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“I like this. It is mine. Sometimes, when I move my fingers in the night, your pussy squeezes over them. It is very pleasant. I like to keep you wet and primed. It pleases me. It pleases me to see you come. It pleases me to feel the wetness there afterward. It also pleases me immensely that you are full up with my cum.” I cannot get the pride from my voice.
“A little too full.”
“I believe you will get used to it.”
“I believe I will never get used to it,” she says dryly. “But I shall spend the rest of my life joyfully trying.”
ChapterFive
Jasmine
The pretty fairy, who Melody calls Mama, goes by the name of Winter. She is kind to the child, if a little cool in disposition, and answers her many questions about the kingdom from which she comes. Her fine clothes have gone. She has been given a rough homespun dress and fitted with an iron collar. The blisters on her throat speak of her race, for fairies are made weak by iron. A strip of blanket has been wound around it to try and protect her, but the way she almost reaches for it, then stops, indicates the great pain it causes her.
Life settles into a pattern. We travel most days but occasionally make camp and do not move. Winter’s mate, Jacob, is tasked with training the human bondservants and shifters, which takes place all day if we remain in camp, or of an evening if we have traveled.
Rig has not come near me since Doug had words with him, and I’m grateful for that.
I ought to feel more settled, but I do not.
There is an undercurrent to the camp that sets me on edge.
Doug has not rutted me again. I made the mistake of telling him I was not sore the following night, and then, the moment he tried to put his finger inside me, I winced. He roared and stormed out of our little tent, pacing for a good long while before he calmed down. When he returned to the tent, he put me on my back and told me in no-nonsense terms how he would only accept pleasuring me with his mouth.
I love his voice, deep and growly. He is very blunt, and his words make me blush.
Much of what he does makes me blush.
I blush now just thinking about him and busy myself with my sewing as Melody and Winter sit talking about Sanctum, the fairy kingdom from whence Winter comes.
I wish Doug were a little less fearful of hurting me. I’m not made of glass and I can take more than he presumes. It has been nearly a week, and I’m a little obsessed about taking his cock inside me again. But, no, he is full of stubborn determination thathewill know when I’m ready. If only I could get him past the putting-it-in part, matters would all fall into place. For such a gentle orc, he has a very dominant side when it comes to rutting and I am amazed with how obsessed he was with filling me with his seed and keeping it all inside.
My blush deepens as I wonder if that is an orc thing, a shifter thing, or just a Doug thing.
On the opposite side of the tent, Winter is encouraging Melody to take a nap. Today, is a day where we have not had to move on, and the child is full of energy and back to her old self. “She is a good lass,” I say into the quietness that follows, going back to my sewing, “and has taken to you swiftly, mistress.”
“She is.” Winter smiles then reaches toward her collar before she remembers and stops herself.
I feel all that she suffers like an echo inside me.
The collar reminds us of our status, that I am still bondservant, and that the freedom promised by the warlord is far away.
“I am no one’s mistress anymore,” Winter says quietly, but with such bitterness that I lift my head from my needlework.
“What of your warrior? Is it not the way of your people that you are his mistress?”
“It is our way, but Jacob and I are not bound to one another in the deeper way of a life bond.”
“You are not?” I frown. “But your omega scent is muted. I thought for certain he was your mate.” I have no knowledge of this personally, but Bard spoke about it with confidence a few days ago. And besides, whenever I see her beside her warrior, the pull between them is palpable.
She shakes her head, her brows pinching together. A myriad of emotions pass across her face. They unsettle me in the way many things have done since we joined Tulwin on this quest.
“I need a moment,” she says, and I stare after her as she pushes the opening flap aside and flees the tent.
I rise, dropping my sewing to the floor. As my eyes go to the sleeping child, I am torn. That look upon Winter’s face is one I know well. It is the mirror of all I felt the night I fled during the bear attack. It is a look of imminent recklessness. If she runs, she will be punished, as will her warrior, too, perhaps.
I go after her, relieved to find Bron on duty outside. “Do not let Melody leave,” I say. “Which way did Winter go?”
He points to his left, where rows of tents disappear into the distance under the shelter of the forest.
