Claimed for their Pleasure by L.V. Lane

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Gage

EVENING IS CLOSING in as I toss the reins of my horse to a stable lad. Together with a dozen warriors, I have been patrolling after some sheep went missing. We didn’t find the culprits, more’s the pity. We are still licking our wounds, clearing the mess we have made, repairing, and recuperating. Although every time I leave for patrol and return, I feel the sense of community growing as folks work together to ready homes for winter and complete the harvesting. Our grain stocks are reasonable, and the orchard yielded a bumper crop of apples, so we won’t starve, at least.

The mated warriors head home to their families, while those unmated follow me up the steps to the great hall where servants bustle about fetching beer and warming stew. We are closing in on winter, and the great fire has been lit, emitting warmth and a cheery glow.

The dais where the king and queen chairs sit empty draws my attention. But I don’t linger on the unsettling notion that there will never be a queen to share it with me.

I know I need to put Jessa from my mind and find myself a woman and mate for the good of the clan.

Not yet. I do not need to do it yet.

The cat sprints over, darting in front of my feet and nearly tripping me up.

“Aye, look at how he has grown!” Simon says. “Have you named him yet?”

“He is a cat,” I say, scowling as I take the seat at the head of the table.

A server places a beer before me, which I accept with a nod of thanks.

“Well, I dare say your mate will pick a name for him in no time,” Simon says, lifting his beer in a salute. “Women like to think of them as pets.”

The other men laugh, sharing stories of pet naming and other nonsense.

The quiet conversations and good-humored banter around the table is nothing like the drunken revelry that happened all too regularly during my father’s reign. I would be happier if the number of men joining me was less because they had women and brats to go home to. They are rough men and warriors, but they are also good men. And I can tell from the wistfulness in their teasing that they would like nothing more than to have a mate or wife fussing over the naming of a pet cat.

The problem of the lack of women is one that never goes away, but I have been talking over some possibilities with Pete. Namely, the Orc slaver trains.

Ridding the lands of the Orc slavers is in everyone’s best interest. If we happen to collect a few of the Beta lasses the Orcs favor for their house servants, it would be a bonus. If those lasses should happen to want to make a home here with the brave warriors who liberated them, better yet.

There are many holes yet in this plan, but any dead Orc is a blessing for the clans.

I accept my bowl of stew with a nod of thanks, rip a hand-sized chunk of bread from the nearby platter, and tuck into my food.

In the weeks since the fateful night when I slayed my father, tentative alliances are forming. I am still no closer to Danon’s release. He is not yet dead, though, as I heard when I traveled to the Halket clan last week to begin the long negotiation. A dozen of our best-quality deer hides were accepted with a nod. That their king spoke to me at all, I consider it a positive sign.

I have also met with Jack and Fen of the Ralston clan on a few occasions. Theirs has been an easier undertaking. No one killed their former king for a start, and their leader, Jack, has time and maturity on his side. Not that I consider Eric a fool, but he is young and still grieving the loss of his late father.

I’m confident I can find a way to peace with the Halket given time. I tell myself that I can weather their treatment of Danon, and that if his fate is to join the Goddess, I can accept that, too.

The truth is, I don’t know if I can.

Maybe he is dead, and they are stringing me along?

I pause my eating to drink deeply from my beer.

No, I don’t believe that. Eric is plain talking and unafraid. The bastard would tell me to my face if Danon were already gone.

As I place the tankard back on the table, Mara quickly brings a jug to top it up. The lass has long been trying to catch my eye even before I became the clan king.

My heart is not in a quick tumble with a lass. Although it might help ease the rage I suffer knowing Brandon has claimed Jessa. Not even wedded the lass, no, he has claimed her as a shifter does, marking her throat for all to see. My temper flares every time I think of his mark on her flawless skin. The mutt is probably rutting her every chance he gets.

I know I would be.

The conversation washes over me. The servants clear the dinner plates and fetch more beers. I sup slowly. Tomorrow, I have been invited to join the Ralston clan for their annual feast.

I am yet undecided on whether to go. I know what happens at such feasts, the drinking and rutting in celebration to the Goddess.

Jessa will be there.

So too, Brandon.

It will be Jessa’s first year as a bonded woman. It seems likely she would honor the Goddess.

Rutting.

I should leave it well alone. Only a fool would go.

Can I bear to watch her being rutted by Brandon? Is it any worse than when I torment myself imagining it?

I swallow hard. I would take any pain to see her once again. Even watching her with the mutt would be better than not seeing her at all.

As the last two warriors finish their beer and take their leave, I stare after them.

Mara gathers their empty tankards. “Is there ought I can do for you, sire?”

My eyes regain focus as I turn to the pretty serving lass. Were I a sensible man, I would take her up on her offer—the lass is good with her mouth.

“Nay, lass,” I say. “Head on home.”

With a swift bob of her head, she follows the warriors out.

I frown. Where the fuck is the cat? Normally, he hangs around for scraps. The little furred beast is growing and has even caught a few mice. I might not have named the tiny bastard, but he sneaks onto my bed in the early hours of the morning when he has finished his hunting. When not on my bed, he loves basking before the fire.

I’m about to go and push the doors shut when the tiny scrap of ginger fur trots through. Turning, I stare after him.

“Little hellion,” I mutter, pushing the door shut. He is dragging a dead rat bigger than he is! “What the fuck are you going to do with that?” Thank fuck my bedding chamber door is shut so he can’t try to take it to my bed.

He comes to a stop before the fire, drops the rat, and proceeds to play-wrestle with it.

I take a seat at the table, where I can watch his macabre sport while finishing my beer.

The dead rat is tossed, bitten, growled over, and savaged with his small teeth. “It’s already dead,” I point out. He doesn’t appear to care. Finally, he tires of these antics and sets about chowing it down. Starting with the head… Why does he begin with the head? Why not the belly? Surely the belly is soft and gives easy access to nutrient-rich innards?

No, the cat eats the head. I am on the other side of the room, but I can still hear the crunching noises. I don’t consider myself a squeamish man, but I am nevertheless disturbed by my furred monster tucking into his feast.

The cat is small, the rat is massive, but he still manages to eat half of it before he’s done. Sated, he sits over his kill, using paws to clean the blood from around his mouth.

As I finish off my beer, he flops onto his side, belly proudly swollen.

Sighing, I go and pick up the half-rat by the tail and toss it out the door. Head lifting, the cat watches me with haughty disgust.

“Your belly is fit to burst,” I say. “You do not need more, you little heathen.”

Tired, I head for bed. I am barely settled when the fanged monster jumps onto the bed and makes a nest for himself by my side. “I guess you don’t need to go out hunting tonight.”

I don’t know what to do tomorrow, whether to go to the festival or not. It is the right thing to mend bridges. It is the worst thing to mend bridges if I go into a fucking rampage, beat the shit out of Brandon, and steal his mate away.

I sigh.

I can do this. I can see Jessa happy with Brandon and then let my anger go. I am not my fucking father. I have a clan and responsibilities to think of.

But as I close my eyes, a familiar dream plays out.

Jessa underneath me, face flushed, mouth parted on groans of pleasure as I rut her roughly.

The following day when I rise, the remainder of the dead rat is being tossed around the floor. “You are a black-hearted heathen,” I say.

Pete raises a brow as he enters the hall and sees a cat with the rat. “What happened to the top half?” he asks, indicating my tiny killer and his prey.

“Aye,” I say. “He ate the other half last night. Now, he’s slaying the corpse again. You did not warn me they were such macabre beasts.”

Pete chuckles. “Told you he would make a good mouser. One less rat in the stores.”

Then he nudges his head at me. “Are you heading for the Ralston clan today?”

“Aye,” I agree.

“You are worried,” he surmises. My interest in Jessa is of no surprise to anyone close to me. I’m sure it is the talk of the fucking clan after I killed my father because he’d threatened to search for Jessa that fateful night.

“Aye,” I say.

“Some lasses need more than one mate,” he says. “Have you considered the civilized approach? I was there that night, remember. I saw the way she looked at you.”

I huff out a breath. At times, I convince myself her feelings toward me are a figment of my imagination. “We have barely started negotiations,” I say. “There is yet more bridging needed… Years of fucking bridging. And even so, the two mates would need to tolerate each other with a mind to becoming brothers through bonding. Can you see me and the mutt forming a bond?”

His lips tug up. “No, but if you want the lass, that is the only way. I share a mate. In this clan and with so few womenfolk, it is more common than most clans. There are some that have gone on to take a third mate. It is rarely easy unless the men are firm friends. It is more natural for an Alpha to take two Beta mates. But you learn to accept, and given enough time, you even come to enjoy it. A Beta will respond to Alpha pheromones. It makes them lustier than they might have been wedded to a Beta male. Or so I have heard from Beta males who have gone on to share their partner with an Alpha. It might even be a preferred coupling, Alpha and Beta male with a Beta lass. Never thought I would say this, but I enjoy watching her with Karl. I enjoy dominating them both.”

I suck a breath in. I’d like to dominate Brandon and put the cocky fucker in his place. Watching him rut Jessa? Not so much.

“Do you believe in the Goddess?” I ask.

“For certain,” Pete replies.

I wrestle with what happened in the woods when I was gravely wounded, possibly on the path toward death.

“I met her in the woods,” I say. “It was after I had battled with the Orc. My ribs were busted, and I was coughing up blood. My chest was black with bruises.”

There is a brief widening of Pete’s eyes before his brows tug together in a frown.

“Injuries like that take many weeks to recover from, if you recover at all. Jessa found me sitting on my ass by the river, pain near debilitating me. It makes no sense how it happened. But she healed me with nothing more than some mashed root and herbs. She healed me with a kiss. We agreed to keep the matter private. And who would believe us, either way? I asked her if it had happened before. She said it had not. She healed me from injuries enough to put a man in the ground. Why would the Goddess, through Jessa, heal me if we were not meant to be?”

“The work of the Goddess,” he agrees. “What will you do?”

He doesn’t question the truth of it nor dismiss what this means.

“I don’t want to start a fucking war,” I say.

“Aye, we are barely recovering from the last. Whatever comes next is by the Goddess’ design, and she is as cruel as she is gracious. I was surprised when you mentioned the invite. But in this new light, I cannot help but see the Her hand at play. You need to go and let whatever will be, play out.”

I nod. I have realized this myself the more we have talked. Impatient, I am ready to see Jessa, who is now with Brandon, even though it will be like a fucking knife in the chest.