by Leia Rice
His attention immediately drifted to one of the women who stood alone. She bathed in the shallow water, exposing her naked, lithe body without shame. Her black hair fell down to the curves of her hips, and as she raised her cloth to wash her shoulders, water trickled down the small of her back. Her name was Zari, and she was one of the Manahotchi’s elite. Her brothers, all the men from her father to her father’s father’s father were all great warriors, their ranks almost equal to that of Aloran’s family.
Aloran drifted up behind Zari, and with the tips of his fingers, he discretely brushed his hand across her waist. The woman turned, her hand raised, ready to reprimand the culprit who dared touch her without permission, but Zari stopped and blushed.
“Forgive me, Aloran, I thought you were another man who was being forward. I think during the games, men begin to forget themselves and their places.”
“Of course I forgive you, Zari. How could I blame something so beautiful?” His words were smooth, like the cocoa and milk mixture that the Manahotchi used to help arouse and warm the loins.
Zari stepped toward a row of tall-growing brush, where her clothes were set aside. As she wandered away, she spoke over her shoulder, “You are getting better, Aloran, but there is still some work to be done.”
“When will you give up on my father and give me a chance?” Aloran questioned. Once the two were out of sight from the others, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her against his chest in one fluid motion. His cock stiffened as the smooth skin of her thigh brushed against its length.
“When he is dead and you are the chieftain?” Zari did not sound ashamed to say as much. She was also not too ashamed to push her leg against his hardening erection.
“But I’ve already spoiled you at least a dozen times.” Aloran pushed Zari back into the trunk of a tree. Drawing one of her legs up around his waist, he nudged his cock against her opening, teasing her slick lips with the swollen head. “A dozen and one.”
Zari tightened her legs around his thighs, challenging his intent to fuck her. “Spoil me all you want, Aloran, but until you are the chieftain, my energy will be spent on your father.”
Deep down, it made Aloran angry. Perhaps it was the anger that drove him to push inside her. Without wasting a moment, he pumped furiously into her pussy, grunting once or twice in the process. Zari’s tits bounced with each stroke. Aloran grabbed onto one of them, pinching at her nipple until she yelped in pain, which only tempted him to put his fingers into her mouth, pulling down on her jaw as he snorted out another breath.
With one final moan, Aloran shot his fluids up into her womb. He had been careful about not doing it in the past. He didn’t need to publicly spoil Zari. He did not want to shame her, but the moment called for it. Her words shamed him. The thought of his seed sticky between her legs, a reminder of her mistake for the day, excited him, and aroused him once more.
With a show of self-control, Aloran slid his fingers out of Zari’s mouth and his cock out of her used folds. When he took a step away from the woman, he watched as she slipped her fingers down to her swollen clit, circling it in an effort to bring herself to release. Spirits, he wanted to take her again, but she’d have to learn a lesson today. “Do not make the mistake of lessening me to my father again.”
Zari gasped at her own finger work. “Aloran, you can’t just leave me like…like this.”
Without another word, Aloran turned to leave, his cock heavy and coated with her juices.
* * *
Ishara was happy that the games were over. For days on end, she had to suffer through listening to her fellow Oolani women cry and fight all through the hours. From her slave pen, she witnessed many things. The Manahotchi men taking their new slaves, the newly-enslaved women being put out to work without food until the night—their cries ripped through her heart so-much-so that she forgot her own pain and despair. These were her people, and she could do nothing for them.
The chieftain did not allow Ishara to ever feel the pangs of hunger, but where he showed kindness, he also showed his stubbornness by leaving her out in her cramped pen for days without coming to see her. Another man would deliver her food and water and never once spoke directly to her. At first, it did not bother Ishara that she was being left alone, but the longer she went socially neglected, the more she started to yearn for her home and family.
Pulling her legs up to her chest, she hugged her arms around her knees, staring across the camp, watching mothers with their children as they prepared to go to the river to wash. She always thought it was strange, the relationships between mothers and daughters, mostly because she did not understand it. Ishara never knew her mother. She had died from fever when Ishara was just a few years old.
From behind her, the lock to the cage popped opened. She did not hear Mechan approach. He stood by the bars, staring down at Ishara like she was an animal, a discarded pet. Forgotten.
She looked up at the Manahotchi chief, and without missing a beat, she sneered. It might not have gotten her out of her prison, but Ishara did not want Mechan to think for a second that she had settled in her new place as a slave.
“Come. We’re going to the river.”
“You will go alone,” Ishara snapped back, pushing herself toward the back of the enclosure.
Mechan reached into the cage and forcefully plucked her out, standing Ishara onto her feet beside him. “We’re going to the river.” With a tug, the chieftain started to walk, dragging her along.
“You will let me go. I am the chieftain’s daughter!”
The Manahotchi chief only grunted and continued his way to the river through the broken, bare trees that stood like skeletons, reaching up to the hot, unforgiving sun. Ishara scanned the unfamiliar landscape. In Oolani, their trees were green and filled with life and movement. “Why are your trees dead?”
There was another grunt, but no answer.
Ishara asked again, “Why are your trees dead?”
“The land is dead.”
“Why is your land dead?”
Mechan stopped, jerking Ishara to his side. “The land is dead because of the sun drought. It is only a matter of time before the Oolani land becomes barren as well.”
Ishara laughed and shook her head, “Oh no, our land will not. Your land is probably dead because you don’t have any respect for the spirits. I spit on your land.” To emphasize the point, Ishara pursed her lips and spat into the dust.
Mechan’s eyes never left her when she walked way, but be it from her defiance or the way she swung her hips when she walked, she did not bother to find out. She wanted him to watch her and remember that she’s from better blood than that of a slave.
“Your defiance is remarkable.” The chief caught up to her, then held back a branch of a fronded tree, allowing Ishara to pass without having to manipulate herself around it. She found it strange that the master should make way for a slave, but she chose not to comment on it. “Did your father forget to teach you respect?”
Ishara dug her bare toes into the dirt, refusing to go any farther. “Don’t you let any words about my father come from your lips.”
“I’ll do as I please, little one.”
“You will not do this.”
“I’ll do as I please.” Mechan let the branch go and it flung back furiously, leaves breaking off and flurrying down into the dirt. If Ishara had still been standing there, she would have been laid out for days.
She didn’t want Mechan to see that he had hurt her. She felt guilty that she took pleasure from this barbaric man, the man who had given the command to enslave her and her tribe’s women. Now he had the nerve to insult her upbringing, wounding her with his words and callous attitude. “And you? How well did your father raise you? You are a weak man. Other men fight your wars while you hide in the shadows, waiting for your slave women.” Mechan did not hesitate in his step. Ishara’s barb didn’t faze him, angering her even more. “And how have you raised your son? He is angry and vengeful. Heartless. I’ve watched hi
m beat some of the women before he put them into their pens. How do you explain that?”
“Enough.” He calmly spoke the one word.
“Does your tribe find strength in this? Your weak and failed son?”
Mechan grabbed her wrist, yanking her so close to him her nipples brushed against the course hair on his chest. She’d finally found his weakness. “Unhand me.”
Instead of letting her go, the chieftain pulled her by the arm all the way down to the river. He passed the others that washed and sought out his own piece of the banks, where the water pooled and was mostly still. Only when they were out of sight did Mechan let her go, swinging her without warning into the cold water.
The cool liquid engulfed her, and she shrieked. Her soaked dreads clung to her back. She flailed until she found her footing and by that time, Mechan was already in the pool, pouring water over his head with a clay vase.
“You will learn, little one. You are no longer the daughter of a tribe here.” As Mechan lifted the jug over his head, the muscles in his arms rippled. His long hair fell to the base of his neck, where it gathered into a point as water flowed over it. Though Ishara hated him most in this moment, something compelled her to watch him.
She sank into the water, covering her petite form for the first time since her capture. She turned away from Mechan and pulled on the tusk bead in her hair, missing her father more now than ever. She had never felt more helpless and small in her whole life. Perhaps that was why Mechan called her “little one.” It bothered her so much. Ishara did not want to feel small, and worse—so alone.
The water rippled around Ishara’s waist as Mechan walked up behind her, vase in hand. “Don’t sulk. It does not become you.” With a gentle tug of her upper arm, Mechan willed Ishara to turn around and face him. She looked up, her light eyes heavy with the sorrow that she was trying to conceal.
“You are a cruel keeper.” It was the only thing she could think of to say.
Mechan did not flinch, but instead, he smiled very faintly and continued to wash Ishara almost lovingly, as if he bathed with someone else entirely. It was the first time she’d seen him smile. He did not seem to even see her any more.
“Free me.”
Mechan continued to smile, the way a parent would smile to an unknowing child. “No. Your women are ours. It is the price of taking from a woman what your tribe can never give back.”
This was the first time Ishara heard any sort of reasoning behind the slave raid of the Oolani. Still, a part of her did not understand. “So why should you punish these poor women who caused you no offense?”
Mechan stopped washing Ishara’s hair, abruptly handing her the vase. His brows drew together, his stony gaze strong, and without answering the question, Mechan began to wade his way back toward the shore. Ripples danced across the surface, leaving a pool of swirling water behind the chieftain.
Ishara dropped the vase, immediately choosing to go after him. “I want to know why. Why do you punish these women and children?”
Her lithe form moved more easily than his. She caught up with him rather quickly, and when she was within range, Ishara reached out with one hand and grabbed Mechan by his biceps. He did not turn. She pressed her feet into the cold, clay mud under the water, and pushed in front of him, putting her whole body in his way.
The touch, insistent but gentle, did cause Mechan to stop. Ishara thanked the spirits. He could have simply run her over. Drowned her. Beaten her. But instead, he stopped and only looked at her.
“Why do you avoid me?”
“I am not avoiding you. I have chosen not to answer you.” Mechan crossed his arms over his chiseled chest.
Ishara pursed her lips, not content with the answer. He didn’t want her to know, and whatever it was might be used against him later. She tucked the question away for another time.
Mechan rose out of the water, and as he emerged, droplets rolled down his muscular back and over his firm buttocks. Ishara watched him dry himself. It could not hurt to at least peek while he faced the other way.
His movements and stature reminded Ishara of the elk that roamed the prairies back in Oolani. They were graceful creatures to watch, but when it came time to stalk and kill one, they reared their massive heads and reminded the hunter with a jerk of its antlers that it would not go down without a fight. The chieftain of the Manahotchi would also not go down without a fight.
Eventually, Ishara forced herself to look away from his toned thighs and the manner in which his taught shoulders pulled back as he brushed his hands over his dark hair. He would leave without her if she did not keep up, and though she hated to live on his schedule, she did not have a choice in the matter. Mechan spoke the truth—she no longer was a chieftain’s daughter.
There had to be a way out.
Chapter Four
The journey back to camp exhausted Mechan. He couldn’t get her questions out of his mind as they echoed through him over and over again. Why did he punish the women and children? Who was she to ask him something like that? It annoyed him that something so small, so helpless, so controllable somehow managed to ensnare the emotions that he worked diligently to keep to himself.
He listened to the soles of Ishara’s delicate feet slap against the muddied path as she followed behind him. Sometime they slowed, and when he turned to make sure she still followed, Mechan caught the young woman staring up into the trees, or at the forest flowers, or the small mountain cat cave half hidden behind creeping vines. The caves seemed to draw her attention the most.
“What do you look at?”
“That cave. What lives there?” Ishara willfully started in the direction of the cave.
Her lack of hesitancy and lack of reprimand, curled his hands into fists. “Where do you think you are going, slave?”
“If you did not wish for me to go, you would have stopped me by now.” She bounded out of his sight, popping up a few moments later behind a fallen tree trunk. She moved quickly. Stealthily. Gracefully.
He stared, watching her as if she were his prey, then stalked after her, determined to recapture his wandering slave. “You will come back here. If I have to catch you myself, you’ll regret it, little one.”
Ishara called back, though Mechan lost sight of her once more, “I told you to stop calling me that.”
Picking up his pace, his wide strides quickly carried him to where Ishara stopped, crouched down behind a wild berry bush. He reached out, grabbing her by the shoulder, and hissed between clenched teeth, “I told you to stop.”
Ishara grabbed him by his wrist and yanked him down to crouch beside her. “Shh! Look.”
Mechan momentarily forgot about Ishara’s mistake when he saw what it was that she watched. A mountain cat, female, followed by two young cubs loped in front of the cave. He glanced at Ishara, who ignored him completely, devoting her attention to the beasts that retreated back into their home. He had to admire her boldness, the way she seemed to gravitate toward nature and become a part of it. But it was enough. She would respect him.
Reaching behind him, Mechan pulled his spear off his backpack with the intention of hurling it at the family of cats. But as he raised the weapon above his head, Ishara reached out and grabbed at his hands, stopping the forward motion and ruining the only chance he had to strike the mountain cat. The mother and her children disappeared into their cave, and Mechan’s anger rose from deep within his core. That was his opportunity to take away Ishara’s power. To punish her for being so obstinate.
Dropping the spear, he caught Ishara by her elbow and knocked her to the ground. “I will not remind you again. You are a slave. If you continue to be defiant, I will not show you or anything else any mercy.”
“That cat did not deserve to be killed so that you could prove a point,” Ishara hissed between gritted teeth. “This is why your land is dead. You have no respect for the life it presents to you.”
Mechan’s dark gaze rested on Ishara, her words echoing through his head. Maybe it wa
s true. Had he really become so disrespectful to the Spirits? Perhaps it was after his wife’s death that he started to shut out the Spirits. He’d turned his back on the ones that had stolen his wife and child, leaving him alone for the rest of his days.
She watched him with those irresistible green eyes. They softened with pity and her nose wrinkled when she took in his pain. He had made a mistake by dropping his guard down and revealing a hint of his emotions to her. Before she had a chance to pull herself to her feet, he grabbed her by her dread locks and yanked her up to stand. “Now, we will return home, and I won’t hear a word out of you the whole way back, girl.”
She snarled at him. Her animalistic reaction reminded him of the prowling cats, stirring something within him.
They walked the rest of the way back to the camp in silence. Often, she hissed in frustration, but did not talk, just as he asked. He followed behind her, watching the way the curves of her ass shifted up and down as she climbed over fallen tree limbs, making her way through the dense, forest path. He studied the muscles of her thighs as they tensed and released.
Tugging at the strings of his loincloth, he tightened it around his waist. He forced his mind to keep thinking of his wife, his dead wife, whom he loved so much and would never betray. But Ishara, the enemy’s daughter? She called to him without having to say one thing at all, and she threatened his promise to himself—to never love or take another woman again.
When they reached the camp, Mechan immediately drug Ishara by her arm and put her into her slave pen. He wanted to yell at her. He wanted to scream. If she would just obey him, he would not have to punish her. But she did not and he had no choice. Her defiance reflected his failure as a chief.
In the end, he chose to say nothing and walked back to his tent—alone. Pulling aside the beaded flap, Mechan ducked into the coolness under the canvas that protected him from the burning, afternoon sun. He pinched the bridge of his broad nose and lowered himself into a pile of heavy furs, the furs he had Ishara kneel on as he emptied his seed down her throat.