Rapture by L.V. Lane

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Jacob

I DON’T EVEN need to see her face to know that something is wrong.

“What has happened?” I demand as I climb up into the cage wagon.

She sits in the corner, tucked into a ball, head down, but her chin lifts as I approach. White-hot rage rips through me at seeing the black and purple bruise over her jawline.

My head swings back toward the bald bastard who has yet to lock the cage.

“Who?” I demand.

“I am not that fucking stupid,” he says.

I stalk toward him, ripping the door from his fingers as he goes to slam it shut.

“Too slow,” I bite out as I take him by the throat and slam him against the side of the cage. He tries to bring the club up, but I slam that against the cage as well. “You know about this?”

A couple of orcs give us a look over but decide not to interfere. Over the few weeks since we joined the war party, I have come to understand that the orcs rarely involve themselves in the business of slaves, preferring to leave the overseers to tend to matters. They don’t like killing, but anything short of killing is ignored.

“It was Dolan,” Winter says, dragging my mind from the fantasy where I beat the smug, bald bastard’s head into the cage wall until he talks.

Dolan? I seem to recall that being the name of the toothless bastard who holds a grudge.

“Where is he?” I hiss into the overseer’s face.

He thumbs over his shoulder.

I jerk away. “Take me,” I say.

“Jacob!”

“Stay here, mistress,” I say. I can’t look at her bruised face. Not yet. I want to fall to my knees and beg her to forgive me and my negligence in a way that I cannot even blame on the binding.

But I need to deal with this first. I know the way of slaves, the hierarchy that is sometimes built upon shared trust and sometimes brute force. Instinctively, I know which of the two methods Dolan will respond to.

Not giving Winter a chance to reply, I shove the overseer ahead of me toward the sprawling camp.

I storm through, sinking deeper within myself, vision tunneling and focus absolute. I must be projecting my intentions, because I pick up a crowd of followers the farther I stalk.

I find him, the toothless bastard, sitting in the entrance to a tent. His head lifts. Seeing me, he surges to his feet. We meet, a clash of two Alphas, both knowing after we are finished, only one of us will stand. But he is only a slave, and while he must be tough to survive, I am a trained warrior in the service of the Blood.

When we first arrived, swept through the portal, I used every trick I knew to take down the Blighten scum.

Now I have no weapons, but neither does he.

We lay into one another, the meaty thuds loud as my fists connect with his flesh. His pained grunts and wheezes are music to my ears. I beat him using fists, elbows, and knees to good effect, transitioning seamlessly from one move to the next.

He cannot win. I know this, but he is slow to catch up. My rage is such that I cannot be satisfied until his blood begins to flow, and even then, I want and need more. He has put his hands upon my Blood mistress, a high Blood, one who has centuries on and is stations beyond anything this ruffian can imagine. It does not matter that she is a slave. That status is temporary. And if the plans I have been making come to fruition, she will not suffer so for much longer.

There is a crowd around us, jeering, yelling, and calling for blood.

I give them the blood they crave. It splatters and stains both me and the ground.

My adversary goes down. And I follow him.

“The orcs are coming!” someone calls, and I know my game will soon be over.

Taking his thick head within my hands, I brace my arm around his neck and strain until I hear and feel the crack.

Hands grasp me, heaving me from the floor. I scrub blood from my nose and spit upon the body.

“Let this be a lesson to anyone who touches what is mine!”

I am dragged off to the boos of the crowd. I have stepped over a line. I realize this as the rage seeps out of me and clarity returns.

Marched through the camp, I wonder if I am being taken to my death, or worse, if Winter will now be punished for my mistake. I feel sick as a familiar tent, larger than the others, comes into view. I am taken straight in and dumped upon my knees.

The same lamps, the same woven rug, the same sturdy table, and the same monstrous orc master sitting eating his supper.

“He killed a man,” the orc to my right says, the words a lisp around his tusks.

The orc master continues eating as I sway a little on my knees. I subtly scope the threats within the room. If they try to kill me, I am confident I can take the two orc guards down. The orc master is an unknown adversary. He wears armor and has the bearing of an orc familiar with conflict.

He does not lack fucking confidence either, as he continues to eat his food.

Pushing the plate aside, he takes up the wooden cup and drinks heavily of whatever is inside.

“You are a great deal of trouble, human,” he says at length. “I warned you about your place here. Were you in some way confused?”

“He touched my mistress,” I grit out.

He growls. It is a dreadful sound that causes the hairs upon the back of my neck to rise.

“This is your last warning, human. I said I would punish the fairy if you failed to fight for me. Now let me be clear, the same rules apply to you as they do for other slaves. You have done well training the men. But it is not your place to rule upon life or death. You now owe me for another life, and I will have my dues.”

He nods his head at the orc. “Take him back to his woman.”

Dragged from the floor, I am frog-marched back through the camp and tossed inside the cage wagon beside Winter. The door is slammed shut and locks put into place.

“Fuck,” I mutter gruffly as Winter falls on me, sobbing. Dusk has fallen while I have been lost in the haze of these events, enclosing us in shadows.

“Oh, what have you done? Oh, your poor hands and face.”

There is no hesitation as she holds her wrist out to me, although she still averts her fucking face. I am not hurt so badly, but I take some—enough to take the edge off.

It does not take the edge off my fury as I gently cup her cheek. Rubbing my thumb over the bruised flesh, I want to find the worthless bastard and kill him all over again.

“What happened?” she asks between sobs. “Tell me!”

“We fought,” I say, drawing her into my arms and burying my nose in her hair, drawing her sweet Omega scent into my lungs. “He is dead.”

She sobs harder. “What will happen now?”

Is she worried that my foolishness will see her handed over to pleasure orcs? I hold her tighter, trying to meld her flesh with mine. I want to tell her about my plans, but it is too early and I do not want to give her false hope. “The same thing that happened yesterday. I have made myself important to the master, at least for now.”

Her scent is working a potent spell on me. The ever present danger, the risks, the fight that has just passed, and our forced proximity has a predictable effect.

My cock hardens and thickens. My instincts clamor for me to take what is mine.

“Tell me to fuck you,” I demand on a growl, rocking her in my arms. My rage is still running rampant, and I need an outlet for it.

“I can’t,” she sobs.

Jaw trembling with the strain, I let my hands drop away. My body thrums, clamoring for me to claim her. I have fought and killed a man for her. In every way that matters, she is mine. “Tell me to fuck you or get the fuck off my lap.”

“I can’t!”

I rise, tossing her to the cart floor. My gut clenches at seeing her reach for me. She needs my comfort and purr, yet I can’t fucking give it to her. My basal side rides me. She needs to be rutted, needs to feel the safety within the cage of my arms, needs the connection that can only happen when I am buried inside her hot cunt and we are locked together with my knot. My teeth ache for the taste of her blood and the imagined ecstasy that would be ours if only she would submit. The binding still holds enough potency that I do not push the matter as my Alpha side demands.

She needs tending too, I can smell her pussy weeping copiously in offering for the coupling, yet her mind is not aligned.

Chest heaving, I storm to the farthest corner and, putting my back to her, sit.

“Please!”

She continues sobbing and begging me to hold her and purr, and it is near enough to destroy me. But I cannot fucking touch her in this state.

I will not touch her again, not until she submits fully to everything I want and need.