She is limp, her body humming, my seed hot inside her. The leather collar is a tangible, possessive weight on her skin. I pull out slowly, a wet, resisting sound, and she whimpers at the loss. She is mine. She is nothing else.
I straighten her skirts with a rough, proprietary tug. “Now,” I say, my voice flat, the Tusk back in control. “You are my slave.”
I turn and stalk toward the ridge, the end of the belt in my hand. She scrambles to her feet, her legs shaking, and falls into place two steps behind me, her head bowed.
The smell of cheap zhisk and urine at the gate is overpowering. Thesoundof a whipcrackingsomewhere inthe din makes her flinch. The guards—a bored Minotaur, two human mercenaries, and a pale Dark Elf in Miou armor—look us over.
I shove ipia at the Minotaur. "One night," I growl. "Selling... property."
The Dark Elf guard looks up, his gaze sliding over Aurora, lingering on the belt around her neck. "A pretty catch, orc," he smirks, his voice a slick, oily sound. "She will fetch a high price. Or...giveone."
I feel my entire body go rigid. A low growl starts in my chest. I am going to kill him.
Panicked, she does the only thing she can. She reaches out and tugs, just once, on the end of the leather belt in my fist. A small, submissive gesture.
My gaze snaps to her. The inferno in my eyes banks, smothered by cold control. I give the elf a curt nod and shove her roughly through the gate.
We are in. Thesoundis a wall of noise—a dozen languages, screaming merchants, weeping slaves. Thesightis worse. Cages of human women, their eyes dead. A naga selling glittering, blue-flecked poisons. A pen of snarling worgs being sold as guard dogs.
This is hell. And I just brought her into it.
I keep my hand on the hilt of my sword, my other hand fisted around the end of her leash. I am a battering ram, shoving through the crowd. A slaver, his face covered in sores, sees her. He reaches out a grimy hand. "A new one? Pretty."
I do not break stride. I do not even look at him. I smash my elbow backward, connecting with his face. I hear his nose break. He screams. I keep walking.
I need a starting point. The smell of cheap, sour ale and old fear leads me to a dilapidated structure. The sign is a faded, leering skull: "The Drowned Rat."
This is where the whispers live.
I kick the door open. The tavern goes silent. I shove Aurora into a dark, shadowed corner booth, hidden from the main room's line of sight.
"Sit. Bitch!" I shout.
She nods, disappearing into the shadow of the booth. I turn, my hand on my sword, my shoulders squared. When I see all eyes in the tavern look down, only then do I sit down.
26
AURORA
Iam pressed so far into the dark, sticky corner of the booth that I can feel the rough, splintered wood digging into my back. I am trying to disappear. The roar of the tavern rushes back in to fill the silence Othic created when he sat, a wave of noise that threatens to drown me. My heart is a trapped bird, hammering against my ribs. Othic’s massive, leather-clad form is a wall, a mountain of shadow separating me from the room. He is a monster, but he ismymonster. His presence is the only reason I am still breathing.
The air is a thick, choking fog of stale ale, unwashed bodies, smoke, and something else... a sharp, reptilian tang, like ozone and dust, that catches in my throat.
A woman approaches our table. A human woman. She is topless, her skin a pale, almost translucent white in the gloom. Her ribs are visible under her skin, and her large, bare breasts seem a heavy, sad burden on her thin frame. Her eyes are hollow, empty, but she forces a smile that does not touch them.
"What can I get for you, big one?" she asks, her voice rough, cracked from disuse.
Othic does not even look at her. His gaze is fixed on the barkeep, a massive dfam elf who is polishing a mug with a filthy rag. Othic's voice is a low, demanding rumble. "Ale. And a bowl of water for my pet."
Pet.
The word is a slap. I know it is a lie. I know it is a performance, a shield he is using to protect me in this cesspit. But the humiliation burns, hot and sharp, stinging my eyes. I glare at the back of his head, my nails digging into my palms so hard I am surprised I do not draw blood. He does not see.
The barmaid returns. She places a heavy, dripping mug of ale in front of Othic. Then, with a look of practiced, profound indifference, she stoops and places a small, dirty wooden bowl of water on thefloornext to my feet.
On the floor.Like a dog.
My rage is so sudden and hot it chokes me. I want to kick the bowl across the room, to shatter it against the wall. I am Iron Tusk. I am his clan. I amnota pet.
