Bound By Fate: A Novel of the Strong (8 page)

To keep me inside.

At the thought, a shiver of fear sliced through her.
No,
she was quick to reason, turning to face the new entrance cut into the thick stone wall,
he doesn’t mean to use me like that.
 

Just like my mother promised.

Blinking back a certain hopeful apprehension, Liv left the bed and slipped into the bathroom. As she set about getting ready to face him, she thought back to the one time she had seen the daemon so long ago.
 

Per custom, she was not to be presented to him until his father passed and he assumed his place as Tenn. But never one to obey her parents, Liv had snuck away one afternoon when she was just nine years old, intent on seeing the Tenn, her Tenn, for herself. After all, she had reasoned at the time, it could be aeons before she’d become his own.

It had been a crisp, late-summer highlands day, much like the one that might await her just outside these walls. Liv blushed as she remembered watching him in the heathered fields beyond the castle walls, laughing with his friends, a pale-haired daemoness at his side.

He had looked so happy, so beautiful.
 

And, now, that daemon waited for her downstairs.
 

When she was dressed, Liv took one last look at Wolfie, who lay sprawled and sleeping amongst the covers in the small cast-iron bed. He had made himself completely at home, cat-style, with not a care in the world.
 

“Must be nice, Wolf-man.” Body alive with the strength of Toran’s venna, she bent to run a cheek against the cat’s belly, mesmerized by his silky soft fur. “It’s time for me to go out there and see what this is all about.”
 

She shivered.

Stepping out of her room, Liv found herself in a well-lived-in den, its decor as masculine as Toran's bedroom had been. A giant flat screen TV hung above the mantle. A leather couch and oversized chairs formed a cozy sitting area around the hearth. One wall featured a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf stacked to the brim with books and DVDs. PlayStation controls lay tossed across the ottoman, game boxes scattered on the floor.
 

Opposite the fireplace was an opening that led to an arched stone gallery that ran the entire perimeter of the building. Leaning over the balustrade, she took in the immense room below.
 

The crest on the ornate mosaic floor told her exactly where she was. Liv was looking down into the great room of Caisteal Vimora, royal seat of the Vimor daemons.
 

Holding her breath, Liv listened for signs of life in the dimly-lit castle, with just a hazy sunlight filtering in through lead-glassed windows. Hearing nothing but the odd hum of silence, she made her way down the wide stone stairway. At the bottom, she paused. Up ahead on her right, she saw an open door. Crossing the great room floor, she peeked inside.

A desk lamp illuminated the imposing figure of the Tenn tucked behind a glass-topped desk.
 

Sensing her presence, he raised his head to eye her in the doorway. Casting out, she tried to gauge his emotions only to find that any he might have had, he kept carefully masked.

Okay. Breathe.

She stepped into the room.

Glancing around from just inside the doorway, Liv was struck by the incongruous modernity of the furnishings in what was, essentially, the throne room of an ancient daemon race. An array of monitors graced one corner of the desk. A bank of flat screen TVs covered the far wall, the muted feeds of various business channels dancing haphazardly with the firelight.
 

Despite the blazing fire in the hearth, the room felt cold.

She turned her eyes back to him as he stood in greeting.

His bloodied shirt was long gone, his wound from earlier completely healed. Dressed as males did on the human ‘el, Toran wore jeans and an untucked dark blue button-down shirt with subtle gray stripes, its sleeves rolled to his elbows. His forearms were muscular and tanned. His dark, almost black hair was short but stylishly rakish.
 

He watched her with intense, coffee-colored eyes.

Though they were essentially strangers, a starry-eyed warmth washed through her. It was the same feeling she’d felt at laying her eyes on him so many years ago. Stunned by his beauty, Liv could do nothing but stare.

“You have aged well, my king,” she said at last.

At her whispered words, his eyes flashed an electric blue. Bending at the waist, he crashed a massive fist against the desk, a crack of venna ricocheting off the walls.
 

A blast of loathing nearly stopped her heart.
 

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

Choking back a cry, Liv stumbled backward.

She turned to run.

*****

“Wait!”
 

In a shimmering flash, Toran pulsed to the other side of the door and blocked her exit, the faine’s small body bouncing off his large one as she tried to spin away. He grabbed her arm and pulled her up against him.
 

“Calm down,” he said, trying his best to temper his voice.

“Calm down?” She tilted her head back. Her eyes were wild and glassy, her voice unsteady. “Why would you shout at me?”

“Shh. I didn’t mean…” Toran jerked his chin up, thoroughly thrown by the festering confusion that welled within him in her presence. Stepping slightly away, he wrapped a hand around her slender arm.

“Come back inside.” With a gentle tug, Toran led her to one of the seats across from his desk and near the fire. When she was seated, he found himself resisting a near-overwhelming urge to kneel down and take her hands in his.

Infuriated with his lack of self-control and absurd schoolboy romantic urges, he instead skirted around the desk and dropped back in his chair, grateful to have something substantial between them.

Jaw set, he looked her over.

Dressed in a silky sea-foam green blouse, jeans, and little black ballet flats, the faine looked so out of place, yet somehow perfect, in his leather wing-backed chair. She had pulled her long hair up into a messy bun, a couple of curls escaping to frame her face.

She was gorgeous.

And she was staring back at him with eyes as unfathomable as the northern sea.

For a moment, Toran found himself lost. The rush of his heartbeat drowning out all logical thought, he said the first thing that popped into his head.

“Your wardrobe is inadequate.”
 

Toran watched in horror as tears seeped into the corners of her eyes.

“What?” she breathed out in confusion.

“No, I don’t mean…” He sat forward, his fingernails biting through the denim of his jeans. His fingers flexed with the need to touch her. Balling his hand into a fist, he pumped it hard against his thigh. “I just mean the fabric is insubstantial for our climate. You need warmer clothing.” He paused before adding, “You have no coat.”

Eyes dazed, the faine nodded as though trying to process the crazy path of his scattered thinking. Lifting a trembling chin, she cleared her throat before venturing bravely, “No, there’s not much need for one in the desert. But I do appreciate you sending someone to bring me a few of my things.”

A low growl rumbled in his throat. His eyes flashed blue as the thought of another male sifting through her intimate things once again filled him with resentful ire.

Get a fucking grip, asshole.

Toran lurched out of his seat, his sudden movement causing her to flinch in fear.

His growling probably hadn’t helped matters either.

Gods help me.

Slowing his movement, he held up a palm in truce. “Just relax, faine.” Toran walked to the front of his desk and propped himself against the edge. Feet out and crossed at the ankles, he hoped his relaxed posture disguised his anxious unease.

As she shifted in her seat, the faine continued to stare; though now she gazed at him with wide and curious eyes.

“Tell Wynda whatever you need, or want, and she will get it for you immediately,” Toran commanded. Frowning, he added, “Wynda is my housekeeper.” For whatever reason, he felt compelled to explain another female’s presence in his home.
 

He fought back the urge to growl again.

She continued to stare. That look in her eye, the same one he’d seen earlier in her chamber, had returned.

“What?” Toran uncrossed his ankles and shifted forward.

“You brought me my cat,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he answered slowly.

Hadn’t he answered this question before?

“And my clothes.”

“Yes,” he repeated.

“So, I’m here to stay.”

After the briefest hesitation, he gave a sharp nod.

“Yes, you are,” he stated.

Hands gripped tight to the edge of the desk, he waited for a response.

And waited.

“What do you want from me, my Tenn?” she asked at last.

It was his turn to flinch.

“Call me Toran.” He held up his palms. “Please.”

“What do you want from me… Toran?” she repeated in a whisper.

Gods, how to answer that?

He opted for honesty. Toran figured she deserved nothing less… to a point.

“I want what is owed to me,” he said, steeling his voice, “which is you doing your duty and serving me and my household.”

Toran's voice had turned as cold as the air in the room.

“What does that mean? Serve you?” Rising from her chair, Liv circled on unsteady legs to move closer to the fire. She moved with caution, glad two heavy chairs now stood between her and the daemon. She kept her eyes glued to his, not wanting to further provoke his anger.

No longer quite under iron-fisted control, Toran's aura was now a confusing mix of hot and bitterly cold emotions, so much so it left her feeling raw. It was as if a battle of wills raged within him, struggling to make sense of it all.

That’s to be expected, isn’t it?
she reasoned.
Finding each other is just as new to him as it is to me.

The sharpness of his voice jarred her out of her thoughts.

“You are faine. It means exactly what you think it means.”
 

Pushing off from the desk, Toran took two steps toward her, his knee almost knocking against a chair. Nudging it out of the way, he stepped closer.

Breathe, Liv.

She watched as the daemon's eyes shifted from her face to lower. Liv followed his gaze as he took in the contours of her body. It was a look of intense, but lazy, interest. It was almost as if… Ahh. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

She bit back a moan as a lick of his venna kissed her skin.

Rolling her head forward, Liv jumped when she saw he had moved with predatory silence even closer.

“For centuries, the faine lived here in Venn Dom, doing their duty to deliver peace, prosperity. Harmony,” he said. The daemon stood still before her, his eyes deceptively calm. “All that was lost during the Great Cleansing…” Liv couldn’t help herself; she cringed. As if feeding from her distress, his voice sharpened. “For reasons we are both quite aware.” After a reluctant pause, he conceded, “Their absence has been felt. Especially as there are no more.”

“There are no more?” Liv swayed on her feet. “All of them are gone?”
 

Undeterred by her heartache, Toran sidled closer, the signs of cold resentment evident in the sharp glint of his eye. “There are no more pure-blooded faine. Other than you.”

“Other than me,” she repeated in a whisper.

“Yes, you are the last of your kind.” The daemon stepped next to her, close but not so close they touched. Skin still blessed with his venna from before, Liv could feel the heat of his breath as he tucked his head at her ear to whisper, “Aren’t I lucky then that you from birth were marked for me?” His eyelids slid closed as he inhaled deeply, the tip of his nose just grazing the skin of her cheek.

She began to tremble.

With a snarl, he stepped away, leaving her trapped in the tangled web of his emotions.

He pinned her with a glare from across his shoulder, his eyes flickering blue with his inner daemons. “I have brought you home,” he said, “and I’ll do whatever it takes to make you stay and do your duty.”

“But you put in a door,” she cried.

“I did,” he agreed. “These are not the dark ages, faine. There’s no reason why our business cannot be conducted in a civilized manner.”

“Our business?” Her eyes stung at the callousness of his words.

“Yes.” He turned back to face her head-on. “Our business,” he repeated. “That’s all this is, an arrangement. And I’m trying to make it as palatable for both of us as possible.” After an almost imperceptible pause, Toran added, “Trust me, I want this no more than you do.”

He doesn’t want me here?

Blinking past that truth, Liv struggled to ask, “If that’s the case, why did you bring me here at all?”

“I brought you here because this is where you belong,” he answered. “This is where you are fated to be.”

Her chest hollow and achy, she whispered, “I don’t know if I believe in fate anymore.”

A sizzle of venna kissed the air.

“Ah, but you see, I do.” Invading her space again, his big body overwhelming her senses, he leaned in close to say, “And, to realize that fate, I need you here so that I can father a son.”

*****

“What did you say?”

The faine stared up at him, her eyes so wide and green that Toran lost himself for a moment. Seeking an anchor, he reached out to palm her waist only to pull back as if just saving himself from blistering his fingers on a burning coal. Balling his fingers into a fist, he let his hand drop to his side. “You heard me,” he accused instead. “I need an heir.”

And more––if he wanted to deliver salvation to his people.
 

“What does that mean?” The female before him stumbled a step away, her voice hoarse with disbelief.

“Earlier, you called me king,” he offered in explanation. “But though my father is dead, I have not yet been given the crown.” Near dizzy from the extremes of his emotions, Toran stepped towards his faine again, his skin prickling with the need to close the distance between them. It was as if they were locked in a slow yet frenetic dance, each desperate to find some sense of ease. “It is decreed by law that I cannot assume the throne until I wed and plant my seed into my fated female.”