CHAPTER FIVE
NALLA
He was buckling wildly and pulling the chains by the time I dragged him back home. His violent struggle made him lose his pants, and he was naked and bloody. Despite my tight grip, more than once, the rope slipped from my fist.
He smiled, his blue eyes dancing in triumph. “I can do this all night.”
Anger coursed through me. It was ravenous, unquenched, mingled with an inexplicable desire for this beast of a man. The sensation had me calling on my magic, making my fingers glow.
He noticed, and his eyes narrowed. My insides filled with that ancient female power within. It slithered to my hands, and I yanked his chain with all my might. He yelled and flopped on the bed; his legs strained against the power of the magic. He couldn’t move. Quickly, I latched the chain to the wall and pressed the hook closed.
Breath was spurting out of me shakily because the magic was exhausting. This man had fallen bent over my bed and his naked ass was on full display. Ire and vengeance seethed from him as he wriggled.
Despite my exhaustion, my mouth parched at the sight of him. He was glorious.
“You fucking bitch!” Between chained hands, his penetrating blue eyes glared. “I hope you’re zapped of juice! I hope you collapse—”
He kept going as I pushed off the wall, weary and lethargic from the wrangle. Leaving me no choice, I went to my chest and yanked it open. Grasping the muzzle within, I turned back to him. His glare zoomed on it; his lips pulled back in a snarl.
“Unless your mouth is in my cunt, I don’t want it open,” I said, walking to him.
“Put your cunt on my face and I’ll show you pain,” he threatened.
Unphased, I straddled his back. He tried to buck me off, but I grasped back his head, exposing his throat. His eyes looked at me sideways, spitting venom from the irises.
Placing the muzzle over his face, I shoved the bit between his teeth. He tried to bite me, but I pushed past his chomping teeth. His breathing was harsh, and he yelled, but it came out incoherent as I snapped the muzzle behind his head. He was trembling with fury by the time I was done. On instinct, I allowed my fingers to linger over his hair. It was soft and tangled, with bits of grass still clinging to the strands. Attempting to bathe him would be wonderful if he wasn’t so difficult.
Sighing, I braced myself for the next step. He began kicking up a fury when I took the leg shackles from the trunk. Calmly, I grabbed his foot, but he yanked back. The soles of his feet were blackened and bruised with dirt and cuts.
The task of caring for him was nearly overwhelming. To tame him meant he was in my charge. If he got hurt, I was the one to cure him. Especially if he was hurt because of me. This was all taught to us. The fleeting moments of kindness mother showed to her men. She’d sat by them after one of their sessions and spoken quietly, soothing them and ensuring them she was pleased.
Those were the moments I hungered for. But he didn’t understand, as if he was afraid of what it would mean to allow himself fully into my care. Or perhaps he simply didn’t believe anyone could care for him.
I snatched his cuffed foot and hooked it to the wall. It left one foot for him to use as a projectile. He did his best to hurt me. Walking around my bed, I grabbed the other shackle.
His eyes met mine.
He hated me.
“You’ve busted your feet,” I said as I opened the shackle. “The forest is filled with poisonous plants. I hope you’ve not accidentally killed yourself in the process of running away.”
He yelled behind his gag as his hands clenched within the bindings. His arms were peppered with scratches. Some looked deep and would need care. My task was certainly cut out for me.
The second foot was a monumental task to complete. Twice he kicked me, marking me with bruises. When I’ve had enough, I pulled into my reserve of power and flicked it just a little so that his legs stilled. He sensed the magic and yelled even more, filling the room with frustrated sounds.
Snatching his foot into the hook, he was finally bested, laying spread eagle on his stomach over my bed.
Grasping the pole of the bed, I panted, feeling depleted by my use of magic. He twisted his head and watched me with slight delight. This infuriated me and I hardened my resolve. Pushing myself up, I cast a look at the burning fireplace. Though I’d not wanted to do it tonight, his behavior deserved me marking him. Shuffling to the burning hearth, I opened the beautiful box gifted to me on my birthday. It was made of white wood and my family name was carved on the lid.
Inside was my brand, which was a foot long, with my initials at the flared end. He yelled even more from the bed, buckling, but it did nothing. My chains held him good, and all he managed was to unravel the bed linens.
Taking the brand, I set it on the edge of the fire, allowing it to heat. To stand was a struggle, and I could nap for days… if he weren’t on my bed.
I grabbed my medical bag, a kit my sister Valle lovingly put together as a gift. It contained everything I needed to heal him. If he allowed me. Bandages, ointment, disinfectant, pliers, linen pads, tweezers, a pair of sheers, and medicine for minor fevers, diarrhea, nausea and other symptoms.
He observed when I placed the bag next to his head. It was odd to do this in silence.
“This is my kit,” I said stupidly.
He rolled his eyes.
I rolled mine.
“It’s for you,” I attempted again. “If I hurt you, I must heal you. Those are the rules. If I break you… I must put you back together.”
He showcased only fury.
“You ran away. Fine. But you ran away from me. So, it’s my fault you’re hurt. So, it’s my task to ensure your wounds don’t become infected.”
His stare was so intense, I had to look away. He was filled with distrust and doubt. Not a bit of him believed I was here to care for him.
“I don’t know what they teach you in the pits and I can’t speak for other women and their relationships with their men, but I’m going to tell you about me.” He studied my movements as I laid out various items on the bedding. “I know you hate me right now. I know you’ll be angry at me for a long time, but I don’t wish to be your enemy.”
His eyes flickered to mine, and I wondered if the men in the pits had ever been cared for after their training wounds. His body carried various deep scars. When he didn’t react, I swallowed and organized the items, ensuring I had all tools needed.
The bottom of his feet was the worst, so I began there, certain he had a thorn or two imbedded in them. I also made a note to have him fitted for proper footwear.
When I moved the pliers, disinfectant, ointment, and bandages to his feet, he turned his head to follow my movement as I sat next to him. The flesh of his leg pressed against me. I grasped his foot to inspect it properly. Startled, he strained, and a muffled yell came from his direction.
“I’m trying to cure you, you brute!” I snapped.
A distinct ‘fuck you’ came from his muzzle, which I ignored.
His foot was covered with blood and grime. Standing, I filled the basin with water from the pitcher and soaked a cloth. As carefully as I could, I dabbed against his foot, cleansing the dirt and twigs.
He groaned, and I looked at him. His forehead was pressed against the bed, his arms strained against the shackles.
“You’ve made a mess of your feet.”
There was a shallow cut on his heel and there was a thorn imbedded in the ball of his foot. The inflamed skin surrounding the torn worried me, for it was a sign of infection. I would have to call the medic and ask for something stronger than what I had.
He was going to hate me even more by the time I finished. When the foot was free of dirt, I began dabbing the disinfectant. He didn’t like this at all. His leg was stiff, pulling away as best he could.
“I know it stings, but if I don’t do this, the infection will spread,” I tried to keep my voice even.
Another ‘fuck you’ formed behind his gag.
Annoyed, I pressed the alcohol-soaked pad against the open cut. Perhaps a little too hard, and he yelled and buckled. To calm him, I blew on the cut to soothe the sting. He calmed down, but his breath continued to be sporadic.
“You’re going to be off your feet for a while.”
He made no noise other than refusing to look at me. A sharp pang of defeat ran through me. These were the moments that were supposed to bring us closer and all he’d done was reject me. A deep sense of disappointment filled me. In my mind, I thought this would be different. I glanced at his face. His eyes are closed.
Hardening my resolve, I forged on. I couldn’t lose hope. On us and on him.
There was a good chance that he’d had no hope in his life, and I couldn’t blame him for mistrusting me. I would have to wait. Earn his trust.
If there was one quality he didn’t know about me was that I was patient.
Once his cuts were clean, I covered them with ointment and pressed a fresh gauze over them, securing a bandage. He’d calmed down, and I turned my task to the thorn. I took a moment to prepare myself for his reaction.
“I have to take out the thorn,” I said.
His muscles pulled once more, and he shook his head. This time, he glared at me.
“What do you want me to do? Leave it in there? You want your foot amputated, you fool?”
To my surprise, he nodded. I stared at him incredulously.
“Well, I don’t want your foot amputated, so it’s got to come out. Just… breath through it, I’ll try to do it as quickly as possible. Stay still and don’t kick me.”
Vindictively, he kicked his foot.
Instinctively, I spanked his ass three times. The sharp smacks resounded in the room, and he paused. Slowly, he turned to me in shock. I stared at the marks on his skin. It was turning a soft pink.
The heat I’d been holding at bay gushed to my cunt and I looked back at him. Sweat beads danced on his forehead. Most women begin the taming of their men with a good beating. I had chosen not to start that way because of my false notions that it should be something he’d deserved… or wanted.
I’d never considered taming to be so difficult.
“I said don’t kick me,” I said with authority.
To my surprise, he didn’t kick me again. He continued his angry stares. Along with that, there was a pallid blush painted on his cheeks. A certain scent was in the air. It was unique and faint, but it was there.
Taking the tweezers, I turned his foot to get a better look at the thorn. He groaned a little when I pressed the linen pad soaked with disinfectant against his skin. Tweezers at hand, I tried to grasp the base of the spine. His breathing shifted.
“It’s in good,” I murmured. “What did you step on?”
He said something that came out like a muffle. I almost smiled. I knew he wished to curse me to hell again.
When I tugged at the base of the thorn, it barely budged, and he pressed his face into the bedding. It must have hurt a great deal, but I couldn’t stop now. I told him I would be quick, and we must be truthful with our men. They were under our control and honesty was to be revered. If something was too much, they must say it. We must respect it. Naturally, we pushed their limits but never broke them beyond repair.
I tugged the spine once more, getting a good grip on it and pulled. Nothing. He shook and my heart softened towards him. My hand trailed to his calf, and I caressed his skin. I didn’t know why I did it. Perhaps it’s comfort. Mother always said, ‘offer comfort when needed’. She never elaborated. Perhaps we all expressed comfort in different ways.
“You’re doing great,” I whispered.
I don’t know why I said this. It felt like comfort.
Grasping the tweezers better, I tugged the thorn once more and this time half of it came out, but it was slicing through his skin. He snarled and spat into his gag. I wasn’t certain if he was crying. I doubted it. He wasn’t the sort to cry. But it was enough that he was losing control. His leg trembled and I feel terrible for his predicament.
“It’s almost out.”
Comfort.
Taking a hold of the base, the torn came out of him, leaving behind a gaping hole that flooded with dark blood.
Goddess Winter, I thought. No wonder he was limping.
Quickly, I cleaned the wound and pressed the ointment into him. I took my time and hoped he didn’t develop complications. I would still have to give him medicine and call the medic.
When his foot was properly bandaged, I moved to the other. It wasn’t as bad as the first one. No deep cuts or thorns. He didn’t fight me and aside from a few winces; he lay quietly while I finished my task. Once both of his feet were wrapped, I cleaned the cut he must’ve accidentally given himself when he unchained himself in this same room.
After his legs were finished, I slowly stood from the bed.
Inspecting his arms, I found welts and sliced skin from branches and rocks. His face was wet with sweat, but his eyes were steady on me. He watched as I cleaned his arms and shivered once or twice when I applied the disinfectant ointment and bandaged him up.
By the time I finished, he lay limp on the bed, his head resting on the sheets.
Without over thinking it, I touched his hair and caressed his scalp, patting him gently. He shifted to look at me. There was a soft sort of warmth that filled me, and I realized my magic was replenishing itself.
“You did well,” I said. “I’ll have to give you some antibiotics. That thorn was deep but you did well.”
He made no noise; his eyes were still slightly angry. As if it was my fault he stepped on the wrong bush.
“Would you like me to take off the gag?” I asked.
He looked as if he dared me to do it. I didn’t want him gagged for the branding. It was not supposed to be like that. It was supposed to be intimate and tender. Despite all my training, it was completely different when dealing with an individual.
Deflated, I decided to brand him later. I just didn’t know when. I didn’t know when he’d not want to kill me or run away once more. For right now, with his predicament, he was immobilized.
Walking to the fireplace, I removed the brand from the fire. It was bright cherry red, perfect for a quick press against his skin, but now wasn’t the time. It didn’t feel right. He watched me as I showed him the brand.
“Not tonight,” I said.
His shoulders visibly dropped, clearly relieved. This was the right thing to do. He was not ready yet. I was not ready yet. I knew the lessons; I knew the steps, but I had to be allowed to do things at my pace. At his pace. At our pace.
He needed water. The lessons kept flittering in and out of me. Filling a cup, I went to him and unlatched the muzzle. He shifted, sniffled, and licked his lips as he stared at me. He was still angry, but it was mixed with doubt.
“You need to drink, or you’ll dehydrate,” I said.
I brought the water to his mouth. The water dripped down his chin, but he was desperate for it, gulping it back harshly. When he finished, I wiped his mouth. His narrowed gaze found mine.
“I don’t want to gag you, but if you continue your tirade, I will,” I said in a serious tone.
He breathed deeply. “That fucking hurt.”
What did he expect? I set the cup down and looked back at him.
“I know, I’m sorry. But it had to be done.”
He scoffed, then sneered.
“Wounds must be treated,” I said.
“Wounds heal on their own. Thorns are expelled by the body,” he growled. “Cuts scab, ooze, then finally heal.”
“Ooze?” I asked, aghast.
He stared at me as if I were the imbecile who knew nothing of allowing infection to set in.
“Yes,” he hissed. “The pus that comes out.”
I shook my head, not believing he had such notions. “Pus means infection. Haven’t your wounds ever been cared for? Don’t they do this in the pits? Or at least allowed you medicine to do it yourself?”
At this, he chuckled. It was malevolent. “You’re so na?ve. It’s almost endearing.”
I recalled the man kneeling before me at the pits, how terrible his wound had been. They had all looked broken. The taskmasters didn’t care if they were harmed and suffering infections.
“How do you think we survive?” he asked darkly, as if he could sense an opening to my shifting thoughts. “As a child, you get your wings shoved back into your body. Do you know how it happens? A cut must be made in the back next to the base of the wing, muscle is pushed to the side and the wing is tucked inside. An entire surgery in cold blood. Then you’re placed in a room with other boys who’ve suffered the same fate. Many have perished. Only those whose body is strong make it.”
I felt sick, and I had to swallow against the bile. Of course, I knew their wings were placed back into their bodies, but they’d made it seem like boys were magically put to sleep during the procedure. To think of him as a little boy experiencing this zapped all my anger at him running away. He knew no better. He thought I was only a taskmaster. Someone to hurt him for the sake of hurting him. Someone to hold him down and split him open.
There was a sharp to hold him, but I understood he wouldn’t appreciate it yet. He didn’t know comfort. That’s when I realized it wasn’t my task to break him or tame him. It was my task to help him. To show him how slight pain could be pleasurable. To show him the sexual intimacy forged by trust. A sense of protectiveness filled me, and my lips tightened. He may hate me right now, but he was mine to protect.
I swallowed and looked away. “We’ll, you’re no longer in the pit. Now you’re mine and I take care of mine. Even if you don’t wish it.”
He blinked at me. Now it was his turn at confusion. “Why didn’t you brand me?”
I glanced at him. “It’s supposed to be a bonding experience. A tender moment where you become mine and I provide you with pleasure for accepting me. Right now, you hate me. If I brand you now… it would be soiled.”
“Because being branded is such a sweet experience.”
“If you’re branded, no one is allowed to touch you, harm you, kill you. You belong to me, and I will protect you with my body and magic. No man or woman can change that. Not even the queen.” I looked away because his gaze was so steady. “It’s not perfect, but I didn’t make rules. The rules just existed.”
“The rules are wrong,” he snapped.
I was tempted to muzzle him again for his combative nature. I pointed to the discarded piece of leather, and he closed his mouth, his nostrils flaring.
Finally, I sighed and softened my stance, placing my hand on my hip. “Why don’t you want me to take care of you?”
“I take care of myself,” his voice is controlled rage.
I cocked my head. “You expect pus from cuts and dream of your body pushing out thorns. You also refuse to eat, refuse to sleep… you’ve not slept in days. You’re exhausted, won’t admit to it, and fight me when I’m trying to cure you.”
He yanked harshly at the chains. Since he was spread over my bed, all it did was jiggle his ass. “Stop pretending you care!”
Without saying a word, I turned back to the vials in the bag. He watched with hawk eyes when I chose the correct one.
“What is that?” He asked.
“Medicine. You drink it.”
“I won’t drink it.”
I opened the vial and sniffed it. It smelled acrid. Tastes awful, I had to drink it myself when I cut my stomach while training last year.
“It’ll help you heal,” I said.
“I don’t care.”
I wished to roll my eyes at his childish protests, but a thought came to me.
Smiling at him, I leaned down onto him. “If you do not drink it… I’ll spank you.” The idea came fresh from watching his butt wiggle a moment before. “I’ll place you right over my lap and redden your ass so you can’t sit down for a week.”
His lips parted. The strange scent is back, and I realized what it was. The heady smell of musk and citrus… he’s aroused.
I smirked. “You liked it earlier–”
“I did not!” He seethed.
“Well, if you refuse the medicine, I’ll assume you did enjoy it.” I looked at him triumphantly.
His nostrils flared. Then he opened his mouth. A thrill of delight gushed in me at besting him. But even more, a thrill that he enjoys the spanking, or he wouldn’t protest so loudly about it. I would bet money that if I turned him around, I would find a half-hard cock. There was also something so lovely about seeing such a large man tied up, looking up at me with his mouth open.
When I pressed the vial to his lips and he obediently drank, my body burst into fire. The days of hunting him down, dragging him back, chaining him, healing him, and finally discovering his slight curiosity left me desperately wishing to fuck him.
But no. Not yet. I want him to want it.
When he finished the medicine, he made a disgusted face. His tongue flicked out as he gagged. “That was awful, god.”
I lifted his chin and cleaned him. “Good boy.”
He stiffened, and his eyes slicked to me, watching me. Oh, yes. There’s certainly a half-hard cock under him. The scent became stronger, and I felt that warmth between my own legs. This time, he didn’t argue. He also didn’t know the medicine would make him sleepy fairly quickly. We both desperately needed rest.
I began unchaining him and he lay clicking his tongue and shifting, unhappy with his medicine. First one foot, then the other. He didn’t kick me; he was rather still, and I wondered if he’d fallen asleep. When I walked around to his arms, he blinked at me tiredly. I quickly unchained his arms, and they dropped onto the bed.
“What was in that?” he murmured.
I rolled him onto his back. He was dead weight and massive. I sat next to him and leaned forward, pushing back his matted hair. His eyes were lethargic, and he clasped my forearm, but there was no strength in it. It was almost a caress.
“Medicine.” I said. “Rest now.”
“I don’t want to fall asleep,” and there was a tinge of panic in his voice.
Leaning forward, I soothed my hand over his chest. “You’re safe. I’m here and I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
He swallowed thickly and stared at me for a moment, his breath sharp.
I captured his face in my hands even as he strained against it with the last bit of his strength.
“You’ll feel better when you wake,” I said and softly ran my finger over his cheek.
His eyes were on me as he took one last panicked breath.
“You fucking bit--” his head slumped sideways, and he passed out.
I felt all the tension in my shoulders dissipate. But when I looked at his cock… I was right. His erection was quickly sinking, but sure enough, he’d been hard. Very, very hard.