In Enemy Hands: MM Romance, page 1
In Enemy Hands
Captive Hearts: Book 1
Lana Bright
Copyright © 2024 by Lana Bright
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the author, except for short quotations in book reviews and similar legal uses.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental.
Cover by https://trifbookdesign.com/
Contents
1. Aaron
2. Aaron
3. Neil
4. Neil
5. Aaron
6. Aaron
7. Neil
8. Neil
9. Aaron
10. Neil
11. Neil
12. Neil
13. Aaron
14. Neil
15. Neil
16. Aaron
17. Neil
18. Aaron
19. Aaron
20. Neil
21. Neil
22. Aaron
23. Aaron
24. Neil
25. Aaron
26. Neil
27. Neil
28. Aaron
29. Aaron
30. Aaron
31. Neil
32. Neil
33. Aaron
34. Neil
35. Aaron
36. Neil
37. Neil
38. Neil
39. Aaron
40. Aaron
41. Neil
42. Neil
43. Aaron
44. Aaron
45. Neil
46. Neil
47. Aaron
48. Neil
49. Aaron
50. Aaron
51. Neil
52. Aaron
53. Neil
54. Aaron
55. Aaron
About the author
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Aaron
Something’s wrong. I don’t feel my sleeping mat under me, or the familiar weight of furs. I try to rub my eyes, and panic spikes through my chest—my hands are tied together with rough rope. This better be a nightmare.
Above me, branches dance in front of a blue sky. The breeze on my face is real. This is no dream—I must’ve dozed off outside. I look up. A tall figure is watching me, silhouetted by the setting sun. My stomach jolts with terror. I clamp my eyes shut, praying he didn’t see me stir. Whoever he is, at least he hasn’t hurt me.
Yet.
“I know you’re awake,” he says in a deep growl.
My heart thuds until it hurts. I scrunch into a ball and wait for whatever he’s going to do to me. But he only nudges my arm gently with his foot. Gathering my courage, I glance up. Stars, how tall is he? He has dark skin and two big scars crisscrossing his thoughtful, unsmiling face. A sword hangs from his belt, along with a scarily comprehensive assortment of knives. His knuckles are rough, like they’re used to being called into service.
I struggle into a sitting position, trying to corral my panic. My knapsack lies next to his foot. Is he a thief? There are hundreds of prosperous merchants to choose from in the city. Why come all the way out to the steppes?
“Who-who are you?” My voice shakes. “What do you want with me?”
His deep blue eyes search my face. “You don’t know?” He’s speaking Haztar, very badly.
“I have no idea.”
“You are a prisoner of war,” he says.
My throat gets dry. He’s a Rhennian soldier? I scan his thick leather waistcoat, the fur-collared cloak slung over his muscular shoulders. His gold rings and bangles could stock a small jewelry store. He’s carrying a huge rucksack with a bedroll strapped to it—he looks more like a traveling merchant than a soldier. There’s got to be some law against taking prisoners while going around incognito?
“Please tell me this is a joke,” I manage.
“No joke. You are in my lands.”
There was never a border here before. My people have lived on the Haztar steppes since… forever. Or since long before the current crop of generals was born, anyway. Not that I dare get into an argument about politics with this giant.
“Come on, get up,” he says. “Time to march.”
“March? Where?”
“I must take you to the authorities.”
Seriously? Because he found me asleep under a tree? I was hoping he’d give me a lecture and let me go.
“Look, wait a minute,” I plead, switching to Rhennian. “Don’t do this. I’m not your enemy. I didn’t mean any harm.”
He crosses his arms. Ridiculously, each one is as thick as my thigh.
I swallow and try again. “Okay, so I might’ve wandered across the border by accident. I was just looking for kele plants.”
“You can’t wander across borders. We are at war.”
It’s like reasoning with a mule. I give him my most innocent wide-eyed expression, trying to show that I’m no threat. Unlike him, I haven’t spent years honing my body to a killing machine. My lean frame is built for gathering, hunting, and traveling light.
“Look at me. I’m no soldier.”
He smirks, agreeing. “You didn’t even stir when I patted you down for weapons.”
So those big hands were all over me. That gives me a disconcerting feeling. I can’t think of a retort. And even if I could, I’d never dare to say it. I sit silently, staring at my knees.
“I must apologize,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“An honorable soldier doesn’t taunt his prisoner.”
He seems sincere. I’m trying to read his eyes, but they’re deep-set and guarded. Should I try an outright appeal?
“Please,” I say. “I’m not part of your war.”
“No? Your people are allied with the Callinthens.”
“I don’t know anything about politics. I’m just a civilian.” Isn’t that the term they use?
“How do I know that?” His hands tense. “You could be a spy.”
A spy? He has more imagination than I thought.
“Do I seem like a spy to you?”
He looks me over, his expression unreadable. The tail of his cloak flickers in the breeze while I wait for him to pass sentence.
“Perhaps,” he says. “Deep, deep undercover.”
If it were anyone else, I’d think that was a joke. But I’m not sure he’s capable of mirth.
“Look, there’s no one else around,” I say. “Can’t you just forget you ever saw me?”
“I’m afraid not.”
There’s a strange note in his voice. Sympathy? But that doesn’t track with his rocky features and grim slash of a mouth.
“Nobody would know.”
“I would know,” he says gravely.
“But I just want to go home.”
He raises an eyebrow. I’ve never felt as small as I do at this moment.
“No more talk.” His mouth sets. The ghost of sympathy vanishes.
“But—”
I shut up as he glares down at me, hands on his hips. “Let us get one thing straight. We do not discuss. You do what I tell you. Yes?”
I nod quickly. “Yes.”
His strength is casual and chilling as he hauls me to my feet. He slings my knapsack over his back—so much for hoping to reach my knife to cut through the ropes. We walk for a while in silence, heading toward the city of Rhennes. The soldier doesn’t seem like much of a talker. And fear holds my throat in a tight grip. Pleas are pointless. Escape feels impossible. With my hands tied together I can brush my hair out of my eyes or wipe the sweat from my forehead, but that’s about it. Swinging a branch with enough force to incapacitate this giant is out of the question.
I have time. It’ll take a few days to reach the city. But he’s twice my size. He’s a trained fighter. And he’s watching me like he can read my every thought. What if I never get a chance to escape? What’ll happen to me when we reach the authorities? Prison? For being caught “trespassing” on my own land? It’s happened before, to others. My family must be frantic—I said I’d be home by sunset. I’m starting to panic, chest tight, breath shallow.
Maybe the soldier can’t tell. I keep my head up and try to at least look brave.
I’ve seen a couple of Callinthen hot air balloons on the horizon, their bright jeweled awnings a taunt. They’re too far away to help me. The soldier glares at them as though his fiery gaze could rip through their fabric and bring them crashing to the ground. I don’t mention the aerial visitors, and neither does he.
He’s almost too big, his feet clumsy on the scree trail by the river. His footsteps send birds shrieking from the trees and voles scurrying from clumps of grass. Every time it happens he jumps, hand edging for his sword.
The third time, he turns on me.
“What?”
Stars, I hope I wasn’t smirking.
“Nothing,” I say in a small voice. “Sorry.”
He grunts. I’m getting heartily sick of that inscrutable expression. It’s like looking at a granite rock face.
We walk on. Unlike his, my footsteps blend into the rhythm of nature. This place is in my blood. And it’s too cold for him out here. I notice him shiver at times, hunching those massive shoulders against the biting wind.
I wonder if he has a plan for nightfall.
As we walk I discreetly test the ropes that tie my hands, scrunching my fingers
“I have to ask,” he says. “What’s your plan if you manage to free yourself? Fight me?”
I was thinking more like slipping into the undergrowth and running for my life. But his arrogance makes me forget my fear. Sudden anger surges through me. I crane my neck to look him in the eye.
“Maybe.”
He laughs out loud. It’s cheerier than I expected, and warm, reminding me of the taverns of Rhennes before the war. Before my people were no longer welcome.
“You have spirit.” He strides on. “If no sense,” he adds, leaving me wondering whether to accept the compliment or the insult.
Chapter 2
Aaron
The soldier tires before I do. I notice it with a stab of vicious satisfaction.
“We should stop for the night,” I say.
He favors me with a thunderous scowl. “I’m not tired yet.”
I remember what he said. We do not discuss.
“I didn’t say you were. But it’s almost dusk.”
I’m not faking my anxiety. The soldier obviously has no idea how treacherous nighttime can be on the steppes. His admittedly impressive muscles will be no use against the cold that winds its way around your bones, constrictor-like, and squeezes the life out of you. Already, the breeze has taken on a freezing edge. Angry clouds scud across a graying sky. More sensible than us, birds have retreated for the night. Now bats skirl above us, their cries echoing around the low hills that divide us from Rhennes. The hot air balloons have disappeared.
“I had planned to walk until dark,” the soldier says.
Surprised, I stop so quickly I almost stumble. He catches me before I fall.
“Careful,” he says softly.
The wind whips around us, making me shiver. He pulls my hood over my head. I can’t help noticing that he has nice hands. Elegantly-shaped nails, well trimmed. Powerful but gentle-looking palms, like he’s mindful of his strength advantage over most.
And… he’s still holding the hood. Am I imagining it, or is he fussing over the fur almost tenderly? But that’s crazy. He doesn’t seem the type to take notice of strangers, especially not ones like me. Small, insignificant. Unmartial.
He clears his throat and steps back.
“What’s so wrong with walking until dark?” he demands. His voice is rough and gravelly again.
I decide to be diplomatic. I have to remember that no matter how much it chafes, he’s the boss. For now.
“We need to find shelter,” I say. “The temperature is going to drop much lower than you expect.”
He glances around, uncertain, most likely wondering if I’m planning some kind of escape scheme. Then a wolf howls from somewhere not too far away, and he looks apprehensive for the first time.
“I know a place,” I suggest tentatively.
I take him to the nearest cave I know, a nook that barely reaches a few feet back into the rocky hillside. Once we’re inside, he strikes a match and lights a candle from his cavernous knapsack. After glancing around, he gives me an unimpressed look.
“You call this a cave?”
“Not really,” I admit. “But it’s too late to find anywhere better. You should’ve known to look for shelter earlier.”
He looms over me. I’ve gone too far—he’s tired, hungry, out of his natural habitat. Not in the mood for my barbs. His scars dance in the candlelight as I brace myself for a strike. But then his expression relaxes, and he turns away. I let out my breath, resolving not to provoke him again. I have to remember that soldiers have quick tempers, and are used to stamping out any annoyance with their fists.
He flops down on a flattish rock. I sit beside him, exhausted, resting my tied hands awkwardly in my lap. Humiliation settles over me. I feel like a piece of his property. I guess this is what it feels like to be a prisoner of war. The unfairness rankles as much as the dread. My people don’t even fight against Rhennes. We don’t fight, period. But it’s true that we’re technically on Callinth’s side in this pointless war that’s been going on as long as anyone can remember.
“I have never seen a landscape quite like these steppes,” the soldier remarks. “So vast and empty.”
I shrug. “Only if you’re not used to it.”
“Maybe,” he says, serenely unconvinced.
From his knapsack, he produces black pepper bread and rabbit meat. So he is a thief: he stole my lunch. Asshole.
He bites in, chewing with satisfaction, glinting a gold tooth. The nourishing scent of food drives me half-crazy with hunger, but I look away. I refuse to ask for any. A tiny symbol of pride, most of which has been left under the tree where he found me like a sitting duck.
“Aren’t you hungry?” the soldier asks.
“I thought you said you don’t taunt your prisoners.”
“I’m not.” His voice is soft. “This bread is very good. Did you bake it?”
If this isn’t taunting, what is it? He must know I’m starving.
“My brother,” I say. “He’s the best baker in my group.”
“How many of you are there?”
“About twenty-five.”
He looks curious. “All family?”
I shift my weight impatiently. What does he care how I live? Thanks to him, there’s no telling when I’ll see my family again. But I refuse to cry in front of him.
I blink, hard.
“Family and friends,” I say.
“Sounds nice. I’ve barely seen my family since I was twelve years old.”
I twist to look at him better; in the dim candlelight, his serious eyes are faraway. “How come?”
“I was sent to join the army.”
I can’t think of an answer to that. I just sit here, willing my stomach not to rumble.
“I’m going to untie you now,” he says suddenly. He looks straight at me, his gaze sharp again. “My orders are to kill any prisoner who tries to escape. I wouldn’t consider it murder. I wouldn’t waste a moment on guilt. Do you understand me?”
It’s no empty threat. The Rhennian army is legendary, carving its way across the globe like a knife through soft cheese. And this man looks like he’s been with them every step of the way. I take in his mountainous shoulders, his fists, the weapons belt, and realize how childish I was earlier when I thought of fighting him.
“I understand,” I whisper.
He looks at me with another expression that I can’t read. Before I have time to wonder anymore, he grabs one of the knives from his belt. He’s careful. He doesn’t touch my skin as he cuts and peels away the ropes. But my wrists are red and raw from chafing. I don’t want to show him how much they hurt. He hands me the other half of my rabbit meat, my brother’s bread. I shovel the food into my mouth, hands numb and clumsy.
“Thank you,” I say awkwardly.
He shrugs, even more awkwardly.
“No need. It’s your own food.” He looks at me for a moment, seeming uncertain. “It was uncouth of me to eat first. I wouldn’t usually do so, but I had to keep my guard up.”
He was afraid I would attack him? Does he think I have a death wish?
“I… I won’t try anything,” I mutter, feeling foolish.
“Then we’ll have no problems. You’ve been extremely calm and reasonable so far. I appreciate your civility, given the…circumstances.”
“And I appreciate yours,” I say with real gratitude.
He gives me a nod of understanding, than takes a smaller canteen from his pack. When he unstops it, the sharp scent of alcohol overpowers the dank cave air.
“Give me your hands,” he says. “I must clean your wounds.”
I wince as the searing liquid flows over my wrists. Smells like agram, a cheap liquor brewed in the backstreets of Rhennes. I would’ve expected him to drink better. He downs a slug and shakes his head: agram kicks like a mule. Then he holds the bottle out to me. I decline, wondering at his chivalrous manners.
He takes some clean bandages from his knapsack and wraps them around my wrists. Suddenly his thick, flat fingers are as tender as a healer’s. His features settle into solicitous concentration. I try not to stare. Apart from the scars, his skin is smooth and clear. His light touch on my forearms makes me feel a little flushed.
I think he feels it too. I can tell by the way he resolutely avoids looking in my eyes.
