The Nymph King

'Don't be a baby. I warned you that I wasn't good at this sort of thing.' She soaked one of the rags with oil. 'This smells good. What is it?'

'Soap, I think your people call it.'

'Our soap doesn't smell like this, like orchids and magical waterfalls.'

His chin tilted to the side, and he eyed her. 'You wish me to think you aloof and yet you enjoy pleasing your senses with delicious smells.'

Scowling, she slapped the cloth against his wound. He laughed, for he was beginning to see a pattern to her bouts of anger. When her sense of detachment was most threatened, she reacted with waspishness.

As she gently rubbed the flesh around the wound, cleaning away sweat and dirt, she said grudgingly, 'You did good out there.'

His amusement died a quick death; shock pounded through him. A grunt of relief even gusted past his lips. Perhaps violence did not bother her as much as he'd feared. He was glad, for that meant she might more readily accept her life here, where wars constantly raged. 'Are the men of the surface allowed to combat each other with swords?'

'No. Not without consequences.'

'What do you mean?'

'If a man on the surface maims another man like you did today, he is hunted down and locked away. If his victim dies, he can be executed.'

He rolled her explanation through his mind. 'What if the man is protecting himself or those he loves?'

'There are still consequences, they simply aren't as severe. People in my world sue for the dumbest stuff imaginable. I heard about one case where a man broke into another man's house. The thief fell off the roof and sued the homeowner. He actually won the case, too. How dumb is that?'

'I do not think I would like living on the surface, then.'

'Well, I like it,' she said defensively.

He sighed.

'This cut is pretty deep,' she muttered, probing the edge with her fingers. 'I think you need stitches.'

He bit his lip to hide his wince. He'd never had to deal with his wounds before. After a battle, he immediately made love to a woman and his wounds disappeared of their own accord. 'What I need is sex.' He tried for a seductive tone, but sounded reproachful. 'With you.'

She scowled, even as she tenderly dried the injury. 'I'm more than willing to go get one of the other women for you.'

As her words echoed between them, she pressed her lips together. A combination of rage and trepidation— that he would take her up on the offer?—flitted over her expression.

'Ah, little moonbeam. When will you learn that only you will do?'

She relaxed, her expression softening. 'Yes, well, when will you learn that I don't sleep around?'

'Have I not already explained that you are my mate?' He did not want to listen to another of her denials, so he added, 'Your protests are silly.'

'A mate is a willing partner, right? I think we both know I'm not willing. Nor am I your partner. Or queen. I am not a queen.'

Unable to help himself, he plucked the ends of her hair and sifted the silky strands through his fingers. He brought them to his nose and sniffed. Ah, sweet heaven. 'You smell so good.'

'I can't say the same for you.'

He didn't take offense. 'I am most definitely in need of a bath. Would you care to join me?'

A quiver raked her, and she dropped the rag to the floor. 'Damn it. Stop saying stuff like that.'

'Why? I want you. I am not one to deny my desires.'

'Yeah. I get that.' Bending down, she scooped up the rag and tossed it into the unlit hearth. She picked up a clean rag and scooped sand into a gaping pocket. 'You do realize I'm about to put sand in an open sore, right?'

'Right.'

'And you still want me to do it?'

His brow puckered. 'Of course.'

She shook her head, incredulous, then shrugged. 'Whatever. It's your infection.' But she hesitated a moment before smearing the grains into his injury.

He didn't speak for a long while. He concentrated on her breath, gently fanning his shoulder. He concentrated on her teeth, nibbling on her lower lip. His cock grew increasingly hard.

'Desires are a natural thing, moon,' he said. 'The more you deny them, the stronger they become, until they are all you can think about, all you can see.'

'Stop right there.' Her voice shook, and he knew she wasn't unaffected by what he'd said. Her nipples were hard little points against her shirt. 'Don't try to engage me in a conversation about desires, okay? I'm not interested.'

He grabbed her wrist, closing his fingers around her delicate bones with soothing finesse. Still not petting, he assured himself. He tugged her in front of him. Her gaze slid to his mouth, to his erection. A surprised gasp slipped from her.

'You're right,' he said. He needed her so badly. 'We should not talk about it. I should show you. Tell me to show you, Shaye. Tell me.'

Suddenly panicked, she leapt away from him and to the wall, where she grabbed one of the smaller swords. She held it in front of her, looking very much like the warrior queen she so vehemently denied being. 'No. No! Do you understand?'

Shaye had been fighting a fierce desire for him since he'd first sat down, and every time he touched her, every time he looked at her, every time he spoke to her, her resistance crumbled a little more.

He froze in place, a blank shield shuttering over his expression. Only his eyes revealed any hint of emotion. They were blazing with need and rage and disappointment.

'Very well,' he said. 'Tonight is yours. I will not touch you.'

No, her body wept. Don't listen to me. Fight for me. 'Thank you.' She had to stay strong. She couldn't give in. The ramifications were simply too great.

They stared at each other, locked in a silent battle. 'Tomorrow, however, belongs to me. There will be no more denying me. Do you understand?'

She gulped, didn't dare speak.

'If you attempt to leave this room, you will regret it.' He stood and left her then, striding away without a backward glance.

CHAPTER 14

DR. BRENNA JOHNSTON tied her black curls on top of her head with a thin strip of cloth. As always, a few of the shorter curls escaped confinement and cascaded down her temples.

How did I get myself into this situation?

She gazed down at the man lying unconscious on the bed of sapphire silk. His beautiful dark hair was spread over his large shoulders. His eyelashes etched shadows on his cheeks. His nose was slightly crooked, his lips lush.

He looked like a fallen angel.

A dying, bloody, pain-entrenched fallen angel.

Blood oozed from the thick gashes on his chest and thigh. His skin, she knew from seeing him earlier, was usually tanned. Now it was pale, tinted slightly blue because he'd gone into a mild form of shock. She was a surgeon, but she would have preferred her tools in her hospital with her nurses. Not the jars of oil and sand she'd been given, not the nonsterile environment, not the lughead standing guard at the door. Still, Brenna couldn't let her patient die. She