Page 9 of The Captive

The Wolf of the steppe slept better than most barons of my acquaintance. And he had wanted me to see it.

The door-flap moved. An older woman came in—sturdy, weathered, silver braids poking from beneath her kerchief—carrying a tray and wearing the broadest smile I’d been offered in months.

I tried French, English, my six phrases of Russian, but received no response. She patted my cheek as if I’d said something charming, helped me out of my travel-stained nightgown with brisk motherly hands, dropped a clean chemise over my head—she’d pulled it from my valise, and I had no idea how it had come to be in the tent before me—and carried my gown away to be laundered, still smiling. I’d extracted not one scrap of information from her.

The tray held enough for three: shredded roast lamb still hissing from the spit, black bread, a bowl of something thick and darkly red that smelled of paprika, white cheese, honey, a dish of dried cherries, and a small glass of clear spirit that tasted of grain and fire and took my breath in a manner no French brandy ever had managed.

I ate all of it. Terror, it turns out, is excellent for the appetite.

Then I curled up on a bandit’s feather bed in my clean chemise, with the great fire crackling outside and the singing rolling on and on, and waited for the man who had promised to fuck me.

Waiting has never been my gift.

My valise sat by the bed. I pulled A Harlot’s Guide from beneath the chemises and let it fall open where it wished. It wished, apparently, to mock me: page eighty-eight, The Highwayman’s Toll.

The lady, waylaid, is bent forward over saddle or stile and bids to hold fast while the rogue takes his payment from behind, his hands free to roam where they please. Named for the toll every traveler must pay, and gladly, if the road is a good one. This game can be enjoyed to everyone’s satisfaction if the “bandit” is a generous man.

The illustration showed the man’s fist wound in the lady’s hair. Her mouth was open. She did not look as though she wanted rescuing.

Heat rolled through me, sudden and heavy. My cunny had been slick since morning—since a callused hand on my breast at the trot—and the ache was pounding in it now.

I set the book on the pillow where I could see it, pulled the chemise up my thighs, and slid my fingers down between them. To calm myself. To help me sleep, as any sensible woman would.

To sleep. Naturally.

I slid my fingers through my slick folds, circling my clitoris the way I’d learned brought me the quickest release. My other hand cupped my breast through the thin chemise, squeezing as I imagined Volkov’s rough palm there instead.

In my mind, I was bent over that saddle from the illustration—The Highwayman’s Toll—my skirts thrown up over my back, my arse exposed to the cool air. Dmitri stood behind me, one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping my hip as he drove into me in full view of his men. His cock filled me completely, stretching me, owning me, and I was helpless to do anything but take it.

“You are mine now, little rabbit,” the imaginary Dmitri growled, pulling my hair until my back arched. “Your cunny belongs to me.”

My fingers moved faster, my breath coming in short gasps. In my fantasy, his free hand came around to find my clitoris, rubbing it in rough circles as he fucked me from behind. I could almost feel the thickness of him, the way my inner muscles would clench around his cock, the delicious stretch and burn⁠—

The door-flap moved.

I froze, my hand still between my thighs, my chemise bunched around my waist.

Dmitri Volkov stepped into the tent.

His dark gaze swept over me—sprawled on his bed, legs spread, fingers glistening with my own arousal, the forbidden book open beside me—and a slow, wolfish grin spread across his face. He let the flap fall closed behind him with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.

“Starting without me, Duchess?”

Heat flooded my face as I snatched my hand away from my cunny as though burned. I tried to pull my chemise down, to cover myself, but the fabric was twisted around my hips.

“I was just—I didn’t expect⁠—”

He made a tutting sound with his tongue as he reached for the hem of his shirt, his movements unhurried. “Don’t be shy now.”

He pulled the garment over his head in one smooth motion, and I forgot how to breathe.

I had felt the strength of him when I’d sat against his chest all day, but seeing him bare was another matter entirely. His torso was all lean muscle and scars—a life written on skin in pale lines and puckered marks. Dark hair covered his chest, trailing down past the waistband of loose trousers that hung low on his hips. His feet were bare, and he moved across the layered rugs with the silent grace of a predator.

Like a wolf stalking prey.

He’d bathed. I could smell his soap, see the damp edges of his hair. He’d changed into fresh clothes and come to me as if this were a planned seduction rather than⁠—

Rather than what? I was his captive.