Rapture by L.V. Lane
CHAPTER TEN
Jacob
WE TRAVEL THROUGHOUT the day, rocked and bounced about in the cage wagon. The warmth in the air is unpleasant after the frigid weather we experienced at Bleakness.
Winter makes a couple of half-hearted attempts to extract herself from my lap, but at a low growl followed by a purr, she soon settles down. Fairy, for all they are usually gregarious and full of life, are sensitive to stress.
Winter is neither fun nor social in the way of her kind. But she is still an Omega, and my instincts will not allow me to set her aside.
As dusk falls, our wagon trundles to a stop.
I feel like shit, I’m hungry, and I need to empty my bladder.
I’m contemplating peeing through the slats on the cage when the club brandishing overseers come to unlock the door.
My muscles coil as I rise to my feet, shoving Winter behind me.
The bastards don’t take any chances. Spike tipped poles are poked into the sides of the cage.
“We’ve orders to kill the Omega if you give us any trouble,” a thick necked, bald bastard holding a club says from the open cage door.
He looks like he’s waiting for an excuse to beat me with the club. His companion overseer bestows me a toothless smile. I have a feeling I’m the reason he is missing those front two teeth.
I think neither of them needs an excuse.
Still weak from the earlier fight, I don’t have a clear plan to get us out of this. There are too many of them, and they are wary after I killed some of their brethren.
I step forward slowly. “Whatever happens,” I say to Winter, “do not interfere.”
No sooner do I step down from the cage than they put a beating on me.
I curl up as best I can. There is nothing I can do to stop this. I can only endure and try and hold onto consciousness.
But there are too many, and they are determined.
I rouse to the feeling of cold metal wrapping around my throat—a slave collar. I’m too fucking broken to move. By the time I can drag myself up, they have also fitted one to Winter. She shakes violently, clutching the collar like her sheer will might rip it off. I spit out a gob of blood and stagger to my feet.
Bald bastard gives me a nasty grin, bloody club resting against his shoulder. “The master will see you now.”
Winter’s cheeks are damp with tears, although I doubt it will make her any more charitably inclined toward giving me her blood. And I need her blood or about a month’s rest to get over what has just been done to me for the second time today.
As we are escorted through the sprawling camp, I feel my skin crawl as orc eyes follow us while we pass between rapidly pitched tents.
My mind is fuzzy from the beating. I have to stop on the way to wherever the fuck we are being taken so I can throw up.
Eventually, we arrive at a tent twice the size of the rest. Two massive, green-skinned orcs, with braided hair, high, tufted ears, and curving tusks, stand on duty. With a nod to our overseers, the left-hand orc pushes the flap aside and enters. The second orc follows us inside.
The tent is plainly furnished, with a sturdy table directly opposite the entry. A pair of lamps hang from the ceiling and another on the table provide plenty of illumination for the biggest orc I have ever seen, who sits at the table. There is a little gray in his hair and weathered lines upon his face. His fine leather armor marks him as both important and a warrior. He is eating a very human meal of cold meat, cheese, and bread.
He studies us, chewing noisily on his meat, dark eyes intense.
To the right, a section has been separated by a curtain—a bedding area, I presume. The drapes are functional, the rough woven flooring beneath my feet the same.
At my side, Winter’s fear manifests in the tremble of her body. I want to touch her, to comfort her, to purr and draw her against me, but that is not for now. I wipe the blood dripping from my nose, but more trickles down.
“Blood Omega,” the orc says, endless eyes settling on Winter.
I want to put her behind me, to place myself between her and the threat. Yet there are so many threats, both inside this tent and the broader camp, that there is no way to keep her safe.
“You didn’t heal your slave well, so I assume you are not a higher Blood,” the orc concludes.
We don’t speak. My pain fuddled mind cannot quickly decide if his presumption that Winter is a lesser Blood is better or worse.
“The child likes you,” he says, leaning back in his sturdy chair and making it creak.
“Where is her mother?” Winter asks, the waver in her voice at odds with the demanding tone.
My beaten body rises as I anticipate them cuffing her for her impudence. I swing around, hauling her behind me, as I split my focus between the orc master and his two guards, who now level their spears at me.
The booming laughter of the seated orc has the guards lowering their weapons.
I blink and shake my head to try and clear the fog.
“Peace, warrior,” the seated orc says. “Your waspish little mistress may speak her mind.”
I relax a fraction, eyes shifting between the guards and the orc master. Winter’s hand rests against my back. It calms me enough to let some of the tension go. I still watch the guards warily as Winter comes to stand at my side.
“Her mother is dead. My warlord gave her to me. That is as much as you need to know,” the orc master says. “She has taken to you, has talked nonstop about you from the moment you crashed through the portal.”
“She belongs with her people,” Winter boldly states like she has some fucking power here.
The orc chuckles, a low, booming sound that I feel inside my chest.
“Her interest in you is the only reason you are not feeling the questioner’s tools.” His black gaze shifts to me. “You will fight for us, warrior.”
“I will not fucking fight for you,” I spit out.
Winter’s hand sliding into mine is shocking. Instinctively, I grasp the connection.
“You will fight,” the orc continues, tufted ears bolt upright. “Or your Blood mistress will be questioned while you are bound and forced to watch. Afterward, she will be handed over to my guards for their pleasure. An Omega, as frail as they appear, can endure much. I’m sure she will enjoy many years of fruitful service.”
I growl.
The great orc huffs out a rumbled breath. “You will fight for us. You have skills. In time, you will forget you had other masters and will assimilate with us. You have killed three good overseers and two orcs. You are indebted to me, warrior, and you will repay me. I will let you keep the little Blood Omega. The Blood Omega will care for the child.”
“Who are you fighting?” I grit out between clenched teeth.
“Does it matter?” he rumbles, lips curving in a smile that stretches around his tusks.
My hand clenches Winter’s. I must be hurting her, yet she does not so much as flinch.
“No,” I say. “It does not.”
“Good,” he says, going back to his dinner. “Take them back to their cage.”
Drained after the interrogation by the orc bastard, where we learned of our fate, it is all I can do to put one foot in front of the other as toothless and baldie escort us back to the cage. It’s dark enough that our escorts carry lanterns, but I feel Winter’s eyes upon me, sensitive like she cares about me.
She doesn’t care about me. I am a piece of meat that she uses to keep her safe. It rankles that the binding makes me worry for the cold bitch who barely gave me enough blood to heal the first beating and will doubtless be miserly again.
We are taken to the forest and told, “Go.”
I go without hesitation. My bladder is fit to burst. I feel sick. There is a red tinge to my urine that does not bode well.
Winter doesn’t hesitate either, so I can only assume she also needed to go.
After, we are taken back to the cart. It is only now that I realize it has been moved, or perhaps the camp has been set up around it while we were conversing with the orc master, for it is now surrounded by a sea of tents as orcs go about the business of preparing and eating food.
My skin crawls, and I swallow down the rage inside me that wants to try and fight them all.
As we clamber up into the cage, a couple of rags are tossed to us.
“Strip,” the toothless overseer commands with a sneer.
Spears are presented through the slats of the cart by additional men to ensure we comply.
I’m too fucking tired to care, so I get on with it. My leather armor is crusted to some of the wounds, and they open as I peel it off. Winter’s lips tremble as she turns her back on the men and removes her clothing with shaking hands. The toothless bastard leers at her through the bars of the cage. I promise myself that I’m going to choke the fucker before we escape this camp.
I toss my clothes at the bald bastard waiting at the open cage door. They want my boots as well, so I send those sailing out also. Naked, I snatch up the coarse pants and hitch them to my waist with the length of twine. I test the twine as I tie it, but it is weak enough to snap if I apply pressure. It won’t make much of a weapon.
By the time I am done, Winter is slipping a slave dress over her head and tossing her leathers and boots to the waiting overseer, who chuckles as he gathers them up.
A waterskin and bowl of mash are dumped at the cage entrance, a rough blanket tossed in, and the door shut with an ominous rattle and a click of the lock. Another chain is looped around the door for good measure before the men all stalk off.
Without their lanterns, the darkness is mitigated only by the high moon and the nearby fires. Orcs have better night vision than humans, and the nearby soldiers don’t bother with lamps or lanterns.
The silence that follows is oppressive. They have stripped us of our clothing and dignity, placed collars around our necks, and here, we must wallow.
“I need blood,” I say.
Her eyes implore me, but I don’t have the energy to coddle or coax her into giving up her blood.
“If I die, you die.”
Averting her face, she offers me her wrist.
Her fucking wrist. Again.
I take it. Principles have no consequence when my body is in dire need.
Her wrist is tiny and fragile. She appears unnaturally small and vulnerable before me as I lower my lips to her wrist.
My fangs puncture the throbbing vein, and hot, power rich blood scalds my throat and belly. A wave of sickness washes over me, followed by a euphoric high. It explodes into a fire that sweeps through my body.
“Enough!”
I wrench away so fast, I stumble back a step.
The sudden absence of pain is shocking. I am not wholly well, yet the healing process sends sweat popping from pores over my back, chest, and underarms.
She sways a little. My Alpha pheromones will be pumping, saturating the air.
The rich scent of slick follows, and my cock thickens and lengthens as instinct takes over common sense. My eyes lower to where her legs squeeze together as she tries to stem the flow. Lips tugging up, I ignore the temptation and go and collect the food, water, and blanket.
How the mighty have fallen. This Winter is a far cry from one wearing a whimsical gown and frosty expression as she inspected me for her mission in the practice pit of Sanctum, pert nose lifted in distaste. Now she is a lowly slave and Omega, her pussy weeping slick for an Alpha she is locked in a cage with. She cannot even hide the evidence from me, reduced to her basal components in a homespun dress. I would not wish the status of slave upon anyone, yet here in this dreadful moment, we are equal.
When I turn back, I find she has not moved.
Not quite equal, I amend. The binding still prevents me from tossing her to the floor and sating my lust on her willing body.
Returning to Winter, I place the bowl and waterskin upon the floor and take her by the arm. There is some resistance, but she is mentally broken and only a small protest comes from her as I sit with my back to the corner and put her on my lap.
I purr, and the last of her fight leaves her. I fucking hate that I cannot help but care for her. My mind wants to sit as far away from her as possible and let sleep take me.
But I don’t.
“Let me see your throat,” I say.
She lifts her chin, and never have I seen a more pitiful sight than the blistering around her throat where the cold iron touches her skin. The blanket is threadbare. I tear a strip from it, using it to create a barrier between the delicate skin of her throat and the burning metal.
“Is that better?” I ask.
“Yes, thank you.”
She sounds so fucking small and lost, it damn near breaks me.
Lips tightening, I spread the remainder of the blanket over us as best I can and draw her head against my chest. Here she weeps, small hands fisted against my chest, body shuddering with the emotional quagmire of her own making.
I want to tell her this is her own stupid fault.
I want to tell her this quest was always doomed to fail.
I want to tell her that it will take a fucking miracle for us to escape such a heavily guarded camp.
I offer her the water. She shakes her head.
“Drink the fucking water, mistress,” I say, exerting a little will into it. It should only work with a Feeder or Breeder, yet she takes the skin, bringing it to her lips with shaky hands.
She spills some, gulps too fast, and chokes.
“For fuck’s sake, sip it,” I say.
She manages to sip a little more before passing it to me. I tilt the skin up and take a long drink.
Picking up the bowl next, I inspect the mash—oats with lumps that I presume to be root vegetables and, if we are lucky, a little meat. There is no spoon, so I scoop some up with my fingers and hold it to Winter’s lips.
She shakes her head. The tears have dried up as she has become distracted.
I don’t hesitate to shovel the rejected food into my mouth. It tastes utterly bland, but my stomach appreciates it, nonetheless.
I offer her the next scoop. “Eat it, mistress. You have given blood twice. Even so small an offering from your wrist will drain you.”
She flinches at the word drain, but she parts her lips and takes the food into her mouth. It should not be erotic, yet the feel of her tongue lapping the food from my fingers brings a heated surge of blood to my dick. It is a testament to her subdued state that we continue to share the food in this intimate way. I don’t waste any. I have been a slave before. You take everything that is offered without complaint.
A familiar tightening in my gut steadies my arousal. I hate that I can no longer fully picture the faces of my younger brother and sister, only impressions. Yet the sick, hopeless feeling has lost none of its potency, especially in times like these, when my memory of them rises from its slumber.
“What will happen now?” she asks as I put the bowl down and rest my head back against the rough slats of the cage.
“Tonight, we will sleep,” I say. “And tomorrow, the war party will move again. One day soon, I will be forced to take up arms and fight people who were once my neighbors. I will do it because the binding is in place, and I can no more let you die than I can stop my lungs from taking the next breath.”
“You wish me dead, and I do not blame you,” she says quietly.
“I do not wish you dead,” I say, finding grudging comfort in her small, soft body pressed against mine. “But I am a terrible weapon capable of killing many, and your actions have given me over to orcs.”
She begins to weep again.
