| Sample
Chapter For PRINCE OF DEATH by December Quinn
There was a dead body on the path.
A girl’s body, to be exact, but as Cynwrig stepped
closer to it, his initial shock turned to urgency. Beneath her tattered,
bloody tunic, her chest was still moving.
He threw off his backpack and rushed to her side, feeling
frantically for a pulse. Her skin was cool and smooth under his fingers
as he found it, weak but steady.
Carefully, he pushed the tangle of dark hair out of the
way to expose her face. His breath caught. She was too pale. A large bruise
bloomed purplish on one high, delicate cheekbone, but it was not enough
to mar her loveliness. Her features were fine and sharp, her lips full
enough to promise all manner of sensual delights. Most elf women were
beautiful, but this woman was something special even in his world.
He continued searching, feeling carefully along her slender
limbs for broken bones, but he found none. Someone had hurt her, though,
and badly. The number of other wounds he found as he shifted her tattered,
stained clothing was more than enough proof of that.
It had happened recently, too. He was not an expert in
medicine, but he certainly knew enough about injuries to date them, and
she had been hurt only in the last few days.
The last rays of the dying sun cast long shadows over
her as he completed his examination. He was aware of the dropping temperature
and increasing breeze that signified night in the Hallenlands. He had
to get her inside, as soon as possible.
Shaking her shoulder as much as he dared, he said, “Hello?
Miss?”
There was no response.
Feeling stupid, he tried again, louder. “Miss? You
need to wake up now. Please?”
Her head turned, and Cynwrig found himself staring into
the greenest eyes he’d ever seen.
“Help me,” she whispered. Cynwrig’s
mouth was dry as he nodded.
“Where can I take you? Do you live near here? Do
you have family?”
She blinked and tried to sit up, but fell back, her face
twisted in pain.
“No…no…please, help me.” Those
green eyes disappeared behind her eyelids as her face went still again.
There was nothing else to do. He gritted his teeth, hoping
he wasn’t making things worse, and slid his hands under her small,
cool body, lifting her as gently as he could from the ground. His own
house wasn’t far, and he had a fire to keep out the autumn chill
and some clean clothes to cover her bruised body.
She wasn’t as light as she looked, and he grimaced
as he struggled to his feet. Those frail-looking limbs must be solid muscle,
which made the question of what had happened to her even more puzzling.
Who managed to beat her so soundly, when she seemed to have the strength
to defend herself? How many men had it taken to do this much damage to
her?
His cottage was blissfully warm after the chill of the
encroaching darkness. A few embers still burned in the fireplace, providing
a faint glow but little real light as he laid her on his own bed and pulled
the furs over her. Got to get her warm. That’s the important thing.
Moving with the sureness and economy of motion of a man
used to physical labor, he fetched another log for the fire and stoked
it expertly until the flames rose. With his free hand, he pulled a shining
copper bucket down from its hook on the wall, and when the fire was burning
nicely, he carried the bucket into the kitchen to fill it with water from
the pump.
His bathtub was larger than most, one of the few privileges
of royalty he allowed himself. He pulled it close to the hearth so the
heat of the fire would keep the water warm as he filled it. Only warm,
though. The girl’s skin was too cold for a hot bath, cool enough
to make him move faster from pump to fireplace and back again, using every
bowl and pail in his house until the water was at a good level.
Strangely unsure of himself, he crossed to the bed. The
problem was her clothing. It was obviously better for her to not wear
clothes in the bath, but Cynwrig was uncomfortable with the thought of
actually undressing her. What if she minded? What if she woke and was
angry with him?
For fuck’s sake. What did he care? For that matter,
what right did she have to get angry? He was saving her life. If she had
a problem with his methods, that was too damn bad. At least she would
be alive to complain.
He still felt squeamish as he carefully peeled her ragged
tunic away from her body, but concern for her health didn’t stop
him from gasping as her naked torso was exposed to him.
Beneath the cuts and bruises was a glorious body. Her breasts were full
and high, topped with mauve-colored nipples, hard from the cold. For a
moment, Cynwrig didn’t see the bruises, or the damage her body had
sustained. He saw only those ripe tits, and his mouth watered as he had
a sudden vision of himself bent over her, taking one of those nipples
into his mouth and rolling it gently with his tongue…
Ridiculous. He shook his head, trying to banish the image
from his mind. What was the matter with him? The girl was injured. This
was no time to start thinking of seduction, and he was ashamed of himself.
He kept his eyes on her face as he finished undressing
her, stoutly ignoring the feel of her skin beneath his hands and the brush
of soft hair tickling his wrists as he removed her undergarments. Gritting
his teeth, he raised her again from the bed and carried her to the tub,
lowering himself to one knee to place her into the warm water.
Now she stirred. A sigh of relief escaped Cynwrig as a
tiny smile played across her face and she murmured wordlessly, a small
contented sound that made him feel much better.
He picked up his smallest pail and filled it with water
from the tub, pouring it over her shoulders, resolutely not watching the
water sluice down between her breasts. She needed help, not some lascivious
jerk trying to see a free show in the guise of warming her up. It’s
just been a while. Ever since Iago was stolen, you’ve been celibate.
That was seven months ago. Seven months since Cynwrig
met the sister he’d thought was lost to him forever. Seven months
since his enaid brother, Iago, was kidnapped by the Queen of the Cliothens,
and rescued by Cynwrig’s sister Lleandda. In the ensuing months,
things had only gotten worse as the skirmishes between the two tribes
escalated. Any day now, Cynwrig expected war to start in earnest, one
reason why he lived here in this tiny cottage outside the main settlement.
It was closer to the border, where he could sound a warning if—when—they
were invaded.
Cynwrig wasn’t used to being celibate so long, and
he reminded himself of this as he chastised himself for his involuntary
reaction to the naked woman in the tub.
She sighed and shifted again, and he busied himself by
lifting her so he could pour water over her head. Her dark hair was matted
and tangled. As he soaked it, the wet locks fell like snakes around her
pale shoulders. The firelight danced on the water, surrounding her with
gold. He poured it over her head and it pooled around her body.
Sometime during this process, her eyes opened. Cynwrig
became aware of her steady green gaze on him, following his movements.
“I thought this would warm you better than the bed,”
he said. “You’re too cold.” Why was he so nervous? There
was something in the quality of her silence that made him feel like an
exhibit.
“It’s nice,” she said faintly. “Thank
you.” Her voice was smooth and sweet, slightly breathy with an accent
he couldn’t quite place.
“I’m Cynwrig,” he said. “This
is my house.”
Something flared in her eyes but was gone before he could
analyze it. Her full lips parted. “Cynwrig?”
“Yes.”
“Cynwrig the prince?”
He nodded, a faint suspicion growing in his mind. “I’m
prince of this territory, yes.”
Her smile transformed her face. “Cynwrig,”
she mused. “The Prince of Death.”
He stopped short, the cup of water suspended over her
head. “No,” he said. “Just Prince of the Hallenlands.”
“No,” she replied. She sat up, her slim arms
curled around her knees. If she cared that she was naked, she didn’t
indicate it. She behaved as though it was perfectly natural to find herself
in a strange home being bathed by a stranger. “They call you the
Prince of Death, where I come from.”
He didn’t reply, too busy cursing himself for his
own stupidity and trying to decide the best way to get to his sword without
letting her know what he was doing.
She was a Cliothen.
She was the enemy.
He kept his gaze fixed on her as he stepped sideways to
the hook by the door where his weapons hung. He’d taken them off
when he got home. More stupidity.
“You don’t need your weapons,” she said,
clearly not fooled by his attempts at casualty. “I’m not your
enemy.”
“You’re Cliothen,” he said carefully.
“I am exiled,” she replied. “Worse than
exiled. I am banished.”
He didn’t want to respond, but couldn’t help
himself. “Why?”
She shrugged, an involuntary grimace crossing her face
at the movement. “It is a long story, Prince Cynwrig.”
“I have time.”
Her gaze met his, reading his challenge. She was going
to tell him, or he was going to lunge for his weapon.
“Is it not enough to say I am no longer welcome
there?” She nodded at her own naked body, indicating the bruises
and cuts. “Is it not clear?”
“No.”
The staring contest continued for another moment, until
she sighed and nodded.
“I refused to be bound,” she said.
Cynwrig blinked in surprise. “You were banished
for refusing your enaidcha?”
“It is very serious in my homeland,” she said.
“I am a powerful woman and trained in battle. If I joined my power
to a man’s, he would become almost invincible.”
Cynwrig knew how important a powerful enaidcha was to
a warrior—it was something his parents often mentioned to him—but
he had never heard of a woman refusing to be joined. “Why?”
“Why refuse?”
He nodded.
“Because once joined, I would become impotent. I
would no longer be allowed to fight. I don’t want to be stuck at
home while men decide what happens to us. Waiting for news of my mate.
Probably carrying a child, too. Letting my body grow soft and my mind
go to waste.” Her expression grew derisive. “Being nothing.”
Cynwrig was fascinated in spite of himself. “But
you are a warrior.”
She nodded.
“So why would you be forced to give up fighting,
if you are as good as you say?”
Again she shrugged, and looked down. “It is our
way.”
“Why wouldn’t they just let you go on as before?
Why beat you and exile you, leave you for dead?”
“I rebelled. A rebellious warrior is no good to
anyone. Who knows what orders I may refuse next?”
Cynwrig was still confused, and his suspicions of her
weren’t being alleviated by her story. In all he had ever heard
about the Cliothens, he hadn’t heard anything about warriors being
forced to mate when they would be of better service elsewhere. To lose
soldiers like that was folly.
“But how could you refuse? If he is your enaidcha…there
is no refusal. He just is. To refuse to join is like refusing to breathe.”
“But he was not my enaidcha,” she said. “They
thought to force the joining, to create a connection where none existed.”
Cynwrig had never even known such a thing was possible.
He wanted to ask more, to find out how the Cliothens accomplished such
a thing, but did not want to appear too interested.
“So why are you here?”
“You brought me here, apparently.” She smiled
at him. “Thank you.”
He shook his head. “No, I mean why here? In the
Hallenlands? There were other places you could go. We’re your enemies.”
“The Cliothen are my enemies now,” she said.
“And I have information that may help you.”
“Information?”
She nodded painfully. “It is good I found you, Prince
of Death. I was looking for a member of your family.”
“Stop calling me that.” Cynwrig was familiar
with the nickname, and in his drunken moments, he was even a little proud
of it. Hearing it from this woman’s lips was disconcerting. Feeling
as though he was surrendering something, he said, “My name is Cynwrig.”
“You should not be ashamed of being a great warrior.”
“I’m not.” Realizing his insistence
on being called by his proper name did sound like he was ashamed, he amended,
“I’m not ashamed of it. You just make me feel like I should
be armed when you say it.”
Her green eyes clouded with confusion for a moment, then
cleared. “Cynwrig, then. If it makes you happy.”
“Not happy. Just more comfortable.”
“What does make you happy?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Lots of things.”
She laughed, a tinkling sound that was wholly at odds
with the hardened warrior she’d shown him so far. “You are
prickly, aren’t you, Cynwrig?”
“I’m not prickly. I just don’t trust
you.”
Leaning back in the tub, she stared at him. “I trust
you.”
“I saved your life. You have no reason not to trust
me.”
“And you undressed me.”
To his horror, he felt his face growing hot. “I
had to get you warmed up.”
Her gaze met his, a challenge in her eyes Cynwrig had
seen before. The heat in his face started to spread through the rest of
his body. “And you stayed here to make sure I was warm enough?”
“I stayed here to make sure you didn’t drown,”
he said, shifting his feet.
“But after I woke up…”
“I stayed to find out who you were.”
She smiled. “I am Ayani, of the clan Suntwister.”
He whistled low between his teeth. She certainly wasn’t
lying about her battle prowess. “I’ve heard of the Suntwister
clan.”
“As I have heard of you, Prince of Death.”
She laughed again at his expression. “What we hear of others and
what they truly are, are often different things.”
“True,” he conceded. “But at the basis
of rumor is usually truth.”
“Then we know quite a lot about each other, Prince,”
she said. Her smile was intimate, bringing him a little further into her
world, into the circle made by the two of them. “And we know we
are both men of honor.”
He knew enough to know that “men of honor”
was high praise in her world. The Cliothens had no greater compliment
for men and women, so he nodded his thanks. What we still don’t
know is why you’re really here.
“The water grows cold, Cynwrig,” she said.
“Will you bring me more?”
Cynwrig glanced down at his hand, still holding the small
bucket. He’d forgotten all about it. “Of course.”
He found solace in the repetitive movements of once again
filling the buckets and heating them over the fire, a relief from both
the scrutiny of her gaze and the sight of her slim figure naked in the
water. It wasn’t easy to treat her as he would any wounded soldier
when he was caught in her stare.
The respite was short-lived, though, because it was soon
time to add the water to her bath, which meant facing her again, this
time without the distraction of her clammy skin and pallid face.
She closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure as he poured
the water over her chest. The rising steam couldn’t hide the way
her nipples hardened again as she shifted position, resting her arms by
her sides.
“Doesn’t the water in your wounds sting?”
His throat was dry, his voice hoarse, but if she noticed she gave no indication.
“It does, but it feels good,” she said. “I’m
warm again.”
Instantly he put down the bucket, turning away, but was
caught by her hand circling his wrist. “Do not leave,” she
said. “Help me wash.”
Cynwrig cleared his throat, trying desperately to think
of a way to avoid touching her, to avoid getting closer. She was the enemy,
for Danu’s sake. This was not the time to start getting aroused.
“You still do not trust me,” she said.
He didn’t look at her. “No.”
“Then you are wise, but you do not understand,”
she said, tugging his wrist, asking him without words to meet her gaze.
Her beautiful face was calm as she said, “I am offering you information,
Prince. I know much that could help you.”
This was a tempting offer, but Cynwrig wasn’t quite
ready to give in. “Like what?”
She sighed and pouted prettily. “If you bathe me,
I will tell you.”
Her hand left his wrist. The smile on her face could only
be described as wicked as she lifted her arms. The movement made her breasts
rise gently above the steaming surface of the water. “You know I
am not armed,” she said, cocking her head to the side and smiling
up at him. “Is the Prince of Death really so frightened of a nude
woman?”
Fuck. There was no way to keep his body from responding.
His cock was so hard even his loose-fitting deerskin trousers were uncomfortable.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her slim form, and he could see she
knew it. She was deliberately seducing him, which didn’t seem to
fit, either, but Cynwrig’s weakness had always been beautiful women
with a wild streak, and Ayani Suntwister was undoubtedly one. It wouldn’t
do any harm to do what she asked, he decided. Just to help her bathe,
and see what information she would share.
He knew that was bullshit even as he picked up the bar
of herbed soap for her hair.
“Lean forward,” he muttered, and she did,
her face hidden from him. All he could see was the top of her dark head
and the hair streaming down her back, the ends trailing in the water.
Beneath it her skin was tawny with warmth, still marked with bruises that
were fading a little even as they touched. Their race was known for its
ability to heal quickly once they received physical contact.
He could help that healing along if he had sex with her.
Giving her his energies would enable her body to fix itself at an even
more accelerated rate. If he were her enaidcha, the healing would be almost
instantaneous.
But he wasn’t, nor would he be. Cynwrig had been
told from a young age there was no enaidcha for him, and that was the
way he liked it. He had neither the time nor the inclination to spend
his days appeasing a woman. When he wanted companionship, it was always
available. When he didn’t, he could be alone without guilt.
Lathering his hands well, he gathered her hair between
his palms and started stroking it, working the suds through the sodden
tangles. She sighed again as he tugged her head back, his strong fingers
caressing behind her ears and moving up to massage the crown of her skull.
“It’s going to take a while to get out all
the knots,” he said. His voice sounded loud and strange in his ears.
“Fine,” she murmured. Her eyes stayed closed.
“Feels good.”
As gently as he could, he ran his fingers through her
hair, untangling it. The steam rising from the water and the heat building
in his body made him sweat. He dipped his hands in the water to rinse
them before removing his tunic and resuming his work.
As her hair smoothed beneath his skilled ministrations,
he marveled at the feel of it. So thick and silky for such a strong woman.
He couldn’t see his hands as he buried them in it. Her skull was
delicate under his fingers, finely shaped and small, and the gentle points
of her ears were shell-pink with heat.
She made another sound, a relaxed, sensuous moan in her
throat as he worked out the last of the tangles and poured water over
her head. She leaned back, face tilted up, as he dipped the cup again
and again, rinsing the suds from her hair, leaving it hanging like a black
silk curtain from her head into the tub.
Once again her breasts rose above the shining surface
of the water. Her hard nipples pointed upward, taunting him with the image
of himself teasing them between his fingers and lips. He couldn’t
move. He just stood and stared, taking in the curve of her breasts, the
way her torso narrowed to a waist hidden from his view by silvery steam.
Her eyes opened, her languid gaze meeting his hungry one
without a trace of embarrassment. “It’s not just my hair that
needs washing, Prince,” she said, her voice soft. Now that her hair
was away from her face, her eyes stood out even more sharply than before.
Even for an elfwoman, they were large, and more arresting than any he’d
seen. “I am still in pain.”
He cleared his throat. “Maybe you should take something.
I have some draughts that are good for muscle aches. I know a few spells—”
“It is not a brew or magic I need,” she said.
“Will you make me beg for your touch? You know as well as I do you
could help me heal.”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,”
he said. Idiot! What the fuck do you mean, that’s not a good idea?
It sounds like a great fucking idea to me. Fucking being the operative
word.
So she’s seducing you. So what? Let her. She has
a point. Are you afraid of her? When have you ever been afraid of anything?
You need her to trust you, if you expect to find out the
truth about her. This might be the way to do it.
She was looking at him expectantly.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You were
saying?”
Her smile told him she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“I was asking why you would bring me here then refuse to help me.
Are you truly such a callous man?”
“You said you had information.”
“And so I do,” she said. “My—the
queen is recruiting.”
He picked up the sponge and soaped it. “How?”
“She’s sending emissaries to the Five Ends,
trying to get the creatures on her side, promising them untold rewards
if they agree to help defeat your family. She has also sent them to the
Waygands, and the Emeryens.”
The Waygands had been the enemies of the Hallenlands for
years, until Cynwrig’s grandfather finally negotiated a truce. It
was an uneasy one, though, and this was not good news. The Emeryens weren’t
such a concern. Relations between his clan and theirs had always been
good. Still, her words made him uneasy.
“Has she been successful?”
Ayani looked pointedly at the sponge. Cynwrig hesitated
before deciding her arms were probably the safest place to start.
Or not. As he ran his soapy hands up and down her slender
limbs, he wondered if there was any safe place to wash on this woman.
Her fingers entwined with his, the lather slick between
them. He was caught by her hands, by the heat of the small room and the
heat that rose in his body as they watched each other.
“What else?”
Her eyes stayed closed. “She’s building a
new armory by the River Erne.”
He moved back up her arm, picking up the sponge, rubbing
it over her shoulders. Soapy water ran down her chest, forming rivulets
between her ample breasts. She arched her back, sighing, her eyes closing.
He stopped. “What else?”
“Do not keep stopping,” she murmured.
“Tell me more or I’ll stop for good.”
It was a lie. Right now he didn’t think he could stop if an army
of the queen’s men walked into his cottage.
“The new armory has a breeding ground for warbirds,
as well.”
As if in a trance, he let the sponge drop, running his
own sudsy hands across her collarbone and throat, then down to her nipples.
Her skin was smooth and warm, her breasts filling his palms as her nipples
hardened under his fingertips.
She moaned low in her throat, but Cynwrig hardly heard
it over the pounding of his own heart and the rasping of his breath in
his throat. All thoughts of queens and battles were forgotten as he watched
her, his mouth dry, his hands moving as if guided by someone else.
Carefully they moved further down her ribs, skimming over
the bruises to the narrow curve of her waist. Her breath caught audibly
as he caressed her flat stomach, her hips lifting a little from the bottom
of the tub, knees parting as she urged him wordlessly down through the
soft hair of her mound.
The encouragement wasn’t necessary. With an ease
born of practice, his fingertip found her firm little clit and coaxed
it from its hiding place. It was slightly rough against his skin as he
flicked it gently, rewarded by the instant stiffening of her body and
the gasp of pleasure that escaped her lips.
Soft pale knees parted further as he delved his fingers
downward in a thorough exploration of her cunt. Her hips lifted higher,
begging him in a language he understood better than words to enter her,
to slide his fingers into her heated passage.
This he did. Her head was thrown back, her entire body
exposed to him.
Her tight, high breasts rising from the water fascinated
him. The sight of his fingers disappearing into the tight heat of her
cunt was almost too much for him to handle. She was a woman transported
by sensual pleasure. It was an incredible sight.
Her hand slid up his inner thigh, grazing lightly over
the pants that stretched almost painfully over his swollen cock. He groaned
aloud, and Ayani smiled a wicked little smile as she squeezed him, her
hand hot and damp, searing his skin. Only the tightest control he possessed
kept him from coming in her hand.
In one swift movement, he yanked at the laces that held
up his pants and stripped the trousers off. His cock sprang free, and
her hand closed over it. Gently she squeezed, eliciting a gasp from between
his tightly clenched teeth.
He couldn’t wait any longer. Whatever her motives
were he would discover later. For now he was gripped by desire more intense
than he’d ever felt, and he pulled her up from the water to stand
dripping in front of him.
Her wet body pressed against his. Water ran down his chest,
tickling between his thighs. Her intimate hair pressed against his cock,
hot and wet with water and her own juices.
“You are a fine warrior,” she whispered, her
lips tickling his ear, her hands sliding around his back to squeeze his
ass. “Are you as good at love as you are at death?”
“Better,” he growled, and swung her out of
the tub and into his arms.
Reviews For
PRINCE OF DEATH by December Quinn
More than just an inferno of a book with enough sultry
fire to burn up the pages, December Quinn gives an insightful glimpse
into the complex personality and kinships of such intriguing characters
like Cynwrig and Ayani. With an ultimate princely hero, scorching love
scenes, and an unexpected twist to a well composed story, what is there
not to love about December Quinn's PRINCE OF DEATH?
It's a Four Ribbon review from Romance Junkies Blue Ribbon Reviews
"Readers of fantasy will thrill to this tale, and
fans of erotic romance will enjoy it as well, as the intimacy is frequent
and explicitly detailed."
"The erotic chemistry between them is apparent from the opening pages.
They generate intense heat as their desires overwhelm them. Ms. Quinn
can write some very descriptive and erotic scenes!"
"The action is fast paced and the villain is not uncovered until
the end. This is an involved story that will fascinate the reader and
have them rooting for the lead couple!"
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