Stroke Of Midnight Anthology, Born Of The Night [Anthology]

74 Pages·2016·0.35 MB·English

by  Ashley Amanda

Born of the Night
from
STROKE OF MIDNIGHT
by
Amanda Ashley
Contents

CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
EPILOGUE
For all those who adore dark and dangerous men and are intrigued by things
that go bump in the night
Save me from this darkness
I know you are a creature of light
I was born to shadow
but I rebel, do not accept
this cursed, haunted life.

I have seen the hope that you represent
the future that you dangle before me
give me the strength to reach above the tide
to grab hold and drag my drowning self
from this inner, bitter sea…
CHAPTER 1
« ^ »

Death carried a sword and rode a tall black stallion. Shanara stared up at the
figure on the horse, unable to stop the tremors that wracked her from head to
foot. The rider's clothing matched the color of his mount—black boots, black
trousers, black shirt, a black hooded cloak that hid most of his face. She glanced
at the sword in his hand, the wicked-looking blade stained crimson with the
blood of her kinfolk, and felt the bile rise in her throat. Would he now add her
blood to that of her slain family?
With a choked cry, she scrambled to her feet and shook off her fear. She
would not die in the dirt like some sniveling coward. She was Lady Shanara of
the House of Montiori and she would die in a manner befitting her station.
"Do it!" she said defiantly. "Strike me down and be done with it."
"Eager to die, are you?" His voice was low and deep, tinged with a hint of
wry humor.
She stared at him. How, in the name of Astur and Caleron, could he find
amusement at a time like this? She glanced at the field of battle, the greening
grass of spring made dark and ugly with the blood that had been spilled only
moments before. There were bodies everywhere, limp, lifeless, like broken dolls
cast aside by a careless hand. And somewhere, lying among the dead, were the
bodies of her uncle and two of her cousins. For all she knew, the hooded man
had killed them. If only she had stayed home where she belonged instead of
coming here! But she'd had to get away from her father and her future, if only
for a little while.
Death threw back his hood and ran a hand through his hair, hair as black as
ten feet down. He studied her through eyes that were the cool deep blue of a
midnight sea. His brows were straight and black, his jaw roughened by thick
black bristles. A thin white scar ran from the outer edge of his right eye to the
curve of his jaw. With the sun setting behind him, he reminded her of a demon
rising from the smoldering pit of Hel.
In a lithe motion, he swung out of the saddle and walked toward her,
arrogance in every step.
With no thought save to escape, she turned and ran.
It was a foolish thing to do. Far better to stand her ground than to give him a
reason to chase her, something no true predator could resist. Fear gave wings to
her feet and she flew over the ground, her heart pounding in her chest, her
breathing labored.
She gasped when she heard a noise behind her. It might have been a harsh
laugh. It might have been a howl. Whatever it was, it fueled her fear and added
impetus to her flight.
But like a hare trying to outrun a winter-starved wolf, there was no way to
escape.
She screamed in fear and defiance when his arm snaked around her waist. His
momentum carried them both to the ground, his body turning in midair and
sliding under hers so that he took the brunt of the fall against his back. She
landed on top of him, the air whooshing out of his lungs and hers.
His arms circled her body, as unyielding and confining as prison bars. Well
and truly caught, she glared down at him.
"Unhand me this instant!" she demanded, her voice filled with a bravado she
was far from feeling. "I am Lady Shanara of the House of Montiori."
An emotion she could not fathom showed in his eyes. A muscle clenched in
his jaw. The arms imprisoning her grew tighter until she feared he might break
her in two.
Breathless, she gazed down at him, all bravado gone as she prayed that her
death would be swift, painless.
"Why were you at Castle Dunhaven?" Death demanded, his voice harsh.
"Why did you attack us?" She thought of her uncle's keep now lying in ruins,
spoiled by this man and his barbarians. She wondered if her aunt Eugenia had
survived the attack.
"Why did your father kill mine?"
She stared at him, her fear growing as his cold blue eyes raked over her.
"He… he didn't," she replied tremulously, though, for all she knew, it could be
true. Her father was an austere, cruel man, one who loved and lived for the heat
of battle, the clash of swords, the bloody smell of victory.
"Did he not?" Death asked, his expression as cold as winter in the high
country. He shook her until her head snapped back. "Did he not?" he asked
again, a tremor in his voice. "He wears my father's pelt to warm him."
She looked at her captor in horror, realizing, too late, who it was who had
seized her. Dread uncoiled deep within her. Now that she knew who he was,
death in any form would have been a blessing. She knew her father would
avenge her, not because of any great love for his youngest daughter, but because
it would give him just cause for another war.
Reyes drew in a deep breath, his rage dwindling as he grew increasingly
aware of the slim female form pressing against his. Lifting his head, he sniffed
her skin, his senses filling with the flowery scent of her perfume, the acrid stink
of her fear. Her hair was not red and not brown, but something in between,
reminding him of the rich earthy color of autumn leaves. Her eyes were the
green of new grass, her skin a soft golden brown. She squirmed beneath his
regard, making him acutely aware of her full breasts, of the fact that her body
was cradled between his thighs.
He could have taken her there and then. It was his right. No one would dare
dispute it. He had wrought the victory. It was his right to claim whatever or
whoever he wished. But he did not want her writhing beneath him in fright, only
in ecstasy. To his surprise, he discovered that he didn't want to take her by force
or fear, not here, on the fringes of a bloody battlefield. Nay, far better to seduce
her slowly and gently on a bed of soft furs by candlelight.
It amazed him that he wanted her at all, knowing that it had been her father
who had butchered his. Rage burned anew when Reyes recalled how Luis
Montiori had taken his father's rich black pelt and then had the gall not only to
line a cloak with it, but to boast to any and all who would listen of what he had
done. The memory of Montiori's treachery cooled his desire as effectively as if
he had plunged into an icy lake, leaving only the simmering coals of hatred and
the ashes of revenge.
Putting the woman away from him, he took a deep breath. Rising, he grabbed
her by the arm and lifted her onto his horse's back. Heedless of the fear in the
woman's eyes, ignoring the tears trickling down her cheeks, he vaulted up behind
her, took up the reins, and turned his horse toward the misty mountains of home.
His men, drunk with the wine of victory, gathered up the last of the spoils and
fell in behind him, eager to return home to bed their wives and boast of their
victory.
CHAPTER 2
« ^ »

Shanara had never been so afraid in her whole life. The arm around her waist
was thick with muscle, unmoving, unyielding. Her back bumped against his
chest from time to time. It, too, was hard and unyielding.
What was he going to do with her?
It was a question that plagued her on the long ride to his keep until, weary
with fear and exhaustion, sleep claimed her.
Reyes felt the woman slump in his grasp. His arm tightened around her and
he drew her closer, cradling her head against his chest, all too aware of her hips
and thighs cradled between his. She was warm and soft in sleep. Once, she
whimpered softly. He refused to be moved by it. Hardening his heart against her,
he reminded himself that she was his prisoner and nothing more, a pawn in a
dangerous game. He had sworn a blood oath to avenge his father's cruel death. It
was a vow he would honor no matter what the cost. If her father refused to take
her place in the dungeon, then Reyes would kill the girl and send her body back
to Montiori a piece at a time.
The girl was still asleep when he drew rein for the night.
Holding her in his arms, he swung his right leg over his mount's withers and
slid to the ground. Cradling her against him with one hand, he untied his bedroll
from behind his saddle and spread the blankets on the ground for the girl. She
murmured in her sleep when he put her down, but didn't awaken. He stared at
her for a moment, then drew the covers up to her chin.
In a short time, fires were laid and food was being prepared. His men sat in
small groups, sharing tales of old battles, or refighting the battle they had just
won.
Reyes moved through the camp, taking time to speak to each of his men,
commending them for their bravery, consoling the wounded, stopping to spend
time with two of the men who he knew would not survive the night.