Bound to the Prince (4 page)

Calling him the Angel of Death had been just
the right expression to describe this male. His hair fell down over
his shoulders, so light that it shone like the silvery moon on a
clear night. It reached almost to his waist. Igraine’s fingers
ached to touch the silken strands, to feel their softness. His face
might have belonged to a Michelangelo statue, pale and narrow with
high cheekbones, full lips and a straight, aristocratic nose. One
side of his face was marred by a long, deep scar, which only added
to his beauty instead of destroying it. It made him almost look
human. Igraine didn't utter a sound until she looked into his eyes.
Sinking into their depth made her gasp with horror and pleasure
alike. There was wisdom in them, a vast range of emotions she could
not even guess at – and pain, so much pain. For a second, she
wondered how old he was, assuming that he was mortal at all. She
didn't have to look at his pointed ears to know that she was not
facing a human being. His eyes were deeply golden like a cat's, and
seemed to burn into her soul, forever imprinting her with his
image.

He smiled, a dark, knowing smile. “Aye, your
kind has always been fascinated by my people. We look irresistible
to humans. It has been like this since the dawn of time. It makes
us easier to hunt you down if we need to. If you sense our
presence, you try to follow us, begging to touch us just once. Even
if we kill you afterwards.”

“Who … what are you?” she repeated, not
knowing how she managed to hold his deadly stare. Yet she did.

“Why, an elf, of course,” he answered very
slowly, as if he was speaking to a simpleton. His arrogance angered
her. “Some of your people call us the Fae or Sidhe, or the Tuatha
Dé Danann. Yet we are nothing like what the humans believe us to
be. I am Prince Elathan, Lord of the elven realms, firstborn son to
King Bres.”

She simply stared at him, unable to believe
what she saw and heard. What on earth was the right way to greet an
elven prince who had abducted and brought her to his lair? Why did
he even bother to introduce himself when he wanted to kill her
anyway? He could have done it right there where he caught her. The
bridge had been deserted at that time of the night. Nobody would
have stopped him. Maybe he wasn't a crazy killer, after all? At
least for now, the pompous elf did not attack her. He just looked
at her down his nose as if she was some insect crawling at his
feet. Surely he expected her to curtsy or bow to him? Igraine had a
sudden desire to giggle uncontrollably, despite the dangerous
situation she had maneuvered herself into. Everything was too
absurd to be true. Maybe she was just having a drug-induced, very
realistic dream? Unsure what to do next, she finally decided to
talk to this ‘prince’. It would be senseless to lie to him about
her identity. While she had been unconscious, he had doubtless
searched the contents of her handbag and read her name on her
passport. Well, assuming that elves could read human documents, of
course.

“My name is Igraine Chandler,” she said,
proudly raising her chin. “Lowborn nurse of the human realms and
daughter to no one.” Damn. Her wayward mouth again. Igraine had a
strong tendency to make more or less funny comments when she was
frightened, to ease her tension. Even if it might get her into
trouble, she just couldn't help herself. “And may I ask,
Your
Royal Highness
,” she emphasized the title to show she strongly
doubted that he had told her the truth, “why you kidnapped me from
a bridge? And why couldn't I see you when you followed me? If your
intention is to murder me, you shouldn't have bothered. Didn't you
see that I was about to jump?”

The prince – if he really had spoken the
truth which she still doubted – looked aghast, obviously deeming
her mad. He looked her up and down for a moment, then he answered,
“You didn't see me because I hid my true appearance beneath a veil
of magic. Your ancestors used to call it glamour. And the answer is
no. You wouldn't have taken your own worthless life, wench. I have
seen too many hopeless mortals in my time. Their eyes were empty,
bereft of any hope – so unlike yours. There is a fire burning deep
within you, woman, fueled by your anger. I can feel much pain in
you. Yet you didn't let it destroy you as any weak human should
have. You are very stubborn, redhead.”

Now it was her time to stare. She fought the
urge to raise her hand to her shoulder-length, curly hair. She
always had believed it to be a dull brown, although it was
naturally highlighted with auburn streaks. No one had ever called
her a redhead before. After all, she wasn't anything special,
nothing but a nurse from New Jersey with a couple too many pounds
around her waist. Just old, plain Igraine, who had been let down by
her faithless fiancé. He had promised to accompany her on this
vacation to England. It should have been their honeymoon. She had
been looking forward to this. Visiting old, beautiful castles and
cozy villages with white, rose-covered cottages, having dinner in
pubs and spending passionate nights together, celebrating the life
they'd live as a married couple and maybe even making their first
baby. Being an orphan, all she ever had wished for was her own
family, and a cozy, laughter-filled place to call home. Was that
too much to ask for?

Their separation had been over a year ago.
She didn't even know why she had finally decided to fly to England
on her own. Maybe she needed this to make a clean break in her
life, to forget all about this? Instead, she had ended up in some
godforsaken underground place, imprisoned by an elf who claimed to
be a prince and seemed to despise all humans. To add to her
distress, this inhumanly beautiful creature seemed to affect her in
a way she had never felt before. Just looking at him made her body
react. Her skin tingled, waiting to be touched, and she felt a raw,
carnal desire racing through her body, right down to the place
between her thighs that ached with need.

“Stop it, stupid!” she softly hissed to
herself, at the same time hoping he had not heard it. Obviously,
she had not slept with a man for far too long. Certainly not since
her boyfriend, Stephen, had dumped her a year ago, claiming he
“wanted a girl he could present himself with” in his beauty doc
circles. He told her this after ten years of her waiting for him to
marry her, so she could have a loving husband and children one day.
It was all she had ever really wanted. The money, the prestige, it
only mattered to him, not to her. She even put back her own career,
quit her college courses in English literature, so she could work
as an unpaid assistant in his newly founded plastic surgery
practice. Fortunately, she was smart enough to attend evening
classes and get a nursing license during that time. Without it, she
would have been without an education after Stephen left her. Before
her ex-boyfriend got his medical degree, she had worked as a
waitress in the evenings, so he could finish his education earlier.
“Later it will be your turn,” he’d always had told her. “I will
make it up to you, I swear. You’ll lead a good life. We'll have a
big house with a large garden for our children to play in.”

Now, Stephen was married to a 23-year-old
anorexic blonde who had come to his practice to get bigger boobs. A
few months later, he told Igraine about their affair and called it
quits. Igraine, now 31, had no husband, no family, no real
education and a new job as a nurse which wasn't very well-paid. She
had dedicated too much time working for her non-existent future
with Stephen, so she had never tried to make friends of her own. In
the evenings, she turned to chocolate for solace. If no one loved
her anyway, what was wrong with this? She was lucky to be a tall
woman, so she didn’t gain too much weight after all. Even with her
extra pounds, men were still interested in her. A nice, attractive
colleague at work asked her out for a date, to which she agreed,
but she couldn’t wait until the evening ended. Then she could go
back to her safe home and her best friend, the well-filled fridge.
She hardly gave him answers when he tried to talk to her. That
night, he brought her home with a disappointed look on his face. He
never asked her out again.

Igraine had been so immersed in her thoughts
that she hadn't noticed the prince getting nearer until it was too
late. He had circled her like a helpless prey and stood right
behind her, his tall body almost touching hers. When his warm
breath grazed the nape of her neck, she wasn’t able to move at all.
She closed her eyes, shivering. He did not touch her, but stood so
close that she could feel the heat of his body. And God, his scent
was wonderful. He smelled like no mortal man ever could, even if
he’d used the most expensive perfumes - manly and just a bit musky,
but at the same time sweet and fresh. It reminded her of young
leaves on a tree, right after the rain. She just couldn’t describe
it. He seemed to breathe in her scent, as well, since he lowered
his face to the side of her neck, inhaling deeply. Despite his
obvious dislike of the human race, the elf seemed to be curious
about her. After all, they were a different species. But right now,
all she sensed was his raw masculinity which awakened her female
instincts. The irresistible call to mate.

“Do you know why I hunted you on that bridge,
human?” he breathed into her ear. “I do not intend to kill you – at
least not now. I took you from your world to have my pleasure with
you. You probably won't survive this anyway, and you'll soon wish
that I had ended your life on that bridge when I first laid eyes on
you. It always has been the way of the Fae to steal mortal females
if one of them catches their eye. You are here to be my slave, to
fulfill my every need and desire. I think you'll look quite
appealing in elven clothes after I'll have ripped those filthy
human rags off your body, woman,” he said. His voice was
mesmerizing, even more than his scent. “You know, I would take you
to my bed at once, if I knew I wouldn’t wear out your weak body too
much with it. It could kill you. As befits a warrior's slave of
pleasure, you'll learn how to fight and become stronger. Since your
body is frail, you have to be in the best possible shape to survive
being taken by an elf. You have no choice, human. There is no way
for you to resist me. But I'll make sure that you take your own
pleasure, too.”

Igraine wondered if he was joking or not. If
she was to become his slave, was he trying to take her against her
will after all? But he did not hurt her. He did not need to. It
simply was impossible to defy him. She felt magic flowing from his
hands when he softly touched her hair, savoring the feeling of it.
Then his fingers traced the outline of her ear, not pointed as his
own, and slid down along the side of her neck. Now she could hardly
keep herself from moaning. She only hoped he didn’t notice how
deeply he affected her, how much she wanted him to throw her down
on the bed and take her, no matter if he killed her afterwards.

Suddenly, she felt his strong hands around
her upper arms, grasping her, turning her around to him. Igraine
found herself facing the elf, with his muscular body so near that
she could feel his thunderous heartbeat – or was it her own? She
stared right into his enraged eyes, paralyzed by her fear and
desire. She asked herself how old he was, how many battles he had
seen. Elathan seemed to look right into her soul, his eyes
exploring her. Had he decided that she was not worthy, after all,
and would kill her right on the spot?

But he just dropped his hands from her arms
and turned away. “Prepare yourself for some hard exercise, wench,”
he said huskily. “We'll start right away. If you do not follow my
every order, the punishment will be severe. If you lose yourself in
self-pity and whine like you humans are accustomed to, every day
will only be harder for you. Otherwise, if your accomplishments
please me…” He stared at her for a moment, pondering. Then, a
boyish and very naughty grin softened his features. “Maybe I will
think about a way to reward you for your efforts.” Igraine forgot
to breathe for a few seconds. Under normal circumstances, his
otherworldly beauty was almost painful to see, but when he smiled,
his face seemed to radiate light, like a shining star in the
night.

“Now choose your weapon, human. Your first
training lesson has just begun.”

Chapter 3: Training
Day

“Choose your weapon, human!” Elathan repeated
with a dangerously low voice when Igraine didn’t move a limb but
just stood there, staring at him like an idiot.

Choose a weapon? Good Lord! Igraine had never
touched anything more dangerous than a paper cutter in years. She
didn't use too sharp knives in the kitchen to avoid hurting
herself. Unfortunately, she seemed to attract injuries. She
couldn’t even slice an apple without stabbing herself in the hand
and nearly bleeding to death. When this had happened, the doctor
who stitched up her hand strongly advised her against spending too
much time on household chores, so she wouldn’t accidentally kill
herself. Once she broke her leg after climbing up a ladder to clean
the high windows in her apartment.

“I am not sure. Maybe I could blind you with
a shot of my hairspray?” She gasped and put her hand over her
mouth. When she was frightened, she happened to make more or less
funny remarks to ease her tension. She just couldn’t help it.
Judging from the look on Elathan’s face, he didn’t find this
entertaining at all. With one quick movement, he drew a small
silver dagger from his belt and pressed it to her throat. Grabbing
a fistful of her hair with the other hand, he forced her head back
so she had no choice but to look right into his cold, unmerciful
eyes. Igraine let out a small cry of pain. Before she knew it, she
was pressed tightly against his strong body while he held her in
his deadly embrace.