Chapter 3

The problem with sleep, even after drinking enough alcohol to down a ship, was the dreams I’d had since my eighteenth birthday. This night was no exception. I opened my eyes in a bedroom I’d visited many times. The walls were covered in red brocade with gold embroidery. The huge bed took up the majority of space. The bed’s cover had the opposite pattern from the walls with red on gold. I wouldn’t have decorated any room this way, but I hadn’t lived in the eighteen century or earlier. The bedroom reminded me of one of the historical novels I’d read years before.

Naked, I sat down on the bed. Sometimes I wore sexy lingerie but not tonight. My mystery man wanted me without clothing and I never argued in my dreams. Not that I knew it was a dream while I was in that strange room. I lay down and positioned my body seductively.

The man stepped toward me. He was dressed in tight formfitting black pants and a white shirt with long sleeves that flared at the wrists. On some men the shirt might appear feminine but on him, his masculinity was all I noticed. I couldn’t see the tight ropes of muscle right now, but his onyx eyes, so dark they were pools of endless promise, let me know I would. Black hair fell to his shoulders. His face was equal parts precision and art. His jawline cut with sharp edges that blended into perfection. His flawless skin that I would soon have beneath me was lickable and I knew this because I’d licked every inch.

Nothing took away from his deadly persona. I was good with my sword, but this man would be lethal. Each of his movements was choreographed and I’d never doubted his ability to kill. It was written in every line of his body. He was a warrior like my father but definitely fiercer.

He gave me a smile that sent shivers across my flesh. He stripped off his shirt and my tongue circled my lips. Next came his pants. The striptease stopped my breath. I inhaled deeply when he moved over me and kissed my throat before his long exploration downward. When he kissed one hip, my thighs clenched. He murmured against my flesh and I forgot to breathe again.

“Open for me,” he whispered, his breath hot and doing nothing to reduce the shivers he’d created.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Your mate,” he replied, and then he gently bit my inner thigh and spread my legs wider.

His tongue danced along my skin, avoiding where I wanted it most. I cried out in desperation, arching my back.

“Please,” I begged to accelerate his favorite game of torment.

One of his fingers entered me and I gasped. I cried out when his tongue took its first sweep and two fingers were now gliding deeper. I bucked my hips harder but he was accustomed to my reaction and kept a firm grip on my thighs while his mouth continued the sweetest torture imaginable.

He drove me higher with his lips and fingers. My head went back and my neck strained in sexual agony. I wanted more. I wanted all of him, but he only gave me this and I’d learned to take what I could get.

I woke covered with sweat, my fingers desperately trying to bring release. I rolled and placed my pillow between my thighs, pressing myself into it until the orgasm rocked me and I found release. The room was spinning because the alcohol still had hold of me. I closed my eyes and passed out again.

The dreams began on my eighteenth birthday. I was too embarrassed to ask my father about the dreams, and then he died and I had no one to talk to. We’d shared everything, but this was different. The dreams felt so real. Maybe I could have spoken to Mira about it, but what mortified me most was that I had two separate men in my dreams. Not multiple because it was pure fantasy but two distinct males who worshipped my body and filled my head with fantasies which I had no idea where they came from. I would dream of one or the other every night.

When I opened my eyes, I looked around the room for a few minutes to gain my bearings. My head was no longer spinning but it pounded and I almost regretted the alcohol. I made it to the shower and vomited tequila into the drain. I hadn’t eaten anything so it came up easily with just a touch of heartburn.

“Kid,” Captain Davies yelled into the room a few minutes later.

He called me kid too. I was fated to be the irritating sister to every hot guy on the planet.

“Go away,” I grumbled.

“I have clothes for you,” he said from inside the large tent this time.

All that stood between us was a shower curtain. I stuck my head out and saw my old clothes over his arm.

“What are you doing with those?” I demanded without asking why I needed the clothes this morning.

“You can’t wear camo into the city. I’ll have these washed and placed on your bunk when you return from your assignment.” He didn’t call it a mission because I wasn’t a ranger. “There will be a backpack for you on the helicopter,” he continued. “You won’t be able to take anything identifying. Do you have any knowledge of the city at all?” He was distracting me from asking why I needed different clothing right now.

“I can find my way around. I lived there until I was eighteen,” I answered and wished my head wouldn’t pound with each word I spoke.

“Good. The side pocket of the pack will have a map. Leave it on the chopper.”

“Fine. Do you mind if I take the rest of my shower in peace?”

“You’re expected on the helicopter in thirty minutes.”

“I had two days,” I practically shouted.

“Schedules change. Don’t be late.”

He left before I could throw a wet cloth at him.

I calmed down until I got out and tried on the clothes. I had been given a pair of jeans and a black tank top. They were formfitting and not the larger pants and shirt I wanted to wear. My usual clothes had a purpose. They covered my arm and leg muscles acquired from countless push-ups, sit-ups, and squats I did each night. The guys took advantage of the camp gym while I used my tent and my own bodyweight. The baggy clothing hid the results.

At least I was able to keep my boots. There was a black baseball cap in the bag and I pulled the bill low over my eyes to protect them from the sun. My head continued throbbing.

I went to my tent and grabbed two knives and slid one into each boot and pulled the jean legs over the top. I took an old beat-up case from beneath the cot and opened it. I removed the harness first and slipped it over my head and shoulder, then secured the buckles. Once it was situated, I pulled out my sword. It was a gift from my father. He’d taught me how to use it from the time I could lift it. I brought it over my head and effortlessly slid it into the sheath.

After exercising each night, I worked with the sword. It was all done in my tent away from prying eyes. I wasn’t trained with a gun, but the sword and I were old friends. Trading on the black market required protection and even if the military expected me to be dead within hours of entering the city, I wouldn’t go down without a fight.

My father took me to Hell’s Market—as he called it—to buy things that weren’t readily available from reputable sources. From the time I was eight, I wore my sword. My father had a reputation and he wanted people to know I was my father’s daughter.

I was depressed knowing I was breaking my promise to him by going back into the city. He said I would know when my blood was ready to return. Maybe it had something to do with the tingling energy in my fingers, though I didn’t think it the catalyst to enter the city and commit suicide.