Darkness Chosen: Into The Shadow Part 9

With infinite care she turned her head to the side.

Warlord stood there, fierce and furious, staring into her eyes.

No. Oh, no. It wasnat possible. How did he find her so quickly?

"You would face this . . . rather than me?" he asked.

"What do you think?" Her insolence was instinctivea"and misplaced.

For deep in his eyes that red flared, and he said, "I think youave made a terrible mistake." He grabbed her.

For a long, bitter moment she thought he was going to throw her into thin air, and she was going to die. Die as she had died every night in her nightmares.

Instead he twirled her around, shoved her back to the meadow, and manhandled her to the ground, face-first. Her cheek crushed the green gra.s.s, and her eyes filled with disappointed tears.

But not for long. She breathed deeply, got control.

Karen Sonnet did not cry. She did not complain. She did not whine.

She had failed to escape. She would take whatever punishment he handed outa"and when she got the chance, she would run again.

He picked her up and moved her around as if she weighed nothing, pulling her arms behind her and snapping cold metal around her wrists.

Handcuffs.

Setting her on her feet, he shoved her up the path shead so recently descended. Karen knew rebellion, fear . . . and a mortifying relief that she didnat have to continue down that narrow, dangerous, fracturing track.

What did that say about her? She would rather not know. "Listen," she said.

"When we get back." Warlord walked so closely behind her his heat and rage seared her skin. He held her arms, controlling her firmly.

"I donat want to get back."

"Too d.a.m.ned bad." He walked a little too quickly for her, b.u.mping the backs of her legs with his, making her stumble.

"Itas ridiculous to think you want me enough to commit a crime."

"I would never have thought you were a stupid woman."

She flung herself off the edge of the path and around to face him. "I am not stupid."

He spanned her waist with his hands, lifted her, and brought her close enough for their faces to touch. "What do you call a woman who doesnat recognize a man in rut when she sees him?"

She took a long, terrified breath as she fell into the flames in his dark eyes. "Men may be animals, but they do not rut."

"How many men have you slept with? One? Did you pick out the most anemic dweeb in your high school to perform the deed?"

"College!" she gasped, because she thought the dweeb was less dweeby if he was older.

Then Warlord laughed, a husky purr of lethal amus.e.m.e.nt, and she knew shead made a mistake. "Of course," he said. "No glorious rush of adolescent hormones for you. You waited the proper amount of time, picked your man, and f.u.c.ked him without an ounce of pa.s.sion."

"Thatas not true!"

He wrapped one arm around her waist, brought her close against his chest, and slowly but surely let her slide down his body. "Itas not true now . . . is it, Karen?"

Her mouth went dry with fear . . . and desire.

d.a.m.n him. She had told herself so many times that the soft emotions and strong pa.s.sions no longer survived within her soul, and he made her feel them all.

He held her long enough for her to feel the heat of his erection. Then he turned her by the shoulders and marched her ahead of him again.

The walk back seemed to go too quickly, and each moment her tension increased.

Was he going to hurt her? Beat her? Kill her?

They reached his tent, and the narrow wooden bridge shead searched for was now in place from the path to the tent. He shoved her across without a single care for her fear and hesitation, through the slit in the tent, and rolled her under the tapestry.

She heard Mingmaas glad cry of, "Oh, miss!" as she hurried toward her.

Warlord held out his hand in a stop gesture.

Mingma skidded to a halt.

"Tomorrow, make sure you fix this seam in the tent." He motioned her out.

She backed toward the door, her gaze on him, her expression fearful. She stopped at the entrance, put her hands together prayerfully, and begged him with her eyes.

That, more than anything, sent a chill through Karenas veins.

"I wonat kill her."

His harsh tone made Karen flinch.

As if that were the best she could hope for, Mingma bowed her head and slipped from the tent, leaving Karen alone with a warlord.

Her handcuffed hands were an insurmountable handicap, but Karen struggled to her knees, unwilling to loll on the floor like a helpless slave.

But when she would have stood, he pressed his hand to the top of her head and held her in place. He pulled a long, shiny blade from his belt, stepped behind her . . .

She closed her eyes in the antic.i.p.ation of pain . . . and suddenly her hands were free.

He pulled her arms from her coat and tossed it aside.

For a second the memory of the icon slipped through her mind.

The Madonna was safe.

Then she pulled her hands to the front and stared at them, then stared harder, trying to believe the proof before her own eyes.

The cold metal on her wrists wasnat steel, as she thought, but gold, not handcuffs, but wide and ornate gold bracelets. "What is this?"

He dangled before her eyes a cut rope, the rope that had connected the bracelets.

Still she gaped at the jewelry that wrapped her wrists so closely. The gleaming gold had been worked, decorated with tiny beads of gold that all together formed a panther on the prowl. In front of the great cat was the crescent moon, also created by a series of tiny gold beads. They were stunning, unique, barbarica"and she couldnat figure out how to remove them.

She tried to slip a finger between the metal and her wrist; the bracelets were tapered to fit close against her skin. She scratched at the seam, searching for a clasp; it was hidden by some clever device.

He watched, his mouth curled in a half smile. "Theyare beautiful, arenat they?"

"How do I get them off?"

"You donat."

"What?"

"Once theyare locked, they canat be removed by anything but a jeweler with shears strong enough to cut them loose." He picked up one of her wrists and traced the panther. "See this? This is me. And see this?" He ran his finger over the moon. "That is you. This marks you as my possession, and if you run away again, everyone in this part of the world will bring you back to me."

She thought, then stammered, "B-but that makes them slave bracelets."

"Exactly."

Still she stared at the exquisite ornaments on her wrists, trying to comprehend more than just the words. . . .

When she did, rage blasted through her.

Without a thought to the consequences, guided by instinct and blinding rage, she launched herself at him.

She caught him by surprise, too, punching him in the solar plexus, knocking the breath from his lungs while at the same time using one wrist ornament in a punch hard enough to drive the outline of the prowling panther into his cheek.

Blood splattered. He staggered backward.

"I am not a f.u.c.king decoration. I am not a thing you possess." She propelled herself up off the floor in a side kick that would have made her jujitsu master proud. A kick that should have hit Warlordas face and put him into a coma.

Yet it never landed.

Her first attack had caught him by surprise, but she wasnat the only one who knew self-defense.

He swerved down and to the side.

Her kick went over his head. She landed off balance.

He pushed her feet out from underneath her.

She hit the floor hard.

He flew through the air toward her.

Still moving, she rolled toward him.

And he missed.

Almost.

She tried to stand.

He caught one gold-covered wrist and jerked her back down.

With her last gasp she brought the other bracelet toward the back of his head.

He caught her arm, stopping her inches from her goal.

Just like that, he had her.

He used his weight and size ruthlessly, straddling her hips, pressing her wrists over her head. Leaning close to her face, he stared into her eyes. Blood dripped onto her cheek from the cuts shead made with the bracelet. She didnat turn her head quickly enough, and a few drops splattered onto her lips.

His body weighed her down.

His blood colored her face.

She couldnat stand it. With a quick motion she wiped her cheek on the carpet, licked the blood from her lips.

Its coppery taste stung the tissues of her mouth. Thena"

The first grenade flew from his hand in a beautiful arc through the bright blue Tibetan sky, right into the convoy, and landed in the lead Jeep. The little p.i.s.sant of a driver screamed; then the explosion rocked the pa.s.s and blew the Chinese general into a million pieces ofa"

As abruptly as shead left, she landed back on the floor of Warlordas tent. She sucked in a long gasp of air. Looked around wildly. Asked, "What was that?"

Warlord held her just as he had before she . . . before she what? Flew into a memory? His memory?

And he didnat knowa"because it hadnat happened. What shead seen was impossible.

" aWhat was that?a " he mocked. "My blood in your mouth, my body mastering yoursa" what do you think? You are a decoration. You are my possession. And itas time that I showed you what that means."

Still winded, she gasped harshly and managed, "At least Iave marked you, too."

"I heal . . . quickly." He smiled, his teeth bright white and sharp, and the combination of his amus.e.m.e.nt and the drying smear of blood on his cheek made her rage cool, and made her realize just how untenable was her situation.

"You look at me with those big eyes that are the same color as the ocean in winter and wonder if Iam going to hurt you." He tried to kiss her, but she turned her head away, so he whispered in her ear, "I would never hurt you. But I promise that before I am done with you, every time you think of pleasure, youall think of me."

Chapter Eleven.

Karen stared into Warlordas black eyes.