Captive (15 page)

“You can come in for a nightcap if you like,” Tristan said, surprising her, and walked
into his room.

SARAH HOVERED JUST
outside his door. She didn’t want to stop talking with Tristan, but she questioned
the wisdom of so willingly accepting an invitation into his bedroom. She stood there,
looking at the open door.

It’s just a room. A room where there happens to be a bed. No need to read anything
more into the situation. God, I’m terrible at lying to myself,
Sarah thought as she went through the door. No matter how much she tried to convince
herself otherwise, she was well aware of the thrill she felt at being invited into
Tristan’s bedroom and how much she wanted to be there.

Once inside, however, she found herself alone but for the jumping flames in the fireplace.

“Tristan?”

“I’ll be out in a second,” his call came from the alcove.

An image of Tristan emerging from the closet shirtless, as he had been the first time
Sarah saw him, snuck into Sarah’s mind and made her fists clench.

But when Tristan did appear, he’d only shed his jacket and vest, and hadn’t divested
himself of his shirt.

Why would he? Seduction by way of presenting himself as some kind of beefcake didn’t
strike Sarah as Tristan’s M.O., and she was a little disturbed when her imagination
began to suggest more plausible scenarios in which she might come upon Tristan shirtless.

“So, I’ve been thinking about your next challenge,” Tristan said, then frowned at
her. “Is something wrong?”

Sarah realized she’d been undressing him with her eyes, and quickly looked away. “Fine.
The next challenge—what about it?”

“I know we’ve set a pattern of one challenge per day,” Tristan said, “but I wonder
if you might be open to some improvisation.”

“This is your game.” Sarah shrugged, tamping down her rising curiosity.

Tristan went to a curved cabinet of polished wood and withdrew a bottle of single
malt and two glasses. “True, but I don’t want you to accuse me of unfairly changing
the rules.”

“There are rules?” Sarah teased.

Tristan answered her with a wry smile.

“More than one challenge in a day is fine, as long as it’s not too taxing for your
poor mind to devise them,” Sarah told him. “What torture have you concocted for me
now?”

He ignored both her barbs, answering, “Tell me a story.”

Sarah frowned at him. “I don’t think I follow.”

“We keep coming back to Scheherazade,” Tristan said, pouring Sarah a scotch. “I think
it’s an avenue worth pursuing further.”

“I don’t know that I’m much of a storyteller,” Sarah replied, taking the glass he
offered.

Tristan poured a glass for himself. “We won’t know until you try.”

He walked past Sarah. She tensed when he settled on his bed, stretching his legs out
and propping himself up against the headboard with pillows.

“A bedtime story, then,” Sarah said, taking a quick nip of whisky to steady her nerves.

“If you put me to sleep, I’m going to go ahead and say it wasn’t a very good story.”

“So I’m not only to come up with a tale”—Sarah walked to the bedside—“I’m also supposed
to keep you riveted?”

“Riveted would be excellent.” Tristan rested an arm behind his head. “But mildly interested
is acceptable.”

“As long as you don’t fall asleep?” Sarah sat cross-legged at the foot of the bed,
facing him.

“Too difficult?”

Sarah offered him a half smile. “Let’s find out.” She took a gulp of whisky so large
it made her shudder.

“Easy there.” Tristan laughed. “Or this will surely become a bawdy tale.”

She blamed her warming cheeks on the whisky. After making a show of straightening
her shoulders and clearing her throat, Sarah began in a lofty tone: “Once upon a time—”

“Ugh.” Tristan waved a dismissive hand at her. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed
to begin a story that way?”

“It’s my story,” Sarah objected.

Tristan shook his head. “I’m trying to help you out. ‘Once upon a time’ is no way
to begin a story. And don’t try ‘It was a dark and stormy night,’ either.”

“Are you going to let me tell this story or not?”

“Go ahead,” Tristan told her. “But if you don’t start off well, the tale is ruined
from the first sentence.”

Sarah gave him a withering glance. She sipped her whisky, thinking.

“Have you conceded?” Tristan grinned at her.

“No,” Sarah replied. “I’m just composing the perfect opening line.”

“Oh, good.” Tristan eased back against the headboard.

Sarah knew the shape she wanted this story to take. It was a challenge that could
aid her immensely—but the tactic was a risky one to be sure. She looked at Tristan.
His eyes were closed.

“Hey!” Sarah knocked his foot with the back of her hand.

“What?” he asked lazily.

“Are you listening?” She glared at him. “I’m about to begin.”

“Then begin.” His smile told Sarah he’d only closed his eyes to provoke her.

“The island was getting smaller,” Sarah said.

Tristan sat up. “That’s your beginning?”

She held up her hand to shush him. “Or at least that was how the prince felt about
his home. He’d ruled over his tiny kingdom for many years, but the green grass of
his lands had lost their jade luster, and the shadows of the forests grew longer at
the end of each day.”

Tristan’s jaw twitched from tension, but Sarah continued. “The prince knew it was
his duty to keep peace on his island and care for his subjects, but the strength of
his castle couldn’t stop the weakening of his soul.”

Sarah watched Tristan’s face pale. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “He worried his
home had become a prison instead of a refuge and that soon he would rule because of
his dedication to his subjects, but that he would do so with an empty heart.”

A tiny sound slipped from between Tristan’s lips, a sigh that had barely escaped.
Sarah swallowed the sudden hard lump in her throat.

“Then, one day, without invitation or announcement, a stranger appeared at his castle
gates. A woman who traveled alone.”

“Is this a love story?” Tristan’s question startled Sarah, snatching her out of the
story’s cadence.

“Would you like to hear a love story?” Sarah countered, hoping the room was dim enough
to cloak the rush of blood into her cheeks.

“It’s a matter of plot development.” Tristan shrugged. “There’s a prince in a castle,
and a strange woman has just arrived. That seems like the setup for a romance.”

“She might be a monster disguised as a woman,” Sarah said, wagging her index finger
at him. “You don’t know who she is.”

“Intriguing.” Tristan laughed softly. “Please go on.”

“Despite the mystery of the woman’s sudden arrival, the prince welcomed her into his
home,” Sarah told him. “For the island was isolated and too much time had passed since
the prince had received a visitor. He offered her the hospitalities of the castle,
a room of her own, and dined with her each night.”

“Is she beautiful?” Tristan asked.

“I don’t . . .” Sarah looked away, wrapping her fingers tightly around her glass.
“Does it matter?”

“It seems that the prince would be more likely to let her into his home if she’s beautiful,”
Tristan said. “After all, you said he hadn’t had visitors for a long time, but even
so he’d probably be wary of strangers—except if she was too beautiful for him to resist.
Perhaps he had no will to turn her away.”

“Perhaps.” Sarah dared to look at him. “I suppose she might be beautiful.”

Tristan held her gaze. “She is.”

He pushed himself away from the headboard and knelt beside her. Sarah couldn’t take
her eyes off him, nor could she move when he lifted his hand and lightly cupped her
face. His thumb traced the shape of her jaw and her lips.

“What are you doing?” Sarah whispered. She knew it was a silly question, but those
were the only words she could muster.

I shouldn’t let this happen. God, I want this to happen.

Tristan bent his head to hers. “Suggesting a plot twist.”

Sarah felt the light brush of his lips on her cheek. She let her eyes close. Her instincts
wanted her to lean into him, to turn her mouth toward his.

“But what if her beauty is an illusion?” Sarah murmured. “What if it’s a spell to
help her entrap the prince and then kill him?”

Tristan stilled, and Sarah’s eyes fluttered open. He was still close, watching her.
She searched his face for signs of alarm or anger but didn’t find them, only curiosity.

“That would also offer a surprising turn in the narrative,” Tristan said. He slowly
pulled away to sit beside her, though he kept his hand curved along her neck, his
palm pressed against the pulse at her throat. “What would you prefer: sex or violence?”

“Are those the only two options?” Sarah asked with a nervous laugh.

“In the story you’ve set up, it seems so.”

Sarah placed her hand over Tristan’s. Touching him was much too easy, too natural.
She turned her face and lightly kissed his fingertips. She hoped he hadn’t seen how
her hands were trembling. Then she stood up.

“Good night, Tristan.”

“You aren’t going to finish the story?” Tristan stayed on the bed, watching her.

She smiled, hoping to hide the frantic beating of her heart. “Don’t you remember?
Scheherazade never finishes a story. It’s the only way she can save her own life.”

Sarah got up and crossed the room quickly, hoping that Tristan wouldn’t call out to
her, because if he did—if he so much as whispered her name—she didn’t think she’d
have the will to leave. She made it out of Tristan’s room and crossed the hall, ignoring
the pinch of disappointment that he hadn’t tried to stop her.

The subtle glow of a banked fire greeted Sarah when she entered her bedroom. Its warmth
should have been soothing, but Sarah’s skin remained too sensitive, uncomfortably
heated. She kicked off her shoes, then stripped down to her bra and panties.

Sarah went to her bed and stretched out on top of the covers. She laid her palm flat
on her stomach. The heat of her skin made it silken to her touch. Her fingertips slid
down her abdomen and her back began to arch even before her hand slipped beneath her
panties.

Enough of an ache had been building in Sarah’s core that she knew she’d be wet. Even
so, a little moan escaped her lips when her fingers stroked over the soft folds of
her sex.

Closing her eyes, Sarah let her mind take her back into Tristan’s bedroom, where,
instead of fleeing from him, she kissed him the way she’d wanted to, pressing him
down into the bed. When Sarah imagined straddling Tristan’s hips, her fingers moved
to her clit and her other hand slid beneath her bra to cup her breast.

Sarah’s hips rose and fell with the rhythm of her stroking fingers. Her breath came
fast as her mind conjured images she’d worked so hard to keep in check: her hands
fisted in Tristan’s hair, her lips rimming his cock, her sex hot and wet as she rode
him until she, until she . . .

A cry of pleasure broke from Sarah’s throat as she came, ripples of pleasure moving
through her limbs. She rolled onto her side, listening to her labored breath and the
rapid beating of her heart.

Fuck. How can I want him this much?

Twisted as it appeared to her, the desire was real, and Sarah didn’t know if she was
strong enough to keep it at bay. She’d never wanted someone this way; Jeremy had the
skill to coax her into craving his touch, but her body seemed to
need
Tristan. Unlike anything she’d experienced before, the pull of her new lust was both
intriguing and frightening. She didn’t know what it would be like to have him inside
her, but she was terribly aware of how desperately she
wanted
to know.

Her breath had finally begun to slow, and Sarah thought she’d be able to let the echoes
of her climax carry her into a pleasant slumber, when a knock at the door sent her
bolt upright.

“Just a minute,” Sarah called, cursing the sound of her voice, which was still husky
with her recent pleasure.

Sarah hurried to an armoire and grabbed a long satin dressing gown. She quickly tied
the robe, hoping her appearance wasn’t in too much disarray as she went to the door.

If Tristan was at the door with the aim of bringing Sarah back to his bed, or joining
Sarah in hers, she hoped that having indulged her pleasure just prior to his arrival
would give her the willpower to send him away—though she was doubtful of her resolve.
Her mind was already prodding her with flashes of Tristan’s mouth and hands on her
body.

But when Sarah opened the door, the rising warmth of her blood was swept away by a
sudden cold. She could barely tolerate Lana’s presence, given that the nether creature
had stripped her down and tied her to Tristan’s bed, and Sarah’s discovery that the
succubus, in league with Owen, tormented hapless victims in the bowels of the castle,
taking pleasure and sustenance from the prolonged anguish of their prisoners. Finding
Lana at her door was enough to make Sarah instantly queasy.

“I thought I’d see how you’re settling in,” Lana said.

The succubus was dressed in a leather catsuit, though given the freedom of Lana’s
wings, Sarah presumed the back of the suit had been cut out. Those wings were spread
wide now, either to impress or intimidate.

Lana sniffed the air and licked her lips. Her eyes raked over Sarah’s body. “I’m sure
Tristan would be interested to know what you’ve been up to in here.”

Disgusted, Sarah drew a sharp breath. “What do you want?”

“How rude.” Lana flapped her wings in chastisement. “I’m simply here to make sure
you have everything you need, sweet thing. After all, I’m the one who provided all
these lovely adornments for you.”

Lana reached out and touched the sleeve of Sarah’s robe. Sarah jerked her arm back.

“Tsk.”
Lana shook her head but smiled. “You have nothing to fear from me, Searcher.”

“I’m not afraid,” Sarah snapped. “I do, however, find you appalling.”