Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

“You’ve whored my men,” he said in a low voice. “You bribed them to disobey me. I don’t like that.”

She licked her swollen lips. “I had to.”

“Had to? You stupid bitch. Don’t you understand? I’m getting good money for you.”

“No,” she said in a low voice.

Brandt made a guttural sound. “What do you mean no?”

She forced herself to meet his gaze directly. “I mean no. You can’t send me back. Not after what I did.”

He laughed softly. “Is that what you believe? I can. And get your father’s thanks and reward. Think on that, girl.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “Unless …”

His gaze traveled down her body. His expression changed from rage to one colder and more speculative. She swallowed, her mouth hot and dry, and tasting of blood. “Unless what?”

“Unless you want your freedom more.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying the choice is yours. Go home to your family. Or make it worth my effort to keep you. It’s a favor, wench. Say the word.”

A trade.

She felt a curious tightness in her belly. She had no name for this emotion. It wasn’t desire, nor was it panic. It was like standing on a lofty cliff and staring into the abyss. Not six feet away, the outriders and drivers and sentries were talking. A few openly watched, and she heard their muttered laughter.

I have no choice, Ilse thought. Unless you call it a choice to let this man sell me back to my father. I shall have to pretend and hope he believes me. And pretend that I believe him.

She lifted a hand to her shirt. Brandt tensed, then relaxed as Ilse slowly unbuttoned her shirt and dropped it to one side. Boots and socks followed. She unbuckled her belt and let the skirt slide to the ground. Stepping from the puddle of cloth, she stood before Alarik Brandt, with as much grace as she could muster.

Cold smote her back. A wave of heat billowed from the nearby fire: its light gilded her copper brown skin and reflected from Alarik Brandt’s bright eyes. He watched her, lips parted, the pulse at his throat beating faster. After weeks on the road, he stank of sweat and horse, but so did she.

Ilse took his hand and pressed it against her breast. His fingers tightened. She forced herself to smile. “I will do whatever you like. Tell me what you want.”

Brandt told her, and she obeyed. “Good bitch,” he said roughly, midway through. “Very good. The boys gave you a first lesson, eh? Softened you up. Made you ready for me. Oh no. I’m not done yet. Not nearly. Good, sweet bitch. Oh yes.”

It lasted longer than she had hoped. When he finished, Brandt called Niko over. “You’re next,” he said, casually lacing up his trousers. “Choose three more after you. That’ll be the routine—four a night not counting me. More when she gets used to the work. We want this one to last.”

Niko flashed a grin and nodded. When Brandt was gone, he ran his fingers along Ilse’s throat. He was a raw-boned man with knotted muscles from hefting barrels, and his hands were rough and callused. “Pretty,” he said. “Never had one so pretty like you.” His hand dropped from the skin of her throat to her breast, already sore from handling. Ilse winced, and the man laughed deep in his throat. “I like that, too.”

He gave her to the second man, the third, the fourth. Afterward one of Ulf’s boys came with a bucket of water and rags and a rope coiled over one shoulder. “Clean up,” he said. “Alarik’s orders.” She dunked a rag and wiped her face. The boy had not moved. He was there to watch, she realized.

She washed herself thoroughly, shivering all the while. The water was frigid, its waters born in the nearby mountains. Water from Duszranjo’s glaciers. From her father’s homeland. Taking up another rag, she scrubbed her body clean.

CHAPTER FIVE

HER NEW DUTIES became a part of the caravan’s routine, no different from breaking camp or resting the horses at intervals. When Brandt judged her used to the routine, the four men became six. Sometimes he offered her during rest breaks, as a reward for work done well. Otherwise they kept her bound, and when the caravan passed near settlements, he ordered her gagged and hidden behind the pots in Ulf’s covered wagon.

She lost track of the days, but she remembered other details. The curses the men used. The taste of their skin. The weight of their bodies atop hers. She remembered whether they took her fast and brutally, like Niko, or used her slowly, like Alarik Brandt.

“Open your mouth,” Brandt said. “Make it soft, like a peach. Good.”

Pretend, she told herself, opening up her mouth to his. Brandt’s manner was different this night. He had ordered her to strip. Now he kissed her slowly, as a lover might, and ran his hands over her bare skin in a light caress.

Pretend.

Murmuring softly, Brandt kissed her throat, her shoulder, the crook of her elbow, the inside of her wrist. He’d unbuttoned his shirt; she saw a number of scars—a long jagged one near his shoulder, a semicircle of small ones like tooth marks above his left nipple. His rough gray hairs tickled her skin, and his mouth felt hot as he bent to suckle her breast. Slow. Insistent. He gave a groan and slid up to kiss her full on the mouth, inserting one hand between her thighs.

“Good,” he whispered hoarsely. “Now do the same with your other mouth, wench. Makes it easier, eh? Almost feels good, right? Yes, now grip tight, tighter.”