Kingdom of Khal: Redeeming Davik

  KINGDOM OF KHAL: REDEEMING DAVIK

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, April 2004

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  PO Box 787

  Hudson, OH 44236-0787

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-885-5

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) HTML

  KINGDOM OF KHAL: REDEEMING DAVIK © 2004 MADISON HAYES

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Mary Moran.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Kingdom of Khal:

  Redeeming Davik

  Madison Hayes

  Chapter One

  “Look what the spoils-of-war goddess left us.” Warrik pushed a woman into the room. “I’ll be back later to share in her rape. Don’t start without me,” he added cheerfully and disappeared.

  Prince Davik of Southern Khal glanced up from his maps, did a double take, and stopped to stare.

  A woman stood just inside the door; a woman who bore further examination. She was exquisite; almost as tall as he, and he was a good six feet. Her skin was warm caramel on a hot day. Her long hair lifted from her forehead and rolled down past her shoulders in thick, black waves that were tipped with a tapered three inches of white. Westerman blood, he decided, and wondered about her night vision as his eyes traveled to hers. Dark doe-eyes gave her a vulnerable appearance while her quiet, solemn expression insisted she would be brave despite that vulnerability. The tilt of her chin and her generous, full lips managed to convey the idea she had not lived her life without daring.

  Davik tipped his head and continued his appraisal. The nose might be considered prominent on another woman, but on her anything less would have been swamped by those wide liquid eyes and full lips.

  Difficult as it was, he pulled his eyes from her face to travel down her body. In a world where nothing stayed clean for long, her tightly laced bodice was inordinately white. Her rustling skirt of silk was vivid blue. Under the hem of her skirt, the toe of one doeskin boot could be seen. Unconsciously, he ran a hand through his hair; it wasn’t long, but he’d been meaning to have it cut. Now he wished he’d gotten around to it. As he pushed his straw colored hair behind his ears, the Prince’s fingers furrowed his mane to reveal rich gold beneath the straw.

  Her dark eyes were wide as her full lips parted. “I’ll not be forced.”

  He leaned back in his chair and gave her a small smile. “You don’t appear to have a choice.”

  “I do,” she said quickly. “I can submit, willingly.”

  An interesting stance, he thought; one, which should fit well into his own plans. He covered his next smile with his hand. “Warrik will be disappointed. But yes, that might work.” He pushed the papers around on the table, found a length of cord, and stood.

  Her face was pale. “No! I give my word, I’ll submit.”

  “That’s fine,” he said, “but you’ll have to be bound anyway. You are from the rebel camp, and I’m a cautious man by nature.”

  Her face grew paler with each of his approaching steps, and she backed away from him until she came up against the wall. She shot a panicked look around the room, then at him.

  That look of appeal almost halted him.

  He watched her take a breath of resignation; then she clasped her hands together and held them before her. He wrapped the cord once around her wrists before she fainted clean away. Catching her in his arms, he looked down on her with surprise. How could such a fragile creature survive in his world?

  Then he noticed her wrists, and there was no question as to the manner in which she had survived. Old scars, the harsh product of years in chains, ravaged her narrow wrists like a siege line. With growing suspicion, his eyes fell to the bottom of her skirt. He lifted the hem with his foot to see if her ankles bore similar markings, but her doeskin boots hid them. Shifting her onto one arm, he unlaced her bodice and opened it. For a moment he neglected his purpose, distracted by the lush curve of her breasts, her tiny waist, and hard flat stomach, then he slipped his hand around to her back and winced. His fingers traced the harsh pattern of scars crossing her back.

  Cradling her in his arms, he backed into his chair and sat. With his fingers he pushed her dark hair from her chest, greatly improving his view. Quietly, he watched her breasts rise and fall as color slowly returned to her face. Curious about the rest of her, his eyes cut to the hem of her skirt then back to the luscious breasts. He was particularly interested in the height of her boots.

  Most women wore sandals or clogs. She must have had the boots specially made. He wondered if they stopped at mid-calf or if they rose to just below her knees. Past her knees?

  Unable to resist the temptation, but without removing his eyes from her chest, he tugged the blue silk up to the top of her knees, took a quick look at the high boots on her long calves, and nodded. He gave the blue silk a final tug then released it. Having crested her knees, the silk slid conveniently into her lap, revealing most of her slender thighs. As though he hadn’t planned this very outcome, his eyes lurched to her legs, vacillated between the choice of upper and lower body, then stuck on her thighs. He cocked his head as he gave her legs a thorough appraisal, returned his eyes to her breasts, then shook his head, unable to decide which of the two views he most preferred.

  She awoke with a small jump. When she opened her eyes, they went from his face to her open bodice then to the skirt hiked high on her legs. “Has it started, then?” she asked in a quiet voice, not looking at him.

  “Your rape?” He shook his head. “Your rape has been postponed,” he said. She looked up at him with wide eyes and he felt something rearrange itself in the vicinity of his heart. “Until you’re feeling up to it,” he said with a smile.

  Chapter Two

  It was dusk before Warrik shouldered his way through the door and threw himself into a chair. Davik had already started his meal, his drawings and maps pushed aside to make room for the food. Warrik glanced around the room and found the girl.

  “What do you think?” He grinned at his brother as he shrugged his cape from his shoulders.

  “The gods are good,” Davik returned with a smile.

  “She’s not bound.” He raised an enquiring eyebrow. When his brother shrugged, he turned to the girl. “Davik is normally a suspicious man,” he explained.

  “Normally cautious,” Davik corrected him.

  “Normally, he’s abnormally cautious. Normally, you’d be bound.” The big man tossed his tawny hair behind his back.

  “Normally, you don’t complain.”

  “Why should I? I like bondage,” Warrik grinned and winked at the girl.

  “This will make a diverting change for The Heir,” Davik told the girl.

  “Have you fed her?”

  “I thought you’d want to.” Davik pointed at his brother’s belt. “Get rid of your steel first.”

  Warrik pulled off his belt and threw his weapons across the room, away from the girl. “Come here, darling.”

  Hesitantly, the girl stood and cautiously approached the big soldier. He swept her onto his knee.

  “Here’s the drill, sweetheart. I’ll feed you. That way your hands will be clean…when it’s time to remove my clothing.”

  Reaching for a greasy joint, Warrik tore at the meat with his teeth, rescued a small piece from his mouth, and held it before her lips. When she opened her mouth, he fe
d it to her. Leaning back in his chair, Warrik smiled as he watched her chew self-consciously. He popped another piece in her mouth, then set his teeth into the joint with serious intent. “Bread?” he offered her in the middle of a bite. She reached across the table, but he stopped her. “No, I’ll get it.” He broke a small loaf in half and watched her open her mouth to chew off a bite. With a contented sigh he put the remaining bread in his own mouth, chewing mechanically as he gazed at her face. He shifted in his chair.

  “Where did she come from?” Davik asked.

  “The city. She’d dropped into a dry gulch and was almost to the sentry line before she was discovered. Jaym and Mavrik caught her.” He looked at her hair. “Do you suppose she has the Westerman’s night vision?”

  “Apparently not.”

  Warrik raised his eyebrows in question.

  “Otherwise she’d have attempted her escape at night.”

  Warrik nodded his understanding. “She didn’t have any messages on her, nor any weapons. Just a small knife and five gold.”

  “No food?”

  Warrik rolled his eyes. “This is a siege,” he pointed out.

  “Water?”

  That seemed to stop the big blond. He considered the girl thoughtfully.

  “She could have been trying to get an oral message out.”

  Warrik nodded; his blue eyes laughed. “Well if she was, she didn’t.” He smiled into the girl’s eyes. “Do you have anything you want to share with me, darling? Anything oral? Anything at all? Ah, come on darling. Offer me something. Even if it’s only lip service.” He turned to his brother. “She doesn’t look like a spy to me,” he pronounced with decisive optimism. “Most like, she was just hungry. Look at the poor girl. She doesn’t make more than a handful.” His eyes slipped down to her breasts. “Well, maybe two handfuls.”

  “And she was dressed like that? She hoped to escape notice in those clothes?”

  Warrik frowned at the girl’s blue skirt then glanced at his brother impatiently. “You’re just being suspicious.”

  “Cautious,” Davik corrected him. “She hasn’t offered any explanation,” he pointed out. Davik turned his blue-green eyes on the girl. She stared back at him quietly.

  A laugh burst from Warrik’s chest. “And evidently isn’t going to! How goes it inside the walls, darling? How much longer can the Northern Rebels hold out?” The girl regarded him quietly. “My spies tell me the Rebels grow tired of that Pretender, Kartin.”

  Davik snorted. “She’s not going to tell you anything.”

  “Of course she’s not. She’s too loyal.” Warrik regarded her face with pride. “I like loyalty in a woman,” he murmured. His expression was one of open adulation as he shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “Hadi’s Saints! These breeks are getting tight. Already! Would you mind, darling?” His laughing eyes went to the laces at the front of his breeks.

  Submissively, her hands went to his ties. She fumbled a long time.

  Davik rolled his eyes. “Did he double-knot them again?”

  Suddenly she looked up at Davik. Then slowly—uncertainly—at his brother.

  Warrik threw back his head and laughed. “I like to be untied. Take your time darling.” He looked at his brother. “Is there any fruit?” Davik rose and went to the door where he spoke to one of the guards. “If you’re so suspicious, why isn’t she tied?”

  “She promised to submit,” Davik said, leaning against the wall beside the door.

  “Without a struggle?” Davik nodded. “Damn! I like a bit of a struggle.” Warrik grinned at his brother.

  “He’s kidding,” Davik interposed when he saw the girl’s expression.

  “I’m kidding,” Warrik echoed. “There won’t be any struggle. I’m going to sneak it in when you’re not looking.”

  Davik returned to the table with a small basket of apples. “Good luck sneaking up on her with that battering ram you keep between your legs.”

  Half an apple disappeared between Warrik’s teeth and he held the remainder to the girl’s mouth while she continued her struggle with his ties. “If you don’t hurry up sweetheart, I’m going to storm the gates and bust out of there all by myself.”

  “The Heir grows impatient,” Davik laughed and caught the girl’s eye.

  “The Heir grows, sure enough,” Warrik countered suggestively.

  Warrik nudged the fruit against her lips and she opened her mouth, her eyes still slanting onto Davik. He watched a shining ribbon of juice unfurl from the corner of her mouth and curl down toward her chin, watched as Warrik reached up and caught the golden drop on the end of a thick finger, then moved the finger to her mouth. Her lips parted for his finger as she cast her eyes demurely down, her long eyelashes dark on her dusky cheeks. Her lips closed around Warrik’s finger. Slowly, she raised her eyes to connect with Davik’s.

  He lost a breath or perhaps two.

  Actually, he lost count before the spell was broken.

  His cock stirred and straightened. As he moved his legs apart, the action drew her eyes downward. Her eyes, fixed on his groin, affected an amazing result on his sex, the like of which he’d never experienced. Her eyes brushed up along the length of his ties with an interest he could almost feel; his steel pulsed with ready life.

  A final tug and Warrik’s ties were loose. He shifted the girl on his lap then presented her with his greasy fingers. The big man sighed happily as she sucked on each of his digits. Running a shining thumb over her bottom lip, Warrik watched her lips part beneath his thumb. “Straighten me out,” he said softly.

  She hesitated only an instant, then her hands slipped into his breeks. The big man’s eyes closed, his expression that of minor ecstasy. “The plot thickens.” His lips curled and his eyes opened a fraction, enough to watch her hand move to stroke out his swelling length. Slowly, he raised his eyes to her face. “Help me off with my jerkin.” His voice was a husky slur. Davik watched her loosen the strings at his chest then pull the jerkin over his head. “Now this.” Warrik indicated her tightly laced bodice.

  Obediently, she loosened her own ties and opened the bodice.

  The air thickened appreciably as Davik heard Warrik’s breath hiss in through his teeth. Davik watched his brother’s hand reach into the bodice to expose then curve around a perfect round breast. “Take it off,” Warrik said softly, without moving his hand.

  Reaching up with her hands, she pushed the bodice off her shoulders and shrugged it down her arms. This was accomplished without inhibition, with wide-eyed compliance that lacked shyness. As though—he thought—as though it were her job. Not so much willingly, as with soldierly resignation. Davik watched the bodice slip to the ground, and frowned. Had she done this before? And perhaps been paid for it?

  He flinched as her back angled toward him, and looked to catch his brother’s eye. But Warrik’s eyes had slid over the girl’s upper body then lower, to her skirt, where his gaze rested between her legs with unabashed greed. “Your skirt.” His voice was hoarse.

  She reached behind her for the ties and Davik bit back a gasp as her breasts lifted and jutted forward. His eyes flicked to his brother, whose hot gaze was riveted on her breasts. Davik shifted in his chair to improve his perspective. When her ties were loose, Warrik lifted the girl by her waist and put her on her feet. The skirt slipped down her legs, and the two men watched her body as it was revealed.

  Davik tried to swallow without much success. His eyes ran down her long body from her swollen breasts, past the tiny waist, the curving hips and the long, long legs. She was wearing shorts. Pink silk shorts; a very expensive shade of pink. And soft doeskin boots that laced up almost to her knees. He watched her thumbs slip into the top of the shorts.

  Warrik reached out for her hand. He tried to say no, but could only shake his head. “Leave the shorts for now,” he finally croaked. “Hadi’s Saints. All of this. All in one place.” He ran his hands down her sides, lingering on the shining pink silk. Opening his knees, he pulled her between his le
gs as his hands went behind her and caressed her silk-covered bottom as though he would be content to do nothing more for the rest of his life. He smiled at the pink shorts then reached for her shin and pulled it up to rest her foot on his chair then, with a deep groan of pleasure, slid his hand under the back of her thigh and between her legs.

  Davik watched as Warrik’s big hand came up over her rise then returned between her legs several times. Then his fingers splayed out behind her to squeeze a curving cheek and came up under her thigh again. Now both hands smoothed the front of her shorts over her stomach and continued around her hips to her bottom again. Sliding off the chair, Warrik dropped to his knees, leaned back on his heels and pulled her to him, settling his cheek against the sleek pink shorts that stretched over her stomach. He caught his brother’s eye and delivered him a look of consummate joy.

  With his big thumbs beneath the jut of her pelvic wings, he held her away from him and lifted his eyes to her face. “Off,” he said.

  The two men watched the pink slide down her legs. Warrik groaned again as he rocked to his feet and back into the chair. “Come here darling,” he whispered. He turned her as she joined him on the chair, putting her back against his chest. Taking both her hands in his, he guided them behind his neck and left them there. One of his hands spread over her breasts while the other stretched out across her stomach. Restlessly, his hands moved over her, hardly knowing where to go, where to stop. Davik watched his brother’s large hands slide down her thighs toward her knees. He pulled her knees to the outside of his thighs, slid his hands past her knees to her ankles and caught her ankles around the back of his calves. Then he opened his legs. His hands returned to push her thighs further to the outside of his; he then spread his knees even wider.

  Davik realized he was gritting his teeth in a clenched jaw. With aching jaw and throbbing cock, his hungry gaze consumed the girl’s long caramel limbs as Warrik stretched her on his body. She was warm and dark against the background of his brother’s fair coloring, his buff colored breeks. Her calves, doeskin-clad, were twined around The Heir’s dark leather boots. Scarcely able to draw a breath, Davik watched her brown nipples quietly rise and fall. She wasn’t going to be ready for his brother, he realized as he noted her quiet breathing. He felt sorry for the girl, considering the sheer magnitude of what would happen next; the magnitude of The Heir’s massive dick. He felt sorrier for himself, as his problem was the reverse of hers. As though to torture himself, his eyes fell to her cleft, a gleaming pink streak set in a thatch of curling black hair, like a long marquis gem in black filigree.