Ensnared by the Dream Lord (Dark Lords) (12 page)

At long last, when Adriana thought she could bear the suspense no more, Drago returned.  His face was grim and Adriana’s heart failed her.  Weakly, she wilted into the seat she had only just leapt up from.  “Tell me!  For pity’s sake do not make me wait to hear it.”

Drago glanced at her sisters and finally spoke.  “I did not go in.  He has placed some sort of spell over his domain and I was prevented from entering the castle, but brambles grow everywhere, as if the place has been abandoned a hundred years.”

Despair settled over Adriana like a cloud.  She clutched her chest where her heart throbbed painfully.  “I must go to him.”

Drago’s gaze was sympathetic.  “I fear it is too late.”

She sprang to her feet.  “I
must
go!”

Bianca and Cerise tried to reason with her but she shut them out, covering her ears with her hands.  “I will go!  If you try to stop me I will never, ever forgive you as long as I live.”

Bowing to the inevitable, they asked Drago to go with her.

The little mare was not pleased to have two riders, but Bianca and Cerise had been fearful that Adriana was too upset to ride alone, that she would fall from the mare to her death and they insisted.  Regardless of the weight of the additional rider, the mare seemed to have little difficulty and within moments they were soaring above the treetops. 

Impatience ate at Adriana, despite the fact that the mare flew at such speed that the wind whipped around her, tearing the pins from her long hair so that it fluttered behind her like a bright banner.  At last the spires of Morpheus’ castle came into view and Adriana strained forward, as if by doing so she could make the mare reach it faster.

Morpheus’ night-mare trotted up to them when they alighted at last in the pasture.  “Poor beast,” Adriana murmured, stroking the horse’s muzzle, but her heart failed her, for she knew if the mare was here that Morpheus was also. 

Turning away from the mare, she moved quickly up the long walk that led to the castle doors.  She had already reached them before she remembered what Drago had said about the spell.  When she looked back, she saw that Drago stood where she had left him.

A flicker of hope arose.  If the spell had not kept her out, she thought, surely it must mean that Morpheus had not come to hate her for her perfidy.  Thrusting the doors open, she paused on the threshold.  Only darkness greeted her.  But as her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness of the interior, her heart sank and fear seized her.

The main hall was a shambles.  Tapestries had been torn from the walls, the furniture destroyed.  It looked as if a great battle had been fought within the walls of the castle.  Gathering her skirts, Adriana moved quickly inside.  “Morpheus!” she cried out. 

Nothing answered her but the mournful groan of the wind as it whistled through the door she had left standing wide.

“Too late!  I am too late!” she cried out in despair.

She could not accept that.  Crossing the main hall, she rushed up the stairs, nearly stumbling and falling in her haste and distress, calling to Morpheus again and again.  He did not answer and she raced about the upper floor, searching for him.  Each room lay empty—as empty as her heart had begun to feel, and still she searched, climbing at last onto the battlements.

Defeat settled over her when she found him not.  Finally, weary with heartache, she trudged down the stairs once more.  She paused when she had reached the room that had been her bed chamber.  She had not searched it.  She had not been able to bring herself to go inside, to face the memories that dwelt there. 

Finally, she reached for the knob and turned it, pushing the door wide.

He lay upon her bed as if he waited for her, still as death.

“He sleeps,” she murmured in anguish, unable at first even to command her feet to move, she crossed the room finally, stopping beside the bed to stare down at his still face.  “Please,” she begged.  “Don’t leave me, Morpheus.  I love you so much.  I’m so sorry I left you.”

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she lifted a hand and stroked his cheek.  “Warm,” she whispered brokenly.  “And yet gone so far away.”

Climbing onto the bed, she curled beside him, leaning down to press her lips to his.  “Forgive me, Morpheus.  Come back to me,” she whispered hopelessly as she lifted her lips at last from his unresponsive ones.

His lips parted.  A sigh sawed from his chest.

A sob escaped her and she buried her face against his chest, weeping for all that she had lost, all that would never be.  She was so caught up in her misery that she barely noticed the first light touch upon her hair.  A hand stroked soothingly over her head.

She pulled away, looking down at Morpheus.  To her joy she saw that he was looking back at her.  His arms came around her, pulling her tightly against his chest.  “Adriana, my love.  You came back to me.”

“Always, my love,” she sobbed, her heart near to bursting.

Nudging her chin up, he kissed her deeply, with desperation, with all the love he felt for her in his heart.

The End

Here’s a special sneak peek at HEART OF DARKNESS, a full length paranormal/fantasy romance coming in January 2013:

Chapter Three

A slight tug of her finger was enough to jolt Isabeau from her hazy, drug induced slumber.  When seconds later, that was combined with a bolt of power from the ring snapping torturous shards of pain along the nerve endings of her arm, she instinctively flung herself backwards and away from the threat, whatever it was, before her eyes had even opened fully. 

When her torso hit the bed head, Isabeau grunted as the connection felt almost as though she had jarred every organ in her damned body.  She grimaced as her elbow started to tingle and ache as she had inadvertently knocked the so-called funny bone on one of the wooden carvings that decorated the piece of furniture and now, thoroughly aggrieved she turned to stare at whatever was threatening her. 

Shocked to see it was a man, who was glaring angrily back at her, Isabeau licked her lips in confusion, aware that whilst she knew she was in danger because the ring had told her so, she wasn’t entirely sure why. 

Blearily, she tried to remember which finger had been tugged and quickly realized that it had been her ring finger. 

Did he want to steal it from her? 

Was that the reason for his being here?

She studied his dirty and greasy appearance with distaste and wondered if he was one of Wolfe’s men.  He had to be, for how else would he have managed to gain entrance here?

Suddenly, her thoughts came to a halt as the intruder jumped forward and landed on the bed before her.  His hand reached out for her right arm and he yanked her forward and away from the wooden bed head.

She screamed and hoped to the Goddess that someone would hear and come and help her, but was quickly hushed with a fist to the face.  When her jaw snapped together from the force of his punch, her teeth felt almost as though they wobbled in her mouth. 

The force of the blow had her head feeling as though it had parted from her neck, as it seemed to roll against her shoulders to an absolutely impossible angle.  The momentum of the move had her pistoning partially backwards, but the man’s grip on her had her also moving forwards.  The discordant and agitated maneuvers made her feel like a rag doll that was being tugged apart by bickering sisters who refused to share.

The trespasser pushed her down against the mattress, ignoring her kicking legs, and pressed his forearm against her throat.  It was enough to stun her into silence. 

His hand wrenched at her ring finger and she let out a whining cry as the joint popped.  Again, the man attempted to tug at the ring and he started to swear as the precious metal stayed glued to her skin. 

Isabeau felt sure that he would realize the ring was meant to stay upon her finger and leave before he could be caught in the act of trying to steal from her.  But there was an air of desperation about him that made her feel ten times worse about the situation.  Desperate men were far more dangerous than their calmer, saner counterparts. 

And she was right to feel concerned, as moments later, she felt the tip of a dagger scrape against her skin.  Isabeau whimpered but forced herself to quiet down.  Although she realized that he wanted her to not make one jot of sound, she couldn’t stop herself from asking him, “What do you want?”

With the pressure on her throat, the words were distorted, but understandable.

He grunted and proceeded to scowl down at her with rheumy and bloodshot eyes.  Obviously he hadn’t expected her to talk to him and she watched and cringed as his fingers worked at the ring that sat regally upon her hand.  The tip of the knife was now being used as a lever.  Isabeau’s cries rang out as he attempted to lift the metal from her flesh with the dagger and then came the restless tugs. 

It had been there for such a long time and had never been removed that she knew it would almost be indented on to her skin. 

When her mama had given this ring to her, Isabeau had watched as she had slipped it off her finger after dousing the small digit in oil and had wiggled it off eventually before handing it to her.  There had been a whiter tone of flesh, which had been protected from the sunlight by the ring and the skin had been almost shriveled in comparison to the other sun-kissed areas. 

Without oil or some kind of lubricant, that ring was going nowhere.  It made her feel both triumphant
and
fearful. 

The man was yielding a knife, for Goddess’ sake.  He could easily cut her finger off!  The more restless and agitated he became and the longer the ring stayed glued to her, the sooner he would react and do just that.  She would lose both her finger and the stone!

The thought made her feel slightly faint and combined with another dig of the knife into her thin flesh, it was enough to make her cry.  “I can’t take it off.  It won’t come off!”

“There are ways and means, wench,” the man replied gruffly and when he tried to pull her fingers apart so that he could slide the dagger down the length of the digit, she yelled out hoarsely again. 

Realizing that this situation could only worsen, Isabeau knew that she had to do something.  It was no good waiting to be rescued and in this position, he was the dominant one. 

When his forearm had been used to press against her throat and subsequently weigh her down, her body had instantly loosened and become lax.  If she could urge her strength back and manage to push away from him, then she could at least try and defend herself. 

Garnering her courage, she simultaneously urged strength into her stomach and neck and powered upwards.  Almost managing to butt him in the head!  Success!  Then she pushed all of her remaining reserves into her right arm, where she eventually managed to tug her hand away and out of his captive hold.  Hissing as the blade cut at her flesh yet again, but even deeper this time, Isabeau ignored the pain and instead struck the man on the side of the head with her balled fist. 

With her other hand, she slapped him and pushing her legs out, ultimately managing to kick him in the gut.  He’d been so focused on her hand and obtaining the ring that he’d left himself open to being attacked.  He had probably believed that she would not make a fuss. 

That she was just a little woman. 

The thought made her snigger inwardly.

She was ten times more than just a little woman.  Life had forged her into the creature she was and at times like these, when she was in danger, she could and would turn into a wild cat. 

Isabeau had soon discovered that the lessons her mother had taught her, lessons in which she had learned to be a lady, were of no use to her as she fled those who had killed her parents. 

An inner wild cat was and had always been vital to her protection during the years in which she had been alone.  With no man or family to guard her and keep her safe. 

She curled her fingers inwards and clawed at him with her nails and when his fist came up to punch her once more, she ducked her head and quickly surged up again, catching the flesh of his forearm with her teeth.  She bit down and felt gleeful as he screamed and yelled out like a girl. 

When Isabeau heard the door open, she almost fainted in relief.  Adrenaline was surging through her but it counterbalanced whatever they had given her to make her sleep and had left her feeling most peculiar.  She felt both dazed and filled with energy.  The combination was extremely bizarre and she wasn’t sure how long she would be able to defend herself in the state of mind in which she currently inhabited. 

A fist came out of nowhere and was aimed once more at her jaw.  She grunted and released the flesh of the intruder’s forearm and cried out as pain seemed to blossom throughout her skull. 

Her fatigued eyes saw Wolfe appear and she shuddered and felt consoled as his fierce face came ever closer into her line of sight and suddenly, the intruder was pulled from her. 

So rough was Wolfe’s hand on the man’s shoulder, he not only fell to the floor but he almost completed a full circle as he turned in mid-air and finally, landed with a splat on the hard floor. 

Instantly, he was hauled upwards and Wolfe’s fist slammed into the intruder’s face.  Somehow, even though he must have been in pain, he managed to hit Wolfe in the stomach, but Wolfe seemed almost impervious to this act.  He did not even grunt!

Grabbing the man’s fist, she watched as her savior simply clenched it between his own and within seconds, the intruder was crying out in pain and begging for surrender. 

She watched in surprise as Wolfe slowly released the hand and the man tugged it against his chest and began to nurse his bruised and battered fist.  Isabeau winced when she saw the somewhat mushy pulp.  The skin was not broken, but the fingers were…most un-finger-like.  They were broken in places that she hadn’t known the digits could be broken, but she could easily understand why the man had conceded defeat.