The Cherished One by Carolyn Faulkner Read Free Book Online Page A

it was covered in moss and lichen and it, as well as all of the other greenery in the house, was a wonderful background for her burnished red mass of hair. 
    Max arranged her so that she was facing him, watching her carefully the entire time.  She was smaller than he was, barely reaching his nipple when they stood together, which was just about right.  He couldn’t say that what she wore did much for him, but then most of today’s fashions did little for him.  He preferred women to look like women, and as far as he was concerned, they’d all been trying to look like men since the mid sixties.  At least they were no longer wearing shoulder pads, as in the eighties.  The thought made him shudder. It had been like trying to cozy up to a linebacker.
    Her jeans were worn and butter soft against her skin, and he made short work of them, dropping them to her ankles merely by unbuttoning the top button.  Max leaned forward, whispering into her ear, “Someone’s getting a bit thin for her clothes,” and thoroughly enjoying what he imagined was a full body blush that managed to look enchanting on her even though it clashed with her hair.
    Those clear green eyes seemed to dart everywhere instead of settling where he wanted them, on his dark black ones, until his finger tipped her chin so that she had to look at him.  Not for long, though.  He didn’t want to mesmerize her, but rather hold her attention just enough to dip his eager wick into her soul.  But he offered no comfort when he could have.  On the contrary, he wanted her to know fear, just as Musette had known fear at Dag’s hands, his immortal enemy, and he refused to admit to himself that she had already become something more – something much more – to him.
    He should have killed her on sight and left her body where he knew Dag would find it, lifeless and cold.  He should have stripped her naked and raped her   Better yet, he should have taken her to where Dag was and killed her in front of him, as he’d been forced to watch Dag kill Musette.
    But he found he could do none of these things.  He was getting soft in his old age.  The blood lust that had boiled through his veins hundreds of years ago had cooled, and it was Musette’s loss that had brought that about.  He’d had revenge on his mind for so long, biding his time, waiting, watching, forsaking his own life, such as it was to follow Dag’s, that now he had what he’d wanted for so long in his hands, he couldn’t quite bring himself to commit all of the heinous acts he’d practically masturbated over for centuries.
    How could he compound the loss of one guiltless, beautiful soul with another?  When had he developed such an annoying thing as a conscience?
    Still, her actions did warrant correction, and he certainly did agree with Dag’s tactics, if he did think he went a bit easy on the girl.  She was small, yes, but she was tougher than the Viking had given her credit for.
    Max found himself staring at the tiny mauve scraps of what passed for panties nowadays, an almost smile playing about his lips.  Why did they even bother?  Those joined her jeans at her feet.  He glanced down and was surprised to see that her mons was as nude as a baby’s.
    “Do you shave yourself, or did Dag do it for you?” he asked casually, not thinking that the question would warrant defiance.
    But Fawna was completely indignant.  “That’s none of your business!”
    He could, of course, simply read her mind for the answer, but there was no fun in that.  He wanted to hear answers from her lips.  It was a matter of control – intimidation, yes, but also titillation.  His, and hers, he suspected, to some extent.
    Fawna found herself quickly bent over the back of the olive green circular couch, feet dangling uselessly, nowhere near the floor, her bottom smacked hard and quickly enough that she couldn’t draw a breath until he stopped swatting her, about ten strokes later.  His strokes were