Olan’s definitely in charge now. The other male drops his eyes, his shoulders drooping. “Take her,” he says after a moment. “I don’t care.”
Olan relaxes, re-sheathing his knife, and turns to me. “Cook. We’ll eat first.”
I smile and rise. He needs to believe I’m grateful. I close the distance between us and lean forward to kiss his lips lightly. “I knew you were my hero.” Dropping my voice to a whisper, I lean toward his ear. “I’ll thank you properly later.”
I move slowly, seductively, as I gather supplies and start to cook. I can still feel the vibrations coming from Fhord, a hatred so pure it feels tangible. Like it could take form and strangle these males as they sit. Beneath that anger, though, is fear. A dread for me, or maybe about me. The rational part of him must know I’m working these males, but a small part of him may be terrified my act is real. That I’m actually grateful for the rescue.
And I’m kind of pissed. Fhord hasn’t learned a thing about me in the days we’ve been together. But I shove that emotion deep inside too. These males can only see relief, gratitude. That’s what will pull Olan’s defenses all the way down.
We eat in silence, Fhord straining against his ropes the entire time. I want to tell him to relax and save his energy, but it wouldn’t do a bit of good. Fhord’s a stubborn male.
I can sense when Olan’s mood shifts. He sets the plate down and looks up at me, wiping his chin on the back of his hand. “It’s time for you to pay your debt,” he says as his hand moves toward his groin. It’s already bulging, I think. He doesn’t have much to brag about.
I better get this right, I think to myself as I let anticipation blossom on my face. I do not want that little prick anywhere near me. “You’ve waited long enough,” I agree as I rise and reach out a hand.
He stands, taking mine and letting me lead him into the tent. I suppress the shiver of disgust that tries to run down my spine as his friends offer a few lewd suggestions for what we should do.
“I’ll be a while,” Olan says as I reach out to drop the flap behind him. And then he lays down to watch me as I tie them in place. “Wouldn’t want an audience,” he adds, his voice raspy.
“I’m all yours,” I assure him as I spin to face him.
He’s still got his blades on him, but if I try to take them now, he’ll yell and I’ll be overpowered. I need to kill him quietly and leave this tent with weapons ready. That’ll take some work. But then I’ll have a chance.
He’s rubbing himself as his gaze roves up and down my body. “Take off your clothes,” he demands. “Not all of them. I want to see you in your skivvies.”
I watch him for a moment, repressing the shudder when a bit of drool trickles down his chin. A vise has bound my stomach, making me feel like I need to puke. My heart is already galloping inside my chest as I fight against my need to get away, try to keep the bile from rising into my throat. I wonder if he can see the sweat that’s coating my skin.
But he doesn’t want me naked yet. This will give me a little time to fight back.
I need him pliable, so I decide to give him a show. Get him as excited—and irrational—as I can. Moving slowly, my hips swaying to a beat I dredge up from my memories, I untie my pants and shimmy them down to the ground. Stepping out of them with a wink, I take the hem of my tunic and move it up my torso. Grazing my ribs and then the band wrapped around my breasts, my hands lift over my head to pull my top up and toss it away.
And then I turn, letting him see my near-naked form. When I face him again, he’s ready. His dick is probably as big as it’s going to get—still nothing to brag about but a little more respectable—and his hand can’t work it fast enough. “Now me,” he orders. “Take off my pants first.”
Thank fuck. This is the chance I need. I drop down next to him and release the twine that holds up his trousers. Letting one hand scrape along his crotch, I drag them down his legs, the other hand whisking away one of his blades while his thoughts focus on my touch. He’s so wrapped up in his lust he doesn’t even notice. The other knife comes loose, and I let him see me put it down.
But now his patience is gone. He pulls off his own shirt and lays back down, naked and erect. A skinny little pole greets me, quivering a bit as his gaze moves to my breasts. “I want to feel those next to me,” he says, his hand dropping down again to work his little stick of a dick.
I move quickly, hiding the knife behind my arm as I drop it to the ground to lay down next to him. And then I cover his mouth with one hand while the other swipes the blade across this throat.
Olan’s muffled cries fill the tent. They’re too loud, too distressed. His men will know it’s not sex driving his grunts and groans. My spine prickles when someone moves on the other side of the flap. I’m not ready to defend myself yet. But I can’t move my hand from his lips until I’m sure he won’t scream.
Long seconds pass as we lay there, his eyes shifting from an anger so intense it feels like it will burn me to fear and then resignation. I watch as he accepts the death that’s inevitable.
I don’t feel an ounce of guilt. Not yet. Maybe never. But I’ll worry about that later.
The conversation outside the tent has shifted. They know something’s wrong. Wiping the blade on his discarded shirt, I look away from the flap for a moment as I reach for the other knife. I’m still nearly naked but can’t risk the distraction of dressing.
And then I crouch and wait. Fhord is still alive—I can feel the anger and dread that ripples off him—so I’m pretty sure he’s safe for now. If they have to come in here, they’ll need to do it one by one. I can take them that way.
“Olan.” The first man speaks first, a tinge of nerves in his voice. “Done yet?”
I count twelve heartbeats as they wait for a response.
“Olan? Talk to us.” That sounds like the third male, the one who wanted me to cook naked. I’ll enjoy killing him.
Eight heartbeats this time. They’ll be coming in soon. I focus on my hands, will away the trembling. These males won’t see my fear.
When the flap lifts, I see his eyes first. It’s exactly who I’d hoped. One of my daggers flips through the air, landing in the middle of his throat. He drops to the ground, the cloth drooping onto his back as I lurch forward to take the knife, twist it and then pull it back toward me. It’s done its job.
