fireplace on the dais.
“If that is what you wish, mademoiselle, by all means I am agreeable.” There was a flicker in his eyes, something almost soft, and then it was gone. “You,” he said, commanding one of Cezar’s servants as if he were his own. “A handkerchief or scarf.”
“What, will you fight blindfolded?” crowed one of the audience. “What a sight that will be.”
“No, I do not think that is what Cale has in his mind,” lisped Cezar, delight in his voice. “He means for their hands to be bound together. Narcise.”
This last was his order, and at first she simply couldn’t make herself move. They meant to tie their wrists together so that neither could retreat. Or leap or lunge.
She had no breath. Her mind turned blank and fear took over. Already, she could feel his body on top of hers, his hands tearing at her clothes, his mouth and fangs on her.
How badly she’d misjudged him.
That interlude at his place, when he’d been more than a gentleman, more kind and unassuming than she’d ever experienced…had been a lie.
He really was like the others: blinded by lust, fueled by bravado.
Narcise moved numbly toward Cale, raising her right arm—for she was left-handed in battle. They faced each other, and his strong, bare fingers curled around her hand as if they meant to arm wrestle. The feel of his hand cupping hers reminded Narcise of the intimate moment when their fingers had intertwined so that she could feed on his open wrist. The servant wrapped the scarf around their hands, binding them firmly, and she noted with apprehension that his arm was nearly twice as wide as hers.
Warmth flowed from his skin into hers, and she felt the slamming of a pulse where the delicate skin of their wrists met. Whether the beating was hers or his, she wasn’t certain. But she was fully aware of his smoky, rich scent, and the size of his long, bare feet only inches from her own.
She couldn’t look at him, instead focusing her eyes over his shoulder as they prepared to face each other.
“Begin,” cried Cezar, and so it was.
At first, they minced in a maudlin circle, as far apart as their bonds would allow, delicate and arrhythmic as one attempted to read the other’s strengths, strategy and steps. After one quick glance, she avoided his eyes, instead watching the rest of his body. Then Cale lunged, and she danced out of the way with ease.
But Narcise wasn’t fooled; she knew he hadn’t moved as quickly or sharply as he was capable. He was testing her, to see how tired she was from her first contest.
She concentrated on watching the signals: his eyes, the change of breath, the balance and shift of his feet and center, and she was ready when he lunged again. Their free hands clashed as she raised hers to block his blow, and a slam of pain reverberated down her arm.
Narcise swallowed a cry and attacked him before he could fully recover his stance, glancing a blow off his arm this time. Then without hesitation, she ducked beneath their twined arms and curled around behind him, but Cale was too fast, and he spun under and around at the same time, keeping her from getting to his back. She was tired, not moving as quickly as she normally would.
But she must.
Fury burned in her. She would kill him if she had the chance. There was no reason to hesitate, for if she didn’t, he would have her.
And she couldn’t bear that. Not after these last weeks of dreaming, fantasizing, hoping.
Bitterness galvanized her, and she whipped the stake, slamming it into the top of his shoulder with all of her force. He gave a surprised grunt, and she swore she saw a flash of humor in his eyes—but then she was dancing backward.
He tripped her with his next movement, and her balance stuttered. She caught herself with her right foot, but not before he twisted suddenly. The next thing she knew, their bound arms wrapped her back up against his torso like the movement in a dance, and he had his stake, poised over her chest. Her own tied hand was pressed against her belly with his, and her body acted as a shield from any blow she might attempt.
“Checkmate,” he murmured into her ear, and damn him if the low timbre sent tingles shooting through her.
She tried to stomp on his foot to give her a target for her own stake, but he was ready for it and easily shifted, causing her to tip off balance again.
“Are you certain you still wish to fight to the death?” Cale added, again close to her ear. “I had a different ending in mind.”
Revulsion and hatred shot through her, and Narcise jerked hard at their tied hands, yanking his down with a savage twist.
He gave a huff of pain and for a moment she thought she’d taken him by surprise…but his bicep tightened immediately and he whipped her back against his torso hard enough to knock the breath out of her.
His stake came closer to her throat and poised there as one of his powerful legs shifted, curving in front of hers so that he tipped her forward but kept her feet immobile. Now she was slightly tilted toward the floor, her stake hanging from her left hand with no viable target.
“So now you must slay me,” she said, grinding her teeth. “For it was agreed.”
Cezar had been watching avidly, and now he began to clap his hands loudly and sharply. “Well done, Cale,” he said, standing. “You are the first to best Narcise in years.”
She threw her brother a dark look and said, “And that’s only because he waited until I was weary. He could not have won if I were fresh.”
Cale’s arms tightened around her a fraction, and she felt the vibration in his chest as he spoke, “But the woman is correct…she was already spent. Therefore, I will deny my right to take her life—as she offered—and instead accept the customary spoils. If you agree, Cezar.” He spoke lightly, but there was an edge to his voice that indicated he would accept no argument.
“Oh, indeed,” Moldavi replied immediately. Narcise, who could interpret her brother’s slightest inflection, heard the hint of displeasure there, but she wasn’t certain whether it was because he’d wanted her dead, or because she’d lost.
Despite the fact that he forced her into such combative situations, Moldavi had a warped sense of pride about her; thus a flaw or loss in her performance was a reflection on him.
“Very well then,” Cale said, and he released Narcise so that she was able to stand on her own. “Drop your weapon,
The servant moved as if to untie them, but Cale stopped him with a raised hand. “No need for that. I will attend to it shortly.” He looked at Narcise again. “Drop the stake,” he repeated, a bit of steel in his voice. “I don’t wish to have to fend you off.”
Narcise realized that her knees were shaking so badly she could hardly stand. Her stomach felt as if it were going to erupt at any moment, and she was certain her pulse was pounding so hard he could hear it. She could scarcely force herself to uncurl her fingers to allow the stake to drop, but at last it fell to the stone floor with a clatter.
Cale glanced at her, a little frown between his brows, but she would not meet his eyes. Narcise drew in her breath and straightened her shoulders to stand proudly as he drew her toward the chamber door.
Why was she so terrified? She had outgrown the terror and paralyzing fear long ago. She’d learned to submit, to exist…to get through the demands of her own body’s bloodlust, the reflexive response to fresh blood and penetration. There was nothing she hadn’t lived through before. There was nothing he could do to her that hadn’t already been done.
But she knew what the problem was. Not only had Cale betrayed her fantasy of him, but there was still that lingering
Narcise was aware of herself being directed out of the room and down the brief corridor to The Chamber, but she felt as if she were outside of her own body, watching this event.
Cale said nothing to her, nor to Cezar’s servant, who led the way to the room of hell. It wasn’t until they reached the heavy wooden door that her captor turned and offered their tied wrists to the servant. He obliged,
