Gameboard of the Gods (Age of X #1)(59)
Author: Richelle Mead

“We didn’t set any round limits. We should’ve had someone timing this,” he said. A faint sheen of sweat could be seen on his forehead.

He was right about the time. Matches were usually only a couple of minutes long at most. Neither of them had thought about that when starting. They’d just wanted to get right to it. She had no idea how much time had passed and didn’t care.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Maybe you’ve got trouble going a long time after all.”

“Darling, I can go as long as—shit!”

Mae’s stick made contact with his abdomen. Apparently, all it took was one dig about his sexual prowess to throw him off. Typical. She expected some kind of reaction from the crowd but heard nothing. That was when she noticed something that brought her to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, still in his attack stance but not advancing.

“They’re gone,” she said in disbelief.

He looked at where she nodded, his face mirroring her astonishment. The prætorians, bored, had all gone back to their drinking and bantering on the other side of the room. If he really did share a similar background in canne, Mae suspected that he too was used to audiences composed of enthralled fans who could appreciate the subtleties of the sport. Porfirio’s lips curled in contempt.

“Children. All of them. Oh, well.” And with speed that Mae didn’t anticipate, Porfirio lunged forward and tapped her on the calf—twice. “Match.” He tossed his stick onto the floor.

“Hey,” she exclaimed. “That’s not fair at—ahh!”

He picked her up bodily and literally threw her over his shoulder. “I had more points. Ergo, I win. Let’s go home.”

She pounded on his back as he effortlessly carried her out of the hall like some sort of war prize. Both knew she was fully capable of freeing herself, or at least doing serious damage—which would’ve probably restored their audience—but she held back and contented herself with verbal protests and Finnish insults. Once they were outside in the misty night, she finally broke his hold and pushed herself away, settling onto her own two feet.

“You did not win,” she told him vehemently, fists clenched at her sides. “We didn’t establish round lengths or ever discuss—”

Porfirio pulled her to him, his hand sliding up the back of her neck and tangling up in her hair. She felt his lips crush hers in a kiss of victory, making liquid fire ooze through her body. His mouth searched hers, hungry and demanding, and she responded in kind, her body straining toward his, wanting to feel those muscles against hers, those hands on her skin. When he at last pulled back, leaving them both breathless, he asked, “Look, are we going to do this the hard way or the easy way?”

Mae swallowed, still flushed and dizzy from the kiss as adrenaline and endorphins spiked within her. “I guess it depends on what you mean by ‘hard.’”

Which was how she ended up in his bed after all—without being forcefully carried there. It was the kind of aggressive, backbreaking sex that prætorians thrived on, and as she stretched out in the tangle of sheets afterward, she experienced a rare moment of exhaustion. It wouldn’t last, and if a squad of assassins suddenly burst through the bedroom door, her implant would have helped her muscles and heart get the energy they needed to contend with danger. But even prætorians needed to rest sometimes, and it was a nice feeling to lie there with all of her muscles pleasantly worn out. It would’ve been better still to sleep. Post-sex was one of the few times she missed sleep. It seemed like a natural conclusion to the act of passion, being able to drift off in a lover’s arms.

There was no sleep for either of them, though Mae stayed in bed while he showered. When he returned, he tossed something on the bed that made her sit up in alarm. For half a second, she thought he’d thrown some animal at her. Then she recognized his ponytail.

“Your hair,” she said in amazement, peering up at him. He looked as though he’d simply lopped it off in one cut. The ends of his remaining hair were uneven, but he was still dazzling to behold. “You didn’t have to do that. Or you should’ve at least gotten it done properly.”

He waved it off. “A deal’s a deal. I didn’t win. Well, not in canne. You want to keep it as a trophy?”

She wrinkled her nose. “That’s actually pretty creepy. I was just joking about keeping it on my dresser.”

“Good to know.” To her amazement, he unceremoniously threw the hair away and then sat back down beside her in bed. “But now you don’t have anything to remember me by.”

“Do I need something?” She drew him toward her and felt her pulse start to quicken again. “You aren’t going to return my calls?”

He smiled and ran his lips along her neck. “Were you going to call?”

“Well…” She allowed him to ease her back down on the bed. “I might need another canne warm-up. You know, to keep me in practice before a real match.”

“Well, then, for that, you can call me anytime.”

CHAPTER 17

THE MOST DANGEROUS MAN IN THE REPUBLIC

The Nipponese were pleasantly deferential when Justin and his entourage showed up. Reactions to servitor visits varied widely, and he and Mae had received lukewarm ones at the previous three grants they’d visited. A lot of castals resented federal interference, even if it was for their own good. Servitors especially made them nervous, because if a servitor found a dangerous religious group on the grant, he or she could pretty much call in a military invasion. None of them wanted that. The relationship between the Gemman government and “the patriarchies,” as they called themselves, was tenuous enough. The fledgling RUNA, fearing the kind of separatism and resistance to authority that had sparked Mephistopheles’s creation, had had to be careful in allowing its wealthy supporters the ethnic solidarity they’d requested. Patricians had been exempted from the mandates, at their own risk of Mephistopheles and Cain, and given their own land—with very strict regulations.

The entrance to the Nipponese land grant resembled that of all the other grants: a gated road with a checkpoint and a sign welcoming others in both English and the caste’s native language. The guards were lightly armed, per the agreement with the government. The RUNA’s flag was the only ornamentation since no unique castal symbol was allowed either.

Justin’s contact inside was an older police officer who went by his Japanese name: Hiroshi. He didn’t fall all over himself the way the gate security had, but it was clear he was floored at the idea of hosting a servitor and prætorian in his jurisdiction.