THE SIREN

Many Years Ago

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kilandra had been stalking him for several miles, the man she would seduce, stopping in kind when he checked his traps. The soft crunch of snow beneath her rabbit-skin boots required that she keep her distance, lest she be heard before they were safely alone.

Her prey was formidable in every regard. The shadow he cast was monstrous, and all men seemed fearful to be within it. Though still a young man, he was the leader of their people, a tenacious leader. That he had taken control of their clan was perhaps the only reason they all yet lived. He led raids farther south than any before him, bringing back food to help see them through winters plagued by famine.

There was no doubt in her mind that the interest he no longer showed her was due only to strength of will, but that did not ease the flutter in her belly. Ever since he had returned with his stolen bride, he’d no longer looked at Kilandra in the same way. Truth be told, he barely looked at her at all, for if he had, his eyes would no doubt suffer the drop-anchored weight that pulled all men’s gazes downward, some stopping awkwardly at her chest, but most following the full length of her before turning to the side as if the entire motion had been some means of looking elsewhere.

And she was well aware of what they saw in that fleeting glance. Hours of each day were allotted to the study of her own form. “Just as a warrior must know his blade, so should a woman know herself,” her mother had taught her, and Kilandra had been forged of the finest steel. No other woman had features that bested her own, none at least that she had seen…save perhaps Kysa’s dainty knees and ankles—a meager gain not worth the flesh of hips and chest it cost the girl. It was loathsome what little regard the other women had for their appearance. None so much as brushed their mane, it seemed, let alone labored over it as Kilandra did. Her brown hair, dark as obsidian, shone with the faint cobalt luster of the poisonous privet berries she used to tint it, and when haloed by the white fur of her hood, her locks were quite striking. Framing a face of devilish innocence, it was no wonder men could not resist knowing what form of figure stood beneath, nor was it that some found it impossible to tear eyes from the bare flesh of her breasts that peeked from beneath her bodice.

With some difficulty she was able to place her feet within the tracks he had left behind. Best to be limber for what is to come, she mused, without any flush of embarrassment. Her thoughts may have been forward, but her tactics were not. She knew a man fell harder upon hunted prey, and though following a man through the snow was hardly coy, her methods upon her discovery would be abashed and subtle. And she had made no mistake with her timing. The man’s wife had been swollen with a babe in her womb for months, assuring his violent need for release. No Galatai man would bed a pregnant woman for fear of rubbing members with his future son—in this thinking there was no dissension.

The shiver that ran from the backs of her knees to the nape of her neck was not from the cold. She had long since become accustomed to exposing skin to the late autumn nip without discomfort, but there was no remedy for the elation of enticing an unfamiliar touch. The man she’d left behind, the one she called husband, may have been the most coveted of men, due to his sculpted form, dark features, and eyes of indomitable blue, but the man she stalked had no equal in authority.

Kilandra wrapped her arms around herself and quickened her pace. Perhaps there is no need to travel farther, she reasoned. Perhaps the threat of being caught in misconduct would only serve to heighten the thrill. It was a foolish means of rationalizing her impatience, she knew, but her hastened stride continued until she halted with sudden alarm.

He had stopped as well, his head turned to the side, not checking a trap. If he was to see her coming from so far away she feared it may make her appear desperate. And to a man of confidence there was nothing less arousing than a desperate woman, another of her mother’s lessons.

She remained motionless, hoping he could not see her from his periphery, the true danger of her task now becoming apparent. Had he been any other man it would not be so, but he was no stranger to her husband. The two men were closest friends, further complicating this affair. Warmth flooded her body as she contemplated her mistake. Forcing herself to remain calm, she inhaled slow and deep, filling her lungs with the brisk chill. It would not do to arrive wet with the sweat of worry.

The distant man remained motionless, as if listening. Her legs, caught midstride, ached and begged her to fall flat to her stomach, but the motion would draw his hunter’s eye. With her hood drawn tight, hiding her hair, she would be near invisible in her furs of all white. She waited, reminding herself that it was she who was the hunter, a thought that was difficult to accept until he had once again turned his head forward, resuming his gait. She let him gain more distance before continuing her advance—this quest must not be botched by zeal.

With her dread turning again to craving, she allowed her imagination to take flight. Whether he would yield to his basest desires was not what enthralled her, for she had every confidence in her ability to ensure that was the case. It was what he would do when, after having just begun their transgression, she suddenly rebuffed—that was what caused her heart to quiver. How would a man such as he respond to her rejection, her insistence that her intent was misinterpreted, her struggle to be free from his grasp? How would a man who answers to none respond when denied his fruit, the price of which was already paid by the taint of impropriety? She had her suspicions, consistent with her desires: that with hands of steel he would force her compliance. But if this was to be done properly, she would not know with certainty for yet another mile.