Bound by the Viking, Part 2: Compelled (3 page)

“You will obey me,” he hissed. “I am your
master
, and soon your husband as well. This is your chance to please me, before I show you just how hot my anger can burn.”

His eyes flashed, his b
reath warm on her lips. Her jaw stiffened. She nodded, fighting to get away from that stare that held her pinned like an insect beneath the point of a dagger. It was no good to fight him now. She knew if she shamed him in front of this nobleman, in front of his warriors and their women, that he would beat her without hesitation; maybe even slay her where she stood. She knew it like she knew the sun would rise on the morrow.

It was
written in his eyes.

“Now,” he said. “Do as I command
.”

His grasp released her, and she moved back, her heart thudding in her chest, fear coursing through her as she
tried to steady her breath.

Don’t let them see you weak, Aislin. Stiffen your spine, no matter what!

Even if he stripped her of her honor, he’d never take her pride. That much she knew. The blood of her ancestors flowed through her, giving her strength, even now. Even as a slave.

Her hands barely trembled as she loosed her shoulder pin and let her linens fall. Men hollered behind her now, whistling and yelling obscenities,
some of them banging their fists on the table. She took a deep, shuddering breath and pulled her shift over her head, slowly, trying not to hesitate, but her body struggling against the will of her mind.

She heard a sharp intake of breath before her as the shift covered her head, her breasts hitting the open air. She tossed it aside and brushed her hair away from her face, her curls falling over her shoulder. The stranger stared openly, his lips parted, his eyes locked on her bare skin, drinking in the sight of her nipples, now pebbling beneath the scrutiny.

She wanted to freeze there, like a deer in the sight of a pack of wolves, trying to cover herself, but unable, but she knew she must move. Must get away from those gazes, and more importantly, obey her master if she wanted to make it to see the sunrise.

She kicked off her leather slippers and hurried off to the side of the hall where the women tended the cook fires.
Calloused, dirty hands reached for her, but one shout from the chief, and they withdrew, their owners cursing. Two women carving meat whispered together in their native tongue, and one shook her head, her eyes weary, before handing her mead and goblets.

She pities me
.
Most loathe me, but not all. Some just pity me, like a kicked dog left out in the snow.

Aislin didn’t know which was worse.

Her bare feet slapped the cold floor, sending a chill through her body on the way back up the dais. Her cheeks burned now, but she kept her head high, avoiding the stares around her.

The men,
their beards dripping with blood and broth, weaving with drink on the benches, sickened her. No matter that many were tall and strapping, or bare chested in the heat from the fire, furs slung loosely around their broad shoulders. No matter their cool, wolfish eyes piercing her as she hurried, naked and afraid, past them. No matter that any one of them could take her if he wanted, right then and there, and there was nothing she could do to stop them.

Only one man could.

The man who kept her as his own. The man now looking at her, a twisted light in his eyes as he toyed with a dirk, tracing the blade with his thumb. The nobleman leaned in, whispering something as I approached, and both men grinned, looking at me like they wanted to gobble me up.

I handed them goblets and poured, breathing deeply, so as not to spill a drop, although I felt as weak as
a leaf, quivering on a branch.

“To the joining of our power, Denholm,” Alrik said, lifting his horn. “You honor my hall and my people with your presence.”

“It is I who am honored to be your guest, Alrik Son-of-Erik,” the man replied. “Together, we shall be as a scourge upon our enemies.”

“Skoll!”

The men drank deeply, and Aislin’s eyes flashed toward the ring on this Denholm’s hand. The workmanship wasn’t Celtic, but that of an English lord. She swallowed hard, but kept her face a neutral mask.

Before the Vikings came, the English harried
her clans’ lands. Her father’s people managed to keep them at bay by banding together with several other families, but last she heard, they were slaying priests on the lowlands, the messengers of her people, who brought the clans together.

They were her enemies as much as these bastards who ripped her from her lands and left her former
life a smoldering ember. They were blasphemers, thieves and murderers.

They would pay for their insolence, their spilling of sacred blood. They would wither like the burned wick, scourged and brittle, their ashes blowing away on the winds, scattered like the
O’Byrne clan from their ancestral home. They would feel her pain tenfold. A hundredfold.

The old gods would deal with them. Every last one of them.

They would die with her name on their lips.

A vision of the mists rolling over the bogs filled her mind, an
d with it the flickering of candle flame. A beating rhythm filled her soul, and she breathed it in, breathed in the thought of the old power. The gift passed down to her as a woman of her clan.

A shout brought her out of her thoughts with a start.

“Thrall!”

Her master eyed her, a cold look in his eyes, his smile gone.

“Yes, master,” she said, and cast down her eyes.

“Our guest wishes to eat,” he said.

Denholm chuckled beside him, the sound making Aislin feel sick. She knew she’d have to serve him like this, shivering and helpless, her nipples peaked and rosy in the candlelight, letting his gaze crawl over her like a swamp fly.

“What
fare would you and your guest desire, my master?”

She bowed, waiting for his command, hoping above hope that her obedience now would spare her worse humiliation. But in her heart of hearts, she feared it had only just begun. Alrik enjoyed watching her squirm.

“I’m not hungry for food, little red,” the Englishman said, his voice a low rumble.

His hand reached out
, and before she could flinch, his long fingers stroked her belly, moving downward to the hot folds between her legs. She whimpered as his strong hand squeezed between her thighs. Her gaze flitted upward, tears stinging her eyes to meet the Viking chief’s.

“You are to serve our guest, thrall,” he said. His voice held an odd note in it, a soft tone, almost kind. “He wants to eat, and you shall let him, understood?”

The lord’s fingers parted her, and she gasped as he touched her deftly, his index finger sliding up and down her nethers, making her body heat. She closed her eyes and nodded to her captor, giving herself over to her fate, if only for tonight. If only to ensure she’d see the sun rise again on the morrow.

For now, she was his to do with as he pleased, and there was nothing she could do but endure.

The lord dipped a finger inside of her, and she moaned, her body tensing around him. A jolt of fire stabbed up through her belly, her traitorous flesh responding to him like a glove to a hand.

Maybe she would do more than simply endure…

Was that so wrong? So evil, after all?

“Come,” Alrik whispered, and grasped her hand.

Denholm stood, still touching, exploring, then pulled his hand away. She felt his absence, his touch still ghosting over her, a memory of forbidden pleasure, unwanted, but savored nonetheless. He sucked his fingers between sensual lips and groaned, tasting her essence.

“Delicious,” he said, almost reverently. “I can’t wait to make a meal of you, girl.”

Aislin sighed, her head reeling from what she just saw, from what he just did. This stranger loved the taste of her and wanted more… It was so vulgar, so base, and yet, the thought of it made wetness leak between her thighs, eager to please him, and her master as well.

He bent down and lifted her up over his shoulder, and she screamed as the hall turned upside down, curls falling into her face. The men behind them cheered and laughed, banging their fists on the long tables at the sight of her naked arse up in the air for all to see, being carried away like a sack of potatoes, or worse, a deer trussed by the hunter, ready to be devoured.

A sharp hand cracked down on her backside, and she screamed again.

“Hush now, little one,” her master’s voice rasped. “You’ll make our guest think you’re not eager to please him.”

He hit her again, and she pressed her lips together, stifling a cry, even as her cheeks sang with pain at the blow.

“Good girl,” he said, and Denholm laughed again, his hand cupping her aching cheeks as he carried her
off the dais and to the back of the hall.

Her head bobbed as the men swept her away, and soon she heard the creak of a heavy wooden door, and heard it slam again behind them. When strong hands gripped her and set her roughly on her feet, she saw she was once again in the chief’s room—her fire lit jail cell in the icy prison camp that made up her world.

The lord pulled her close to him, and she stiffened, feeling his growing manhood press against her buttocks. His hands wandered over her, his palms running slowly over the peaks of her breasts, dragging maddeningly across her sensitive nipples. She leaned against him despite herself, and he pushed his hips forward, grinding into her.

Alrik pulled his trunk away from the wall, then piled it with soft furs before the roaring fire, creating a low table. Then, before she could protest, Denholm picked her up by the waist and carried her to it. He flipped her over onto her back, and she landed with a
whoosh
of breath on the trunk, laid out before him. Her master grabbed her wrists, lifting them up over her head, and she looked at his face, looming over her, his blonde hair tickling her arms. He grinned, the light in his eyes unmistakable. He liked what he saw.

Denholm’s rough hands on her thighs made her glance downward again, across her body, to see him kneeling between her legs on the other side of the trunk.
His face had a ravenous look, his eyes fixed on her body as he pushed her legs wide, spreading her open beneath him. Air escaped Aislin’s lips like a prayer unuttered, watching helpless to stop him as the lord lowered his mouth to her.

She felt his hot breath on her thighs before she felt his lips, but the breath alone was almost her undoing.
When his tongue touched her slick folds, she arched against the table, thrashing against the hands holding her fast.

“Control yourself, thrall,” Alrik whispered over her. “Control yourself, and do not find your pleasure until I command it.”

She squeaked, nodding, even as she felt like she could more easily promise to stop breathing than control that part of herself, especially like this… with them. She could smell Alrik’s scent, a mixture of sweat and leather that made her dizzy, and now, as the lord lapped between her thighs, she could smell her own arousal, tangy and sweet on the air, mixing with the wood smoke from the fire.

“You taste better than honey,”
Denholm said, raising his head, as if he’d read her thoughts.

His lips were smeared with her wetness, his eyes shining and hooded with lust
.

Aislin mewled, her sex aching, throbbing, needing his mouth back on her, teasing her, licking her, enjoying her even as he brought her such intense sensation.
She looked up at the Viking holding her wrists, capturing her, urging this man to feast on her, even when she thought she was supposed to be his.

“I’ll share you as I please,” Alrik said, and she realized her emotions, her questions, her pleasure must all be writ on her face as clear as
black birds against a clear sky.

He switched her wrists to one palm, pulling them tight and leaned close, his close-cropped beard rasping over her cheek.

“And it pleases me to see you this way. Look at you. Your body’s as tight as a drum, little one. You can’t hide from me… you love the way this man touches you. You love what I allow him to do.”

He nipped at her neck, and she cried out, a shiver moving from his lips and teeth all the way down to where Denholm now resumed his work, laving her from back to front in a way that made her face heat and her core pulse again and again, building to that height only this man had shown her before.
The place where he took her, dragging her toward it against her will, captive even in her pleasure. His to control, even in this.

She heard a slapping noise, of flesh on flesh, and realized the lord was stroking himself, tugging himself even as he supped on her, his hand working furiously beneath his tunic.
She gasped, but instead of feeling shame, she felt only his mouth on her, and her master’s hand tightening on her wrist, the other reaching down to squeeze her breast hard.

The lord groaned loudly against her, his breath on her bu
d making her moan like a cat in heat.

“Now,” Alrik growled against her neck. “Do it now, thrall. Cum for your master!”