The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (48 page)

The soldier squinted. He didn’t like being disciplined. And his little odd jobs earned him a whole lot of gold in the end. It would be a big loss in his earnings.

James watched him carefully. He must never forget this animal was smart and full of tricks. He may appear just a brute, but he was a calculating and experienced leader. It would be a mistake to underestimate him. Worse yet, James did not really know what he thought of Lady Lilian’s incident. Was he relieved to have avoided the scandal? Was he furious for exposing his weaknesses? Did he hate James for besting him and was just nursing his revenge?

Until Nigella prophesied a future for him, James decided to assume the worst. He must believe that Xavier would try to double-cross him one day. He had so easily left his former employer, it didn’t speak highly of his loyalty. But he might be actually warming up to James. The brute might actually believe the murder was just an innocent mistake. There was nothing to do but wait. He would slowly, carefully gain the man’s trust. Hating him did not really help.

“Instead,” James continued, “you may want to consider a legitimate business.”

Xavier grunted. He would have to retire one day. Having a retirement plan sounded good.

James wiped sweat off his brow. “I will give you lands,” he said. “What you do with them is entirely up to you. Sow them with salt, for all I care. But if you’re smart, you could start turning profit in a few years. An arable plot not too far from here.”

Again that nervous blink. Xavier inspected the blade, inclining his head. “Why?”

James was ready for the question. “You’re the best soldier I’ve got. And I can’t have you fooling around like some forest bandit.” He remembered the sort of people he used to fight against in Windpoint, poor, scrawny versions of Xavier. Little had changed, he thought sourly. “Your scandals become my scandals. So, the next time I hear you were out robbing farmers of their pennies, I’m gonna hack your left nut off and mount it on my sword hilt. Do you understand me, you son of a bitch?” James had not even looked at Xavier. He had not raised his voice. The captain kept stroking the blade, rubbing the flecks of rust off the metal. After a long pause, he snorted, but James knew he had scored a point with the bastard. Intimidation was his middle name, and he could appreciate a decent threat.

“All right, sir. Those lands sound like a good idea.”

“Excellent. Now, Captain, what I need from you is the following.” And he laid out his newest plan, which included incorporating even more units into his own force. Xavier interfered a few times, offering his own suggestions. Winning soldiers over was easy. You just needed money and women and some charisma. Making them stay was tougher. Usually, it was the bond of war that tied soldiers together. However, in times of peace, he would need a lot of everything else. But it was working. No councillor was safe anymore. They were no longer sure if their men served them or James. Doubt led to mistrust. Mistrust led to indecision. Which is exactly what he needed.

Quite often before bedtime, James would think about his father, the man he had never met. Not the lie of a ranger his mother had spun to protect him, but the real person who had sired him, the most dreaded soldier in the last century. He wanted to be angry with his mother for deceiving him all these years, but all he felt was sadness. He tried to imagine what it would be like to raise a child in the shadow of a ruthless emperor. He couldn’t really blame her for making the choice she had.

James had heard stories about Adam’s legendary rule, about his lightning-fast rise through the army ranks, his almost godly charisma. Emulating his example was almost impossible, but James tried his best. Caytorean private armies were comprised of well-fed, well-paid gangs of skilled warriors and soldiers of fortune. They were not easily swayed by speeches or gallantry, but they liked power. Come the end of the year, James hoped every soldier in Caytor would know his name and respect him.

Sometimes, though, he just wondered what the man had been like. Not as an emperor, not as a conqueror, but as a father.

James left Xavier to ponder what his new employer really wanted. He was in a cheerful mood. He liked what he had accomplished so far. He was walking down one of the side corridors that led to the lavish baths when he saw Rheanna. She spotted him and changed her course to intercept him.

For a moment, James slowed his pace, thinking. And then he decided.

So be it.

“You look happy, Your Highness,” she hazarded when she approached.

He smiled. “Yes. I am happy.” He looked at her. As usual, she looked ravishing. Her hair was pulled in a tight, severe bun. She was wearing a brown dress, which hugged her shape snugly, emphasizing the curves underneath, teasing. James felt a twinkle of arousal in his member.

His mind emptied of thoughts, and his eyes filled with Rheanna. He felt his heartbeat accelerate. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, part excitement, part fear. He knew that after what he was about to do, there would be no going back. He knew that he was committing himself to the world of politics and lies for as long as he lived. But he’d made up his mind.

“Your Highness?” Rheanna said. Strangely, she looked a little uncomfortable with his deep, steady breathing and a long, penetrating gaze. She arched a brow. And then, she said nothing else.

James led her to his chamber. He walked slowly, with purpose. She followed. Guards saluted when he passed. He acknowledged them with imperceptible, official nods. They entered. Outside, on the balcony, Timothy was lounging in a chair, sipping wine. When he saw his lord, he sputtered and sprung to his feet.

“I will not be needing you for the rest of the evening,” James murmured.

The boy gathered his things and rushed outside, bobbing his head awkwardly, closing the door behind him.

Inside, James made a hurried, nervous step and then turned to face his guest. She stood by the entrance, hands folded demurely in front of her.

He spent another moment thinking. Yes. So be it. He reached with his right hand and laid it on her nape. She did not resist. He kissed her on the mouth, biting her lower lip. His body turned into molten, quivering fury. They inched back toward his big four-poster bed. He sat down and pulled her toward him.

Rheanna bit his neck playfully, then retreated slightly. Her eyes were glazed, but there was confusion there. James stared carefully, intently. He noticed the tiny freckles, the thin wrinkles, the small imperfections of skin and age. He noticed the modestly expensive jewelry that could buy a small estate.

He slid his hands up her waist, kneading supple, warm, yielding flesh. Blood thundered in his temples. He could hardly swallow. Rheanna moaned and submitted. He buried his head between her breasts. They rolled over.

James had heard plenty of stories from his friends and comrades in Windpoint about what came next. He knew how things worked. And tonight, he would not longer be a boy. He let instinct guide him, acutely, painfully aware.

James’s hands roamed. He was edgy, bursting with just barely controlled lust. He was sweaty and dirty, smelling of leather and tack, but she did not seem to mind. She rippled beneath him, every tiny movement a tease. He was hard as a rock, and it hurt inside his leather trousers.

James laid a hand on her slim neck. And squeezed.

At first, she did not object. But then, his grip grew stronger, firmer, more painful. Her look of cool pleasure became one of fear. Still, even now, she controlled her emotions, showing only slight discomfort with his powerful, dangerous gesture. James pressed harder.

Her eyes turned moist with tears. Gently, she reached up and grabbed his muscled forearm. She did not try to move his hand away or scratch him, but her gesture indicated she was not quite comfortable.

James applied even more pressure until all she could do was breathe very slowly. Her face reddened. She was genuinely afraid now, he noticed.

“Are you for real, my lady?” he asked, his voice hoarse with lust and violence.

She blinked. Tears brimmed over. “Yes, Your Highness. I’m yours.”

James considered his next move.
No going back
.

“Would you die for me?” It was a dangerous question. What would he do if she answered wrongly? Would he live up to his decision? Would he strangle a helpless woman?

Rheanna groaned. James released his grip just a bit. “Yes, Your Highness,” she whispered.

James let go. He rolled away and sat up, inhaling through his nose, trying to calm his nerves. A wave of shame washed over him suddenly.
What in the name of Abyss are you doing, fool!

Rather than fleeing, Rheanna moved close, hugging him. Her firm bosom crushed into his back. She smelled of lemon and almonds, with a soft underlying scent of ripe womanhood. It filled his nostrils, making him dizzy.

“James,” she said, “I am not trying to take advantage of you.”

He did not turn around to look at her. “You smelled like a cheap whore when I first met you.”

She sighed. “I thought you were going to be a pushy, lying, manipulating bastard like the rest of them. But you are different. I realized that I was mistaken. I tried my best to amend my ways. I’m sorry.”

James tried to raise his shield, but it would not obey. He felt empty. He felt stupid and ashamed. He was losing it. Rheanna stroked his hair. Her fingernails raked his scalp. Goose bumps rippled down his back.
Careful, James, careful
, he warned himself. But it felt silly.

“
I
am sorry,” he mumbled.

He turned to face her. She was bearing up well for a woman almost choked to death. Worst of all, there was no animosity in her eyes. Fear, yes, a bit of confusion, but she did not regard him as some sick pervert or a murderer. She saw a proud, honest man. He so badly wanted to believe her.

She kissed him lightly. This time, she took the initiative. Her touch was soft and teasing. James sat stiffly, trying to ignore the fiery pleasure. This woman was surely manipulating him. She must be. There was no other explanation. There was no other reason why she would stay now. Only a madwoman would tolerate a near murder with such sympathy. There was no way this wasn’t a big trap. There was no way.

He surrendered.

He let her take his shirt off. She bit his nipple. He gasped. In seconds, they were naked. He was shivering with desire. Skillfully, she guided him in. His mind was blank, swimming in pleasure. Raw bestiality engulfed him.

She groaned and dug her fingernails into his ribs. He felt himself approaching climax rapidly, inevitably.
Pull out, pull out
, a tiny voice at the back of his head screamed.
Pull out!
He started trembling wildly. He bumped into her savagely.

At the last second, he pulled out. He moaned loudly as he spilled his seed on her belly. She was panting, watching him intently, he realized a few moments later, when sanity came back to him. Spent, he slumped sideways. Rheanna laid a hand on his chest.

What have I done?
he thought. In the quiet pond of regret that came after mindless lust, he wondered what this meant. Had he just erased Celeste from his heart? Had he just become a heartless, conniving son of a bitch like the rest of them? Or was he just a stupid boy, maybe in love?

He had no answers. He just knew that he wanted Rheanna. He wanted her body so badly, but most of all, he wanted her affection, her friendship. He needed her. Nigella’s advice rolled inside his head, and it felt like an accusation.

CHAPTER 30

T
he throne hall was a majestic piece of architecture. Built three centuries earlier by Monarch Vergil the Brave, when the Eracian borders had stretched another hundred leagues to the west and her massive armies threatened the whole of the realms, it was a statement of power and grandeur: long and narrow, paved with white marble veined in red, with slender columns to both sides of a carpeted walkway. Basking in blinding daylight striking through glazed panes on both sides of the vaulted chamber, any petitioner would have a lot of time to contemplate his fate before approaching the monarch.

Behind the dais, a black granite statue of Vergil rose, grim, majestic, imposing, seventeen feet tall, with the nation’s legendary ruler calmly clasping the cross guard of his large stone sword. In his day, Vergil had been the scourge of the land. And since his death, Eracia had only gotten smaller and feebler, Margrave Philip thought.

Today, the hall stood empty, quiet and cold.

Philip headed behind the dais, behind the statues. Hidden by a wall of drapes and ornamental armor suits, there was another door carved in the back wall. Later monarchs had fashioned the secret exit as an escape route. It also allowed help and scribes to come and go unseen, adding tactical advantage when Leopold held court.

Muted sounds of random, erratic glee echoed through the padded leather of the side door discreetly tucked into the lavish masonry. Margrave Philip patiently waited for the cue to enter. At his side, a big, burly royal guard stood quietly, breathing heavily through his nose.

The monarch was entertaining his daily mandatory one hour with his retarded son.