Tempted by a Rogue Prince (5 page)

She had most of the day to heal him.

Rosalind ran an assessing gaze over him. His injuries were extensive, and all self-inflicted, but she didn’t think they were the reason he was in this strange state of limbo between unconsciousness and consciousness. It wasn’t a physical problem. It was a mental one.

He writhed on the slab, his muttering growing darker, vicious sounding snarls that barely resembled words. What language did he speak? It wasn’t the fae tongue.

She ventured a step closer to him and he lost his restlessness, growing very still. Could he sense her?

Was he lying in wait to attack her when she came close enough?

She kept some distance between them as she rounded the slab, her gaze fixed on him the whole time, monitoring him for a sign he might attack her. He began writhing again, fitful jerking movements that rattled the chains that held him pinned to the slab with his arms above his head, stretched out like a piece of meat on a butcher’s block.

Bastard demons.

The male snarled low in his throat, as if he knew her thoughts and seconded them. He looked so savage coated in dried blood and dirt, and felt more dangerous than ever. She flicked a glance at the bent steel bar and the grooves in the solid stone. More dangerous than she had thought possible.

Rosalind kneeled beside him on the stone flags.

He snarled again, his eyes rolling back in his head as he sniffed, inhaling deeply. He rocked his hips and her cheeks heated. He was growing hard in his wrecked black trousers. She averted her eyes, pretending she hadn’t noticed, and diligently kept her eyes away from that area of his anatomy, not wanting to ponder why he had reacted in such a way to her scent.

She reached out to touch his bloodstained hands. He growled and grew more restless, twisting on the stone slab and pulling at his restraints.

“Shh,” she whispered, unsure whether he could hear her and whether speaking to him was wise when he was in this condition.

Would her presence and the sound of her voice make him better, or worse?

He hated witches. He had looked at her with murder in his eyes.

She couldn’t leave him though or let him continue to suffer, and it wasn’t because she was a captive in this cell with him or the orders the demon had given her. The sight of him suffering, lost in whatever strange place had hold of him, caused an ache in her chest that compelled her to help him.

“I won’t hurt you. I swear it.” She reached out to touch his hands and he hissed at her, flashing fangs. She barely dodged his attack, falling backwards as he launched his head forwards, his teeth clacking as they struck each other and not her flesh.

He grew wild, bucking off the slab and yanking on the manacles that bound his wrists. She wanted to reach for him but instinct held her back, warned her to let him wear himself out. He had tried to bite her. Mother earth. She covered her mouth with her hand and stared at him, her heart developing a new ache. What dark power gripped him that he would attack her when she was only trying to help him?

He began to settle again, his movements becoming less frantic, weaker as his strength faded.

“I will not hurt you. I know you can hear me. I am only going to heal you.” Rosalind moved back to her knees beside him and swallowed hard.

He slumped onto the bench, the tangled threads of his black hair sticking to the sweat on his brow.

He looked fragile, but she wasn’t going to let that deceive her. This man was deranged.

What sort of male could have not only moved with her healing spell ricocheting through his body and all the injuries that had remained, but managed to find the strength to bend thick steel bars and rake deep grooves into solid stone with only his nails?

Not a sane one.

Many of the dungeon’s residents had been here long enough to have gone mad and were normally noisy at night, but last night they had been silent while this man had raged.

They had feared he would escape. The guards had feared too, exchanging meaningful glances as they punished her.

She had feared too.

This male had come here insane.

What was he?

She had thought vampire before, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Rosalind reached slowly towards him. His lips were bloodstained too, a dark spot of it gathered by the corner of his hard mouth. Had he tried to bite the bars, or had the guards struck him to subdue him?

His eyes flicked open and locked on her.

She tensed, her heart pounding, fear pressing her to withdraw her hand before he attacked her. She kept it hovering in the air between them, refusing to let him bully her into shrinking away from him.

“Hello again,” she whispered, keeping still and giving him time to adjust to her presence. He continued to stare at her, deep into her eyes, his blue-grey ones flat and dull. Lifeless. “They brought me to heal you. It seems you, um, hurt yourself.”

He exhaled softly and blinked. A good sign? Mother earth, she hoped so.

She hadn’t expected him to remain calm on hearing her voice. She had expected another replay of him attempting to break free of his bonds, most likely so he could kill her.

“I need to touch you to heal you.”

No response.

During her time alone in her cell after her punishment, she had mulled over their entire first encounter, and had concluded that he hated anyone touching him. She had been entertaining theories about it all day. It wasn’t because she was a witch. He hadn’t known that at the time.

“Can I touch you?” She wasn’t willing to risk her limbs by attempting to do such a thing without his consent.

He clenched his fists and gave a curt nod.

Rosalind took it as a green light, noting that he had steeled himself, mentally preparing for her touch.

She shuffled closer, biting down on her tongue when her ribs protested and each mark on her back burned beneath her black dress.

“Harmed you?” he croaked, his voice gravelly and deep. His eyes searched hers. “Heard you… cry. You hurt?”

The stilted manner of his speech spoke to her of the incredible pain he endured, agony that she could see in his eyes, yet he was asking about her instead.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, stifling the memories of her punishment, and forced a shrug. “No worse than usual.”

“Usual?” Black eyebrows dipped low, narrowing eyes rapidly gaining a dark edge and obsidian blotches amidst the stormy blue-grey of his irises. What was he? “Beat… often?”

He grated the words out from between clenched teeth and she saw his fangs were down. Maybe he was a vampire, or another form of fae. There were many in the world and a lot of them could take on a human appearance.

“It no longer bothers me.” She plastered on a false smile, one she hoped would stop him from asking about it. “But… they do it often.”

He growled so low that she only felt it as a rumble through her chest and then strained against his manacles, becoming so agitated that she feared he would hurt himself again. His face screwed up, his enormous fangs on display, and he threw his head back and roared as he arched off the dark stone slab.

“You need to calm down.” Rosalind reached for him.

She froze when his eyes snapped open.

Her breathing accelerated.

She shook her head.

He couldn’t be.

He stared at her, vivid purple eyes flashing wildly as his lips peeled away from his fangs again. Fangs. Purple. Mother earth, she was going to hyperventilate.

His overlong black hair parted to reveal the pointed tips of his ears and she almost passed out.

Rosalind shot backwards away from him. Pain erupted in her side, searing her ribs and stealing her breath together with him. Not a damn elf. He couldn’t be a bloody elf.

She shook her head and huddled into the corner, holding her knees and staring at him as he wrestled with his manacles.

Anything but an elf. Why couldn’t he be anything but an elf?

She went back seventy years, to a magical summer’s day when she had been having tea in the garden with her grandmother. It had all been so peaceful and perfect. Endless blue skies. Flowers in full bloom. Butterflies and bees going about their business. A perfect moment.

Until her grandmother had turned sombre, staring at her in silence and worrying her. Rosalind had asked her what was wrong and her grandmother had looked right into her eyes with ones that swirled like a silver storm and had spoken words that had changed her forever.

In Rosalind’s future would be an elven prince, and after meeting him, she would die.

When she had helped King Thorne with his war, she had specifically avoided seeing or meeting Prince Loren of the elves who had been assisting him too.

She warily eyed the elf in the cell with her. He didn’t bear the markings of a royal elf, ones she had learned about during her research into the species. He didn’t look much like a prince either. She tried to shake off her fear, and her rising panic with it. It was difficult. She had spent her whole life convincing herself that her grandmother had been having one of her strange episodes when she got her wires crossed and thought she was talking to someone else, and now she had the horrible feeling that it hadn’t been the case at all.

She had seen Rosalind’s future and had spelt it out for her.

And now Rosalind was locked in a cell with an elf.

She shook off the last clinging threads of her fear. She had met the elf Bleu without dying, and the fae history books only mentioned one elf prince. The one she had avoided. This male was not that prince. The prince had a calm aura. Not a violent one.

She blew out her breath and winced as her ribs protested.

The elf male stilled, his eyes locked on her. They were focused, but not right. He looked lost, a wild beast struggling to comprehend her and his surroundings. He drew in a deep breath.

He craned his neck, turning his head towards his right arm. What was he doing? Studying his restraints?

He sank his fangs into his forearm.

“Stop that.” Rosalind raced across the room to him and stopped short of grabbing his wrist to pull his arm free of his fangs.

He released his arm and blood bloomed there. His purple eyes grew wilder and black spots formed in them like inky blotches that began to spread as he stared at her.

He growled in a commanding tone, “Drink. Female.”

Rosalind’s stomach turned and she shook her head. He snarled in response to her refusal and struggled against the manacles again. Blood crept down his arm, stark red against his pale skin. He spoke in his language, his voice alternating between softness and hardness, between a whisper and a growl. The thick metal restraints cut into his wrists as he frantically fought them, spilling more blood. She couldn’t take it.

She grabbed his bare shoulders and used her weight to press down and restrain him, her body laying partially across his.

He stilled.

She breathed hard, every inch of her shaking, a heady mixture of fear, adrenaline, and relief sweeping through her. Mother earth, she hoped he didn’t bite her or attack her. She had placed herself within easy reach of his fangs. A stupid move, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself. He had been hurting himself because of her refusal. He had been losing himself to whatever came over him at times when he was under duress.

“Female. Drink. Heal.”

Rosalind eyed the blood. He wanted to heal her? He was truly insane. Lacerations and wounds covered him from head to toe and he was worried not about himself but instead about her?

He urged her again, dark and commanding this time.

“Drink.”

The thought made her ill but she wanted to be strong so she could escape this nightmare and didn’t want him to hurt himself anymore because of her. If she could achieve one of those things, she would take his blood. Just a sip.

She knew all the fables about elf blood, including the one that said it could heal. She just wasn’t sure she believed it.

Only one way to find out whether it was true.

She bent her head to his arm, poked her tongue out and tried not to think about what she was doing, sure she would retch if she did. She licked the blood, following a line of it up his arm, trying to be as gentle as she could with him so she didn’t startle him.

He startled her instead.

He moaned and his hips undulated against her.

Rather than shocking her into moving away, the sound of pleasure emanating from his lips enticed her to move closer, emboldening her.

Rosalind wrapped her lips around the twin puncture marks his fangs had made and sucked, earning a dark hungry growl from him. He bucked his hips wildly, nudging against her, his actions driven by instinct rather than a conscious decision. She knew it to be true because she wanted to rock hers too, ached and burned low in her belly, possessed by a need to rub against him while she drank him down.

“Drink. Female,” he uttered, his voice a bare whisper. “Ki’ara.”

She instantly tore herself away from him. He called her by another female’s name?

Cold engulfed her, emptiness that left her emotions reeling, clashing violently as she struggled to comprehend what had just happened and fought her instinct to bash him across his thick skull.

She spat the remaining blood in her mouth on the floor, gaining a dark glare from her companion, one that she ignored as she went to work on him. She wasn’t gentle as she healed him. The bastard didn’t deserve gentle after calling her by another woman’s name. She would have told him to go to Hell, but since they were both already there, it hardly seemed worth the effort.

Besides, she couldn’t find her voice. Her throat felt thick, squeezed so tight that she could barely breathe, let alone speak.

He passed out at some point. She didn’t care enough to note when it happened, but was glad that he had left her alone in a way. She wanted to be alone.

The incubus in the cell opposite kindly remained quiet too, although he prowled his cramped quarters, his gaze constantly on her. She hated him too. She hated that he had witnessed the whole affair and could probably see the hurt on her face. She never had been good at hiding her feelings. She had never seen the point before now.