The Stolen Warrior

Anastasia Rabiyah The Stolen Warrior

Copyright © January 2009, Anastasia Rabiyah

Dedicated to Carol McKenzie who helped fuel my courage to write naughty things.

May she rest in peace and always be remembered.

Chapter One

Hessa stepped into the hall, her arms weighted by the bundles of food. Through the bars, the men held out their hands, some missing fingers, others still bloody from fighting in the pits, but all too tired to taunt her. She walked along the cells and dropped the required amount into their palms. A round of bread, a chunk of dry cheese. Behind her, the water girl followed with her bucket and ladle. It was not difficult work for a servant of the Omi House to feed the prisoners kept for the fighting pits-certainly not as bad as what the more beautiful women were expected to do. But Hessa didn’t hope her life would end in the place of her birth. She was a daughter of the brothel. An unfortunate act of rebellion as a child had scarred her face-but fortunately for her, she was considered undesirable as a result. Still, she longed for the company of a man who could love her and see past her imperfection.

She passed her reflection in the window of the miserable prison, and counted her blessings, smiling to herself. Hessa opened the door that led to the lower cells, her bundle lighter now for her work was nearly done. Someone down there grunted. She held her breath as she descended into the darkness. The men kept here had proved their worth in battle and now were required to breed more children to fight in the pits.

She set the food into the hands of the first three captives. They leered at her and muttered provocative words. The last man sat in the corner of his chamber, his mouth a grim, straight line, his body muscular and tense. He stared at the light from the doorway she had come through and held up one hand to shadow his eyes. He was handsome and dangerous looking, huge compared to the other men there. All he wore was a beaded, embroidered loincloth that barely covered his extremities, a piece of fabric that looked exotic, as unusual in the dungeons as he was.

When she stopped at his cell, he faced her and stood. She stared, her head tilting back so she could hold his steely gaze while he approached the bars parting them. She reached into the bag and set her fingers around a piece of bread, a fiery heat spreading through her body and settling in her womb. He was the most handsome man she had ever seen, impossibly large, impossibly wild looking, and hardly scarred from the pits at all. She held the bread out. His hand closed over hers and remained there, hot, commanding.

“What is your name?” he asked, his voice low and deep, his dark eyes holding her attention.

“Hessa.”

“And your surname?”

“Hesssa Omi.” It was the name all wards of the Omi House took. It meant they were guildless, clanless, without family.

He grunted, and she knew it had been him when she first entered that made that guttural sound of disapproval. His rough fingers traveled over her wrist, along her upper arm and settled around the middle to cradle her elbow. His thumb traced back and forth across the sensitive skin where her arm naturally bent. “Hessa. It’s a pretty name.” He smiled ever so slowly, but the expression soon vanished. His fingers traveled higher, past her sleeve and ran over her shoulder beneath the fabric of her dress. His was a gentle touch, but full of desire and lust all the same.

She breathed out a sigh. Her nipples hardened beneath her dress, longing for his fingers to reach for them. Hessa glanced at his broad chest, then her eyes searched lower, across his muscular abdomen and halted at the loincloth-which had tightened over the treasure hidden beneath.

“I’m Gunnar Cathwe from Chalois.” He leaned closer, his face a hair’s breadth from the bars, his brown eyes razing her. “Will you help me get home?”

The water bearer’s shoes clopped against the stairs. Hessa forced herself to look over her shoulder at her helper. It wasn’t easy to draw her attention from the man before her. She wanted him, wanted to be in that cell with him. It was no secret why he was in the lower reaches and what would soon be expected of him. She could only imagine what it would be like to have him tear away her clothes and force her down onto the pallet in his cell. If the rest of him is as big as his body…

He took the bread she offered.

Hessa returned her attention to Gunnar and held out the cheese.

He licked his full upper lip when he took the apportioned offering and backed away from her. “Hessa,” he said softly, as if memorizing her name as his eyes inspected her shape.

She had not answered his question. How could she help him escape? She was a prisoner as much as he was. There was nowhere in Bisura she could go without the leave of her masters, unless she was sold to another-which had been her hope all along. The mark of the Omi was upon her body, burned into her skin when she came of age, and the marks that scarred her face kept any man from truly taking interest in her-until now. But if she worked hard, perhaps a farmer might notice and purchase her to labor in the fields on the outskirts of Bisura.

She watched as Gunnar held out a bowl to catch the single ladleful of water the bearer offered. He brought it to his lips and drank, his eyes set on Hessa.

She nibbled at her cheek, nervous. “Sleep well,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Breakfast comes at dawn.”

The water bearer started back up the steps, silent as always for she was mute. Hessa knew she should follow, but she didn’t want to leave him. She took one step and then another, until her breasts brushed against the bars. “You know why you’re in this part of the prison, right?”

He nodded. “I belong to no one. My body is my own, and they will not have what they want from me-just as they did not have my blood in their fighting pits.”

“They’ll kill you if you resist.”

He set the water bowl upon the pallet in his cell and returned to her. With one finger, he touched her cheek, caressing her scarred flesh and trailing his finger down to her chin. “I survived the pits just as you survived this wound. We are alike.” He leaned toward her, his mouth so close. “Help me, Hessa. Find a way to get me out.” His fingertip brushed her lips.

She stared at his mouth, thinking she would do anything he asked, anything at all if only he would kiss her. She imagined how commanding yet soft his large lips would feel crushing against hers. Would he taste good? Would he thread his fingers in her hair and pull her closer? Would he push his tongue into her mouth? A blush crept up her neck, heating her skin.

She swallowed hard and reached past the bars to set her fingers on his mouth. His lips parted. The soft wetness of the tip of his tongue met her skin before she pulled away, startled at what she had done. She shouldn’t be with him, shouldn’t let him touch her, and if she were caught tracing his lips, she faced a harsh punishment.

“Help me. I’ll do anything you ask of me, if you help me get home.”

“Home,” she repeated. “Where is Chalois? I’ve never heard of it.”

Her words seemed to disappoint him, judging by the way his forehead crinkled. “An island. Far from this place. A beautiful island where men are not kept in cages unless they deserve to be there for committing crimes. I come from a place where there is order, not chaos like Bisura.”