There were heavy-looking trunks lining the circular tent on one side, all wood, all carved, all with latches with strong looking locks hanging from them. Some of them were inlaid with what looked like mother of pearl. Some of them surrounded by sturdy-looking black iron.
On the other side of the tent, a narrow, rectangular wood table, also carved, two chairs at each end, ladderback, cushions on the seats with tassels. There were silver and copper candlesticks with candles (now burning) of all shapes, sizes and widths that scattered the top. And against that side of the tent beyond the table, two short, square chests with latticework doors and brass latches. In one, I could see a variety of small to medium-sized clay pots and in the other there was what looked like pottery or enameled clay plates, bowls and jugs plus silverware that I already knew was used at the table.
At the back of the tent, a three panel screen made of wood with a light green gauze hiding what was behind it from view. This was where the chamber pot was.
Close to the entrance flaps, a small bed of hides that was at least three feet tall, one hide stacked on top of the other, a bunch of cushions at its head, a squat, carved, small round table also at its head, also covered in candlesticks of all shapes and sizes. A place, maybe, to read (if they had books in this hellhole) or lounge.
There were more tall candleholders, dozens of them; these wrought iron, scrolled, all holding thick candles and dotted around the room, lit. A number of them circled the bed, not close, not far and at what seemed like random places.
The stone ground was covered with thick, woven rugs with rough designs on them. They were, I’d experienced, slightly abrasive on your feet but they were a heckuva lot better than the stone.
I studied the space.
With night having fallen, the candlelight dancing, the silks and satins gleaming, the torchlight from outside glowing against the sides of the tent, I noted that in my world, this would be an exotic and romantic setting. Comfortable. Inviting you to relax, lounge and, if you were lucky enough to be with someone who mattered, engage in other activities that were a little more energetic and a lot more fun.
So it sucked that for me this tent, this whole world, was my torture chamber.
On that thought, the flap to the tent slapped back. I jumped and my determination to get a few things straight slipped as I watched the Dax bend low and enter the tent.
I sucked in breath.
He straightened, walked in two steps and stopped, his dark eyes on me.
Gone was the paint, he hadn’t painted himself since that night.
But still, he scared the shit out of me. I forgot how dark he was, how sinister, how savage and how huge. It couldn’t be said the tent was enormous but it was the biggest tent I’d ever seen and there was room to move, room to breathe.
With him standing in it, his forceful energy invading, his huge, powerful body on display, his brown skin gleaming in the candlelight, the tent seemed tiny.
Another direct hit to my determination.
He moved toward the foot of the bed and as he made it there, I threw up a hand and stated firmly, “Stop.”
He stopped. He hadn’t taken his eyes off me as he moved and he didn’t then, not even to look at my hand.
“You and me,” I went on, pulling up the courage to speak to him, the first words I’d said to him since that awful night, I gestured between his big body and my own, “we need to talk.”
He stared at me.
I pointed between us again then lifted my hand and flapped my fingers in lame sign language to indicate talking, “Talk. You and I are going to talk.”
He looked at my hand then back at me but he didn’t speak nor did his impassive expression change.
All right, moving on.
I pointed to myself. “My name is Circe.”
Nothing.
I leaned in and repeated slowly, “Cir… ce.”
More nothing.
I pointed to him, “You are King Lahn. Dax Lahn.” I pointed to myself. “I am Queen Circe. Dahksahna Circe.”
His hands went to his h*ps and I tensed but they just rested there. He still did not speak nor did he tear his dark brown eyes from mine.
Hmm. I had to assume he got that and sally forth.
“We,” I gestured between him and myself again, “have to get a few things straight.” I had no gesture for that and knew he would have no way of knowing what that meant. Then I pointed to the bed. “Here and…” I pointed to the flaps of the tent, “out there, you and I have to sort our shit out.”
His hands moved at his hips, my eyes dropped there and I saw he had yanked some hide ties loose.
Oh shit.
My body tensed and my eyes flew to his. “You and me,” more gesturing, “need to find a way to come together.” I clasped my hands together in front of me.
His hands moved lower down the sides of his h*ps and he pulled more ties so his hides loosened at his waist.
Shit!
“Okay,” I said softly, scooting back, “this is exactly what we have to get straight.”
Another set of ties loosened and his hides fell to the ground.
He was already ready to take me.
Shit!
I scooted back to the pillows at the head of the bed and lifted a hand up toward him. “Before we… carry on, we have to find a way to talk. Understand each other.”
His eyes dropped to where I was kneeling on the pillows then he turned, stepped free of his hides and calmly strode around the bed.
Fuck. Fuck. Shit!
He made it nearly to the corner of the bed at the head, completely casual about his erect nudity, something which I was not casual about because the man was huge and this meant all of him and I was not liking where any of this was going.
I scuttled to the foot of the bed and kept trying. “Please stop, sit and try to listen to me.” I pointed at him then cupped my hand at my ear and then pointed at myself.
He changed directions and strode back around the bed.
I scampered to the middle of it, my arm out, palm up to him. “Please,” I begged on a whisper.
Mistake. Colossal mistake.
His arm snaked out so fast it was a blur. His fingers wrapped around my wrist and with a forceful tug that wrenched my shoulder and made me cry out, I was across the bed and up, my torso plastered to his, my legs dangling, feet skimming the bed and his arms were around me, caging me in.
I tipped my head back to look in dark eyes that were gazing down at me. Then I curled my fingers into the hard, warm muscle at his shoulders, exerting enough pressure hopefully to make my point and I whispered over my hammering heart, “Please, Lahn, listen to me.”
He didn’t listen to me. Oh no. He didn’t do that.