The barmaid, having delivered the "pet's" water, straightens up. She leans in close to Othic, deliberately brushing her bare breasts against his arm. "AnythingelseI can get you?" she whispers. "A warm bed for the night? I can... keep you company."
I watch her, and my white-hot rage flickers, replaced by a cold, familiar ache. I see the hollow desperation in her eyes. It is a mirror of my own at Privis’s estate. She is not a flirt. She is a victim. She does not see a mate. She sees a warrior with a weapon, an orc who might have coin. She is just trying to survive her next hour.
Othic does not even turn his head. His response is a low vibration that cuts through the tavern's noise. "Go."
He does not shout. He refuses to look at her. But the word has a physical weight. The woman flinches as if struck, herforced smile crumbling. Her face pales, and she scurries away into the shadows. A small, bitter, and guilty part of me is satisfied.
I am still glaring at the disgusting bowl of water on the floor when I lean forward, my voice a fierce, possessive whisper only he can hear.
"Do you think she is pretty?"
Before he can answer, a new shadow falls over our table, blocking the dim, flickering light from the center of the room. I look up.
A naga.
He is tall, his skin covered in fine, shimmering green scales that catch the light. His eyes are black, lidless, with vertical, reptilian pupils. A cobra-like hood flares slightly from his neck as he gazes down at me, his head tilted in amusement. He smiles, revealing sharp, white fangs.
"How much for the bitch?"
My blood turns to ice. I feel Othic’s entire body go rigid beside me. The air crackles. This is the test. This is where we die. My hand creeps under my cloak, my fingers finding the cold, familiar hilt of my dagger.
The naga ignores Othic completely. He leans in, hissing atme. His forked tongue, black and glistening, flicks out, tasting my fear in the air. He is enjoying this. He is a predator, and I am his new, interesting toy.
"I have two cocks, you know."
A violent, involuntary shudder runs through me. Bile rises in my throat. I press myself back into the wall, the splinters digging into my spine, my dagger now gripped tight in my fist.The eye. The throat.Othic's training whispers in my head, a frantic, desperate prayer.The knee.But I am frozen, my terror a physical cage.
Othic’s voice is a low, dangerous rumble. He sounds bored. But I am pressed against him. I can feel the solid wall of his muscle, coiled like a steel spring, vibrating with the urge to kill.
"She is already sold."
A lie.I almost gasp. He is trying to de-escalate.
The naga's smile widens. He does not believe it. His black, slit-pupiled eyes narrow, and he shifts his gaze to Othic for the first time, recognizing a challenge.
Othic changes tactics. He leans back, the movement casual, his voice becoming the rough, dismissive growl of a merchant. "But... I am paying coin for information."
The naga’s interest is piqued. His hood relaxes slightly. "Information is my trade."
"There are a group of orc scumbags that owe me money," Othic growls. "I think they may be hiding in Rach. Know of any new orcs been hanging around lately?"
He is hunting for his clan brothers. Gruk and Mogor.My heart aches. He is using his own desperate, real mission as a cover for us. He is brilliant. He is using the truth as a lie.
The naga's forked tongue flicks out again, this time in consideration. "I might have information that will be helpful." He holds out a long, clawed hand, his green scales shimmering. "Coin first."
My stomach drops. I feel Othic’s body tense.Coin.We have no coin. The ipia at the gate was all we had. We are trapped. He overplayed his hand. We are going to die.
Othic gives a short, harsh laugh. It sounds almost real, full of arrogance and disdain.
"My coin is in my bag," he snarls. "Out back, with myotherhuman slave. The one who carries my things."
Other slave?My heart hammers so hard it hurts. This is an insane, desperate, brilliant gamble.
Othic stands, his shadow covering the table, plunging me into total darkness. He looks down at me, his face an unreadable mask of granite. Then he looks at the naga.
"Follow me," he commands.
He unloops the leather belt from his fist—my leash—and with a rough, proprietary yank, ties it around a thick, iron post on the booth. He pulls the knot tight. I am tethered.
