But at the way Virius says the word treasure, I don’t feel burdened by another’s desires of me. His gaze asks nothing of me. He looks at me with delight. With amusement. Like he wants to play with me.
The boys I grew up with never wanted to play with me. The girls, either. Treasures are coveted, looked at, not handled in fun.
The blade in my hold falters at my thought of having a little enjoyment. Not out of duty or a sacred rite—which by the way were never any laughs. I’ve never enjoyed blowing off steam for no good reason.
“What can I do to please you?”
I blink my eyes a few times to bring Virius back into focus. My mind must have drifted. Did he just ask me what I want?
“I’m not giving you my cock.” He ticks off that item with his thumb, and said thumb is just as blunt as said cock. His long index finger joins his thumb as he continues his list. “You don’t want me to give you my land. Tell me what I can do to bring you pleasure.”
His words make no sense. It has to be some kind of trick. He’s trying to make a ploy to escape. “You’re trapped. You know that, right?”
Virius looks around the cave he walked into last night as though seeing it for the first time. The rocky walls are a smooth, slate gray. The cot and threadbare sheets are the only furnishings in the room. Behind me is a locked door that opens from the outside.
“Do you wish me to stay?” he asks.
“You kinda have no choice. Trapped, remember?”
Virius nods as though turning my words over in his head. Decision apparently made, he nods. “Then I’ll stay.”
I give my head a shake. I’d heard he isn’t playing with a full deck up there. But now I see that the rumors are true. This man might be crazy.
“Would you like me to pet you?” Virius says. “Cats like to be scratched behind their ears and on their bellies.”
One: I’m not some house cat. I’m a jaguar—a panther, actually, because my coat is midnight black and I have no spots. Two: he must not have come into contact with any kind of domestic cat before because not a single feline would let a hand anywhere near its belly without sinking in claws or teeth.
“Or having your tail stroked. Would you like me to do that?”
“No, I—ah.”
With cat-like reflexes, Virius snakes his hand out and grabs me. My hand opens in protest. When it does, my knife clatters to the floor.
I’m not defenseless. I’ve been trained to take down assailants. Though I don’t feel under attack by his hands.
Virius brings me to him, picking me up as though I weigh nothing and sitting me on his lap like I am some damn house cat. His lap is still covered by the sheet, but it’s not much of a barrier for what he’s packing. Before I can yowl in protest, his hands are on me.
To my utter shock and embarrassment, I let out a low purr as his long, thick fingers find a spot behind my ear and he rubs me there. Somehow, he knows the right pressure.
His fingers have me shuddering, mewling as he hits the right spots. I am ready to curl into him and rub myself against him. I am knife-less, defenseless, and ready to show him my belly as long as he keeps scratching at that particular itch that I never knew I had.
Chapter 5
Virius
Zahara trembles at my touch. My little cat is a small, wee thing. Whereas I am a monster, a blunt object used to smash and stuff into small things that like to be broken.
For a moment, fear grips me hard. Have I hurt her? It’s always been difficult for me to tell the difference between pleasure and pain. Women’s cries of passion as their flesh bleeds from my pounding sound the same as a prisoners’ screams as I ripped off their fingernails.
I know my strength. What I don’t know is how to be gentle with all the power I wield in this overlarge body of mine. Tenderness has never once been requested of me.
Not when I fought for every scrap on the streets of ancient Rome. Not when I whored for Domitia. Not when I was an executioner for Inquisitors.
My little cat purrs as she shudders. That is a good sign. That is a sign of pleasure.
Animals, I have always understood. The sounds they make to showcase their intentions are clear. A low growl as a warning. A high-pitched rumble as an invitation.
Zahara’s sigh rolls off her tongue. The sound, beginning from high in her nasal cavity, reminds me of the coiffed singers in the theater that Gaius liked. Those women always sounded to me as though they were screaming along with the music. The sound that comes from Zahara is like that, but pleasant to my ears.
As my fingers continue to stroke her, she hits a higher note. And then an even higher one. Her eyes are closed, but I still see her lashes flutter. Another sign of pleasure. My chest puffs out at the thought that I have brought her this satisfaction.
I run my nails behind her ears. Her lobes are shaped like teardrops, reminding me of individual grapes hanging from the vine. I let my fingers follow the curve of her ear.
She shudders again. Her small breasts rub against my shirt. I have the urge to rip away the fabric between us and feel her flesh against mine. I look at the handfuls on her chest. What would it be like to cup them in my hands? What would it be like to taste them with my tongue?
I banish the thought before it can
