Forbidden Craving Read online

  Broderick frowned. “What of your other armor?”

  “No.”

  Valerian hefted his spear in one hand, his shield in the other, and stepped into the arena.

  “Shall we begin?”

  “We shall.”

  Determined, he circled Joachim. “You will forever be an example of what happens to those who challenge my rule.”

  “Is this the part where I taunt you back?” Joachim continued to swing his spear.

  “I’d hoped it would be the part where you listened to reason. You are too war-happy to be king.”

  Eyes narrowing, his cousin said, “Such a quality should be lauded.”

  “Lauded? When the hunger will never be appeased? In the end, you might conquer all of Atlantis, but you will also destroy the entire city.”

  “Better to rule a decimated land than no land at all.”

  “That. That is why you are unfit. You don’t see the foolishness of your words.”

  “I’m no fool!” With a roar, Joachim leaped at him. Valerian met him halfway. He’d told Shaye he would handle this quickly, and he would.

  Their spears clashed together midair. Immediately Valerian countered, ducking low, pivoting and slashing. He missed as Joachim sliced to the side. Clang. Their spears met again. In the next instant, Joachim raised his lance and Valerian rammed it high. He spun, aiming for his cousin’s neck.

  Joachim darted out of the way with a grin. “Getting slow, Valerian.” He removed his helmet and tossed it aside.

  Valerian stabbed forward, his spike and shield swinging simultaneously. Joachim quickly lost his smile as he was forced to duck. He stumbled backward. Valerian’s spear nearly sank into his stomach, but Joachim blocked, swung. Thrust.

  That low thrust grazed Valerian’s thigh, slicing cloth rather than skin. Valerian dropped to one knee, absorbing the next blow with his shield. When he regained his footing, he lunged forward. The tip of his weapon whizzed past Joachim’s side, taking a hunk of armor with it.

  “Still think I’m slow?” Valerian asked.

  Their fiery gazes met, blue against bluer, and Joachim scowled. He swung to the left, missed, then swung to the right. As the lance dipped toward the ground, Valerian leaped over its middle, trapping it between his legs and jamming his elbow into Joachim’s nose. Blood squirted and Joachim howled as he tripped, falling away from striking distance and flinging dirt in every direction.

  “Get up,” Valerian commanded.

  “You’ll pay for that.” His cousin jumped to his feet and ran straight at him, continuously stabbing forward.

  Valerian circled on swift feet, his shield blocking. His muscles began to burn, and sweat began to run down his face and chest in rivulets. Already his breath emerged in shallow pants. At this rate, his strength would be rapidly depleted. Lack of sex did that to a nymph.

  Looking tired himself, Joachim arched high, intending to puncture his shoulder on the downward swing, but Valerian hit Joachim’s wrist and his cousin dropped the spear. At a disadvantage, Joachim dived, rolled and reached for it. His fingers closed around the middle. Maintaining a fluid pace, he spun back to his feet. But Valerian was already there, stomping on the lance and snapping it in two.

  Growling low in his throat, Joachim kicked up. His foot slammed into Valerian’s wrist and Valerian, too, lost his spear. Both men sprang apart, unsheathing the swords centered in their shields.

  As blood continued to drip down his face, Joachim launched forward, wildly swinging. Air whistled, zinged, just like it had before the battle began. Movements slower than normal, Valerian didn’t duck in time. The blade sliced his forearm. He felt the sting of it, the burn of torn flesh.

  He didn’t give a reaction, didn’t allow it to slow him further.

  He stabbed low, then up, twisting before Joachim could counter. The tip of his sword whizzed by his cousin’s face, and the man paled. He raised his shield and slammed it into Valerian’s other arm, the sharp wings cutting skin. Valerian used the momentum to spin and slice into Joachim’s thigh.

  His cousin shouted, and his knees buckled into the sand.

  “Get up,” Valerian snarled. “We finish this.”

  Gritting his teeth, Joachim lumbered to his feet. He still clutched his weapon and shield. His eyes were dark with rage, his irises bright with his thirst for power; he dropped his shield and slid a second dagger from his side.

  Valerian hurled his shield aside, as well. He held out his free hand, and Broderick tossed him a second dagger. He easily caught the hilt. Two blades against two blades.

  Instantly he and Joachim leaped for each other. One blade clashed, then the other, a lethal dance of dodge and slash. Valerian spun as he worked his blades, lunged and stabbed.

  “I should have killed your father. I should have been king,” Joachim panted as he ducked.

  “But you didn’t. You aren’t.” Stab. Turn. Stab.

  “I was created to rule.”

  “How can you rule an army when you cannot rule your own emotions?” The first blade finally slammed home, sinking into Joachim’s side.

  His cousin screamed and dropped to his knees. Valerian’s momentum kept him from drawing back his other weapon. He wasn’t sure he would have, though, even if he could. But he did angle his arm, his second blade embedding in Joachim’s shoulder, close to his heart without damaging the organ. The silver glided smoothly through the links of armor. Joachim gasped for air as a trickle of blood ran from his mouth.

  Total silence filled the arena.

  Valerian straightened, panting.

  Blood gurgled from Joachim’s mouth. “Should have...killed...me.”

  “You will live, and you will regret,” Valerian said, unemotional and loud enough that everyone could hear. “If you ever again challenge my leadership, I will kill you. Without a thought, hesitation, or mercy. No matter that we are family. No matter that we were once friends.”

  Joachim’s chin fell to his chest as his eyes closed. Dark shadows spread over his blood-coated face just before he tumbled into the dirt, unconscious. Grains of sand sprayed onto Valerian’s boots.

  He slammed the tip of his dagger beside his cousin’s body and eyed the crowd of warriors who watched him in openmouthed shock. Perhaps they had expected him to kill his cousin. Perhaps they had expected him to deflect the final blow completely.

  His gaze connected with Shaye’s. Mine, his mind shouted. Mine now. No one could say otherwise.

  Like his men, her face projected her shock. And horror? He knew he must look a sight, blood and sand covering him from head to toe, strands of sweat-soaked hair clinging to his temples.

  He couldn’t regret what had been done. She belonged to him, would live here with him now and always, so it was best for her to learn his way of life.

  Tearing his gaze from her, he looked at each of his men. “Is there anyone else who wishes to challenge my authority?”

  The echo of his voice settled. Silence reigned.

  He paced through the arena. “Now is the time to issue such a challenge. You won’t be given another chance.”

  No one came forward.

  He stilled, hands clenched at his sides. “Then I hereby claim Shaye Octavia Holling as my mate. Your queen. Any protests will be met by my sword.”

  “Now hold on just a moment,” Shaye called. “We haven’t agreed—”

  “Except hers,” he interjected. Her protests would never be met by his sword.

  “Valerian,” she said.

  He ignored her and moved in front of Broderick.

  Broderick kneeled, bowed his head. “What should we do about Joachim, my king? Say our goodbyes?”

  Valerian still didn’t want Joachim to die, and banishment would get him killed in a hurry.

  He searched for the fem
ales among the crowd. “Is there a healer among you?”

  After a pause, Shivawn’s silent, black-haired wench stepped forward. Tears glistened in her eyes as she raised a tentative hand.

  Excellent. “Take Joachim and the healer to the sick room,” he told Broderick. “She’s to bandage him up and nothing more. Make sure she doesn’t touch him sexually.” If she did, Joachim would heal speedily, his injuries forgotten far too soon.

  Broderick nodded and stood.

  Now. Time to see to his woman.

  Without another word, Valerian clasped her hand and tugged her from the arena.

  They were meant to be together—and now he would prove it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  POSEIDON WAS BORED.

  He was god of the sea, ruler of fish, merpeople and ocean waves, and nothing excited him anymore. Not even the storms and destruction he’d recently caused. People had screamed, people had died, yada yada yada.

  Perched on a boulder beneath a cliff, he traced his fingers through the dappled liquid surrounding him. There had to be something to combat this constant sense of ennui.

  Create another hurricane or tsunami? No. The last few had been yawners.

  Start a war? No. Too much effort for too little reward.

  Abandon the water and enter Olympus? No again. The other gods were selfish and greedy, and he had no desire to deal with them, his temper too sharp.

  What could he do, what could he do? Once he would have visited Atlantis—

  Atlantis, he thought, straightening. Oh, oh, oh. Was that...yes, yes, it was. For the first time in an eternity, he experienced a flash of excitement.

  He hadn’t considered Atlantis and its people—his subjects—in years. Many had called for him, but he’d ignored their pleas for help. The last time he’d offered aid, he’d received no thanks, only complaints.

  Perhaps the people—or rather, the abominations, as his brothers often called them—had learned to be appreciative.

  There was only one way to find out.

  Poseidon grinned.

  * * *

  SHAYE’S ATTENTION REMAINED on Valerian’s back as he led her through the palace, following the same path they’d taken earlier. She offered no protests. Muscles strained and bunched in his bare shoulders. Blood blended with sand, both splattered all over him, forming lines and circles on his skin.

  He’d very nearly killed a man without hesitation or remorse. His own cousin, no less. But the biggest surprise? She’d watched him do it, and she hadn’t flinched.

  She’d been too relieved. He’d won, as promised. He would live and keep his crown.

  The fight had unfolded like something out of a movie. Valerian had moved with grace and fluidity, each intricate step as beautiful as it was dangerous. Her heart had drummed erratically in her chest, only to stop altogether when Valerian received his first injury. She’d been unprepared for the blast of anger she’d felt toward Joachim.

  More than that, she’d been unprepared for the fright she’d felt on Valerian’s behalf.

  She could have run—should have run. What better time to escape? Like a girl besotted, she’d stayed. Not because she’d promised Valerian—a promise made under duress wasn’t really a promise, to her way of thinking—but because she’d had to know the outcome of the battle.

  In the end, he’d shocked her. He’d purposely missed his cousin’s heart, allowing the man to live to fight another day.

  He cared about his people. Even those who defied him. How many other kings could say the same?

  And then, what he’d said...

  I hereby claim Shaye Octavia Holling as my mate. Your queen.

  Again and again the words had whispered through her mind, making her shiver.

  I should be...outraged?

  Yes, of course. Most definitely.

  After all, this thing with Valerian, it wasn’t a game. It was her life. Unlike him, she wasn’t immortal.

  Wait. Were nymphos immortal? How old was Valerian?

  Anyway. She didn’t get a second chance.

  “You did good out there,” she said grudgingly.

  “Some women abhor violence,” he said. “Some are titillated by it. Which are you?”

  “Neither,” she said. “But I’m certain there are other ways to be, like ambivalent or confused.”

  “So...you don’t fear me?” Fear now saturated his voice.

  “No.” Truth. He could have harmed her a million times over by now, but he’d only ever treated her gently. He’d even placed himself in harm’s way in order to protect her.

  “But you do desire me?” Hope had replaced the fear.

  Rather than answer his question—the truth would get her into trouble—she said, “By the way. I’m not your woman.”

  He cast her a pitying look. “Cease your protests, Moon. They’ll only embarrass you when you at last admit your love for me.”

  So. No more talk of lust. He’d moved on to love. She snorted.

  “Are surface dwellers allowed to combat each other with swords?” he asked.

  “When countries are at war, yes. When the men are caught up in a personal vendetta, no. Not without consequences.”

  “What of protecting yourself or those you love?”

  “It’s allowed, but sometimes there are still consequences.”

  “You are clearly far better off here.”

  Another snort. “I should have known you’d go there.”

  They turned a corner and Valerian stumbled—over nothing. His injuries must have weakened him.

  Her concern for him doubled. “You need a healer, too,” she said.

  “I have you. I need no one else.”

  She had a sinking suspicion he meant those words in more ways than one. Despite everything that had happened—or maybe because of everything that had happened—she couldn’t deny this man saw only the best in her.

  While she administered aid, would he “accidentally” touch her? Would he purr his warm breath into her ears, over her skin, and let his white-hot gaze devour her?

  Better question: Would she be able to resist him?

  Already her resolve teetered on precarious ground. Perhaps playing doctor wasn’t a smart move.

  “Valerian, O mighty king of the nymphos. Please listen to me. I know absolutely nothing about wound care.”

  “I don’t care. I trust you.”

  “Trust doesn’t matter. Not in this. I could do more harm than good.”

  “And you want me well?” Satisfaction dripped from his tone.

  “Uh, don’t read too much into it, big guy. I’d want my worst enemy to get well. Because I’m nice.”

  “Nice?”

  “All right. That’s fair. I’m sometimes nice.”

  He pushed out a breath. “I meant I trust only you to be with me while I’m in such a weakened state.”

  How did he always manage to say the exact right thing to melt the ice around her heart? “But why? You don’t know—”

  “Not this again, little Moon. I know you. But, if it will make you feel better, you can tell me all about your life while you patch me.”

  “I can, can I?” she asked dryly. “How generous of you.”

  “If you’re nice, you’ll agree. You’ll distract me from my pain.”

  Her concern instantly resurged. “You’re in pain?” Stupid question. He’d been slashed by a sword. Of course he was in pain.

  He winked at her over his shoulder, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “So. Much. Pain.”

  Well. She pursed her lips. “If you’re talking about blue balls—”

  “Blue balls?” His shoulders shook, and she heard the rumbling purr of his beautiful laughter. “Oh, but I like your wicked mout
h, Moon.”

  Unbidden, her lips inched into a half smile. “Well, I’ve somehow managed to resist you for twenty-four hours. That’s got to be a record, right? Your groin must be seriously neglected.”

  “I’m glad you understand. Kiss it and make it better?”

  She snorted. “In your dreams.”

  “Yes, please. You’ve seen my life, yes? My dreams always come true.” His tone was husky and rich but also honey warm, as if the thought of her ravishment was an exquisite bliss. As if, in his mind, she was already naked and he was already inside her.

  She would have to remain on full alert with this man. Being with him, she suspected, would be like shooting herself full of heroin. Addictive, wild, a high beyond imagining, but also lethal and stupid. So, if she could resist taking that first, experimental taste—well, a second taste—she wouldn’t have to deal with withdrawal.

  Her new mantra: Resist! “I think I’m more of a nightmare waiting to happen.”

  He brought her knuckles to his lips and stroked them with his tongue. “If you have sex with me, I’ll be healed by the time you’re screaming my name. Win-win for both of us.”

  Shivers down her spine, fire in her blood. He said nothing else, letting her mind and body battle for supremacy.

  Stay strong. Be cold.

  If he touched her... Wait. He was touching her, his hand clutching hers, and it felt good.

  “I’m going on record right now,” she said.

  Once again he looked over his shoulder. This time he silenced her. He licked his lips, as if he knew exactly what reaction he’d caused in her and planned to exploit it by whatever means necessary.

  A foreign part of her—a part happy to reveal itself only around him—urged her to reach up and run her fingers through his hair...across his beautiful face. His decadent flavor was still in her mouth, the press of his lips imprinted on her memory.

  The very reason she had to resist him.

  “Sex isn’t happening.” There. Stated now, so that he had no excuse later. Because, if a nymph’s pheromone could drug, what could a nymph’s penis do? “If you push me, I’ll resent you.”

  “Will you resent me the same way you hate me?”