Rapture by L.V. Lane

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Winter

I DON’T SLEEP a wink all night, troubled by dreams of orcs, slaves driven in lines, serving wenches… and blood.

“You were born to give blood,”Leander says, a cold fever in his dark eyes. He is high on me. He cannot stop. He won’t stop. Trust is shattered one hideous gulp at a time.

Blackness comes for me, but an unnatural blackness from which I fear I will never rise.

Chaos greets me as I claw my way to consciousness. Cold seeps into my cold body from the stone floor beneath me. My throat is a source of pain so intense, it robs me of breath and thought.

Blinking tears away, I find Blue, the Chosen with the mesmerizing eyes, leaning over me. Thin as a willow, he picks me up with ease, blood pouring from my ruined throat.

On the other side of the room, I hear Leander’s rabid growls. They reach through space and time to terrify me in the now.

“Kill him,”Blue says, striding toward the bed, where he gently places me down. The growls cease abruptly, replaced by blessed silence. “Send for a healer.”

His beautiful blue eyes soften as they rest on me. “It will not happen again, Winter. I promise you.”

I jerk up, a hand clasped to my breast and my body bathed in sweat.

The room is cast into shades of gray with the onset of dawn.

Blood.

I am high Blood, and for as far back as I can remember, blood has been my greatest asset and weakness.

Leander.

I would erase that name from my memory, if only it were possible. The warrior has left a legacy on both our ways and me.

It cannot happen again.

Yet this knowledge does not take the fear away. Even after all this time, my heart still wants to pound out of my chest at the thought of offering blood.

I don’t know if I can give my blood. They say it will come naturally to me if I need to, but the same deep aversion has me in its hold.

The sounds of movement on the other side of the door remind me that I’m not alone. I suffer a brief and swiftly quashed sense of guilt that I let him sleep on the hard wooden floor. I’m sure he’s slept in worse places.

He has slept on worse, I realize, given he was once a slave.

When did I get so cold? Winter’s bite, they call me behind my back. It never bothered me before, but today, it bothers me a lot.

It didn’t cross my mind that he might have once been a slave. Warriors come and go. They are human, and by nature, lead a fragile existence. The means of topping up those ranks has been beneath my interest.

Many things have been beneath my interest for many years.

Perhaps too many?

Pushing the covers back, I heave myself out of bed, and after padding over to the dresser, pour water into the basin. I slip out of my nightshift and, soft washcloth in hand, clean myself. Within Sanctum, hot water runs freely, courtesy of a naturally heated spring. Against my flushed, sweat-dampened skin, this cool water feels good.

Soon, we will begin the task of locating the keystone. This will not be a simple undertaking in a city such as Bleakness. The stones used to build the city have a muting effect. I foresee a long day spent traveling through this corrupt city. My brief impressions gathered as we rode to the tavern suggests a densely populated, multilayered city. Likely, the bleakest parts of Bleakness will yield traces of the keystone.

The folded towel beside the basin moves… What is that?

I squeal and nearly fall over my own feet, so swiftly do I leap back.

With a sudden crash, Jacob bursts into the room, sword in hand.

I squeal again and try to cover myself with the inadequate washcloth. Nostrils flared, Jacob rakes his sharp gaze across every crevice of the room for a threat.

My heart slams erratically within my chest as I try to find my wits.

Jacob wears only his leather pants, leaving his lightly hairy, impossibly broad-shouldered torso exposed. Great slabs of muscles interconnect in dips and ridges that could make angels weep for the savage beauty.

His leather pants are not fully fastened, exposing a nest of dark curls. Below, the material bulges around the thick trunk of his cock.

Little wonder the serving hussy was insensible with pleasure.

Thankfully, he does not notice my perusal, given he is still staring about the room.

Brows puckering in a frown, he slowly lowers the sword.

“What ails you, mistress?”

“I—” True Gods save me. This is a calamity of my own making. He has just busted open my locked bedroom door as though it were made of parchment and does not even look winded. Meanwhile, I am cowering under a tiny washcloth, lusting over his brawny perfection.

His eyes have not strayed toward my nakedness once!

“It is nothing,” I say, dragging forth my best commanding tone, even as my cheeks heat.

His frown deepens. “Nothing? It sounded like a horde of orcs were about to defile you before feasting on your innards!”

Like a trained bug hunter, his gaze shifts toward the towel, where the hand-sized creature with too many legs has settled in to watch the show.

He smirks. “Mistress, allow me to save you from the small spider interrupting your morning ablutions,” he says.

Small?

Without further ado, he props his sword against the wall, marches over, and scoops up the hideous furry creature in his hands.

I shudder.

He has big hands, and I can still see one furry black leg poking out between his fingers.

Striding over to the window, he throws the shutter open and tosses it out. The movement sets all the muscles rippling across his scar-riddled back. His pants hang low on his hips, threatening to drop.

My pussy clenches sharply as I will them to fall.

At a loud thudding on the suite door, Jacob strides back through to the dayroom, leaving the bedroom door wide open as he goes to answer it. Thankfully, the main door is out of view from where I stand, but I’m trapped in the corner with nothing but a damp washcloth to cover me.

“It was but a small attack by a tiny spider, Tim,” he says. I hear both men chuckle. “Aye, all sorted now… Yes, breakfast would be much appreciated. Give Betsy my thanks.”

Betsy? Is that the strumpet he was rutting in the hall?

On hearing the main door rattle shut, I hasten to close the bedroom door so that I might finally finish washing and dress myself.

Another hand claims the handle before I can.

I swallow. Our eyes meet. There is something about the nearly naked version of Jacob that fogs my mind. This close, I can see the flecks of green, gold, brown, and blue in his long lashed hazel eyes and scent his rich, musky, Alpha pheromones.

My stomach turns over, and need heats my blood.

Lust. When was the last time I experienced lust?

“No, mistress,” he says, stirring me from my wayward thoughts. “Allowing you to close it thus last eve was ill-advised. Old Cecil would flail me to death should you suffer a scratch. There will be no closed doors between us going forward.”

“It was a spider,” I say. I sound small and a little lost. I don’t want to be exposed to him, although he appears to have little interest in my state of undress. Perhaps he prefers sweet Betas who don’t have the disposition of a wasp?

I cannot summon the will to hate him for it. I am a broken Omega with high Blood running through my veins, a defective fairy who has lost her voracity for life—ancient, bitter, and scarred in ways the eyes do not see.

The small, damp cloth I have cleaved to my breasts is tugged gently from my grasp.

“You are chilled, mistress,” he says. “Best we dry you off.”

He coaxes me deeper into the room, and like a fool lamb, I am gentled by the wolf. The towel is collected from the dresser, and after sitting on the bottom of the bed, he draws me to stand within the V of his thighs.

Here, he dries me.

I feel a blush creep all the way to my hairline as he passes the towel over my body with a gentleness that is enough to make me fall apart. Over my shoulder, arm, and all the way to fingers. Over collarbone, breasts, and belly. Over hips and thighs.

My nipples peak, although it is no longer due to a damp chill.

He does not linger, clinical in his work, and all the while, his musky scent draws me deeper under a spell. Intent upon the task, his head is lowered, leaving me free to gaze at will.

And I do, captivated by the play of muscles under his skin, fingers itching for the anticipated pleasure of sinking into his glossy brown hair that looks oh so soft.

The simple pleasure of touching him is denied me. I wouldn’t know how to touch a man and Alpha. It has been many years since such yearnings and many more since the act.

“Turn around, mistress,” he says softly.

Obediently, I do.

The towel is passed over me again, taking the dampness from my back and ass.

“Open your legs.”

My breath stutters. Does his voice seem a little deeper… rougher?

It is only when the soft towel dabs against the outer folds of my pussy that I realize I have obeyed him… that I have widened my stance, giving the warrior sitting behind me access to my feminine place.

A different kind of dampness is gathering, one that defies the attention of the towel.

The towel is dropped to the bed, and still, I do not move.

“You need tending to, mistress,” he says.

Those words are like a shock passing through me.

He sighs. Hands on my waist, he walks me forward a step before rising. “But you have made it more than clear that you do not desire such attention from me.”

A knock on the door halts the words about to tumble from my lips. Words of dispute, for my body does not lie. My body wants this Alpha who has gentled me.

“Come in,” he calls.

The door opens, and the serving lass, Betsy, breezes in, a laden tray in her hands. Glancing our way, she smiles saucily as she bobs a bow before hastening to place the tray upon the table.

The scene we present is intimate. Were I a natural Omega and Blood, there would be nothing unusual about this. His hand, still upon my hip, is like a hot searing brand. I want him to move it, but not away. No, I want him to slide it up until he can cup my aching breast.

“Was there ought else?” Betsy asks, turning toward us.

“That’s all, lass,” Jacob says. “Thank you kindly, Betsy, for bringing it so early.”

Her smile is sweet and genuine. “Anything for you, Jacob.”

She bobs another swift bow before leaving the suite.

I glance back at the warrior who stands behind me. I don’t think I know this man. The lass did not have a scrap of jealousy in seeing us like this. When she looked at Jacob, there was the unmistakable gleam of hero worship that goes beyond a simple rutting.

“How do you know Betsy?” I ask.

There is a delay before his eyes shift to mine. Like last time I asked him a probing question, I wonder whether he will answer me. He should. The binding does not like deceit, nor resistance to a command.

But as I am finding with Jacob, the binding only goes so far.

“The last time I got a whipping,” he says, his hazel eyes, which shone with heat so short a time ago, now cold and distant, “was for freeing Betsy from the slavers.”