Claimed for their Pleasure by L.V. Lane

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Gage

“WHAT IS THAT?” I ask, frowning at the cloth-covered basket Pete has placed upon the great oak table of the hall.

Beyond the open double doors, the villagers return in a rag-tag procession, complete with goats, chickens, and… a herd of pigs. The village is decimated. Half the buildings will need substantial repairs. While others are ruined and will need to be torn down.

I dare say we are less in number now and will not need so many homes.

“A kitten,” Pete says. “Last of the litter. The rest have been homed.”

“And this is the pressing issue of the moment?” I ask, wondering if Pete has taken a blow to the head.

“My mate gave it to me,” he says, face coloring even as he scowls. “You know the ways of womenfolk at times. She thought it might give you something to…” he trails off under my censorious glare. “Its mother is a good mouser. It’ll keep the rats and mice at bay.”

Now I am a fucking charity case. The womenfolk will be fussing over me and seeking to find me a mate before the stain of my father’s blood can be washed away.

A small white paw pokes out from under the cloth, and tiny claws rake the top of the basket.

I sigh and nudge my head toward the basket in indication for Pete to show me. “Won’t it run off?”

Why am I discussing this?

“Not once it bonds to you.” Grinning, he reaches in to pull out a scrap of ginger fur.

Ginger,of all the fucking colors. The one white paw was there to throw me off the scent.

It makes a cute, squeaked mewling sound at being liberated from confinement.

“I dare say it wouldn’t hurt to have it around,” I say, motioning him to hand it over.

“What are you going to call it?” he asks.

“Cat,” I say, holding it up to eye level by the scruff of its neck. Its tiny mouth opens like a gate to emit another high, elongated squeak. I make the mistake of bringing it closer. The little paws shoot out, grasping my beard and throat with needle-sharp claws. “Fuck!”

I try to peel it off. It clings tighter. A few paces away, Pete emits a deep guffaw at my expense.

The demon-possessed fur-ball is having none of my attempts to remove it. The moment I stop trying to peel it off, it eases the claws and burrows into the crook of my neck with its head in my hair.

It purrs.

I find myself petting its silken fur. I am soothing it so I can take it off without losing skin, nothing more.

“It has bonded to you already,” Pete says, nodding his head approvingly. “Keep it inside for a few days. Put some sawdust in a box, and it will go in there.”

Great! Now I must make a place for it to shit!

A warrior stomping up the steps to enter the hall brings an end to the discussion. Simon does a double-take as he notices the small bundle of fur I’m petting like a fucking sap.

“He is bonding,” Pete says to Simon.

“Aye,” Simon says, giving me a similar approving nod. “Little mite has taken to you. My sister took two from the last litter. They have not had any bother from rodents since. Kids love ’em. Niece sleeps with ’em on her bed. Better than a guard dog.”

It is not sleeping on my fucking bed.

“Did you come here for a reason?” I ask.

“Aye, sire,” Simon says. “Rounded the last of them up. You said as you wished to talk to them.”

My new title is jolting. It will take some getting used to.

Wise to the tiny demon clinging to my neck, I peel its paws off first before putting it back into the basket. The cloth is heavy, but I can’t see that holding it for long. “I’ll see them now,” I say.

I put the basket in my bedding chamber, ensuring the shutter is secure before closing the door. This business will not take long. I’ll stop by the workshop on the way back and have a lad make a box with sawdust for it.

Turning back to the room, I find the two men waiting, expressions solemn. This is not a pleasant kind of business that I must tend to. We have been ripped asunder by my conflict with my father. Clansfolk, who were once neighbors, are now enemies depending upon how their loyalty fell.

Men are dead. Some have fled.

They will need to adapt to the change if they want to stay here.

We have retrieved most who fled, but I expect a few escaped in the chaos last night.

“Let’s go,” I say.

I find them in the hay barn that is yet empty at this time of year, thirty, maybe fifty men, some alone, some with women and children. I will not turn women and children away, but if their men cannot adjust, it is their choice whether to go or stay.

A hushed quiet falls over them as they notice my arrival.

“I know some of you think yourselves loyal to my father, and through him, Danon,” I say. “But Danon will never be king. Not without killing me, and he will never defeat me. So, you have a choice. You can go, or you can stay. But know that if you go and take to raiding, I’ll be the one who hunts you down, and your dead body will be making food for the crows when I string you up as a warning to others.”

“Know, too, if you stay and I hear any word of plotting, I’ll also cut you down and string you up. I won’t ask you questions. I won’t discuss it. You’ll be dead, and your family will be without a husband or mate.”

I don’t shy away from the words or the message that I must deliver. The clan needs to heal, and it can’t do that while any man is plotting revenge.

“I want Danon back. If I can negotiate for his release, I will. But he killed the Halket king, and our chances are small.”

“Danon would not do that!” a man at the back calls. “It is not his way.”

Danon has done many things that I do not believe to be his way under the direction of my late father. But I don’t point this out. This discussion is about whether they go or stay, and that is about them and me.

“That remains to be determined,” I say. “But Danon still won’t be the king even should by a miracle we bring him home because I am the fucking king. If he wants to dispute that, it’ll be between him and me as such a challenge should be.”

“I am not my father. I disagree with his ways. Winter is approaching—the time of year when Orcs raid. We need alliances, not war. Our chances of alliances are small, but they are better than they were when my father was still alive.”

“You have heard my words. Now, you must choose. Stay or go. I hope you will stay and help me to rebuild the Lyon clan.”

As I turn and leave the barn, I hear the murmurs of conversation. Warriors are on guard, and those within will not be allowed to leave until they decide.

“Anyone I need to worry about?” I ask Pete as we make our way to my home and hall.

“Aye, a few of them,” he says. “But I’m expecting them to leave. I’m also expecting them to get up to mischief, so I have a couple of shifters ready to follow them and make sure they quit the Lyon lands. If they hole up nearby with a mind to raiding, I’ll slit their throats myself. Got a family who’ll be safer under your watch. And not prepared to let worthless bastards threaten us again.”

We pass by a carpenter busy at work repairing a busted door. “Hey, Milt!” Pete calls out. “Can you make one of those sawdust boxes?”

“Who’s it for?” Milt asks, pausing his hammering.

Pete thumbs toward me.

Milt’s face splits in a grin. “The last one from the litter, I take it? The missus will be disappointed. She was hoping you wouldn’t find a home for it so we could have another one. I’ll get right on it as soon as I finish this door.”

What the fuck is happening to my life?

Today, I am a clan king.

Today, everyone is talking about the fact I have a cat.