Taking the Stage

“…it is to you that Roseatre’s punishment shall fall. You will not scar her. You will not permanently injure her.”

Roseatre died a little inside.

“You will return her to my keeping as healthy as I pass her to you. But for the next fourteen days or less if you deem the punishment to be complete, Roseatre is yours.”

She did.

Anthony stared down at the golden key in his palm. “You own her?”

“Yes.” Succinct and direct. “And for now, so do you. Don’t abuse the privilege.” The stage manager nodded briskly, favoring Roseatre with another mysterious yet regretful smile. “Try to behave. I’ll inform Cerveau.”

“But…” The word stole out of her before she could swallow the syllable.

“I’ll take care of her. I promise.” Heidi didn’t give promises lightly, but the oath was as binding as any that Roseatre had delivered through the years and she bowed her head in acceptance.

As quickly as she’d appeared, Heidi left. Anthony held the key in the palm of his hand. Conceivably, she could strike before he realized what it could do. She could take the key from his palm, reclaim her freedom and kill the cat.

And be banished for her temerity.

If she was lucky.

If she wasn’t, Cerveau might pay an even heavier price.

Roseatre squashed the longing within her, squaring her shoulders and raising her chin. She would take whatever punishment the cat could dish out. It was merely another battlefield to be faced.

To be conquered.

To be endured.

The end result would be the same. She would return to protect her shield-sister.

No other outcome was acceptable.

Anthony tossed the key and caught it, his gaze dark with speculation. “I don’t suppose if I asked you what this did you would answer?”

“You have no reason to assume that, no.” Roseatre selected the words carefully.

“No, I don’t.” He studied the key, his nostrils flaring.

What did he smell? Our lessons indicated that cats were not the greatest of trackers, relying more on their sight and their reflexes than their sense of smell.

But she’d never observed one up close. Certainly not as close as they’d been when she’d straddled his leg.

Or as close as she’d wanted when she considered straddling the erection that thickened beneath his jeans. Heat ached between her thighs.

Unbelievable.

Even knowing exactly what he was didn’t diminish her desire.

“But she said you were mine and this is a key. That implies ownership.” He asked no question, so Roseatre kept her own counsel. His head tilted, still studying the key, he lifted it to his nostrils and inhaled a slow, deep breath.

“So the question is, what is this a key to?”

Unfortunately, Anthony chose that exact moment to look directly at her and Roseatre lifted her hands, the gold shackles shimmering with warmth. A band of heat appeared around her throat and though she couldn’t see it, she knew it was a shining, golden collar, embossed in a language she had never understood.

“They go to these.”

Chapter Six

Anthony’s chest expanded. The Amazon’s shackles were cast from the finest spun gold. He couldn’t help but prowl closer to inspect the bracelets that began at her wrists and extended to mid-forearm. The markings reminded him of gauntlets worn into battle, only without the mesh or gold to cover the hands and fingers.

Ignoring Roseatre’s sharp inhalation, he captured her fingers and turned her hand over. The language was indecipherable. It was neither Greek nor Hieratic. The lettering lacked the smooth bump and flow of Cyrillic.

But the key warmed in his palm when he brought it near the shackles, cooling when he held it away. Stealing a glance at her face, he brought the key closer. The heat was no greater than that found at the side of a pleasant fire, it didn’t burn.

Wild hostility shimmered in Roseatre’s eyes, but her muscles were quiescent in contrast to the tightness around her mouth. His princess wasn’t pleased by the turn of events. But what did it mean to have the key? He traced his fingers up her arm, delighting in the prickles appearing along her skin.

She could pretend all she liked, but his princess wasn’t immune to him.

The cat purred in approval.

The collar, however, stopped both man and cat. It was a single, gold circlet clasped around her throat. No catch or securing device was readily apparent. In fact, it seemed to have been welded there, as much a part of her throat as a decoration.

The language on the collar shimmered, shifting and reforming. The strange letters transformed into something recognizable.

Anthony’s name.

“Why does an Amazon allow herself to be chained in a slave collar?” There was no mistaking the collar or what it represented. The wrist shackles could have been decorative, but there was no other explanation for the collar. Who did he have to kill to win her freedom?

Or better, take possession of her himself?

“To protect her people, an Amazon would choose such a fate. There is little an Amazon wouldn’t do to protect the women who follow her.” The answer was hard won, pushed through gritted teeth. Anthony’s gaze stroked over her speculatively. This close, he could taste the scent of her warm breath, the hint of cranberries, dates and just the faintest touch of coffee.

The past and the present filled his princess’s lungs, an enchanting creature, deadly and desirable. Anthony fisted his hand around the key.

“Tell me what the key does.” He had a theory. He caressed her throat with his gaze, watching the muscles flex as she swallowed. She didn’t want to tell. But she would.

“The key opens the bracelets and the collar.”

The man wanted to laugh, but the cat arched its back, claws threatening to unsheathe into his closed fists. His princess was an Amazon warrior.

And a slave.

His slave, apparently, a gift of the stage manager for Roseatre’s alleged crime. The crime of striking out, warring with him, which was in her nature.

In his hand he held not only the key to her body, but the assurance of success in his future. The capture of an Amazon princess would raise his estimation amongst the Pride, allow him the honor of challenging the current Alpha.

He could kill his uncle and take back what should rightfully belong to him. The celebration would be magnificent and last for a full lunar cycle.

And the conquest of this sexy princess was his key to return to the life he’d been forced to abandon. She was a prized trophy, the finest spoil of war, and she would be his forever, bound in gold shackles, catering to his every whim.

His cock hardened painfully as the mental image of her on her hands and knees, head bowed in obeisance. He could taste her obedience on his tongue, but even as the thoughts aroused him, reality flamed through him.

Obedience was not submission.

Control was not dominance.