Seducing the Sun Fae Read online

  Dion circled Rodolfo, his muscles loose and ready. He was the alpha; let Rodolfo make the first move.

  The big man looked uneasy now. He had a quick temper that tended to burn itself out just as rapidly. Dion suspected he hadn’t intended things to go this far.

  But he welcomed the chance to fight. Everyone present knew this wasn’t about the insults he’d tossed off—they were warriors, used to ribbing one another. No, this was about Cleia and who, ultimately, had a right to her, whether as a prisoner or a lover.

  Maybe Dion did have a wasp up his ass with regard to the woman—but that didn’t mean he was wrong. She was the key to the strange malady plaguing his clan and he was damned well going to keep her until the problem was resolved. The others would just have to accept it.

  And if a part of him wanted to claim her in other ways, well, that was his own effing business.

  Rodolfo lunged at him, surprisingly fast for such a bulky man, but Dion simply stepped aside and then grabbed him when he was off-balance. They grappled with each other until Dion kicked out one of Rodolfo’s legs. The big man landed on his back with a thud, his breath sawing in and out.

  Dion quirked a brow. “Had enough?”

  Rodolfo grunted and rose back to his feet. Dion stifled a sigh. The man was stubborn as an ox. He’d have to be knocked down another couple of times before he’d yield.

  Dion settled into a fighter’s crouch and went after Rodolfo with a flurry of punches and karate chops. The tenente retaliated with some good blows himself. It wasn’t the no-holds-barred combat of a true challenge, but they’d both be sporting some colorful bruises.

  Dion saw an opening and slammed the heel of his hand into Rodolfo’s jaw. His big head snapped back. He blinked and wavered but remained standing.

  Dion waited for him to regain his equilibrium. Everyone knew the fight was his. Nothing would be served by pounding one of his best men into unconsciousness.

  But Rodolfo dropped to one knee. “Enough,” he said, head down and gaze averted. “My apologies, meu senhor.”

  “Of course.” Dion stuck out his hand. When the tenente grasped it, he pulled him to his feet and into a bear hug. “Good fight, irmão.”

  They nuzzled each other’s cheeks, exchanging scents and emphasizing there were no hard feelings. He rubbed Rodolfo’s buzzed-cut head and released him to look around the circle of warriors. “Anyone else have something he needs to get off his chest?”

  Nobody said a word.

  “Good,” he said. “Now, all of you, in the frigging creek. The stench in here’s enough to turn a man’s stomach. Your mates won’t let you in your dens.” A ripple of laughter swept the group. “The rest of the afternoon is yours unless you’re on sentry duty,” he continued, “but I want to see everyone back here tomorrow, same time.”

  They nodded and headed toward an exit that led to Rock Run Creek, talking animatedly about the fight.

  Dion followed, a hand to his jaw, gingerly working it back and forth. But the crisis was averted for now. That was worth a few bruises.

  Luis dropped back to walk with him. He still looked tired, but he’d recovered his color. “You’re pushing them too hard,” he remarked. “If Rodolfo hadn’t gotten pissed off, someone else would’ve.”

  “Perhaps. But they needed to blow off steam. Everybody’s on edge, waiting to see what the sun fae will do. I’m counting on you to keep things calm.”

  Luis shook his head. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I do,” Dion returned with more certainty than he felt.

  Never show fear. Never show uncertainty. His pai had drummed that in to him.

  But that didn’t mean he was never afraid, or that he was always certain he’d made the right decision. Twenty years the clan had been in decline, and Dion alpha for ten of those. In his darkest moments, he castigated himself for not seeing sooner that Cleia was at the root of it.

  They reached the creek. His hard-faced warriors were frolicking like pups, splashing and dunking one another. Dion’s grim mood lightened. Leaving Luis on the bank, he waded into the noisy knot, where he was immediately jumped by three men—all in fun, of course.

  He grinned savagely and lashed out with his fists, giving as good as he got.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cleia dipped her toe into the pool and then quickly withdrew it.

  “Haven’t you people heard of hot baths?” she grumbled. “You know, the kind that melt your muscles, help you relax after a long day? Or even a hot tub—now there’s a brilliant invention.”

  There was no reply. But then, she hadn’t expected one. Rosana was out swimming with her friends and Isa was off doing whatever she did during the day.

  Cleia paced her way toward the sala, automatically steering around the bed. It was day seven of her captivity and she was so bored she’d have even welcomed another net to mend. But she’d apparently repaired every damn net in the base.

  Distracted, she went off course and bumped into the open door to the sala. She growled and smacked her palm against the hard wood.

  “And where are you, Lord Dion? I could use some company here. Even yours.”

  But since their confrontation in Rosana’s bedroom, the alpha had avoided being alone with her. Most days the only time she saw him was at dinner.

  She knew why, of course: it was that damnable current between them. They might be captor and captive, but neither could forget that first night—and how good it had been.

  At least he was allowing her more freedom these days. She could go to the dining hall on her own and she was allowed to take walks—within the caverns, of course—with Isa, Rosana or Tiago. She’d used the opportunity to familiarize herself with the base, in case by some miracle she managed to escape. Of course, if she could break the binding spell, she could simply teleport herself out—she had the Gift of wayfaring—but barring that, she had to rely on more traditional means of transportation.

  But her excursions out into the base had just shown her how hopeless her situation was. Rock Run was a maze of crisscrossing tunnels that would’ve been hard to navigate even if she’d had her sight.

  Rosana said it was to discourage intruders. “Even if someone invaded,” she’d explained, “they wouldn’t get very far.”

  “Clever,” Cleia had murmured. And it was.

  She was coming to see that the fae—even friendly fae like herself—underestimated the fada. She’d unconsciously absorbed fae prejudices, believing that shapeshifters were a lower level of being, somewhere between the fae and animals. But Dion had easily outwitted her guards and was keeping her prisoner with apparently no one the wiser.

  If he was an animal, he was smart like a fox.

  She smacked the sala door again. “But if you’re so clever, my lord, why are you afraid of me?”

  The silence echoed, so loud she felt like she’d drown in it if she stayed alone in these two rooms another minute.

  The hell with it.

  She marched across the sala. She was busting out, even if it was just to go the dining hall. At least she’d have company there—even if it were with women who treated her like a cross between a demon and a siren.

  She tried the door and to her relief, it opened. She kept expecting to find Dion had changed his mind and locked her in again, something she wasn’t sure she could bear.

  The hall was quiet. Empty. Everybody had somewhere to be, something to do—except her.

  She placed a hand on the stone wall and made her way to the dining hall: fifty-six steps, turn to the right, take another seventy-two steps and then make another right turn into the hall.

  She was greeted by the low murmur of voices: the cooks, working in the large, open kitchen. Footsteps approached and then a woman spoke in polite but cool tones.

  “Bom dia, minha senhora. May I help you? Some wine, perhaps?”

  “That would be nice, thank you.” Cleia felt her way to the nearest table.

  The woman returned with the wine,
placing it in her hand. Cleia thanked her again, and she said, “If that’s all…”

  “No, wait.”

  “Sim?” the woman returned impatiently.

  It was a little lowering—Cleia wasn’t used to being considered a nuisance. She swallowed her pride and said, “I wondered if you could use any help?”

  The woman came nearer, close enough for Cleia to see she was almost as large and broad-shouldered as a man. “What do you want?” Her voice dripped with ice now.

  “Just what I said—I’d like to help. There must be something I can do.”

  Work-roughened fingers closed on her wrist. Cleia stiffened but allowed it. “With these hands?” the other woman asked scornfully. “I don’t think so.”

  “I have something she can do, Gabriela,” a voice called from the kitchen. A couple of the women chuckled.

  “I’ll be right back,” Gabriela told Cleia and walked away, leaving her to sip the wine and wonder if she’d regret this.

  Gabriela returned with a large sack and a ceramic bowl, which she set on Cleia’s lap. “Have you ever shelled peas?” she asked, clearly expecting her to refuse. “We need them for the caldeirada. The fish stew.”

  “No, but I can figure it out.” Cleia fished a pod from the sack; anything was better than returning to those two empty rooms with nothing to do but worry about her people and that Olivia would attempt something reckless to free her.

  Besides, these women were starting to annoy her. How did they think she normally spent her days—painting her nails and giggling with her friends? Not only was she the ruler of the seven sun fae clans, she was a well-respected healer.

  “You just open it, right?” She dug her nails into the pod and ripped it inexpertly apart.

  Gabriela clucked her tongue, unimpressed. “Here.”

  Taking Cleia’s hands, she showed her how to break open the next pod by pressing on one end. When it opened at the seam, she guided Cleia’s thumb down the opening to release the peas. They dropped into the bowl.

  “There’s more when you finish those,” Gabriela said and walked off.

  Cleia pressed her lips together and fought the urge to heave the bowl after her. She felt for the next pod and opened it with a snap.

  From the kitchen she heard rapid-fire Portuguese, too soft for her to make out, followed by a burst of laughter.

  She scowled and tore open another pod.

  She was partway through the sack when she heard a child’s light, quick footsteps. They stopped next to her.

  “Whatcha doin’, lady?” a cheerful voice asked in Portuguese.

  Cleia dropped a handful of peas into the bowl on her lap and smiled in her tiny interlocutor’s direction. It was a boy, she guessed, about age three or four.

  “Shelling peas for dinner,” she replied in the same language. “Would you like some?”

  “Sim.” The boy paused before tacking on a polite, “Por favor.”

  Her smile increased. She had a feeling that was why he’d stopped. She held out the bowl. “Help yourself.”

  “Obrigado.” A small hand reached past hers into the bowl.

  “De nada.”

  “I likes beas,” her new acquaintance informed her somewhat indistinctly as he chewed.

  “Me too. You can have more if you like.”

  “Okay.” He reached into the bowl again.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Xavier.”

  “Sha-vee-err,” Cleia repeated. “That’s a nice name. I’m Senhora Cleia.”

  “Clay-uh,” he repeated. “I know. Mama told me.”

  “Who’s your mama?”

  “She’s over there.” He pointed toward the kitchen. “We’re having cal’da tonight.”

  His mother must be one of the cooks. “You mean caldeirada?” The spicy mélange of fish, potatoes, peppers and other vegetables already scented the air.

  “Sim.” Small fingers touched the scarf over her eyes. “Why d’you hafta wear that? Don’t your eyes work?”

  She smiled wryly. “They work fine. But Lord Dion wants me to wear it.”

  “Oh. How d’you see?”

  “I can’t. Not much, anyway. I can see light and shadows and that’s about it. Enough to tell you’re a big boy—about this tall.” She raised her hand high above her head.

  “Não, senhora. I’m down here.” He chuckled and tugged on her arm.

  “Oh, there you are.” She lightly tapped the top of his head.

  He chuckled again. “I likes you,” he announced. A small, sweaty hand touched hers.

  “I like you too,” she said, ruffling his soft curls.

  “If you want to go somewhere,” he offered, “I can hold your hand so you don’t bump things.”

  Stars, what a sweetie. He must have seen Isa or Rosana helping her to navigate the tables at dinnertime.

  “Obrigada,” she replied gravely. “If I need to go anywhere I’ll be sure to ask you.”

  “Okay.”

  She sensed a change in the air, a rustle of energy, and then a cool, wet nose nudged her bare calf. She stifled a gasp. “Xavier?”

  He chittered in reply. Two webbed paws settled on her thighs and a moment later a furry little animal scrabbled onto her lap. She instinctively caught him and then chuckled. “You’re an otter.”

  For answer, he butted her arm, demanding to be petted. She set aside the peas and combed her fingers through his warm, velvety pelt. “Is this what you want?”

  He sighed with pleasure and flopped onto his back, his head a slight, warm weight against her arm. Her heart turned over. Gathering him closer, she pressed a kiss to the top of his downy head. He smelled puppy-sweet with a hint of river.

  He rumbled low in his chest, which she guessed was the otter version of purring.

  “Xavier!” A woman hurried out of the kitchen. “Don’t bother the lady.”

  “He’s no bother,” Cleia returned, rubbing the soft little belly beneath her hand. “I’m happy to hold him.”

  The woman came closer, smaller and more slender than Gabriela. “I can take him now.”

  Cleia heard the wariness in her voice. She stifled a sigh and made to return him. “Of course.” But Xavier shook his head and burrowed deeper into her arms.

  “Imp,” the woman scolded, but there was a smile in her voice.

  “I’m guessing you’re Xavier’s mother.” Cleia gave his belly another rub and the low rumbling increased.

  “That’s right. My name is Marina. He keeps me on my toes, that one.”

  “I can believe it.”

  Xavier let out a sigh and his body went limp.

  “Is he asleep?” Cleia whispered.

  “Yes.” The smile was still in Marina’s voice. “He goes until he runs out of energy, then crashes wherever he is.”

  “He’s adorable. I’d love to have one just like him.” Cleia tried to keep the envy out of her voice, but it crept in. Like the fada, the fae rarely had children outside the mate bond.

  There was a short silence, then Marina said, “Do you know who I am?”

  Cleia swallowed uneasily. “No. Should I?”

  “Luis’s mate.”

  “I see.” She remembered Luis, of course: he’d been her lover for nearly two years. She recalled what Dion had told her—that in five years, Luis had only given his mate one child—and briefly closed her eyes. “So Xavier is his son.”

  “Sim. We pray for more, but so far—nothing.”

  Cleia nodded her head but remained silent. What was there to say, after all?

  Marina touched her shoulder and she tensed, but all the other woman said was, “Maybe someday, you’ll have one of your own.”

  Cleia stroked Xavier’s fur. “If the Goddess is willing.”

  “Yes. Well, let me take him to the creche. I have to get back to work.”

  “If you’re sure—” Cleia reluctantly handed the sleeping pup back to his mother.

  He grumbled a bit, but she murmured something soothin
g and he quieted again. Marina left and Cleia went back to shelling peas.

  But when Marina returned a few minutes later, she didn’t go back to the kitchen. Instead, she stopped and addressed Cleia in a voice shaking with emotion, “You seem to be a nice person. Why can’t you let Luis go?”

  “But I did.” Puzzled, Cleia strained to see her face, but all she could see was a damned shadow. “What are you talking about? He left me years ago.”

  “You really don’t know, do you?”

  Cleia’s fingers tightened on the ceramic bowl. “Your alpha accused me of stealing life-energy, but I’m not.”

  “I wish you could see Luis, then,” Marina said bitterly. “He’s wasting away. The healers have done their best. He gets better for a while, but it always comes back. He has so little energy and he’s gotten so thin that I’m afraid”—her voice caught—“I’m afraid I’m going to lose him.” She sat down heavily on the bench next to Cleia.

  “Oh, Marina.” Cleia thought of the Luis she’d known. Darkly handsome, with a hard, muscular frame and a sly wit that only emerged after you got to know him. It hurt to picture him sick, wasting away. “I’m sorry, more sorry than I can say. But I swear I’m not doing anything. Truth.” She brought her hand to her heart.

  She sensed Marina’s scrutiny. “Maybe you’re not doing it deliberately, but it all goes back to when he was your lover—”

  “But he was perfectly healthy when he left me. It must have happened after he came home. I swear on everything I hold holy that it’s not me. Don’t you think I’d know if it was?”

  “But it has to be you. There’s no other explanation. What if you’re doing it without being aware of it?”

  “Do you think that hasn’t occurred to me? I’ve spent the past week going over and over it in my mind. And I can think of nothing—I feel nothing—that makes me believe I am.”

  “Then Luis is never going to get better,” Marina stated flatly.

  Cleia instinctively reached out a hand to her. For a moment, she thought the other woman was going to refuse to take it, then her hand settled lightly in Cleia’s. Cleia squeezed her fingers.

  “I’m a healer in my own clan. When I get back to Rising Sun, if there’s anything I can do, I promise I will. And if it turns out I’m wrong—that I’ve caused his illness in any way—I’ll do whatever I can to make him well.”