Samantha did not go quietly. She had tried to maintain the mental distance she had found earlier, but the moment the guards had lead her naked into the courtyard, and she had seen the so-called altar she was going to be chained to, she panicked. Telling herself over and over that she was merely a tool, and that the crowd of men who were packed within the surrounding loggia were only interested in Cam's performance, had lost it's power to calm her.
She didn't have a chance of escape, but she fought anyway, and the guards were forced to use the magnetic manacle controls, locking her wrists together so they could pull her bodily into the courtyard. But even then, she kicked and wriggled and tried to make it as difficult for them as possible. Until the guards dragged her past the rope enclosure within which the Captain of the Guard and the Royal Vizier stood on either side of the King.
The King glanced at her and, for a brief moment, they made eye contact. Without thinking, she stopped struggling and fell to her hands and knees. "Your Majesty, please!" she begged him, hating herself for doing it but willing to swallow her pride if it roused his sympathy. "Use another slave! I won't give you any more trouble, I swear!"
But the King simply turned away, ignoring her as though she did not exist, and the guards grabbed her upper arms and yanked her to her feet again. Not taking any more chances, they decided to carry her the rest of the way and, stunned by the King's callous indifference, Samantha didn't realize what was happening until she felt the cool, hard stone of the altar against her back.
"No!" she shouted, sitting up and pushing violently away from the guards. But it was no use. With an arm around her waist like a vise, one of the guards shoved her forcefully down onto her back and her head hit the stone altar with a hollow thud.
Pain, like a burst of light, exploded in her brain and the edges of her vision darkened as the courtyard lurched around her in a lopsided circle. Her head reeling and feeling suddenly nauseous, she was unaware of her arms being stretched over her head as they locked each of her wrist manacles to the chains at the top of the altar.
The cool rush of air between her thighs as they forced her legs apart instantly revived her, however, and she managed to get one last kick in before they bent her legs over the side of the altar and locked each of her ankle manacles in place. With the sound of the double click of the locks, the rest of the guards let go of her and stepped back. Immediately, she heaved with all her might against the restraints and gasped when spikes of pain shot up her legs and down her arms.
She was going nowhere. Her joints and bones would break before the chains and manacles that held her limbs firmly in place. Completely immobile, her hips perched on the edge of the altar, her legs spread wide open, she could no longer fight what was going to happen. So she closed her eyes and simply breathed, in and out, in and out, her breathing growing deeper, slower with each passing moment. With each passing moment, wondering when The Challenge would begin. With each passing moment, feeling her anxiety build upon itself.
Slowly becoming aware of the dozens of conversations going on all around her, she tried to hear what was being said, but there were too many male voices talking at once for anything to make sense.
"... Cambion will..."
"... easily by midnight..."
"... hasn't been, but the game..."
"... Security Force will issue..."
"... I do not..."
"... confident that..."
And then the dull roar of the men's conversations suddenly hushed, and she knew that Cam had finally walked into the courtyard.
She squeezed her eyes shut even tighter, fighting the urge to lift her head and look at him, to plead with him not to go through with the barbaric ritual, but also to see his face, his eyes, to know what he was thinking and what he intended to do.
What was he going to do? She had adamantly avoided that question, not wanting to dwell on the reality of what was going to happen, but now it pounded insistently through her brain, demanding an answer. Would he touch her at all before he began fucking her? Would he be gentle? Forceful? Impersonal? Would he finish quickly, or would it take him a while? Was he even aroused? Would it hurt?
It had been so long for her. But he didn't know that. He didn't know that there had only ever been one man in her life. He didn't understand how wrong, how demeaning to Fletcher's memory, it was that he of all men should be the next one to... to...
A scream of rage and frustration reverberated silently through Samantha's head. She couldn't even think it! It was going to happen to her, very soon, and she couldn't even say the words to herself!
She felt tears sting her eyes and she willed herself back into control. She concentrated on her breathing again. She concentrated on relaxing her body, feeling her back sink into the impervious stone of the altar, feeling her wrists and ankles melt into the unyielding metal of the manacles. She concentrated on projecting her mind above her body, above the courtyard, above the crowd of men and the dense jungle and the planet itself. She was flying through the stars. Flying toward her favorite place. The lights and shapes of the Firestorm Nebula moving in a dance of color, like flame, like life. She concentrated, concentrated...
The electric shock of contact, bare skin against bare skin, Cam's hand, warm and gentle, touching her thigh, sent her crashing back to reality. Unable to stop herself, she cried out and jerked instinctively away, although she knew there was nowhere to go and the hard movement sent spikes of pain up her shins again.
Her eyes flew open, suddenly needing to look at him, to see what was happening, needing to know, to be prepared. Startled as always by how extraordinarily handsome he was, her gaze locked with his and the crowd of men surrounding the courtyard faded into the periphery of her consciousness, almost as if her mind really had been catapulted to another world, one where only she and Cam existed.
He stood between her legs and stared at her with tormented eyes, emotions flitting openly across his features so quickly that she could barely read them. Embarrassment, anger, guilt, compassion. Was he going to change his mind? But then she saw the steely glint of determination in his eyes, and the desire.
Her heart hammering in her chest, she lowered her gaze and realized he was as naked as she was. In a flash, she registered the image of the sculpted muscles of his chest and abdomen, the dusting of hair on his lower arms, the smooth skin of his stomach, the engorged shaft and bulbous head of his penis, standing up along his belly. Unbidden and unwanted, the languid pulse of arousal began to flow thickly through her veins once again.
Her gaze shot back up to his. She was suddenly and genuinely afraid now. Not of what he was going to do. Not of the pain. Not of the humiliation. She was afraid of her response. His sheer beauty alone had the power to make her weak. She had already proven that she had no self control where he was concerned. Her face burned as she remembered her response to his touch earlier that afternoon. And, in a moment of stunning truthfulness with herself, she finally admitted that she wanted him. She wanted him desperately! She wanted this—this whole repulsive, demeaning ritual—to force her to experience the kind of pleasure that she could never consciously allow herself to experience, with him, the man who had ruined Fletcher.
A wave of shame crashed over her, more powerful than anything the crowd of men, avidly watching, could ever inflict upon her. Even so, the shame was intermingled with a flutter of terrible excitement. She shook her head stubbornly, trying with all her might to refuse the desire.
Taking the final step closer to her, Cam slid his palm further up her leg and placed his other hand on the curve of her waist. As his hips touched her inner thighs, the hard length of his erection nestled against her sex and she shuddered with the pleasure of it, overcome, feeling weak-willed and helpless, feeling alive, her every sense painfully heightened.
She was on fire with shame and arousal. She wanted to beg him to stop. She wanted to cry out that she couldn't survive this, that if he went any further, she would be destroyed. She wanted to weep for the loss of her self-respect, and for the anguish in his gaze as he continued to stare at her.
"Samantha," he said her name softly, his voice breaking with emotion. "Close your eyes."
She quickly obeyed, not wanting him to see her shameful desire, and the tears that filled her eyes overflowed her lashes and slid down her temples.
She tried very hard to put her mind elsewhere. She focused on the red haze behind her eye lids. She could see the imprint of Cam's silhouette in her mind's eye. She focused on the musky stench of the oil covering her body, the sweet green fragrance of the overhanging vegetation, the wet earthiness of the jungle floor. She could smell the burnt sugar scent of Cam's sun warmed skin. She focused on the sounds of the men around her, the scuffing noises and the whisper of clothing as they moved, the intermittent laughter, the low rumble of conversation. She could hear Cam breathing, shallow and fast.
