Page 12 of The Captive

For a moment, I could almost forget I was a captive.

Dmitri stirred, his arm tightening around me before his dark eyes fluttered open. For an instant, he looked as disoriented as I had felt, then that slow, knowing smile spread across his face.

“Dobroye utro, krasivaya,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

“Good morning,” I whispered back, unsure what else to say.

His gaze dropped to my lips, then lower, to where my chemise had dipped over my shoulder, exposing skin. The memory of his mouth on me last night sent heat flooding through me.

Before I could stop myself, my hand lifted, fingers brushing against the rough stubble of his cheek. He turned his face into the touch, his beard tickling my palm.

Then his lips pressed against my skin—a soft, unexpected kiss that sent my pulse racing. Not the demanding claim of last night, but something gentler. More intimate.

“Last night,” he began, his voice dropping to that dark timbre that made my cunny clench, “you needed sleep. Today⁠—”

A man called his name from outside the tent, sharp, urgent. Dmitri sighed, the sound vibrating against my palm where it still rested against his cheek.

He rolled from the bed with a fluid grace that belied his size, standing to stretch. The morning light played across the muscles of his back, the scars that mapped his skin. His trousers hung low on his hips, the erection I’d felt against me last night still evident.

My face heated as I realized the truth; he hadn’t found release last night, and he could have taken me by force. Could have used me however he pleased. Instead, he had brought me pleasure, then held me through the night.

A strange captor indeed.

He pulled a clean shirt from a chest, the movement drawing my attention to the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin. As he dressed, he bent down, capturing my chin between his fingers.

“You are free here in my camp,” he said, his thumb brushing my lower lip. “But do nothing foolish, Augusta.”

That wicked grin returned, the one that had haunted my dreams. “If you try to escape, krasivaya, I will hunt you down and punish you most severely.” He winked.

Then his mouth was on mine—his first real kiss, not the demanding claim I’d expected, but something softer. A promise.

When he pulled away, I was breathless, my lips tingling.

“See to your horses,” he commanded, his voice rough. “I will return tonight.”

And with that, the Wolf of the steppe strode from his tent, leaving me tangled in his furs, my body still humming from that single, searing kiss.

The old woman returned with the sun, still smiling, as though the night had improved us both. She brought tea and porridge with honey, and after I’d eaten she led me down to the stream, where three younger women stood holding lengths of cloth as a screen and giggling and pointing at what I suppose they thought were my strange clothes.

The water was cold enough to blaspheme in. I did, in English, and my attendants laughed so hard one of them dropped her corner of the screen, exposing a bathing duchess to two boys, a dog, and most of the picket line.

Somehow, I laughed too. My dignity had been left behind on the road somewhere, and I missed it less each hour.

Then they dressed me, and since I had no way to ask them to fetch my travel gown from my valise, my wardrobe was out of my hands.

First a short chemise of linen so fine it must have crossed a border illegally. Then, to my astonishment, trousers—wide, soft, gathered at the ankle, the sort of garment I’d seen in engravings of Turkish harems and never imagined I would see in person, much less wear.

Over it all went a long silk gown of a cut I had no name for, fitted at the ribs and flowing loose below, scandalously red, fastened down the front with a row of little silver buttons, and belted with a woven sash. The silk was Ottoman, the buttons old, and the whole of it had assuredly been stolen from someone glorious.

The old woman tied the sash, turned me by the shoulders, and made a sound of such frank satisfaction that I flushed like a girl.

No stays. Nothing between silk and skin but one thin layer of linen. Every step reminded me of it.

I pointed at myself. “Augusta.”

“A-gooooosta!” she agreed, delighted, and then produced a torrent of syllables from which I salvaged, on the third attempt, “Marfa.”

It was my first successful negotiation on the steppe. I felt disproportionately proud of it.