Adeno Page 2

  * * * *

  Three days later, Adeno's master scheduled him to fight in a celebration for the Emperor's son and new bride. He stood with a chain around his neck and shackles at his ankles. Two guards, one with a club, the other holding his saber, stood in silence. The laceration to his side had nearly healed, the tender spot slathered in honey and wine, then covered with fresh linens to prevent infection. Each breath stung against the layers of leather and armor, though he'd long since realized pain was only a matter of mental tolerance.

  He raised his chained arms to scratch his head. Six months ago, the man who had bought him had shaved his dark hair down to his skull to prevent lice. Despite that, fleas had infested him and he'd borne the reddened marks of a thousand tiny bites. The new owner had housed him beside exotic beasts until he'd won enough matches to earn his place with the other warriors.

  "Quit moving,” one of the guards snapped.

  The chain around his neck rattled, pulled taut until he stumbled forward. Shafts of blindingly bright sunlight fought through the wooden slats separating his dark, tense world and the bloody, sun-soaked one that chanted his name.

  He wrenched his torso and ripped the chain from his captor's hands.

  "I move as I please."

  The guards stared at him, weapons in hand, jaws slack. Adeno's heart raced as the iron gates raised and opened the arena with a rush of indistinguishable voices and a cloud of dust. He tore his saber from the guard's hand and stalked from darkness to light, hit first by the roar of the crowd, then by the hiss of a chain sailing through the air. Blood sprayed from his cheek, blinding his eyes. It took several heartbeats to realize the fight had begun.

  Deft as a Marab cat, he crouched low and avoided the chain sailing above his head again. The crowd roared, and as he tested the weight of his saber, metal clashed against metal. A blow between the shoulder blades stole the air from his lungs and he stumbled, rolling into the dirt.

  Twin warriors stood over him, one bearing a chain, the other a flail. His vision blurred, mind reeling as the two men stalked around him in opposite directions. He stepped backward in an attempt to keep both men within sight when the flail struck his helmet.

  The arena floor surged upward—or did he fall? Dust gritted in his teeth, and just as he rolled to his back, a spear plunged into his arm pit, where the leather ended and no armor covered. Pinned to the ground, Adeno heard the crowd roar with pleasure. The only pleasure he'd ever known came from others, the only joy he'd ever heard accompanied torment.

  "Finish him,” they chanted, their voices now in unison, the pound of feet on wooden boards, fists on wooden seats. The arena shook with desire, with lust for pain and death.

  "Dream,” he heard Nasora whisper, a memory of long, soft fingers, of a warm breath on his face. Full breasts visible through sheer silk nearly touched his chest and abdomen as she leaned over him, her nipples protruding, needing his attention. “Far from here, Deno, dream of a different life."

  In the twilight between consciousness and sleep, he'd considered what would happen if he reached up and caressed her cheek, how she'd react if he brushed his virgin fingers along the curve of her virgin breast. He found no pleasure in battle, but he knew, at least in sleep, that these desires brought him closer than he'd ever been to feeling content.

  "Close your eyes,” she beckoned softly. “And leave this place, Deno."

  "Not without you, Nas,” he murmured.

  Footsteps shuffled toward him, and a man dressed in the skins of a leopard and the head of a Marab cat stalked back and forth, kept at bay by his owner's harsh words to stay his ground or have his head cut off. The crowd continued to taunt as men lifted Adeno's body from the arena's dirt floor, spear and all. He barely heard their demands of an execution.

  "Dream,” he whispered, dirt coating his tongue and lips. Like a cloak over his eyes, the world went dark.

  * * * *

  Nasora sat in her small apartment and waited for nightfall, her stomach heavy and sick with worry. With a sigh, she tapped on a gold ornament hung on the canopy bed and watched it swing back and forth as candlelight glinted from the dark embedded jewels.

  "No, Governess,” she muttered under her breath. “Pretty things do not keep me as content as you believe."

  Frustration had steadily built throughout the day as she paced her elaborate cage like an animal. Iriana, her wealthy governess, had made every attempt to keep her comfortable with offers of walks through the estate garden, but Nasora preferred solitude. The governess, an older, stern woman with flawless skin and dull eyes, enjoyed feeding the fish in her many ponds and the birds caged in the shade of stone archways and ancient flowering trees. For all its beauty, Nasora couldn't help but notice the high walls and the iron bars decorated with climbing ivy. Fragrant and soaked with midday sun, it remained an enclosed sanctuary lacking doors, lacking a way out.

  At nightfall, she wished she'd accompanied Iriana if even for a brief stroll. She lay restless and hungry, taunted by the sweet, tender berries growing outside her window. A light, rain-scented breeze tickled the other ornaments and sent a wave of metallic laughter through her quarters, but it didn't drown out the sound of drums and cheers that overflowed from the basin-shaped arena.

  "Are you alive or are you dead?” she whispered. Her muscles tensed, gut flipped. Shadows lengthened across the blue and gold rug; dark clouds visible through the opened window swept through the sky bruised with purple and shades of blue. “And if you live, do you dream, and if you dream, will you take me with you?"

  Tonight ended a seven-day celebration to mark the arrival of the Emperor's son and young bride. In celebration, the lords had decided to feast and fight from the early light of dawn to the last drop of sunlight cast into the arena.

  She reclined and ran her fingers along her neckline. The silk of her gown rustled with a gust of wind that rattled each ornament above her head. Golden cylinders, bronze and silver spirals whirled on thin strings, danced together, brushed one another in soft, accidental caresses.

  Her eyes fluttered shut, and she heaved a deep, ragged sigh, unsure of whether she should pray for his life or swift death. Each day she feared her governess, his master, someone would realize the affection she held for him and she'd never see him again. Her life and skills—and her virginity—far outweighed his life. Boys could be stolen and turned into fighting slaves, but pure Healers were rarely found these days.

  Mothers no longer waited forty, even fifty years before they bore their first child. Many women these days received the same education as their husbands. What payment they received to relinquish their newborn into the care of a governess seemed a small compensation for pregnancy, labor, and birth. None were guaranteed that their burden would result in a daughter born a Healer, an infant girl no man would ever touch—at least not until she could pass her skills to her own child born in the twilight of her life.

  But she cared little for her coveted skills. She wanted, craved a man's callused hands stroking her breasts and belly, felt a tug in her empty womb when she thought of strong fingers parting her thighs, opening her for his thick cock to slide deep inside her.

  Approaching footsteps stiffened her spine and stopped a shiver before it began.

  "Nasora?” Her governess tapped on the door.

  "Yes?” She sat up and straightened her gown.

  "Turvo has come with six gold pieces. It is urgent."

  "Whom does he seek to heal?” she questioned, though she already knew the answer. Sorrow engulfed her, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  "Adeno."

  * * * *

  Nasora entered the dank innards of the arena, eyes flashing left and right at the empty cages of both men and beasts. She watched in silence as servants carried Adeno's body to her on a crimson-stained stretcher, and left him on a narrow table in the vacant corner.

  "Oh, that greedy, miserable bastard,” she muttered loudly, hoping Turvo heard her curse him. She had known Adeno would not be ready to fi
ght as his master had demanded. She'd felt it in her fingertips from the moment she'd roused him from his sleep and watched him stare up at her with listless eyes. He looked like the armor he wore—beaten, bent, and pounded into shape, but still empty and cold.

  "How long has it been since you removed him from the arena?” she questioned the four men who had backed away.

  Blank-eyed servants cast their gazes toward the floor. She guessed they'd come from Coraan and didn't speak Miorian or Clenath—or they feared for their lives and wouldn't risk a glance in her direction. Frustrated, she dipped her hands into warm, oily water and shook them dry.

  "Leave,” she ordered, shooing them toward the door. “And tell the Quist he'll be fortunate if this man lives to see daylight.” She slammed the door shut and turned back toward the slave warrior, who stared at the wall. “Oh, Adeno,” she whispered. “He should not have sent you out today."

  Shock had most likely set in when the guards had pulled him from the dirt, spear and all. With a frown, Nasora dipped a rag into a bowl of water and herbs, and mopped his chest around the wound. Once finished cleaning the injury, she positioned her right hand above the end of the spear. The tingle of warm energy jarred him, and she saw on his contorted face that he knew where he was and remembered what had happened.

  "No,” he whispered, his eyes wild, hands splayed on the edges of the table.

  Ignoring him, she forced his head up and poured liquid from the etched bone flask at her side into his mouth.

  "Calm yourself, Adeno.” She combed her fingers through his hair and supported his head to keep him from drowning. “I cannot—"

  "Don't heal me."

  "Turvo paid three times as much as usual,” she muttered. He'd spoken to her himself, rather than through her governess. Dark, intense eyes had stared through her, thin lips had curled into a cruel smile. Even the thought of his round face made her shiver. “He wants you alive."

  "Do you want what he wants?” The broken spear dug deeper with each labored breath, and his face, a mask of red dust and clay, blood and sweat, crumpled. “Do you want my life?"

  "I want you to lie still."

  "Answer me."

  Unable to meet his eye, her gaze focused on the leather breast plate that had been cut from his body to expose his bruised chest. She held her palm before the shattered rod, and as she drew it back, the spear came free. His hands grasped the edges of the wooden table, a groan escaping through clenched teeth as the broken spear hovered over his body, suspended by energy that shot like bolts of lightning from her hand to the piece of smooth wood and iron. With her free hand she made circles close to his chest, so close that her palm caressed the dark covering of hair. His nipples hardened, and she knew he watched her. The harshness of his breath, the stiffness of his body, everything about him indicated that he no longer registered pain.

  Nasora reached for a rag and washed away the blood before she prepared to drag her finger along his swollen flesh and seal the injury. “You are fortunate. The spear could have pierced your heart."

  He grunted. “Cattle in a slaughterhouse fare better than I do. They only die once, not week after week."

  She chose to ignore him and the trembling in her hand. Fist clenched, she summoned a ball of tight, white-hot energy and cauterized the wound, which made his back arch. His hips thrust upward, the unmistakable bulge strained against oiled leather trousers.

  "Can you feel this?” Her fingers gently tapped his belly. As soon as the liquid from the flask numbed him, she'd cut through his leather trousers and examine the wound to his upper thigh.

  "How much would it cost me for the silence of death?” he asked, gripping her arm. “Give me a price."

  Nasora sighed, her eyes trained on his long, dirt-covered fingers. Powerful hands of an intense man, she thought, powerful and skilled. Her heart raced, but cowardice forced her to pull away. “You are only a slave. You do not have gold."

  "I would starve a month if you would take my coin."

  "It would be wasted."

  "No, not for the promise of leaving here."

  Her eyes squeezed shut to the burn of tears. “Turvo has paid,” she answered softly.

  Rough fingers touched her cheek, brushed away hot, wet stains trailing from her eyes. “We pay for this, Nas, not him,” he murmured.

  She barely realized he'd sat up until she heard a soft grunt of pain and felt his arms around her. Panic flooded her and she glanced around to be certain none of the servants remained.

  "The door—"

  "No, I don't care.” He held her firmly, his arms like iron around her despite her struggles.

  "Do you know what they would do to us?” She pressed against his chest, pushed and clawed at him in fear of being caught, in terror of her governess dismissing her—of the arena owners placing her in a Pit of Disgrace where she'd be stoned to death.

  "I know what they do to us now.” He met her fear with passion and gripped her chin, drawing her face toward his. “We are slaves, Nas, slaves! Allowed nothing, spared no pain, shown no mercy.” He kissed her hard, one broad hand between her shoulders, the other firm against her buttocks.

  "No, Deno, someone will see,” she said weakly, without an ounce of conviction as she kissed him back, her tongue searching for his, her hands groping his naked, newly replenished flesh. Heat radiated from her fingers, pleasure coiled deep inside her belly, within her empty womb as he kissed her throat and cupped her breast.

  "Don't fight me,” he murmured, thumb grazing her nipple. “Please, don't you fight me."

  She sank into his embrace, her legs squeezed together as the tension and moisture pooled at the apex of her thighs. Ever since she'd first been assigned as his Healer, she knew it would be like this if ever he could touch her. Urgent yet tender, fierce yet passionate.

  "I should lock the door,” she whispered.

  "I'd rather be caught than be away from you."

  He teased her nipples through the thin silk of her dress, hot hands warming her both inside and out. With each roll, each tug of hard, aching flesh, another bolt of white-hot pleasure seared from the tip of her breast to the core of her belly.

  Her body jerked slightly, toes curled in her leather sandals as he sucked low on her throat, on an area of flesh normally hidden by her high-neck gown. She hadn't realized he'd loosened the silk ribbon at the back of her neck as he caressed her.

  "I want to suckle you,” he requested, voice hoarse with desire.

  She didn't reply. Instead, she wriggled free of her long sleeves, the silky warmth of her dress replaced by hot hands and cool, moist air. Words lodged in her throat, and with her eyes closed, she slid her hands up and down his back, then along his muscular thighs as he kissed and licked his way to the curve of her exposed breast.

  "We'll be killed for this,” she reminded him.

  "I would rather die knowing I touched you than never being allowed your smell, your sighs ... everything about you, Nas."

  Pleasure nearly overwhelmed her as he cupped her small, firm breast in the palm of his hand and studied her a moment, his thumb flicking her responsive nipple. Head turned to the side, he stroked her with his tongue and gave her ample space to watch him lick her, tease her with each fiery wet stroke of a pink tongue against a dark pink nipple.

  She gripped a handful of his hair and drew his mouth to her breast, hungrily watching as he took the throbbing peak between his lips and sucked hard and soft, hard and soft. The weight low in her belly increased until she could have sworn someone had placed a hard, wet pebble between her legs. It ached, a fierce, needy sensation that she couldn't ignore.

  "I want to feel you, too,” she breathed as his tongue continued to strum pleasure into every vibrating nerve.

  While he suckled her, she reached between their bodies and found the hard, thick length of his cock pressed against his belly. With years of healing behind her, she'd seen men naked before and felt no fear, only curiosity. She'd seen Adeno covered only in dirt and sweat, but
it didn't compare to the feel of him.

  She explored him through warm, pliant leather, but he didn't react to her fondling. Blindly she fumbled with the cord lacing up his trousers until his cock sprang free. Immediately she ran the palm of her hand over the crown. His own natural lubrication allowed her to glide along his soft flesh, which she desperately wanted to explore.

  Chains somewhere in the distance rattled, and Nasora jumped, fearful once more of discovery. Rather than allow her to escape, he embraced her tighter around the waist while his free hand slid down her back and along her sides.

  "Nas, open your legs for me,” he murmured, lips teasing her sensitive earlobe, hand skimming down the small of her back. He traced a line down her buttocks until he stroked the back of her thighs. Almost without conscious thought, her legs inched apart, and at once thick fingers stroked wet heat. “I want to touch you everywhere."

  A shiver of expectation rattled down her spine. She gasped, found a torturous blend of both fear of being caught and the pleasure of her new discoveries.

  "I want to touch you as well,” she said in his ear.

  Again no reaction, physical or verbal. She dragged herself back and searched his face for answers.

  "Nas.” He bent forward and attempted to kiss her again.

  "Do you want me to touch you?” she questioned.

  His gaze instantly faltered. “If you wish."

  "What do you wish?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Of course it matters,” she argued.

  "No, it does not."

  "Why?” she demanded, her face heated with more frustration than passion.

  "Because I cannot feel your touch."

  Horror writhed in her heart. She followed his gaze to the emptied bone flask at the tableside and realized he couldn't feel her hands on him. It sickened her, repulsed her to think of each stroke, each caress giving him no pleasure—and it was because of her.

  "The pain—” she started, but couldn't possibly finish. Their eyes met, and she realized no matter how she numbed him, pain on a different level still existed.