Page 13 of Warlord's Mate

Crossing camp to his hut, she looked back at him when she reached the doorway. He was still staring at her and her knees went wobbly as she pushed the leather flap that doubled as a door aside and stepped through the doorway.

As usual, Jityria was there. She was at the far end of the room but turned to look at her. If the expression on her face was any indication, she was shocked to see her.

“What do you want?”

“Sleep.” Marcy walked to the center of the room and stopped. Was she supposed to sleep in the bed? She looked at Jityria, her face contorted into that same mask of anger she’d seen all day. “Which side of the bed does the warlord prefer?”

Jityria made a sound deep in her throat, the alien version of, “yeah, right,” if she had to guess. “What makes you think you are to sleep here?”

Marcy yawned so wide her jaw popped. “The warlord. This is where he told me to go.”

That anger on Jityria’s face went nuclear at her words. She came at her so fast Marcy barely saw her move. She grabbed her by the hair, jerked her head so hard tears pricked at her eyes as she was thrown to the ground. “Then you sleep with thenekmit,sevit!”

Marcy clenched her teeth, the words, “let it go,” ringing on repeat inside her head as she looked back up at Jityria. She was furious, but why?

Jityria glanced at the bed, then down at her. The moment she did, Marcy knew why she was so angry. She didn’t get to sleep in the warlord’s hut.

On any other day, she would have rubbed the fact in the bitch’s face but she was too tired and exhausted to bother at the moment.

She sighed and looked at the bed. It was nothing more than a mound of furs and a crude mattress that was only a few inches thick. The entire thing only sat a few inches off the floor but it looked comfortable.

Fur rugs and leather mats covered most of the floor of the hut. They lined every inch of space and Marcy crawled to the one at the foot of the bed before laying down and closing her eyes. Maybe if she ignored Jityria, she’d go away.

She listened to every sound in the room, the harsh breaths from Jityria finally slowing to a normal pace before she heard her leave. Marcy lifted her head and looked toward the doorway. The leather flap was still swinging.

The room was filled with pale orange light from what looked like some sort of rocks sitting in a bowl on a table butted up next to the wall. She stared at it as the events of the day replayed through her head. So far, it hadn’t been terrible. Nerve wracking and intense yes, but other than the aliens copping a feel during their meal, she’d been unmolested, clothed, fed and not hauled off to some aliens tent against her will. Of course, she’d been ordered here but if the warlord was going to use her, would he have not come with her?

She didn’t have an answer and pushed the thought away. She’d worry about that when the time came, at the moment, she was so tired everything ached. Her eyes grew heavy again, her body relaxing muscle by muscle until her eyes finally closed as she fell into a dreamless sleep.

Jorrick stared across camp toward the pits, listening to those inside it fight over the remains of theTrisalis. The demon species is as vile here as they had been on other worlds he’d encountered them on. They were underlings who did anything for a price, even risk their life.

He stared at his hand. A few small blisters marred his skin, the venom that damn thing spat at him burning his flesh on contact. He bit back a curse. He should have killed that demon slowly. Peeled his flesh off his bones one piece at a time.

The noise in camp had died to nothing more than faint whispers. Jorrick stood and headed to his hut, a peculiar sense of anticipation filling his veins as he crossed the space separating him from it, his pulse, he noticed, beating faster than normal as he neared the door. He pushed the leather flap aside and stepped into the room, his gaze landing on the bed.

The female wasn’t there.

For a brief moment, an odd sort of panic caused that rapid pulse to skip a beat. He saw her foot on the rug at the end of the bed in the next second.

He crossed to where she lay and stared down at her. Those red curls were spread out around her head, one hand tucked close to her face. She looked like a completely different person from the one he’d seen at the arena. That female had been afraid but standing her ground, regardless. For all her bravery, there were times he could smell the fear leeching from her skin. The stench of it called to some long buried part of him he wanted to ignore. It told him she needed to be protected. But if she possessed magic as the rumors said she did, she didn’t need him. Her fear could be nothing but an act in order to catch him off guard so he’d be damned if he played protector for her but—some deep buried part of his soul demanded he do it anyway.

He rubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t want to care whether she lived or died, or worry that she would come to harm if he wasn’t there, despite having claimed her in front of everyone, but, damn his soul, he couldn’t shake the feeling when he looked at her. Every time he saw her he wanted to keep her separate from the others. To keep her within hands reach and it was pissing him off.

Blowing out a breath, he braced his hands on his hips and looked to the ceiling. Long minutes passed, and he cursed himself for a fool before looking back down at her. She moved her head, her lips parting as she mumbled something in her sleep. Jorrick bent his knees and squatted by her side, lifting one of the long red curls by her face. He rubbed the strand between his fingers, the texture much softer than he expected.

He watched her sleep until his legs started to ache, then stood. He should cover her. She had nothing to warm her other than the shirt she wore. A shirt that was his own.

An overwhelming sense of—something—filled his gut. He didn’t want to care about her. Didn’t want to worry if she were cold or hungry but found himself reaching down and lifting her off the ground. She was warm against his chest. Small dots were sprinkled across the bridge of her nose and her lashes were long, her lips …

Lips like that are meant for kissing.

He pushed the thought away and carried her to his bed. She never moved when he laid her down and he let his gaze roam the length of her body. Her legs were impossibly long. The shirt had ridden up and barely covered those red curls he knew were between them and his attention was drawn there.

He could take her—right now if he wished. She was his to do with as he pleased and if he wanted to fuck her until she was limp and unable to move, he could. Visions of him doing just that filled his head, but he pushed them away as quickly as they came. That’s not why she was here. She was for revenge, nothing more.

But using her would infuriate Allok when he found out and that would be the best kind of revenge.

Jorrick’s attention moved from her legs to her breasts, the shirt thin enough he could nearly see them through the fabric. How long had it been since he’d been inside a female? Felt the heat of another against his bare skin?