Free The Warrior Poet by Kathryn Le Veque Page B

my parents," she
whispered, her gaze trailing down his massive body to the arsenal of weapons
decorating his waist. With a resigned shrug, she gestured to his ammunition.
"Well, give me a weapon then. I suppose we should battle to the death as
all of our ancestors have done. As we shall do."
    He cocked an eyebrow, nearly amused by her unmistakably
droll comment. "I told you I was not going to kill you."
    She returned the facial expression. "But I may kill
you. Will you not defend yourself?"
    "I already have."
    She maintained her countenance, bordering on arrogance.
"And you have so far proven to be an unworthy adversary. I push you and
you fall, I bump you and you grunt with pain. For a man with a formidable
reputation, Demon, you certainly are a weakling."
    He was on her in two strides, his angry dark face an
inch from her own . Gaithlin suddenly found herself
clutched in the mightiest embrace she had ever experienced; gasping with
surprise and a certain measure of apprehension, she braced her hands against
his chest as if to push him away. He was as immovable as a mountain.
    "I am indeed a formidable adversary, wench, but I
will not prove my point against a weaker, smaller de Gare. I told you that you
would regret your actions, and I meant it."
    Lips quivering with shock and fright, Gaithlin met his
ice-blue orbs steadily. The heat that had ignited earlier that day when he had
so gently probed her for injury suddenly rekindled with searing intensity.
She'd never been this close to a man; any man, and certainly not a St. John.
    Yet family hatred didn't seem to matter overly at the
moment. Gaithlin was only aware of the fact that she was gazing into the face
of the most beautiful man she had ever seen, his musky maleness filling her
nostrils, assaulting her ingenuous emotions. The odd warmth erupted into a
roaring blaze and her entire body began to shake, rippling like the waves of
the sea in rapid succession.
    "I... I am not afraid of you," she breathed,
gasping softly when his grip tightened. "Do what you will, Demon. I shall
never beg for mercy."
    Christian heard her quietly-uttered defiance, feeling
the familiar anger it roused. But the fury was quelled by desire of   unbelievable proportions. With Gaithlin's luscious body within his embrace, nothing else
existed in the world.
    Gaithlin never saw him move. One moment, his ice-blue
orbs were blazing threateningly, and in the next moment his mouth was on her
neck as a wildcat devours its prey. Burning lips against her tender, damp skin,
scorching her with a passion she had never imagined to exist.   His teeth bit into her flesh, enough to cause
pain but not enough to break the skin.   It was enrapturing. Dear God, he was a St. John, her family's most hated
nemesis! An evil Demon capable of nothing less than horror and pain and... complete , unrestrained pleasure. The Demon was consuming her
and she would let him.
    Christian could scarcely believe the rashness of his
actions. It was as if something had given way, collapsing his control until
only his desire was capable of coming forth. But as his tongue sampled the
rain-sweet flesh of her neck, he was aware that she was far more delicious than
anything he had ever sampled. And he knew, doubtlessly, that he had had to have
more of the newly-discovered delicacy. He had to take more.
    He was barely aware of Gaithlin's stunned gasp, her body
as it stiffened within in the crushing enclosure of his arms. He ignored her
squirms of panic, her cries of fear, fully engulfed in the ravishment of her
neck. So involved was he in the tender white morsels her earlobes that he was
unaware when her terrified struggles turned into an overwhelming reaction to
his raging desire.

 
 
    ‘Treacherous are the
Crossroads;
    by which direction you
seek
    May not be the
course intended.
    Either path will
bring about
    a selection of
self-deliberated anguish.'

 
      ~ Chronicles of Christian St. John
      Vl. IV, p. CCII