Page 36 of Prize of the Warlord
With a jangling click, the manacles snap shut around my wrists. I’m chained to the post, my hands stretched high above my head.
“I don’t think this is what the Warlord meant when he said to take me to his lodge,” I falter.
“Didn’t he tie you up during your journey?” Her eyes pierce mine.
“He did, but—” But he also curled up naked with me, and touched me…
“I wonder if I should chain your ankles too.” She cocks her head aside, surveying me. Then she smirks, apparently deciding I’m not worth the extra effort.
Without another word, she leaves me there. No food, no fire, no rest, no chance to wash or change my clothes. At least I relieved myself shortly before we arrived in the village.
Standing against a post with my hands above my head is a new kind of torture. The cuffs are too tight to slip out of, and the chain is so short that my entire torso is pulled taut.
I’m not sure how long I stand there in the dark. My only source of light is the glow from the front room’s fireplace, and the slivers of sun leaking through the cracks of the window shutters. But after a while the fire burns low, and the sunlight fades.
I’m tempted to cry out, but who in this village would come to my aid? I’m a prisoner, as the woman said—the daughter of a nation these people hate. At least there’s a roof over my head, and a little warmth flowing through the open door from the front room.
But my arms are tired, and my whole body aches to lie down instead of being stretched upright.
At long last, the door of the lodge scrapes and thunks, and a pair of boots clomps across the wooden floor. There’s a pause, and a heavy sigh. Then more steps, and a deep voice calls softly, “Mouse? Where are you hiding?”
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When the Warlord calls me, a shiver runs over my body. “In here,” I answer. My voice is raspy, my throat parched.
His heavy steps approach the doorway, and he appears, a massive outline against the dim fire-glow. “Mouse? Why are you in here?”
“Your friend decided this was the appropriate spot for a prisoner of war,” I retort.
He doesn’t rush to my aid and unchain me immediately. Instead he trudges back into the front room, stirs up the fire, and uses tongs to bring one of the burning logs from the big fireplace to the small one in the storage room where I’m standing. Unhurried, he tends to the second fire, feeding it with kindling until it blazes, lighting me up in all my dejected misery.
Then he steps in front of me, stroking his blond scruff with his fingers. “She’s right. This is the place for a captive.”
“But I’m exhausted,” I whimper. “Please, just let me lie down. You can chain my ankle like you did before.”
“I prefer this.” There’s a spark in his eye, something that I might call mischief in anyone else. But the Warlord doesn’t do mischief. “I like seeing my prize displayed for me.” His eyes drift purposely lower, to my breasts, which are pushed out further than usual thanks to my position.
“You disgusting barbarian,” I hiss.
“Barbarian?” He lifts an eyebrow. “A harsh word, mouse.”
“Fitting, in your case.”
He steps nearer, reaching out and unfastening my cloak. He removes it, along with the scarf and furs I’ve been wearing. The torn neckline of my shirt sags, exposing the tops of my breasts and the scratches from the ice-wyrm's teeth.
The Warlord traces the perimeter of the bite mark with a fingertip, then notches his forefinger into the top edge of my leather corset, right between my breasts. “I met with some of the other warlords. Two of them believe I should kill you, and send your head back as a message to your people, and to your future husband.”
I draw a ragged inhale, conscious of the swell of my breasts against the corset edge. The Warlord watches my chest move, and his tongue traces his lips.
Then his teeth clench, and he removes his finger from the corset. He grips one of his knives and whips it out, turning it back and forth so the blade catches the firelight. It’s a beautiful weapon, imprinted with the runes of his people’s language.
“Are you going to kill me?” I whisper.
“After the trouble I’ve had bringing you all this way alive?” He sets the tip of the knife under my right ear and draws a slow, grazing line just under my jaw, without ever breaking my skin. “You know how I feel about wasting my time, mouse.”
I’m trembling, but there’s a slow warmth suffusing my body, too. I press my thighs together, drawing in a deeper breath to make my chest swell again. When the Warlord glances down, I smile. For some reason, limited though my curves may be, he can’t resist looking at them.
“It wouldn’t take much to cut through this tiny neck of yours.” The knife traces down the slant of my throat. When the Warlord meets my eyes, I blink slowly at him and moisten my lips with my tongue.
