The words on the parchment blurred as her hand trembled. How could he? Zevran was supposed to be on his way to Vigil's Keep, not in Antiva! Yet his letter clearly specified that he had written her from the balmy country to the north. She couldn't believe it. He had promised her he would follow her from Denerim within weeks and that was two months ago. Now he was in Antiva on some vague business involving the Crows according to the correspondence. He said he would return when he was finished with . . . whatever . . . but when would that be? Dammit, she loved him-what was he doing? She was already weary from all the pressures of being a new arlessa: nobles plotting against her, merchants and villagers needing saving, darkspawn needing exterminated from the Keep, new recruits needing training. She needed his help and support, but he had apparently abandoned her. Deep down, she knew that there could be a valid reason for his change in plans. He was a marked man after all, and the Crows were relentless. But still, he could have waited till things were more secure here and then they could have gone to Antiva together to handle the Crows.
Rage flooded her chest and squeezed her heart till she was breathless. She flung the letter down on her desk and swiftly drew her dagger. In one fluid slice through the air, she drove the dagger through the letter and deep into the polished wood. And this is how my heart feels right now, like that wood. Bracing herself on two hands, she bowed her head in an agonizing combination of fury and sorrow. My love, how could you leave me alone when I need you most? Slow tears dropped to the torn parchment, marring the inked words with wet circles of pain.
A knock sounded on the heavy door of her study, but she ignored it, never moving. Go away. Unfortunately, her wish went unheeded and she heard an audible click as the door was opened. Andraste's ass, why didn't I lock it?
"Commander?" She sighed and turned around.
She glared at Nathaniel Howe, son of the deceased Arl Rendon Howe, traitor of Ferelden and murderer of her family. When she had found him in the dungeon, he had called her a murderer for killing the man who had imprisoned her and tried to have her killed. She had been quick to remind him that his father had betrayed and murdered her family. Needless to say, they had not gotten off to a good start. But during the following weeks, she had come to realize that he was nothing like Rendon Howe. He had a clear sense of honor and a devotion to family. He had obviously grown up idolizing hs father, and was now being forced to deal with the realization that his adoration was sorely misplaced.
She found herself almost absently comparing him to Zevran. They were complete opposites, despite the fact that they were both rogues. Zevran had a rather . . . relaxed set of morals, while honor meant everything to Nathaniel. Where Zevran excelled in elegant wordplay, the young Howe was blunt and serious. Zevran was short, but deeply tanned with blond hair and golden eyes. Nathaniel was tall, pale, dark-haired, and built more like a warrior than a rogue. Both were handsome: Zevran like a bold slash of sunlight; Nathaniel like a sturdy oak tree, flexible and strong. Frowning, she shook her head to clear it.
"What is it, Nate?" Her tone was clipped and cold. She resented his intrusion on her sorrow.
"Er . . . I was coming to tell you that the merchants have arrived and asked to confer with you. But I heard a loud noise inside your room and was . . . um . . . concerned with your safety." His gaze flicked from her tear-stained face to the dagger embedded in her desk.
"I assure you that I am fine. But now is not a time I wish to wrangle with merchants and their requests." She closed her eyes briefly and struggled to compose herself. "Please give them guest rooms and inform them that I will meet with them later."
He stood silently, still staring at the dagger. "So Zevran's letter wasn't what you had hoped, I guess?"
Her eyes flew open in shock. "How do you know about the letter? Are you spying on my correspondence, Nate?" Unconsciously, her hands balled in fists.
"Of course not." He leaned against the wall crossing his ankles casually. "Your drunken dwarf friend doesn't exactly keep your past quiet, you know. It doesn't take much to get him telling stories about the Hero of Ferelden and her elven assassin lover, who according to Oghren, was supposed to be joining his lady love here. Which clearly hasn't happened. And here you are, obviously distressed, which is more emotion than I have seen from you yet. Simple logic deduces that the letter is from him, and it's probably safe to say he's not coming. Has he left you to pursue his fortune elsewhere?" He lifted an eyebrow at her.
Rage tingled through every muscle in her body. "And what is it to you, Nate? Since when is my personal business your concern?" Her voice shook with barely concealed fury.
Abruptly, he pushed himself off the wall and in several long strides was standing before her looking down with narrowed eyes.
"Since you are my Commander, anything affecting your state of mind and ability to lead concerns me. Furthermore, this elf has betrayed you just as my father betrayed me and my family. I find that I rather resent that. Commander." His tone was harsh, but with a surprisingly gentle touch, he reached out to her cheek and brushed a finger across a tear. Thoughtfully, he stared down at the wetness and rubbed it between two fingers.
Something inside her broke and without even thinking, she lashed out with one hand and slapped him soundly across the face. He fell back a step in surprise, then swiftly grabbed both her wrists in a viselike grip. His eyes narrowed into slits and he lowered his face to hers. His voice was strangely quiet compared to the anger in his eyes.
"I am not him. So don't take his stupidity out on me. And yes, I said stupidity. Only a fool would walk away from a beautiful, strong, caring woman such as yourself." She blanched from the heated fury in his words. "You saved Ferelden from a Blight and now you are struggling to save Amaranthine. And all he can do is send you a letter? You deserve better than this-why should you grieve for him? If I were so lucky I would never . . ." His voice trailed off with a harsh exhalation. He shook his head and closed his eyes as if in pain.
Shock streaked through her mind and broke through the red haze of her anger. What was he talking about? He would never what? Curiosity warred with fury and won. She broke her hand from his grip and touched his cheek tentatively. He opened his eyes and Maker, the intensity of that look-pain, anger, and if it could be believed, need. Her breath quickened and something stirred deep inside. She quickly clamped down on the feeling before it could form and shoved it back into the cage deep inside her heart.
"Zevran may have his reasons for not coming . . . " Maker, who was she trying to convince? Nathaniel or herself?
He hissed with derision. "Well it's his loss as far as I'm concerned. As I said, he is a fool, and you deserve better." Then with no warning, he buried a fist in her hair, pulling her head back and pressing his lips to hers. The kiss was brutal, hungry, and when she tried to push away, he tightened his grip in her hair and around her back. His tongue invaded her mouth and claimed it. She tasted fruit and the flavor of him, of Nate, swirled against her taste buds. She closed her eyes against a wave of dizziness and felt his teeth graze her lower lip.
Her heart hammered furiously in her chest and she no longer knew if her body's reactions were from anger or desire, and she didn't care. At this moment, those emotions were one and the same. She gripped the front of his shirt in both fists and pulled him against her hard. He growled low in his throat, and the hand on her back dropped down, pulling her groin against his. She felt his bulge of desire pressed against her stomach and groaned into his kiss. Before she could think to stop it, her hips bucked against his erection, and she heard him gasp. She could feel wetness gathering between her legs and felt almost shamed that he was able to pull this kind of reaction from her within only minutes. What must he think of her?
Breathing hard, he suddenly pulled back while keeping his one arm around her waist. In one swift move, he grasped the dagger and yanked it from the desk, tossing it carelessly to a far corner of the room with a clatter. One arm impatiently swept across the desktop, shoving all else to the floor. There was too much in the way. His dark eyes burned into hers as with trembling fingers, he unlaced her tunic and struggled to get it over head, not nearly fast enough for either of them. His eyes raked over her breasts, then slowly down her taut stomach, drinking in the sight of her like a man who has been deprived of water to the point of death. He cupped one breast within his rough palm, oh but his touch was hot, burning the tender skin of her bosom. Gripping her full, rounded buttocks in both hands, he lifted her onto the desk.
Both were breathing raggedly now, and she tried to shove his shirt above his head, needing to feel his skin also. He roughly tugged it off, and she got a glimpse of the lean musculature, no tattoos, but instead a fine layer of dark, curling hair spread across his chest. A thin, dark line dipped down the exquisite smoothness of his abdomen and disappeared beneath the waistline of his pants. She was desperate to feel him, to map every inch, every line of muscle. She placed both palms against his chest, his skin so hot it burned against her own. She could feel the movement of his breathing, could feel his struggle to keep it even and calm. But she wanted to break that calm, to force that pent-up animal inside to come out. By the Maker, he had started this and now she needed it. Her fingers threaded through the soft curls on his chest and she pulled at them, while leaning forward and flicking her tongue against one erect nipple. He made a curious, strangled sound in the back of his throat, and suddenly he was gripping her shoulders hard enough to bruise, shoving her down to the desk. His teeth were bared, and the look in his eyes was that of a feral wolf about to attack his prey. For the first time she felt fear, for this was every inch a man starved with need and driven by something she had yet to identify. But even the fear was tempered and matched with a ferocity of her own, the rage that had encompassed her earlier fighting its way back to the surface.
His lips found one pointed nipple, and he sucked hard, biting down as he did so. She cried out in a glorious mix of pain and pleasure and arched her back shamelessly. Her nipple swelled beneath his tongue, sending shocks of electricity from her breast down to the heat between her thighs. Again and again, he bit down until she was keening, writhing across the smooth surface under her back. He was not gentle, but tenderness was not something she wanted just now. She tilted her head back baring her neck, and he pressed his lips against the hollow at the base of her throat, then proceeded to suck and bite a scorching path across each breast and down her stomach. She twisted beneath him mindlessly, all desperate moans and cries, both trying to escape and press further against his tongue and teeth. A stray thought crossed her mind that she would be bruised later from this, but then the thought disappeared, and she stopped thinking coherently at all.
Her smallclothes were soaked, and she wriggled her hips as if by movement alone, she could slide the sticky cloth down her legs. Sensing her discomfort, he fumbled with the laces of her pants and yanked them off, abrading her skin as he did so. Once again, he lowered his head and kissed her hard, biting her lip, and she tasted a tang of metal, her own blood. His fingers separated the folds between her legs and were shockingly gentle as they explored her slick petals. Slowly, so slowly, he circled the bud at the top of her folds, refusing to actually touch it. She thrust her hips upwards, oh Maker but she was begging, and he thrust two fingers deep inside, pressing hard against that sensitive spot. His fingers curled, and she sobbed out a hoarse cry from a throat that felt parched. Her nails raked down his chest, leaving deep red streaks tinged with blood, a tattoo of her own.
He groaned as her hands reached his pants and they were shaking too hard to sort the ties. Dammit, why did they have to use laces of all things? Impatiently, she pulled herself to a sitting position on the desk and shoved his pants down to his knees. He hissed with relief as his swollen member was finally released from its prison. Her breath caught as she took in the sight of his hardness, so thick, and was unable to resist wrapping her palm around the girth and giving it a firm stroke. He gasped and murmured something unintelligible under his breath. Precum leaked from the slit and she lowered her head to taste it, the saltiness of him. He shuddered in agony and grabbed her head between both hands thrusting hard into her mouth. She widened her jaw, accomodating his considerable length and pushed his hips back while sucking hard. The smooth silkiness of his length slid against her tongue and she lapped at the head of it, at the clear fluid her lips milked from him. His fingers tightened in her hair and scraped against her scalp, eliciting a moan which vibrated against his member, and he growled.
He tried to thrust back in but she sat up quickly, taking his hardness firmly in hand and spreading her legs wide. Her eyes bored into his as she guided him to her entrance, rubbing the head against the silky wetness. His breath hitched, pupils widening into dark pools of heat and desire. He grasped both her legs at the knees and pushed them back against her chest as she braced her hands behind her on the desk for support. Shivering with anticipation, she could feel the air cooling the moisture within her folds as he spread her, exposed her. For a brief moment, he hesitated, his eyes searching hers for something-oh Maker, was he seeking permission? She saw a flicker of concern behind the heated desire and wondered at it, but she was too far gone to be able to reason it out clearly.
"Please . . . " she gasped, desperately thrusting her hips upward, seeking, begging to be filled.
He needed no further invitation. In one convulsive movement, he was deep inside her, and she cried out at the sheer pleasure of his hardness stretching her. The brief gentleness in him was gone, replaced by an intense hunger. Pushing her legs back even further, he began to pound ruthlessly into the very core of her being. With each thrust, he brutalized that spot deep inside, sending waves of shocking ecstasy throughout her sweat-slicked body. Every sense seemed starkly aware: the taste of blood in her mouth from her swollen lip; the smell of him-leather, sweat, and earth; the sound of his moans and grunts as he pistoned relentlessly into her; the scorching heat between their bodies. Her head fell back, mouth agape, a brief thought surfacing-this is what it's like to be taken. Her body shook beneath his powerful thrusts and their incoherent cries came together in a chaotic chorus. The pulsing knot in the center of her being was tightening, building, oh Maker she couldn't . . . couldn't take this pressure.
It was too much, her body could no longer hold her together in one piece. With a scream, she split, body convulsing helplessly beneath him. But he did not relent, did not allow her to spiral back down. Holding himself deep inside her, he grinded, massaged that spot with his hardness, keeping her at the peak of her orgasm till she couldn't breathe. Then she felt him stiffen, thrusting even deeper, even pushing against her cervix, and he was pulsing, spurting liquid heat deep within her. His cry joined hers and she felt his hips shake with the power of his pleasure. And for a time, there was nothing, nothing but shades of sensation rippling between them like an aurora shimmering in the night.
The feel of cool air over her sweat-slicked skin brought her mind back to clarity. She opened her eyes to find Nate watching her, eyes still glazed with the aftershocks of his orgasm. His chest was criss-crossed with the marks of her nails, his lips parted and swollen. She wondered crazily what she looked like, hair disheveled, skin shining with moisture, bruises that she could already feel forming. She struggled to sit up but discovered she was too spent to move, her limbs trembling weakly with the effort. Quickly, he reached out and pulled her up against him. She dropped her head to his chest and closed her eyes, bombarded with too many feelings to even comprehend what had just happened. She felt the scratch of his goatee against her scalp as he rested his chin in her hair, one hand stroking the back of her neck. They rested quietly like this for a minute until a slip of memory resurfaced in her mind.
"Uh . . . Nate?"
"Hmmm?" His voice was hoarse and muffled in her hair.
"Ummm . . . are those merchants still waiting for you to come back with my reply?"
There was few seconds of silence that were ripped apart with the sudden sounds of him cursing violently above her head. An irrational giggle erupted from her throat and then she was rolling across the desk with laughter. Grimacing, he grabbed her smallclothes and cleaned himself with it with a smirk in her direction. For some reason, this only made her laugh even harder, and tears leaked down her cheeks as she doubled over in mirth. He dressed hurriedly and eyed her appraisingly.
"Well, I guess I had better give them rooms and inform them that the Commander needs to . . . freshen up a bit before she receives them." He raised an eyebrow at her questioningly. She stifled her chuckles and nodded.
"Yes, I think that would be a good idea. Thank you."
He sketched a brief bow and turned to the door. With his hand on the latch, he hesitated and turned his head to look back at her. His eyes were still burning, but not with anger, not anymore. Her heart lurched at the depth of emotion she saw there, but then he had turned and was gone, shutting the door behind him.
Hands shaking, she stood and dressed without thought, her mind drained dry from spent fury and passion. Her gaze lighted on the torn parchment lying wrinkled on the floor. Slowly, she picked it up and stared at it blindly, the words like a dull ache in the pit of her stomach. She slipped the paper in her pocket and turned to the door, stopping just short of opening the latch. She closed her eyes briefly then slowly turned and went to the fireplace. She gripped the letter tightly in her hand, staring into the flames. Then with a quick flick of her wrist, before she could lose her nerve, she tossed the letter into the fire. Without any hesitation, she turned and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her. In the hearth, the letter rapidly curled and disintegrated into a cloud of ash that drifted upward into the chimney and out into the night.