Malachi Page 2

  He almost prayed for it. At least if this killed him, he would not have to wake up and know she was not there.

  “Tell me who you are,” he asked once more, feeling the unfamiliar burn of regret and guilt.

  There was silence, but then she finally spoke. Her voice was hollow, more of an echo than true sound. “I am nothing. I am no one. For now—”

  “Just your name. Just tell me your name.”

  “Yours,” she murmured, her hands caressing his shoulders. “I am yours.”

  And then she was gone. Again.

  * * * * *

  “Wake up. Come on, Malachi, please wake up.”

  Malachi came out of the dream aching. In his gut. In his heart. And between his legs—the thick length of his cock was rock hard and pulsating, although he could feel a dampness on his clothes. Pressing a hand to his flesh, he swore silently. She did this to him always. A witch. That was what she was. A demon. Bewitching him, bespelling him, pleasuring him in his dreams until he spilled his seed like some boy.

  He saw the lad standing a few feet away, shifting from one foot to the other, staring at Malachi with nervous eyes.

  Malachi could not remember the boy’s name. It was Li’s youngest. The boy helped his mother in the kitchen.

  Li supervised the arena slaves and he reminded Malachi a great deal of old Yen.

  Like Yen, Li had golden skin and dark slanted eyes and he fought in the same quick deadly way.

  The boy had his father’s looks, golden skin, brown eyes, slight of stature and fast—eventually, he would be trained for the arena, Malachi suspected.

  Likely Li did as well, which is why the boy still stayed in the kitchens.

  “We need more wine.”

  Malachi scowled. “Wine?”

  “For the guests. We have not enough for all of them and the others are all busy.”

  Fetching wine. Some time later, Malachi was fuming over it as he headed into the village for more wine. The Master had plenty of his own, but apparently none of it was rich enough for the party he planned to throw, so Malachi was once more playing fetch.

  Malachi knew his anger was irrational. It was just a walk to town with the cart, easy enough labor. Better than rutting on the Mistress, better than fighting, even better than lifting. But he was ridiculously angered by it for some reason.

  He could have refused. It truly was not his job, but if the Master wanted wine and Li’s pretty wife, Heta, did not produce it, she would be in trouble. The thought of seeing her take the whip was enough to make Malachi ill.

  So he was fetching wine.

  Would have been nice if the Master and Mistress had decided on this a bit earlier, though, he thought morosely as he trudged closer and closer to the village. By the time he had made the purchases and loaded them into the small wheeled cart, it would be nearly dark.

  And it would be nightfall before he reached the Master’s lands.

  Run…

  Malachi blocked out the seductive whisper. Now might be as good a time as any. He had a little money. Heta had given it to him for the wine and it would be a while before he was missed. The celebration had already begun and Heta could bring out the wines the Master did have—when the guests were drunk enough, they would not care they were drinking a lesser vintage.

  It could even be morning before Malachi was missed.

  But he kept seeing the fear in the boy’s eyes, the gratitude in Heta’s.

  No. He would not run.

  * * * * *

  Hours later, he was swearing bitterly as he made his way through the darkened forest. The torch on the cart did a damn poor job of lighting the way. Although he knew these paths as well as he knew the back of his hand, traveling them in the dark, hauling a heavy load of wine was enough to have his anger returning in waves.

  Lifting his eyes to the sky, he studied the angle of the moon. His mouth was dry, his belly was an empty knot and he was not looking forward to being forced into another fight.

  It was that thought that made him do it.

  Abruptly, Mal dropped the handles of the cart and turned, grabbing some of the wine. Jerking the oiled rag from the mouth of the jug, he tossed it onto the cart. Leaving the cart behind, he moved off the path and dropped onto the damp grass.

  Tipping the jug back, he let the cool, sweet wine run down his throat. Damn a fight anyway. As late as it was, maybe they had all drunk themselves blind. After a little bit of wine, they’d never know if they were switched from the good stuff to the every day wine anyway, now would they?

  For a moment, the image of Heta’s face danced behind his lowered lids.

  But instead of pushing to his feet and heading on, he took another drink of wine. Then another. And another. He kept drinking until the edge of his mind went blurry and the anger gnawing at his gut finally eased off.

  He never noticed when his lids lowered. When the jug fell to the ground with a hollow thunk, he never even stirred.

  The woman came to him like a whisper on the wind, moving on silent feet through the trees. The wind blew long golden strands of hair around her narrow shoulders, across her face. She reached up and brushed a strand out of her eyes, staring at the man sleeping under the tree.

  She had sad eyes and as she studied him, her expression grew even more despondent. “I am sorry.” She moved a little closer, kneeling on the ground beside him. He did not move as she reached out and touched a finger to his cheek. “I have been watching you.”

  As she sighed, her breasts rose and fell under the gleaming white of her gown. “Part of me hoped that you would never come to me. Each time I called, you turned it aside. Such a strong man.”

  The deep red of his hair seemed nearly black under the silvery light of the moon. She had watched him, night after night, as he bedded the lady of the house, and her instinctive fear had warred with curiosity. How would that lovely hair feel wrapped around her hands? To feel that powerful body moving over hers? He never once used a cruel hand—she suspected even if he had not been bedding the Mistress, he still would have used such care.

  This was not a cruel man.

  Did he enjoy making his Mistress cry out in pleasure?

  And she had also watched him fight. Yes, she had been watching him for months and months. Fear sometimes forced her to leave, but always, she came back here. To watch him.

  He was the one.

  In her gut, she knew. Tears thickened her voice as she moved closer, brushing the deep red of his hair back from his neck. “I am so sorry.” He started to wake as she leaned closer, and Alys began to sing quietly under her breath, stroking her hands up and down his arms, lulling him back into sleep. It was a lullaby she remembered from childhood, one in a language she barely remembered.

  Just the lullaby. It calmed him as easily as it had calmed her and Alys moved in again. But she could not get close enough. Fear snaked through her body but she shifted and drew the long folds of her gown higher, straddling his hips. He felt warm beneath her—

  An unfamiliar heat streaked through her and she paused, her hands tightening on his biceps. Her voice faltered and as it did, his eyes opened. He stared up at her with dark eyes as he mumbled, “Did not realize I had drank that much wine.”

  He reached up, touching the tip of his finger to one fat curl as it lay over her breast. Then he palmed her breast and the heat of his hand shook her to the core. He was gentle, this man was, gentle and persuasive, so unlike what she was used to. She could feel the power in his body and part of her wanted to flee.

  But she needed him. Reaching up, she fisted a hand in his hair, baring his neck. Lowering her head, she ran her fangs over the taut golden skin. The rush of blood under the surface called out to her.

  But before she could strike, he slid his hands under her skirt and she leaned back, only a heartbeat from tearing away in fear. But his hands stayed gentle as he eased her skirts up. “You smell sweet,” he muttered against her skin, nuzzling her breasts through her gown. His hot mouth closed over
the tip of her breast and she arched against him with a startled cry.

  Pleasure like nothing she had ever felt streaked through her and she fisted one hand in the loose cloth draped across his chest. Fabric tore but she barely noticed because he was busy stripping her clothes away. Seconds later, the heat of his body was pressed against her own cool body.

  “I like this dream,” he whispered, rising to his knees. Malachi kept his hands at her hips, holding her against him as he moved. He moved easily despite the added weight of her body. “I can see you…”

  He took her to the ground and spread her thighs. Alys could not fight down the panic that filled her, but he did not shove brutally inside her. He did not even drop his body onto hers. Instead, he returned to her breasts, biting softly at her nipples, sucking them deep into his mouth. Between her thighs, she felt heat.

  When he cupped a big, warm hand over her, Alys moaned. The sound was startling, rough and needy.

  But even more startling was how his touch made her feel. It made her feel empty.

  She wanted to feel him there.

  When he began to caress there, she arched up to him with a cry. Two fingers pushed inside her and there was no pain, just a sweet pleasure that made her hunger for more.

  He continued to touch her just like that, pumping his fingers in and out. Alys grew hotter and between her thighs, she grew wetter. That was not completely unknown. She had felt that creamy moisture before, when she had watched him mount his Mistress.

  When he finally came into her, Alys exploded, screaming into his mouth.

  Malachi was dreaming—he knew he was. Some wine-induced fantasy. Not the woman from his dreams, but certainly someone sweet, someone soft. Someone who wasn’t bedding him just to get with child. She was delicate, sweet, almost timid. He had not been with a woman like her before.

  Looking into her eyes was nearly as pleasurable as sinking his cock inside her. She stared up at him with an awed, needy gaze. Nobody had ever looked at him with such naked need before.

  Since he had no idea when he would have another sweet dream like this, he intended to enjoy it to the fullest. As she climaxed around him again, he slowed his strokes. He wanted her to calm, wanted to watch the fog fade from her pretty green eyes. Then he wanted to watch them darken with need again as he rode her.

  Maybe then he would come.

  Maybe…

  Hours later, they lay under the star strewn sky. Malachi was certain he could not move if he had to. He had stopped thinking of this as a dream some time ago, although if he woke and found himself alone in the woods, it would be little surprise.

  There was just something…real about this. Something solid. That feeling only intensified as she rolled atop him again, staring down into his eyes with a sad gaze. “You should rest,” she whispered softly. Her voice trembled a little as she spoke.

  Malachi wanted to know what made her so sad. But before he could ask, she stroked his cheek. “Sleep, Malachi.”

  He did not wish to sleep. And he knew he should not. It was time to return to the Master’s lands. He would think of some way of keeping Heta from the punishment he had surely brought upon her.

  Yes, he needed to return.

  But suddenly he could barely keep his eyes open. The bone deep lassitude had turned into true exhaustion and he could not even keep his eyes open, much less force himself to his feet for the long walk ahead.

  His lids drooped low and as he drifted into sleep, she started to sing.

  When she struck his neck, her fangs pierced his skin easily and he barely flinched.

  * * * * *

  His eyes were gritty with exhaustion well before sundown. But Malachi would not be sleeping that night. He had returned to the Master’s property just as the sun was rising, but all of the guests were already sleeping. Many of them were sprawled on the grounds where they had dropped.

  There were empty wine jugs scattered around and the remnants of the meal Heta and the other kitchen slaves had worked so hard on. Already, the slaves were busy cleaning up the mess, but it would take much of the day to clear it all away.

  From the looks of it, it had been a very successful celebration.

  Heta had tried to ask him what had taken so long, but Malachi merely turned the wine over to her and walked off. Li, however, was not going to be put off.

  “Bad night.”

  “My night was fine,” Malachi said, trying to remember it a little better. He remembered grabbing the wine. And waking up. In between? Just little flashes of memory. A soft, pretty voice. Big sad green eyes. A woman with a warm, sweet body.

  A dream. It had just been a dream, caused by too much wine. The headache he had now was proof of just how much he had imbibed. He felt groggy, too. Too tired. His head felt too fogged.

  “No. I do not ask if you had good night. I tell you, last night was bad night. Bad things happened.” Li moved a little closer, his slanted eyes narrowing, almost disappearing as he rose on his toes, staring at Mal’s neck.

  When he reached up and tried to touch Mal’s neck, Mal batted his hand aside. “Leave me alone, Li. I am tired.”

  “You be still,” Li growled, wrapping his hand around Mal’s wrist and squeezing.

  Mal felt his bones grinding together and he bit the inside of his cheek as pain streaked through him. “What do you want?”

  “What happen last night?”

  “I drank a jug of the wine and passed out. When I woke up, it was nearly morning. Fascinating story.” Li’s hand fell away and Mal suppressed the urge to rub at his bloodless wrist. Instead, he studied the smaller man.

  Li was pale and for the first time, Mal saw fear in those dark eyes. “You no go anywhere tonight. No matter what,” Li said. “You hear?”

  Tension tightened between the two as they stared at each other. Malachi took enough orders—taking them from a fellow slave? But the fear he sensed inside the smaller man kept him from saying the angry words that burned on his tongue. “I have been ordered to attend the Mistress tonight.”

  “Good. That good. You stay inside,” Li muttered, jabbing a finger into Mal’s chest. “Inside.”

  That was all he would say and then he walked away, muttering and shaking his head.

  The pounding in Mal’s head kept him from thinking about it for too long. He needed to get his work done fast. If he did not get some rest before nightfall, he would likely fall asleep between the Mistress’ thighs.

  Chapter Two

  He did not get that rest he needed, but fortunately, pregnancy was already wearing on the Mistress. Malachi could see the weariness in her eyes and he knew he would only be needed for a little while.

  Damn good thing, too. Malachi was achingly tired.

  At first, Malachi thought he was falling asleep. Even as he pumped his hips back and forth, the Mistress’ pussy wet and soft around him, he thought he was sleeping.

  Dreaming. No other way to explain that soft, lilting voice. He was certain he had dreamed that voice.

  “Let me in.”

  Mal pulled away from the Mistress, staring towards the window. The woman leaned against it, running her hands against the empty air as though something was preventing her from coming in. A hand touched his arm and he looked at the Mistress, half expecting to see fury in her eyes for pulling away before he had helped her finish.

  Instead, she was staring at the window as though something held her hypnotized.

  “Invite me in—I want to play, too,” the woman murmured as she stared at the Mistress.

  “Please come. Come to me,” the Mistress whispered, reaching out a hand to the woman. There was a look of hunger in her eyes that unsettled Malachi. He knew some of the women he had served preferred the touch of other women, but this Mistress had not ever been like that.

  Yet she was staring at the other woman as though she was starved for her. That look was not natural, not for her. Malachi could not dismiss the feeling that the other woman had induced this odd change.

  The w
oman did not approach the Mistress. She climbed inside, the movement oddly graceful, so at odds with what she was doing. Her big eyes stared at the Mistress and she said, “Sleep.”

  The Mistress fell limply back against the bed, her eyes closed, her chest rising with the soft, steady rhythm of sleep.

  When the woman looked at Malachi, her eyes were tear drenched. “I beg your forgiveness. But I have need of you. You…a warrior.”

  She leaped for him then, moving quicker than anything Mal had ever seen. Her hands jerked Mal against her and he fought, trying to throw her aside. But she was strong. Too strong. This was no mortal woman. Her fangs pierced his skin and it felt—familiar. It did not hurt, but he was infuriated. He could feel the life draining out of him.

  Something touched his mind. A soft, soothing touch. Please…please understand. I am so sorry…but I need you.

  Those words circled around in his head, over and over, chasing him into oblivion. The sadness in her eyes pricked at the anger that filled him. Even as he longed to tear her away from him and stop this invasion, the grief inside her had him wanting to stroke away the pain.

  * * * * *

  He would kill her.

  Malachi felt her calling to him as night fell. He sat just outside the training arena, his back to a huge tree trunk. In his hand, he held a spear. It was sharp, well balanced, one he had made with his own hands.

  And he would use it to kill the demon after him.

  She called—he could feel it, like she was trying to work her way inside his mind and force him to obey. Like she had done with the Mistress the night before. Malachi waited though. He would not go to her. She could come to him and he would kill her.

  When she had appeared at the edge of the trees just after the sun had set, Malachi rose, holding her gaze. Her big green eyes looked so sad.

  “If there was another way for me, I would have chosen it,” she whispered. She started towards him and Malachi hefted the spear, launching it at her.

  It did not hit—she moved like the wind, dodging the spear and disappearing into the trees. There was no sign of her. Growling low in his throat, he followed his instincts. They had always served him well enough—he would just have to hope his luck held.