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I can still hear his growling rumble in my ear, both a warning and a promise before he slithered his wet tongue over my skin. I remember the heat from both of our bodies as he started to grope me.
My lower region starts to throb, imagining the feel of his thick fingers inside of me. I remember how he pinned me against the wall, shut down my cries with a vicious kiss, and made me aware just how much power he has over me.
A soldier steps out of formation to screw around with another one. Lasta approaches with a scowl and pulls the former out of line. He grabs him by the collar, nearly choking the man.
His voice is so loud it reaches to where I stand. The depth of it vibrates throughout my body as he reprimands the rambunctious soldier.
“Make a move like that again, Hraya, and I’ll make sure they’ll cook your tail once I cut it off. Do you understand?” he hisses while applying more pressure on the neck.
“Yes, sir,” Hraya answers as he lowers his head.
Lasta shoves him back in formation, leaving the poor guy gasping for air. All I can think about is how he used those same hands on me during our little interlude. I guess I’m just lucky he didn’t use nearly that much force then.
Once more, he looks over at me, making sure that I’m watching. I find myself reaching for the spot on my neck where he savored me with such a long tongue. It sends shivers down my spine.
If it’s someone like him… he’s the one that I want.
Despite being scared of such an overpowering man, I can't stop myself from craving his attention and aggressive touch. The way he barks at his soldiers, ordering them around, shoving them to the positions he wants – it makes me think of everything he can do to me in bed. All while growling at me with that gruff, sexy voice of his.
I swallow hard, a burning sensation from my lower belly spreading through my body. With just one look, I feel the urge to get on my knees and tell him I’ll do anything he says. I’m in a trance.
But I want more. I need more.
If he dominates me with just a stare, I crave to know what else he can do with this small and fragile body of mine. To be broken by his hands and rebuilt just so he can destroy me as helikes. To be at his mercy as I isolate myself from the entire world and think of nothing but him.
6
LASTA
Without a doubt, the forge is the singular hottest place in the castle despite being outdoors. If the searing hot coal or the flaming steel doesn’t burn you first, then the unforgiving morning sun will certainly see to it.
Even looking at the entire structure alone is enough to make me break a sweat. A constant wave of heat puffs out of the smelter every time a worker shovels steel ore into it, amplified by the smell of the forge itself. The scent often lingers in one’s nostrils far into the night, even hours after smithing duties for the day have wrapped up.
The forge is a place only for the toughest of individuals. Not everyone who comes to work ends up staying on permanent assignment. Irian handles them well and weeds out whoever does not pass muster with an iron fist.
Though I trust Irian’s work, we have a lot to do. So today I came by simply to supervise, if only to ease my own concerns. I want to see that things are coming together in time because I still believe our fate depends on it.
I amble past each workstation, casting a studious eye over the quality of each smith’s efforts.
I stop short behind a human man, peering down over his shoulder at what I presume to be a sword. The once silver steel has been burnt brown at the forge. The man slowly turns his head up to look at me.
“Sir?”
“What do you call this?” I ask, picking up the poor excuse of a weapon. “Why on Protheka are you working with damaged goods?”
“I let it sit too long at the forge, so I figure the natural color of the steel will return once it cools.”
“You idiot! What kind of logic do you carry in that human box of yours you call a brain? First off, you are only making it worse by hammering away at it like a madman.”
The man winces, slowly setting down his hammer on the workbench.
“Secondly, look at these edges.”
I run a finger along the blade.
“If you had executed a good job, my finger would have been sliced open,” I snarl, showing him my clean, uncut finger. “These edges are blunt and uneven, a waste of good quality steel. Irian, come teach this man his job.”
As Irian scurries over to see what I’m so agitated over, I take notice of the other smiths watching on. Perhaps they are keen to catch a moment’s break for entertainment’s sake. “What are you all looking at? This isn’t a show, back to work!”
