Into the Shadow

  Handcuffs.

  Setting her on her feet, he shoved her up the path she’d so recently descended. Karen knew rebellion, fear . . . and a mortifying relief that she didn’t 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 don’t want to get back.’’

  ‘‘Too damned bad.’’ He walked a little too quickly for her, bumping the backs of her legs with his, making her stumble.

  ‘‘It’s 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 doesn’t 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 amusement, and she knew she’d 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 fucked him without an ounce of passion.’’

  ‘‘That’s 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. ‘‘It’s not true now . . . is it, Karen?’’

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

  Damn him. She had told herself so many times that the soft emotions and strong passions 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 she’d 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 Mingma’s 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 Karen’s veins.

  ‘‘I won’t 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 anticipation 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 wasn’t 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, barbaric—and she couldn’t 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. ‘‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’’

  ‘‘How do I get them off?’’

  ‘‘You don’t.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Once they’re locked, they can’t 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 fucking 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 Warlord’s face and put him into a coma.

  Yet it never landed.

  Her first attack had caught him by surprise, but she wasn’t 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 she’d made with the bracelet. She didn’t turn her head quickly enough, and a few drops splattered onto her lips.

  His body weighed her down.

  His blood colored her face.

  She couldn’t 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. Then—

  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 pissant of a driver screamed;
then the explosion rocked the pass and blew the Chinese general into a million pieces of—

  As abruptly as she’d left, she landed back on the floor of Warlord’s 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 didn’t know—because it hadn’t happened. What she’d seen was impossible.

  ‘‘ ‘What was that?’ ’’ he mocked. ‘‘My blood in your mouth, my body mastering yours— what do you think? You are a decoration. You are my possession. And it’s time that I showed you what that means.’’

  Still winded, she gasped harshly and managed, ‘‘At least I’ve marked you, too.’’

  ‘‘I heal . . . quickly.’’ He smiled, his teeth bright white and sharp, and the combination of his amusement 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 I’m 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, you’ll think of me.’’

  Chapter Eleven

  Karen stared into Warlord’s black eyes.

  Did he feel anything for her? About her? Besides murderous rage? Besides lust?

  He turned her onto her stomach, lifted her, and dropped her onto the mattress. It was still bouncing as she flipped over to find him waiting for her, that ferocious smile in place. He swung the rope before her eyes like a hypnotist’s dangling watch.

  ‘‘No!’’ She grabbed the center, tried to jerk it away.

  He clutched her wrist and wrapped the rope around the bracelet. Gently—he had no reason to be rough; her struggles were getting her nowhere—he pulled her arm up, slid the rope through the brass posts on the headboard, and grasped her other wrist.

  They wrestled.

  He won.

  When he was finished, the rope wound around one wide bracelet, through the posts, and around the other bracelet. There was play in the rope; she could move her arms twelve inches in any direction, could use the ropes to leverage herself toward the headboard—but she was tied. ‘‘I hate you so much.’’

  ‘‘You don’t yet. But you will.’’ He pulled out his knife.

  A gush of fear struck deep into her core.

  He was angry. So angry. The blade gleamed in the light of the lanterns. He pressed the tip of the knife to her throat right over her wind-pipe, and smiled into her face.

  ‘‘Don’t struggle,’’ he whispered. ‘‘I’d hate to slip.’’ He ran the point down her throat to the neckline of his T-shirt—and with one clean slice he cut it open down to her waist.

  She shrieked, and hated herself for it.

  ‘‘I told you. I won’t hurt you.’’ He used the tip of the knife to move the material away from first one breast, then the other.

  Her nipples hardened from the cold . . . and maybe from the slow, betraying touch of his hungry tongue to his lower lip.

  That blade cut the sleeves. The T-shirt lay beneath her in ruins.

  He slipped the knife into the leather holster strapped on the headboard. He used his hands, one each, to press her clenched fists. ‘‘So rebellious, ’’ he chided. ‘‘It won’t do you any good. I’m bigger, I’m stronger, and I already know how to make you purr.’’ He wrapped his fingers around her wrists above the bracelets, then slid up toward her elbow, over her straining biceps, and over her bunched shoulders. ‘‘So much tension.’’ He used his thumbs to massage her tight muscles above her shoulder blade, and his fingertips to massage the cords at the back of her neck. ‘‘You won’t be able to keep it up. But definitely you should try. I’ll enjoy watching you yield.’’

  Passionate, sharp hatred burned in her stomach.

  How could she have welcomed him into her tent, into her bed? He was nothing but a . . . ‘‘You’re a snake,’’ she said, the accusation dipped in poison.

  ‘‘No. I am a panther. And you are my mate.’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘We’ll see what you say . . . later.’’ He used his thumbs on her nipples. Over and over he rubbed them, first with the pad of his thumb, then with the edge of his fingernail, until she wanted to whimper—and not from fear.

  Damn him. If he meant to use her, couldn’t he be a man and get it over with quickly?

  Instead he slid his arm beneath her, lifting her, arching her up to his hungry mouth. He suckled softly at first, then harder, taking almost all of her slight breast into his mouth, manipulating it with his tongue and teeth and lips until her eyelids closed and she found her fingernails clawing the pillows under her head.

  With careful deliberation he placed his knee between her legs and thrust his thigh against her.

  The hard canvas seam of the jeans rubbed against her clit, and her sensation of fullness abruptly became painful.

  No, not painful. That wasn’t the right word. She was . . . needy.

  The bastard who held her, who moved her on him, had chased her down, marked her as his, scared her to death, and now . . . now he was using all his knowledge of her and probably a thousand other women to make her come. Come so fast and hard she’d be ashamed of herself. Of her weakness.

  So she gasped, ‘‘What’s the matter? Can’t get it up?’’

  Slowly he let her down onto the sheets. Rising on his knees above her, he lowered his hands to his worn brown leather belt.

  She couldn’t look away as, with leisurely care, he pulled the two ends apart, then ............opened the buttons, one by one.

  He wore underwear, plain white cotton underwear made, by the looks of it, by some American manufacturer. And as he pushed the jeans down, his erection tented the material. He eased his briefs off—and abruptly the whole business was so much worse.

  She’d seen his penis before. Of course. But today it looked longer, wider. It rose from among the curling black hairs, a pale marble veined with blue, and the mere sight of it made her feel a ferocious desire to touch.

  But she couldn’t. He had tied her . . . his slave.

  She closed her eyes and turned her head away. ‘‘I wish you’d hurry this up. I don’t know what you do all day long, but I’m sure warlords have some duties.’’

  He laughed, and it sounded like a purr. ‘‘No. I’m like a hunting cat. There are great, long hours of relaxation, followed by brief bursts of furious activity.’’

  ‘‘Which is this?’’

  ‘‘My favorite combination of both.’’ Something soft and luxurious stroked her throat, tickled down her breastbone, slipped under the loose waistband of her borrowed jeans to caress her belly. And for a second she thought she felt the drag of a long, sharp claw across her tender skin.

  Her eyes shot open.

  Above her Warlord leaned on one elbow and examined her face. ‘‘I don’t want you to hide behind your lids. I want you completely open to me.’’

  ‘‘What was that?’’

  He showed her a glorious, colorful peacock feather and whisked it lightly across her breasts. ‘‘This?’’

  ‘‘It felt like . . .’’ Her gaze fell on him.

  His pants were gone. He wore only a tight black short-sleeved T-shirt that clung to his muscled chest. His sculpted body was tense with anticipation, yet still he coolly dusted her skin with the feather, intent on lifting her past the level of suspense to mindless craving.

  He laid his palm flat on her stomach, right above the waistband of her jeans—his jeans— and slipped his hand beneath the tough material. He pressed her belly, simply pressed it, and that one point of contact felt so good. Reassuring, kind, as if he cared, not about winning, but about making her happy.

  He compelled her surrender based on the most egregious lie of all.

  She
yanked at the rope.

  He watched with interest. ‘‘Testing the knots? That won’t help. I was a Boy Scout.’’

  ‘‘A Boy Scout? Is this what they taught you in camp?’’

  ‘‘No, they didn’t offer this merit badge. I imagine camp would have been a lot more popular if they had.’’

  Damn him for tying a good knot. And damn him for making her want to laugh.

  Laugh! Now!

  She used all her weight to drag herself up the bed, but the rope held, and while she moved up he held the legs of the jeans and pulled them down.

  ‘‘You’re a pig.’’

  ‘‘A panther.’’

  ‘‘Don’t flatter yourself.’’

  ‘‘And yet the pants are off.’’

  They weren’t really. They were caught at the top of her thighs, and when he teased the feather over her hips, she wanted to kick the crap out of him.

  She couldn’t, because he’d managed to imprison her legs as efficiently as he’d imprisoned her hands. And her.

  Frustration scorched her, so she gave a warrior’s yell and walked out of the pants.

  What did it matter? He would have her out of them at his pleasure, and she would not lie there while he did with her as he wished. In a frenzy of temper she kicked at his chest, hoping to catch him unaware and knock him backward and breathless. Instead he snagged her ankle and used her motion to leverage her up and onto her stomach. Her wrists crossed. Her face pressed into the pillows, and she bounded up onto her elbows and knees to scream her defiance.

  Immediately he was behind her, between her legs, catching and holding her hips close to his. His erection probed, found, entered, glided.

  She grabbed the brass bars. The cold metal against her palms and the heat of his hard-on formed an electric current through her body, making her arch as lightning shot through her spine. ‘‘You bastard. You lousy jerk. You scumbag.’’

  ‘‘That’s right.’’ He thrust hard and deep. ‘‘Hate me. Call me names. Be fierce.’’ He reached around, under her belly, and used his fingers to manipulate her clit until she undulated beneath him. ‘‘But care. By God. Feel.’’

  Feel? She couldn’t stop feeling. He was deep inside her, controlling her motions with his arm around her hips, making her move for him, with him. Fruitlessly she fought him, trying to establish her own rhythm, to use him like a vibrator, to bring herself to orgasm.