Taking the Stage: Soulgirls, Book 2 (8 page)

Slave bands.

What drove an Amazon to put them on? She had to have volunteered. He had no doubts about that.

“Why?” He repeated the question when she didn’t answer him.

Her hazel eyes shuttered, darkening to autumn brown. The muscles in the slender column of her neck convulsed. But it was sadness and regret, not temper that stole across her expression.

“It’s not important.” Her mouth twisted on the lie. He didn’t need his nose to scent it for what it was. Plucking the piece of chicken from her fingers, he popped it into his mouth and chewed. The succulent meat tasted more of cardboard than the Indian spices he’d requested.

He snapped a hand out to catch her arm as she reached for the meat platter. “No.”

A quizzical look knitted her dark brows. But she offered no resistance, even if her nipples prodded through the T-shirt, reminding him that she was as attracted to him as he was to her. Anthony ignored the demands of his body, however, the tiger inside him leaned forward with a cautious sniff.

They both wanted the whole story.

“It’s very important to me. I can order you to tell me and I suspect those wicked little bands will have your tongue dancing, but I don’t want to do that.”

“Then we are at an impasse.”

The tiger snarled. Anthony agreed and his lips curled back in an unconscious imitation of the sound rumbling in his chest. Roseâtre arched both her eyebrows, haughtiness creeping in to take a defensive stance shielding the vulnerability he’d barely been able to glimpse.

“Eat.” Anthony dropped her arm. Frustration was not new to him. Nor was it a sensation he particularly enjoyed. But he wasn’t done. She needed to eat. Then they would talk.

Obediently, her hand snaked out to the food and she took meat from the platter. He watched broodingly as the slice disappeared between her lips. Heat flashed in the cool depths of her autumn eyes, but he refused to take back the command.

The key in his pocket burned through the denim, a flaming reminder that he could bend her to his will. But what pleasure was there in conquering that which was already conquered?

“Blades or fists?”

“What?” The question caught her off guard, a single drizzle of roast beef slipping from the corner of her mouth and curving around her chin. His tongue ached to trace the path, but he bit down on it.

Surrender could be forced.

Or it could be won.

“Blades or fists? Is that not how your people take their mates? They choose from the strongest males? The most fit? The most capable of defeating them in battle, in hopes that those strengths will pass on to their daughters?”

The first time his father explained the Amazon mating rituals to him, he’d laughed. His own mother was a powerful tigress, quick and capable in battle, but the idea that a race of women would only couple with the most powerful of men and then expect that man to walk away was ridiculous.

“I could kill you with a blade.”

“Blades it is, then.”

He bounced to his feet. Roseâtre remained completely still. His chest swelled with pride. Despite the sadness and regret, his princess was strong, confident and didn’t shy easily. His tiger purred in agreement. No wonder the great beast had already settled on her. He left her at the table, eating. She wouldn’t leave it until he released her from the command.

Anthony may not like slave bands, having seen them used on his own kind, but he understood them. He traveled swiftly, jogging through the mystical rain forest constructed by the in-house mages of the Arcana Royale. He didn’t tell her that he’d contracted such an abode, a place he could imagine he was home in and where his tigers could relax in their own habitat.

It was the closest he would come to his home unless he earned the right to challenge his uncle, take back his Pride and lead them. The thought speared through him, the tiger’s fierceness quelled by the fierce longing they shared. The path wound to the great bed nestled amongst a cluster of trees and to the bags he’d dropped, half-forgotten upon his arrival.

Flipping the cases open, he pulled out two long, steel blades. Custom built, they were lean steel, forged and reforged in the fires of a volcano. They’d cost him nearly every gold coin he’d managed to smuggle away following his defeat.

They were as light as they were sharp, extending ten inches from the hilts, which were crafted from ancient bones excavated from the mountains he’d once called home. His gaze skated over the bed with its amber sheets and fixtures. He could imagine carrying her in here, drenched in need, and laying her out to explore every nuance of pleasure they could wring from their bodies.

Balancing a blade in each hand, he grinned. He could imagine it. He could taste it.

And he was going to make it happen.

He raced away from the bed, his blood feverish with the hunt. The tiger roused, pacing inside his skin, as eager as Anthony. He found Roseâtre still kneeling at the table, eating, albeit slower than when he’d abandoned her.

With one smooth motion, he flicked the long blade to hit the dirt next to her, hilt quivering from the force. She paused mid-bite, her gaze slicing upward to clash with his.

“Are you full?” He glanced around the clearing, his gaze sweeping the tigers and they rose from their lazy repose to melt back into the forest. This was his battle, not theirs. He would not have her harm a hair on their bodies, nor would he allow their claws to rend her precious skin.

“Yes. Thank you.” She seemed to tack the last two words on as an afterthought.

“You may stop eating then.” He issued the command, fully aware it was the last he would give her until he won the right.

Roseâtre inclined her head, a gracious acknowledgement of his release. She unfolded from her kneeling position, rising to her feet with a smooth alacrity that spoke not only to her well-honed body but also to her control. Not once did her gaze return to the quivering blade at her feet.

Anthony felt much like the blade. The risk of a challenge was the awareness that failure could follow. He could lose his own head in their confrontation. He would never take hers.

“You weren’t born Roseâtre. What is your name, princess?”

“Ruth.” The name echoed against the fall of water spilling down the cliff. The single syllable thumped against his conscience.

“How very Biblical of your mother. I would have thought Helena or Diana.” His amusement was reflected in the grin that flirted around her lips.

“A concession to the times. We’re not as isolated as we once were.”

“No, none of us are.” And more was the pity. He understood the queen’s actions. It was the custom among the long-lived to take new names to adjust to the modern, whatever that modern might represent. “How old are you?”

“Old enough to have been blooded in battle.” Her mouth tightened because while it was an answer, it wasn’t the answer he sought. The bands understood that, the psychic link forged the moment he took possession of the key.

Speaking of the key…
He dug his free hand into his pocket and pulled it out. Roseâtre’s gaze flicked to the key once and then back to him.

“Princess Ruth, I challenge you to a duel. The prize is your freedom.”

Her eyes narrowed, but rather than pleasure, concern filled them. “Choose a different prize.”

Startled, he lowered the hand holding up the key. “Why?”

“I don’t want my freedom from the bands.” He wanted to sneeze at the lie that was not a lie. The tiger twitched, annoyed.

The question hung unspoken on his tongue, but he forced himself to swallow it. The princess was layered in contradictions. He had to unravel, explore, rend her secrets open to the sunlight of understanding. He had to.

“Then the prize will be the truth.” The cat agreed with his plan. This prize would be the key to unraveling those layers.

“Why battle for a prize you can simply order?” The haughtiness evaporated from her gaze, leaving only simple curiosity.

“Does it matter?” A breeze stirred the moist air drifting from the pool, carrying a hint of sweet vanilla and muskier orchids. The maids must have brought the tropical flowers into his retreat; orchids didn’t bloom in his mountains.

“Yes. You have me at your mercy. You could do whatever you please, yet you offer me a weapon and the opportunity to kill you. I am questioning your wisdom, if not your sanity.”

Anthony laughed at the perplexity marring her brow. “I want you to
want
to be at my mercy.” Unabashed by the confession, his amusement increased as her mouth open and shut silently, as though she’d been about to share something but then thought better of it.

He rocked back and forth on his heels. The scent of orchids hardly covered the sweet scent of Roseâtre’s desire. He’d know it anywhere, having devoured the musk of it on the stage. The tiger purred his agreement. He still carried the scent of her on his fur, a scent neither he nor his cat wanted to wash away.

“Why?”

A fair question. He tossed his blade, catching the hilt easily on the downswing. “If you really want to know, pick up the blade and answer my challenge. The prize of truth remains the same.”

Her hand twitched toward the blade. It hadn’t been an order, but her expression remained wary.
She’s tempted.

And by the gods, she was tempting.

“The rules?”

He had her.

“No claws or shifting for me. No injuries to vitals for you.”

“First blood?”

He definitely had her.

She crouched, bare legs parting as his shirt rode up. A tease.

A provocation.

A thrill.

“Three stripes. The first one to three stripes wins.” The last thing he wanted to do was mar her creamy skin, but he would be a fool not to give her a fighting chance. A proper battle.

A warrior’s bid.

“No torso.” She rested her hand on the blade hilt. Lust perfumed the air and he drew in a lungful of it.

“Arms and legs only then.”

“Nothing near the groin.” Her gaze roamed over him, sending blood rushing to his cock.

“I’d prefer that, yes.”

“Your fingers can’t wander there on me either.” Was that a smile quirking her lips? Not for the first time he wished scent markers were clearer to discern in members of other species. But either his imagination was going wild or the discussion of battle was turning her on.

“Your ass is fair game.”

A throaty laugh met his counteroffer and she closed her fist around the blade hilt. “That means I can touch yours as well.”

His pulse thudded in his cock.

“Anytime you want, princess.”

He tossed the key onto the stone table. It bounced once. Clinked as it vibrated and finally stilled, pointing away from both of them. The silence echoed against the splash of water and she was a blur, lunging from her crouch, blade slicing through the air to clang against his as he narrowly defended.

Anthony’s tiger roared, the hunt was on and their prey grinned fiercely in response.

Damn, she was magnificent.

Chapter Nine

It was a fool who turned down the opportunity for freedom, but Roseâtre had surrendered hers to honor an oath, and she couldn’t in good conscience take the mantle back while Cerveau remained bound to the Royale.

I won’t
.

Anthony moved gracefully, avoiding her clumsy lunge. “Was really expecting a lot more from you.”

He emphasized the insult with a deliberate slap across her bottom. The cotton accepted most of the blow, but one finger collided with her skin, stinging the flesh.

Pivoting, she used a step-ball-change to carry her weight around and slammed the flat of her foot against his ass. He staggered forward, scrambling to keep his balance, and she launched her offensive again.

It was a flurry of slices, blades singing through the air. At first, it seemed as though he wouldn’t pay her at least the cursory respect of fighting back, but the bite of steel whistling across her upper arm followed by the wildfire of swift pain put an end to that argument.

“First blood.” His grin grew, hard and wide. His eyes flashed, the pupils elongating.

Cat eyes.

“Enjoy it.” She dodged another quick cut and scored her blade down the inside of his arm. Blood, thick and red, welled up from the clean slice. She grinned at his hiss.

“Point to you.”

They danced around the clearing, narrowly avoiding the stone table and its offering of food. At the water’s edge, Roseâtre balanced on the rocks. Years of training flooded through her muscles, rusty from ill use. Dancing required balance, but not the ability to deliver focused blows while avoiding the recoil of such force.

It was the excuse she would use to explain why in avoiding another cut, she ended up windmilling backwards to the water. Anthony caught one flailing arm, balancing her, his expression so intent and focused that she had three seconds of regret before she used his weight against him, flipping him toward the water.

He snagged her shirt and yanked, plunging her into the pool with him. She surfaced to the sting of another cut. A second stripe cut neatly parallel to the first on her biceps.