Chapter 4
Marching was insufferable.
Back home, Ragnar had traveled one of two ways: either on his shaggy, solid Northern horse, riding along the roads; or as the crow flew, cutting fresh tracks through clean, untouched snow, breathing deep the scents of forest and river.
They’d made camp when he felt like it, when he commanded it, because he was the leader, then.
If not on horseback, he’d traveled on his own four legs, in his wolf shape, flying across the fields and scrambling nimbly in the foothills, claws finding purchase on rock, on sand, on snow.
He could run for miles and miles and never tire when shifted; each sight and each scent was a new delight, spine tingling with thrills over the simpleness of a blue sky overhead, and the beauty of a fresh kill, hot blood on his tongue.
But he couldn’t shift, now, the torq heavy on his neck, growing hot beneath the glare of the midday sun; and he’d been given no horse to ride, save that day during the roadside attack when he’d vaulted onto the back of Amelia’s stallion.
Also, he wasn’t in charge of a bloody thing, which meant he walked—marched—on foot, until the whole endless, winding company called it quits at nightfall each day.
His feet were sore, his back was tired, and he was bored out of his mind.
Most days, the rest of the pack stayed man-shaped save a few scouts, and he could pester Leif for entertainment.
He was keeping track of the number of smiles and laughs he could coax out of his alpha, and they were increasing by the hour.
There was a new lightness to Leif’s shoulders, a quickness in his smiles.
Today, though, as they entered what had been deemed a dangerous stretch of road, all the other wolves had shifted and were sweeping wide arcs on either side of the army, searching for hidden threats. This left Ragnar to walk alone.
Mostly alone.
He would seek entertainment where he could, and today that came in the form of their Sel prisoner.
Usually, the pale fucker rode in the baggage train, shackled hand and foot, on occasion with a hood pulled over his head so he couldn’t report on their movements even if he wanted to or possessed the ability.
But Ragnar didn’t feel like jostling around amidst rolled up tents and war chests, biting his own tongue each time one of the poorly-sprung wagons hit a rut.
So they were walking. And thus far, he’d been unable to get a satisfying rise out of the foreigner.
“What about women?” he asked, as they trailed along in the dusty wake of the two mounted soldiers riding a half dozen paces ahead of them.
When the prisoner didn’t answer, Ragnar drifted sideways so he could nudge their shoulders ungently together, gratified by the way Cassius was forced over.
He didn’t stumble, though, the bastard. Took a lateral step, righted himself, and resumed walking with head held high and expression neutral, as though nothing had happened.
Ragnar wanted to shift. To feel the lightning crackle of power and magic down his spine; to feel his skin ripple and surge with fur, bones snapping and reforming faster than the sounds they made, until he stood on four feet with a mouth full of sharp ivory teeth to sink into Cassius’s flank.
Just as it did every time he felt that urge, the torq seemed to tighten around his throat, until he was forced to swallow back a gasp, and shake loose the instinctual impulse to shift.
The sharp darts of pain along his nerve endings faded far too slowly, as did the sensation of being strangled.
When he could draw a deep breath, he said, “That was a question.”
Cassius regarded him from the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry?”
“I asked about women.” He’d grown used to being subservient within the pack, painful though it was.
But having to repeat himself with the likes of a prisoner?
A political hostage? It ground his back teeth together.
“You were raised a soldier, without free will, force-fed gods only knows what passes for food in your ill-gotten empire. Did they at least let you have a girl or two?”
Cassius watched him another moment, then his gaze cut forward. His posture didn’t alter, but Ragnar could smell fresh sweat pricking under his arms: stress. Self-consciousness.
Ragnar grinned. “I’ll take that as a no.”
Cassius didn’t respond—save the two hectic spots of pink along his high-angled cheekbones.
“Ha! Are all Sel soldiers virgins? Or just you?”
“Carnal relations are—are a distraction,” Cassius said, haltingly, and the fear and shame pouring off of him were strong enough Ragnar couldn’t believe the horses didn’t throw their heads up to test the air. “Their purpose—”
“Gods, you’re still going.”
Blush deepening, Cassius continued, “Is to produce children, be they heirs, slaves, or soldiers. As the last of the three, all of my training was in battle.”
“Heirs, slaves, or soldiers,” Ragnar repeated. “Is that all you produce over there? What about farmers? Blacksmiths? Craftsmen? The tents we raided up north were swimming in gold trinkets and fancy cups. Someone made those, didn’t they?”
“Those would be slaves.”
“Is that how it is, then? In your empire? You’re either at the top, or someone at the top owns you?”
Cassius turned his head as they walked, his gaze near-colorless in the shade of the pines, cutting and far too bold for that of a prisoner.
After a long beat of eye contact—as if Ragnar was going to be the one to look away first—Cassius returned his gaze to the road and sighed.
“Have you considered that’s the precise reason I allowed myself to be captured? The reason I’m helping your people?”
“Not my people, mate. You’re helping the Southerners.”
“Your prince is aligned with the Southern cause, though, is he not?”
“He’s not my prince.”
“No.” Cassius sent him another sideways glance. “What is it you call him? Your alpha? He’s your master.”
Ragnar bristled. He didn’t realize he’d growled until Cassius’s brows lifted in surprise; then, aware of the rumble in his chest, he pushed it louder, deeper.
Leif was his alpha. His master. But the intricacies of pack dynamics couldn’t be understood by anyone outside the pack, much less a Sel born into captivity.
To Cassius, Ragnar’s submission to Leif’s authority, to his body, would resemble his own upbringing.
A relationship between slave and slave-owner.
He couldn’t begin to comprehend Ragnar’s relationship with Leif.
Couldn’t conceive of—of the way—of the fact Leif didn’t see Ragnar as—
The shock of pain and pressure at his throat proved he’d tried to shift, and his growl choked off. He coughed, and thumped on his chest, his heart racing, his wolf whining and whimpering under his skin.
“Are you well?” Cassius asked.
“Fuck off,” Ragnar bit out between coughs.
When he’d gotten his breathing under control, and they’d walked from the shade of a pine grove back into the brilliant spring sunlight, he thought Cassius had finally learned to keep his trap shut.
But after a dozen strides of silence, Cassius said, “The collar you wear.”
Ragnar growled again, and the torq squeezed a warning that killed the sound in his throat.
“It binds you, doesn’t it?” Cassius continued, the bastard. “To Prince Leif? To his will?”
Ragnar bowed up his shoulders, lifted his arms, swelled his chest, and rounded on him.
Whipped around so he stood directly before him, blocking his path, forcing him to halt in the middle of the road.
A rider cursed them and steered his horse around them, and Ragnar stared directly into Cassius’s too-pale eyes.
“Lady Amelia wants you alive,” he snarled, “because she thinks you’ll prove useful.
That’s the only reason you weren’t nailed up to a post and gutted the moment you were captured.
Her men, Leif—they all respect her wishes.
But I don’t. And collar or no collar, I don’t need to be on four legs to crush your windpipe.
Say something else smart, and I’ll kill you right now and leave your body for the crows. Do we understand one another?”
“Yes,” Cassius said, right away.
But his concession felt like anything but a victory.
Ragnar turned and stalked off down the road, the prisoner’s footfalls following.