Branded Captive (Wren's Song 1)

She cleaned that whole damn chicken, panting at the boney aftermath as if she were offended it had run out of meat.

And then she began to suck the marrow.

And he let her.

He let her lick and gnaw. Let her stoop over the meal as if she were ready to fight to the death for it. All the while rubbing her back in slow circles.

He even reached past her carnage to lift up a cistern and refill the grease-smeared glass. “Drink more.”

Wren didn’t do it because he’d ordered her. She did it because she was so fucking thirsty and water was hard to come by. The way she slammed the empty cup down on the pockmarked wood said that loud and clear.

Again it was refilled.

But she couldn’t hold another drop.

“Mouse.” A nose nestled into her tangled hair, large hands slipping where they would. “I’m angry with you.”

Too full by half to be anything but satisfied, Wren let him touch and sniff.

“I looked in your storage. There wasn’t any food.”

Yeah… only rich people stored food. Warrens rats fought to find it daily and most of them didn’t have to feed two growing boys.

“And your water is shit—distilled until there are no minerals left and hardly wiped of rust from your garbage machines.”

Well, fuck you too.

Glancing over her shoulder, Wren looked the purring male in the eye. He didn’t look angry at all. In fact, he looked extremely content to sit on her couch and keep her settled over his thigh.

Simple signs said, “I do my best.”

Though he could not have understood, he nodded. “Of course you do.”

Well, that was…

Her brief moment of respite drained down to her toes. He hadn’t come here to spoil her with food and share his water. He’d come here for sex.

He, the man who knew where Mikael was.

And they had a deal.

Reaching for the hem of her dirty shirt, she lifted it up so they might get it over with. Breasts bouncing free, hair disheveled, she pulled it off and faced him.

Mud brown eyes went to pink nipples, a darting tongue wetting Caspian’s lips. “Kiss my neck and tell me that you’re grateful. Show me that you want me.”

What Wren wanted was to curl up into a ball, digest all this food, and rest. But she obeyed and pressed her exposed breasts to his clothing-covered chest until dry lips met male skin.

She couldn’t find it in her to kiss him. It wasn’t willfulness, it was…

It was sadness.

He’d asked for a kiss. Wren chose instead to wrap her arm around his neck and embrace the enemy. Cooing and shushing as she would have one of her boys, she nestled. Careful fingertips danced over the tense muscles of Caspian’s neck, then dipped under that disgusting coat and kneaded tension away.

She gave him a feast of everything but lust. True attention. Generosity of spirit.

And when his head rolled back against the sagging cushions of her couch, Wren gave him a purr.

Chapter 9

Caspian hardly recognized the rumbling contentment humming in his chest. It wasn’t a purr offered to manipulate and calm an Omega, it was the sound of unadulterated male gratification.

The little mouse had lulled him out of the rut and right into a doze.

And she had kept him in that state by curling up on his lap and finding her own rest. She snored, a little whirring female purr. It was extremely cute.

Soft and pliable and filled with food he’d given her.

His cock stirred, a twitch of pulsing blood engorging tingling flesh. He wanted to be inside her while she made that noise, to feel her touch him as she did before she’d closed her eyes to catnap.

Women didn’t touch men like that. Not men like him.

Once or twice Caspian had caught Rosie rubbing against Kieran when she didn’t know her owner could see. It was the handsome ones who earned enticing touches. Scarred up men like him had to fuck bitches first to show them what they were missing.

And then sluts spread with enthusiasm for what he could offer, groveling at his feet in a bid for rank.

For the last six months, Rosie had saved all her best tricks for his cock. She’d whispered sweet words and praised him because he was First-ranked Alpha—because he was kingpin—but she would never have played like his mouse.

There would have been no gentleness on a couch. After her meal, Rosie would have swallowed his cock, bobbing up and down as she’d slathered him with stringy spit. She would have fucked him in whatever vile way she thought he might like best.

Done anything.

The mouse hadn’t even thought to stroke his dick. She had given pleasure in other ways, while taking comfort of her own. The sour anxiety in her scent had faded into sweet sleepiness. She had even willingly put her ear to his heart just to listen.