"Anne Bishop - Black Jewels 00 - The Invisible Ring" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bishop Anne)

Nothing that had been done to him over the past nine years had hurt as
much as the harsh truth that he had brought this on himself. With one error
in judgment, the eighteen-year-old boy he had been, that young strutting
buck who had been so sure of himself, had sent him down this pain-filled
road. A road that would soon end in the brutality that waited for men in the
salt mines of Pruul. Over the past few days, while he had waited to be
brought to the slave auction, he had tried very hard to forgive that boy for
ignoring the uneasiness his friends had felt and the warnings the older
Warlords had given him when that witch had walked into the inn. He had tried
to forgive him for not looking beneath the surface, for not sensing the rot
that existed beneath the beautiful face and lush body, for grabbing that
musky bait with such enthusiasm. He had tried to forgive him for believing
the whispered words that had promised a forever filled with nighttime romps,
for being so caught up in the pleasure between his legs that he'd let her
put that gold ring around his cock because she'd poutingly told him about
all the naughty things she wanted to do with him and for him-but not until
he wore a Ring of Obedience because she needed a little control over his
passion. She'd played with him for a day before he learned just how cruel
the Ring of Obedience could be when it was used by someone who enjoyed
inflicting pain. Having been a pleasure slave for the past nine years, he
couldn't remember why he'd ever wanted to get into bed with a woman. And he
blamed that boy, bitterly. With the salt mines of Pruul waiting for him, oh,
yes, he blamed that boy. * * *
"What's a Red-Jeweled Warlord doing in this pen?" one of the slaves
whispered. "They don't usually put the likes of him down here."
Another slave spat. "Don't matter what Jewels a slave wears."
"True enough, but ... I remember seeing him before. I thought he was a
pleasure slave."
"He was," a third man answered, "until he became a Queen killer."
"A Queen killer!"
Queen killer. Queen killer.
Jared remained in the corner of the slave pen he had claimed for himself,
ignoring the whispers that swirled around him, pretending he didn't see the
way the other men avoided him. Even here, in the vilest slave pen, Blood
males who were now considered unmanageable for anything but the meanest
labor didn't want to be contaminated by a man who had a Queen's blood on his
hands. He understood that. When the blinding rage had faded enough for him
to see the bodies of the Queen and her Prince brother, he had been horrified
by what he'd done. His breath hitched as emotional pain ripped through him
again, threatening to tear him apart. One part of himself had been
horrified, that was true enough-the part that had learned the Warlord's code
of honor from his father, the part that had been raised to serve the distaff
gender. But another part, a savage part that he hadn't known existed, had
howled in triumph. The pain eased, again, while that wild stranger inside
him prowled the edges of his mind and heart. He didn't trust that stranger,
even feared its presence. It wasn't him. But he would use its savagery one
more time for just one reason: He wanted, needed, to get home just long
enough to see his mother and take back the words he'd had years to regret
saying. After that . . . There was no point thinking there would be anything