Chapter 25 Othic
OTHIC
Istop at the crest of the ridge, pulling Aurora back into the shadow of a gnarled, black-barked tree.
Below us, the Dark Market is a living wound in the earth.
It is a sprawling, roaring rat’s lair of filthy tents, rickety shacks, and iron cages, all built into the weeping walls of a massive ravine.
Rickety rope bridges span the chasm, connecting clusters of hovels, and the "streets" at the bottom are a churning river of mud and bodies.
This place is a cesspit. A thousand times worse than Eelry.
I feel Aurora freeze beside me, her breath catching in a small, terrified gasp.
Her fear is a sharp, sweet spike in the foul air, and my protective instincts roar.
I must protect her. But down there, protection looks like ownership.
A lone human female walking free is not just prey; she is an invitation, a weakness to be exploited.
A slave, however, is just property. She will be ignored.
She cannot walk in as my equal. She must walk in as my property. It is the only way.
I turn to her, my jaw tight. "We wait for dusk.
Then we go in." She nods, her eyes wide, fixed on the horror below.
"We need a story. I am a d-fam orc, a raider.
I am here to sell... my catch." I look at her, letting the meaning settle, my voice dropping into the harsh, guttural rumble I used at Privis's estate. "You are the catch."
I see her understand. The words land like a slap, and I watch her swallow, her heart hammering against her ribs like a frantic, trapped bird.
I see the shadow of Privis, of the cage, pass over her face.
The gentle builder from the Scildborg is gone.
In his place is the Tusk, his face a hard, unreadable mask of granite.
I unbuckle my heavy leather belt. It is thick, dark, and worn. The sound of the metal buckle is deafeningly loud in the sudden, tense silence.
"Turn around," I rumble.
Her breath hitches. She should be terrified. She should run. But her body, numb and shaking, obeys. She turns her back to me, her eyes squeezed shut. She thinks I am going to collar her.
The leather slides across her skin. It is cold from the wind, but it radiates my body heat.
The smell hits me—her scent, mixing with my own on the leather: musk, iron, and fialon berries.
I loop the belt around her neck. It does not choke her, but it is heavy, a tangible weight.
The click of the metal buckle locking into place is a sound of finality.
It should feel like shame. But as she turns, her eyes are not filled with the terror I expected. A dark, coiling pulse starts deep in my belly. The fated mate bond, which has been a warm hum of safety, twists. It recognizes this. It craves this. This is not a slaver's brand. This is my mark.
She turns slowly, the heavy belt a possessive, tangible weight on her pale throat. She is watching me, her amber eyes narrowed, and I see no tears.
"You look afraid," I growl, testing her.
She shakes her head, her voice a whisper. "I am not."
My nostrils flare, a sharp intake of breath. I smell it. Her fear is gone, replaced by a sharp, sudden need. A low, rough chuckle rumbles in my chest, a sound of dark discovery. "No," I agree, my eyes darkening. "You are not. My little mate... you like the leash."
Her scent floods my senses. The sight of my thick, dark belt against her pale, fragile throat makes my fated mate bond roar. She wears my mark. She is mine.
All thought of plans, of brothers, of caution, evaporates. I am a beast. She is my mate. And I will brand her before this hell below us can even look at her.
A guttural growl rips from my throat. "You are my slave. Act like it."
I grab the front of her tunic and shove her backward, slamming her against the rough rock face of the ridge. She gasps, but her eyes are bright, her pupils blown wide with dark arousal. She wants this.
I press my body against hers, pinning her, letting her feel the full, hard length of my cock grinding against her stomach. "You are mine," I snarl, my face inches from hers, my tusks grazing her cheek. "Not Privis's. Not that filth in the barn. Mine."
Her small hands fist in my leathers, pulling me closer. "Yes," she whimpers, her head tilting back, baring the leather-bound column of her throat. "Othic, please..."
That one word breaks me.
I rip her tunic open in one savage pull, the laces snapping like threads.
The cold night air kisses her bare breasts, her nipples already peaked and begging.
I do not gentle my touch. I fist her hair, wrenching her head back until the leather collar bites into her throat and her spine arches against the jagged rock.
She cries out (pain, pleasure, I no longer know the difference), and the sound goes straight to my cock.
“Say it again,” I snarl against her exposed neck, teeth scraping the frantic pulse beneath the belt. “Tell me who you belong to while I fuck the memory of every other male out of you.”
“Yours,” she gasps, the word ragged. “Only yours, Othic, please—”
I shove her skirts up to her waist with my free hand, bunching the fabric in my fist. No patience, no teasing.
I tear the thin linen of her smallclothes away; the cloth rips like parchment.
She is already slick, the scent of her arousal thick and dizzying, flooding my senses until the Dark Market below us disappears. There is only her. Only this.
I free myself with a rough jerk of my leathers.
My cock springs heavy and aching against her belly, the ridged length of me already leaking at the tip.
I do not warn her. I hook one of her thighs over my forearm, spreading her wide, pinning her to the rock with my weight, and drive into her in one brutal thrust.
She screams (raw, broken, perfect), her body clenching around the sudden invasion.
She is impossibly tight, impossibly hot, and still I do not stop.
I pull back and slam home again, deeper, harder, the leather collar creaking as her throat works for air.
The rock scrapes her back with every punishing stroke and she only arches into it, nails clawing at my shoulders, urging me on.
“Take it,” I growl against her ear, voice guttural, barely recognizable. “Take every inch of your master, little mate. Feel me split you open and mark you inside where no one else will ever reach.”
Her walls flutter around me, already close (gods, so responsive), and I snarl in triumph.
I shift my grip, wrapping the loose end of the belt around my fist twice, shortening the leash until the leather bites into her skin and her air comes in desperate, shallow gasps.
Her eyes roll back, pupils blown wide, lips parted on silent pleas.
I fuck her like I fight; merciless, relentless, and claiming.
Each thrust lifts her onto her toes, her smaller body impaled and helpless, breasts bouncing with the force.
The wet slap of our bodies echoes off the ridge, obscene and beautiful.
I angle my hips and grind against that spot inside her that makes her sob my name like a prayer.
“Look at me,” I command, voice a lash of sound.
Her eyes snap open, glassy with tears and lust, and I hold them as I pound into her without mercy. The sight of my belt around her pale throat, the way her lips swell and redden from my earlier bites, the way her body yields and takes and begs for more; it snaps the last thread of control.
I roar and slam home one final time, burying myself to the root.
My release tears through me, thick and scalding, flooding her in long, punishing pulses.
She convulses around me, her own climax ripping a broken scream from her throat as the leash cuts her air just enough to make the pleasure vicious and blinding.
I stay inside her, locked deep, letting her milk every drop. My forehead drops to hers, both of us shaking, breath sawing in and out in harsh pants. The scent of sex and leather and her surrender is thicker than the stench of the Dark Market below.
Only when the last shudder leaves her do I ease my grip on the belt, letting blood flow back into her throat. She sags against me, limp and trembling, and I catch her easily, cradling her bruised body against my chest.
She is limp, her body humming, my seed hot inside her. The leather collar is a tangible, possessive weight on her skin. I pull out slowly, a wet, resisting sound, and she whimpers at the loss. She is mine. She is nothing else.
I straighten her skirts with a rough, proprietary tug. “Now,” I say, my voice flat, the Tusk back in control. “You are my slave.”
I turn and stalk toward the ridge, the end of the belt in my hand. She scrambles to her feet, her legs shaking, and falls into place two steps behind me, her head bowed.
The smell of cheap zhisk and urine at the gate is overpowering. The sound of a whip cracking somewhere in the din makes her flinch. The guards—a bored Minotaur, two human mercenaries, and a pale Dark Elf in Miou armor—look us over.
I shove ipia at the Minotaur. "One night," I growl. "Selling... property."
The Dark Elf guard looks up, his gaze sliding over Aurora, lingering on the belt around her neck. "A pretty catch, orc," he smirks, his voice a slick, oily sound. "She will fetch a high price. Or... give one."
I feel my entire body go rigid. A low growl starts in my chest. I am going to kill him.
Panicked, she does the only thing she can. She reaches out and tugs, just once, on the end of the leather belt in my fist. A small, submissive gesture.
My gaze snaps to her. The inferno in my eyes banks, smothered by cold control. I give the elf a curt nod and shove her roughly through the gate.
We are in. The sound is a wall of noise—a dozen languages, screaming merchants, weeping slaves. The sight is worse. Cages of human women, their eyes dead. A naga selling glittering, blue-flecked poisons. A pen of snarling worgs being sold as guard dogs.
This is hell. And I just brought her into it.
I keep my hand on the hilt of my sword, my other hand fisted around the end of her leash. I am a battering ram, shoving through the crowd. A slaver, his face covered in sores, sees her. He reaches out a grimy hand. "A new one? Pretty."
I do not break stride. I do not even look at him. I smash my elbow backward, connecting with his face. I hear his nose break. He screams. I keep walking.
I need a starting point. The smell of cheap, sour ale and old fear leads me to a dilapidated structure. The sign is a faded, leering skull: "The Drowned Rat."
This is where the whispers live.
I kick the door open. The tavern goes silent. I shove Aurora into a dark, shadowed corner booth, hidden from the main room's line of sight.
"Sit. Bitch!" I shout.
She nods, disappearing into the shadow of the booth. I turn, my hand on my sword, my shoulders squared. When I see all eyes in the tavern look down, only then do I sit down.