking big, blunt fingers over Gemma's small breasts. He was naked, his brawny body gleaming in the torchlight as he stood over his helpless lover.

The Thralline, equally nude, was draped on her back over a punishment bench that held her torso arched and her legs spread wide. He'd chained her down until she could barely move, but judging by her expression, she didn't mind at all.