Captive by A.D. Robertson Page B

of our prisoner.”
    Setting his glass aside, Tristan glanced at Seamus. “Give us a minute.”
    The Guardian took the time to bare his canines at Lana as he passed her, but otherwise
     left without objection.
    When Seamus had closed the door, Lana shot up in the air. She circled the room twice,
     buffeting Tristan with gusts of wind from the punctuated flaps of her leathery wings.
    Tristan knew it was meant to be a show of power, to remind him that the succubus wasn’t
     to be trifled with. But the spectacle failed to impress Tristan. Lana could access
     powerful magics, but Tristan was still her master. She posed no real threat to him.
     She could, however, be a terrible nuisance and that was what Tristan aimed to avoid.
    When Lana finally landed face-to-face with Tristan, she splayed her fingers across
     his chest, letting her long fingernails dig into his shirt.
    “Well?”
    “I’ve decided to take a different tack with the Searcher,” Tristan told her calmly.
    “That much is obvious.” Lana sniffed with disdain. “What I want to know is, why? Are
     you really so emasculated that you can’t take what’s yours by right of conquest?”
    Tristan didn’t bother to reply, knowing her rampage wasn’t finished.
    Lana’s mouth hooked into a taunting smile. “Or perhaps you were too chilled after
     your midnight swim to perform? Did you need me to warm you up first?”
    Her hand darted out and grasped Tristan’s balls. He drew a hissing breath as his fingers
     clamped around her wrist, shoving her arm away.
    “Take care, Lana,” Tristan murmured, determined not to lose his temper.
    “You gave her a room instead of a cell,” Lana snarled. She tried to wrench her arm
     free of Tristan’s grasp, but he was stronger and didn’t relent.
    “I know.”
    “Why?” Lana’s fury turned to a whimper and Tristan let her go, convinced she wouldn’t
     physically assault him again.
    “Machiavelli, Sun Tzu.” Tristan picked up his scotch and took a leisurely swallow.
    Lana smirked at him. “Dead writers?”
    “Philosophers and tacticians,” Tristan answered. “Men who understood that wars are
     fought in the mind as much, if not more, than on the battlefield.”
    “You’re at war with that woman?” Lana scoffed.
    “She’s a Searcher,” Tristan replied coolly. “Of course I’m at war with her. But being
     that she’s here and disarmed, it offers a fine opportunity for a more nuanced attack.”
    “How so?” Lana tried to sound bored, but Tristan knew he’d piqued her interest.
    “By bringing her around to our way of thinking,” Tristan said.
    Derision filled Lana’s gaze. “You think you’ll convince Bosque to elevate a Searcher?
     You’re a fool.”
    Tristan answered her with a harsh laugh. “Of course not. I only propose to persuade
     our captive to join us, so that she’ll give us what we want. And when we have that,
     hard truths will be hers to deal with.”
    Lana stalked up to Tristan. He stayed perfectly still as she cupped his face and kissed
     him.
    “That is delicious,” she said breathlessly.
    Tristan waited until she’d backed off, then said, “I expected you’d appreciate the
     benefits of such an approach.”
    Lana nodded eagerly. “So will Owen. Her misery . . . just thinking about it makes
     me—”
    She stopped abruptly, glaring at him. “
You’ll
have to pull it off though.”
    “You don’t think I can?” Tristan peered at her over the rim of his glass.
    Lana eyed him for a minute. “Perhaps. I guess we’ll have to see.”
    “I guess we will.” Tristan returned her assessing gaze. “If you’d like to tip the
     odds in our favor, I could use your assistance.”
    “What do you need?” Lana asked.
    “Supplies,” Tristan answered with a smile. “Supplies of a very particular nature.”

8
    SARAH STARED OUT the narrow slit of a window, wondering if she should make every possible effort to
     escape. The window, obviously a notch in the wall designed for