Wicked Beloved (7 page)

Then the heat of his breath mixed with hers.
Their lips must be almost touching. She lifted her chin, hoping to
find his mouth, but he remained out of reach.

The knife was moving again, following the
curve of her breast under before it twisted and the point of the
blade caught and pierced the cloth of her tunic directly over her
heart.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, his words a hot
glide of air upon her lips, his voice sounding like he had
swallowed sand.

She thought her pulse would shake her apart.
Could he feel its beat telegraphed along the blade?

Without opening her eyes, she tilted her
head all the way back, exposing the extended line of her throat in
what she hoped was a universal gesture of submission. “Absolutely.”
She didn’t even know where the certainty of her trust came from,
but she had no doubts. He was a good man.

She sensed movement, and he must have leaned
toward her because in the next instant his hot breath puffed
against her exposed throat. His tongue, warm and wet, licked over
her fluttering pulse point. Then his teeth fastened on the muscle
joining her neck and shoulder. She tilted her head to the side,
offering him greater access.

With the tip of the knife still gently
indenting the skin above her heart, he bit down on her neck. His
teeth were sharper than she’d expected and she sucked in a gasp of
air, jaw clenched. The pressure from his mouth grew into an acute
ache and she knew he was marking her skin. A hurt little yelp
crawled past her gritted teeth. At the sound he stopped. The point
of the knife also withdrew.

“Turn around,” he ordered, his voice
hoarse.

She obeyed. With a touch at the back of her
skull, he prompted her to bow her head. He parted her hair,
brushing it forward to uncover the nape of her neck.

Then the flat of the blade slipped beneath
the neckline of her tunic. He twisted the knife, lifted its sharp
edge against the fabric, and the snick of parting fibers ripped
into the room’s silence as he dragged the blade down until her
tunic was completely severed. The two halves parted. Cool air met
her back. Gooseflesh prickled up her spine and down her arms. She
heard the rustle of various audience members shifting in their
seats.

Warmth registered before the realization
that it came from his hand. He had placed his palm between her
shoulder blades. Her muscles had automatically guarded at the touch
so she concentrated on relaxing them as she held still and waited
for her master’s next move.

Her skin had healed nicely, thanks to his
medicine. He had a blank canvas upon which to work. Like her skin
was back when she had been kidnapped from Earth. Her first master
had so enjoyed that prospect, and his right to slash it to his
tastes. She quickly buried the thought. This master wasn’t like
him, wasn’t like the rest of these brutes. Anything he did, she
could handle.

He gave a low grunt, like he had decided
something within himself. Suddenly she felt his lips, warm on the
nape of her neck. The light contact sent tingles racing up her
scalp.

“
I’m going to draw my
initials. Have I your permission?” The question rasped from deep in
his throat.

He said draw but he meant carve. It didn’t
matter. “You don’t need my permission.”

“
I know. But we have a
pact. I won’t break it without your permission.”

“
Yes. Do it.”

He moaned softly and nipped at the nape of
her neck. “Thank you.”

The knife stabbed into the skin over her
right shoulder blade, forcing its way into her, and pain spiked out
from the wound. She winced, her teeth snapping on her bottom lip as
she tried not to cry out. She tasted blood.

“
Not sharp enough,” he
snarled. The blade clattered to the floor. He shifted behind her.
“I’m using my knife,” he murmured against her neck, his voice rough
and deep, his breathing hard and fast. “It’s extremely sharp. You
won’t even feel it at first. Stay still.”

His
knife? He carried a concealed knife around? Of course he did.
Why was she surprised? All she said was, “Yes, Master.”

He was right. His blade sliced through her
skin as if she were formed from softened butter and she didn’t feel
it at first. Her warm blood welled up and slipped out to trickle
down her back leaving niggling tickle before the pain arrived.

Deciding a whimper or two wouldn’t go amiss,
she unclenched her jaw. The sob that wracked her at his next cut
took her by surprise and was in no way the controlled noise she’d
hoped to make. Her sound elicited a feral groan from him and he
swore under his breath before again biting into the nape of her
neck.

His teeth hurt her and yet in an odd way the
piercing sensation felt sweet. Even better when his hot mouth
closed over the bruised flesh and he kissed her. That was going to
leave a mark. She leaned back into it nevertheless.

He pulled away and she whimpered as two
quick slashes crossed into a previous gash, but she didn’t move.
The flat of his tongue pressed against the wound. The moist
pressure felt strangely soothing. Then he was kissing the
collection of cuts, his slightly chapped lips catching on her split
skin. She fought not to flinch.

One of his hands gripped her shoulder,
steadying her. “Almost complete,” he murmured into her ear.

She steeled herself. A twist and slice
later, he was breathing praises to her control. She wanted to bask
in the heat of his breath against her flesh but he stepped back.
Just as she wondered why, a quiet flutter of applause reminded her
of their audience. He was displaying his handiwork. She smiled.
They’d shown that Ballaj bastard, all right.

Her grin turned into a gasp at the feel of
his tongue, warm and slightly rough, lapping up the escaped
trickles of blood trailing down her back. Then he attacked the
arrangement of cuts again, this time with more kisses.

Her eyes flew open and she
mewled, not meaning to, but
shit
that stung. Suddenly his arms wrapped around her
and pulled her tight against his torso. Unavoidable proof of his
arousal prodded against her lower back.

She gasped, her heart skipping. His arms
were like iron. Fleetingly she wondered if he could crush her. She
had never really thought about how strong he was before. He was
always so gentle with her she had forgotten he could pose a
threat.

His embrace wasn’t frightening, though. That
twisty, prickly sensation in her stomach wasn’t fear. Nor was it
entirely nerves. And it should have been.

The way he clutched her to him, the way he
kissed her neck, the low, needy sounds rising from deep in his
throat, all his movements betrayed a fierce longing. And the
audience approved. Whispers of encouragement to her master, sighs
of pleasure, the subtle creak of wobbling chairs, a muffled
symphony leading her to conclude this display was intended to end
in full-on sex. She should have been terrified, ashamed, and
suffering.

That reminded her of her wounds, which must
be bleeding, though she was feeling no pain. Nor did she care about
those voyeurs out in the dark. She had pleased her master. His
approval gave her the strength to face anything.

She wouldn’t think about the likelihood his
arousal came from the blood and the situation, and not her
specifically. This was her chance to feel like a sex kitten. On
Earth, she was average. Just another wallflower. Here she’d been
regarded as a punching bag, until this man. This man who was
holding her like he would never let her go. This was her chance to
make him come apart.

Wriggling against him provoked a raspy moan
from his lips. Encouraged, she focused her efforts, canting her
hips and sinuously rubbing against his trapped erection. A
gratified rush rolled through her as he nipped the skin of her
shoulder and swore. His body quivered against hers and she imagined
he was attempting to maintain self-control.

She could shatter that. The way he’d reacted
to sounds she made, she had a good idea of what he’d like to hear.
Building from a tremulous whine in the back of her throat, she
unleashed a series of breathless, plaintive cries. His control
cracked.

Rough and involuntary, his hips started to
rock into her. He set up a quick rhythm, all the while nuzzling her
hair, her cheek, her neck. As his lips caressed the bruised and
bleeding bite on the back of her neck, his muffled groans took on a
keen, desperate edge.

The tone reverberated deep in her belly,
blossoming into an ache that refused to be denied. Just as he
wanted her, she yearned to satisfy him. She slipped into his
rhythm, enjoying the feel of his excitement as his hips thrust
against her. Her heartbeat spiked at the appreciative growl he gave
in response, a sound she almost missed as the audience joined their
rhythm, too, clapping and stamping their feet in time to his
thrusts.

As the stomping grew louder, faster, and he
met their pace. They were part of something larger than themselves,
a wild dance, and she surrendered to the primal, visceral response
it tapped within her. A surge of wetness flooded her core. The
haste with which her body prepared itself was embarrassing. She
moaned softly, begging for him to take her, not even realizing at
first the wanton sounds were hers.

His knife was still
clutched in his right hand. It flashed under her nose, since his
arms encircled her. The long, wickedly serrated blade glinted where
it wasn’t dimmed by blood.
Her
blood. But he held it pointed away from her, a
threat to anyone approaching them, not to her.

“
Mine
,” he snarled against the bitten skin of her neck, his voice
thick and thrumming with urgent need that set her every nerve
tingling.

Suddenly the world whirled. It took her a
second before she realized he had spun her behind him,
protectively, and now held his knife at shoulder height and arm’s
length up against Ballaj’s throat.

CHAPTER
EIGHT

A thin line of blood dripped from where the
blade had begun to slice into the skin of Ballaj’s throat before
her master had stopped. Ballaj’s eyes looked like they might pop
from his skull. She guessed he had climbed up on the platform to
declare something, or maybe just to get a better view. Apparently,
her master did not like unannounced visitors. Or being interrupted.
Or both.

Whimpering, Ballaj lowered himself to his
knees, the knife following him down. The sibilant hiss of whispers
reached her ears; her master and Ballaj were talking to each other,
but they spoke too quietly for her collar to detect and translate
the words. Then her master withdrew his knife and stepped back,
saying something about how next time he’d wear his rank.

The audience was applauding and calling for
more. Though she glanced into the raucous darkness only a moment,
by the time her attention returned to her master, he had secreted
his personal knife and jumped off the platform. He stood looking up
at her, reaching out his hands to help her down.

With one hand holding her shirt firmly in
front of her, she sat on the edge of the platform. His hands closed
on her hips and she slid off into his arms. He made sure she was
steady on her feet before he took her free hand, his fingers
interweaving with hers, and without a word or a backward glance led
her out of the room and out of the club.

* * *

When they got back to his flat he took her
straight to the washroom and cleaned her wounds. His touch was
brisk and efficient, like dealing with injuries was a common
routine for him. Then he led her back out to the couch.

“
Sit there. I’ll get the
medkit.”

She perched on the edge. When he returned,
he sat at her side and immediately started applying an ice-cold
liquid to the wounds on her back. He was using a bendable, soft
brush, but each stroke stung and she hissed between her teeth.

“
That pain can’t be
helped,” he stated.

“
Oh, I understand. I’m
fine.”

After he had painted her cuts, he stuck
something soft, like a pad of gauze, on her smarting skin. The
bandage stayed there. Whether it was the liquid or the gauze she
didn’t know, but something had a painkiller in it because gradually
every part of her body became more comfortable.

The cushion shifted as he stood. Silently,
he strode off, presumably to put the medkit away. In a moment he
was back, carrying a glass of water. He held it up to her lips.

“
I’ve got it.” She took
the glass from him. Her hands shook more than she expected, but she
managed to drink. It surprised her how delicious the cool water
tasted.

After a few sips, he retrieved the glass
from her and set it on the floor. Then he sat beside her and gently
drew her into his arms. His movements were strangely awkward and it
took her a moment to realize he was attempting to not touch her
back. She helped, settling herself sideways on his lap with her
cheek against his shoulder.

“
You did very well
tonight,” he said, his husky voice flowing over her while his arms
held her tight. “Thank you. I…I think you know I enjoyed it. A
great deal. For that I owe you an apology.”

“
Nah. ‘S fine,” she
mumbled. Irrational pride coursed through her veins. She had given
him pleasure. He said it himself. Her place with him had to be
secure. Everything was fine now. Her body relaxed, cozy-warm, and
her mind began to drift.

He pillowed his cheek on top of her head.
“You were so strong. And brave. My perfect slave. The things you
make me feel…” His sentence cut off. He swallowed. “You’re a brave,
little—”