Red's Mate

by Carolyn Faulkner

  When his knot had died down after he'd first taken her last night, he had disengaged himself from her—removing the collar, the ropes and the shackles at her feet, for which he had thought she might thank him, as he was under no obligation to do so whatsoever, especially considering her behavior so far. But she had simply lain there in a heap before crumpling and curling further in on herself. Ciaran found himself staring down at her for long moments, until he shook his head and rose, divesting himself of the rest of his clothes and cleaning himself up a bit. As if he didn't quite trust her—and he didn't—his kept a sharp eye on her, and it seemed to him that every time he looked at her, she had grown even smaller, as if she was hoping that, eventually, she'd be able to fold herself into non-existence.

  She wasn't even crying any longer, not even those sniffles that usually remained long afterwards, which females often used to gain their way, in his experience.

  It had been a good long while since he'd taken his ease with any one person in particular—preferring to apply himself to his profession and using the occasional camp follower only when necessity dictated.

  Now, he needn't look elsewhere. She was his to breed, which he certainly intended to do.

  But she was also his responsibility.

  So, after seeing to his own comfort, he called a guard in—which, he saw out of the corner of his eye made her still unnaturally, as if she didn't want him to notice her—and ordered that some food be brought to his tent.

  Then he took the cloth he'd used on himself and wet it liberally over the ornate old washbowl, wringing it out and coming over to where she was practically clinging to the pole. He pried her away from it so that he could lift her onto his bed. He was both surprised and wary that she still offered not one bit of resistance at what he was doing. She remained in that little bundle she'd become, stubbornly refusing to let him open her up until he sighed, growling, "Do I need to give you another spanking, little girl? Perhaps this time with the paddle? Considering how your thighs and bum look, I wouldn't choose that for myself, but if you don't start cooperating with me immediately, I won't hesitate in the least to give you another layer of welts on top of the ones you have to help you think the next time about whether or not you want to obey me."

  Obviously hating that she was doing so, Ebby wept very softly—which seemed even more piteous to him than if she'd been openly wailing—the entire time as she unfurled herself in front of him, doing scrupulously no more than just that. She was surprised that all he seemed to want to do to her—at the moment, anyway—was to clean her up. She was covered in her own juices as it and his spunk ran in rivulets down the insides of her thighs, not to mention the muck and blood she'd been wearing when she was brought in here.

  And she trembled, just slightly, every once in a while, as if she was succeeding in holding most of the evidence of her own fears from him, but barely.

  Just as he'd gotten her mostly cleaned up—especially between those beautiful legs of hers, where a cool compress had done wonders to soothe her overheated and overused flesh—the food arrived and she crawled under the covers as he laughed heartily at her.

  The food was placed on his dining room table—a nice, if a necessarily small, one that was the spoils of war from another campaign entirely.

  When he would have called her to eat, he realized that he had no idea what her name was, so he threw the covers off the bed to expose her, then sank down on it near her, catching her wrist when she would have dived off the bed to get away from him.

  Again, he brought her to him by holding a limb captive in his strong hand. When she was close next to him, he asked, "I am Ciaran, Colonel-Commander of this battalion. You may call me Sir, but what is your name, girl?"

  She made no response, as if she hadn't heard him, and found herself over his lap getting another spanking.

  Her belated screams of "Ebba! Ebby! Everyone calls me Ebby!" did nothing to alleviate her third punishment in less than as many hours.

  It was a much shorter one, though, and, within a few minutes, he guided her forcibly over to the table, saying almost casually as he did, "Refusing to answer me is disobedience by omission, Ebby, which is no less naughty than commission. I'm sure you're more than smart enough to realize that."

  He could have seated her at the table—there were four nice chairs—but instead, he put her on his knee and tried to feed her from his plate as she sat there sobbing from having been disciplined yet again.

  "I am fully capable of feeding myself."

  "No, you're not, as you will not be allowed any utensils, as they could be used as weapons."

  "So can anything, if you're determined."

  "I am fully aware of that, which is why you won't be allowed to do anything but be bred by me, nothing more."

  Ebby frowned deeply at that pronouncement.

  Ciaran was offering her a piece of one of his prized apples. Fruit of any kind was almost as rare as a female omega. She took it, but then presented it to his mouth, and, although it took him a moment to ascertain the meaning of her action, he laughed when he did.

  "You don't trust me anymore than I do you, hmmm?" He chuckled, taking a bite out of the apple and returning it to her. "Well, have no fear along those lines, little one. The last thing I want to do is to kill you."

  She wasn't sure whether he realized it or not, but in admitting that, he had given her a certain amount of very powerful knowledge that she intended to use to her own advantage eventually.

  He had thought they might have to have another battle over whether or not she was going to eat, but she surprised him yet again by—after making him take a bite out of everything before she did—eating almost everything he gave her, until she finally shook her head and refused the last bite of a prized raisin cake.

  No, she wasn't going to refuse to eat, because she knew she was going to need energy when the time came and she couldn't be emaciated when the opportunity presented itself, as much as she wanted to waste away in front of him, and she absolutely did, on some levels.

  Otherwise, she wanted what every other young woman did—the safety and security that had been missing in almost every woman's life since the world had come to an end—omegas in particular. She wanted an absence of the fear and dread that she'd had to live with since she'd become a sentient little girl who'd had to come to grips with the knowledge that she was something that turned all men into beasts and who would take her freedom—what little there was of it in her life—and turn her into an object for their own desires or their own gain.

  And now, here she was, in one of the exact situations the women who had raised her had used to terrify her into obedience, and into learning how to take care of herself.

  She didn't know how she was going to get out, but she was determined to do just that, or die trying.

  Ciaran wasn't finished eating himself, but he wouldn't allow her to get up when she tried to remove herself from his lap. Instead, he held her there until he was through, then lifted her up—this time carrying her in a more normal fashion—and placed her down on his bed, and she came face to face with the fact that she had left a large wet spot on his thigh where she'd been forced to sit as their combined essences continued to seep sluggishly out of her.

  She again tried to bolt, but it was easy enough for him to catch her with a humiliatingly small effort on his part, and she found herself right back where she'd started, and this time his hand on her lower belly kept her right where he wanted her.

  "You are the quietest woman I've ever known," he almost accused, and to which she predictably said nothing, avoiding his gaze and apparently preferring to stare at the hands in her lap. "I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad one."

  He absently clapped his hands, and a man came in to remove the remnants of their meal. "I do not wish to be disturbed this evening for any reason other than the camp being under attack," he ordered without looking up.

  "Yes, sir!" the man answered promptly.

  The man's appearanc
e had a strange effect on the naked Ebby, causing her to throw herself against Ciaran, as if she was trying to hide herself from him in embarrassment.

  His arms automatically came around her to hold her, but as soon as the guard left, she moved to sit as far away from him as he would allow.

  And suddenly, she was free! Ignoring her deep suspicions that this was entirely too easy, Ebby rolled off the bed and headed for the door. Ciaran rose to rummage in his trunks, coming up with several lengths of very soft but sturdy material, letting slip in a deceptively casual tone, "While you are safe in here and safer still than you ever have been in your life now that you're mine, I'm sure you realize that there are still Alphas out there—even within my own camp—who would tear you up in a minute, given the chance. Or worse."

  Ebby had rolled her eyes at the idea that she was safe in here and was of a mind that he qualified as "or worse", continuing to walk quickly towards the door, eying him every once in a while, as if she couldn't believe that he was going to let her do that. It was his last words that slowed her to a stop. She was left cruelly standing in front of the very door that would take her away from him, her hand on the knob, but she couldn't quite force herself to step out of it for fear that he was right.

  "If you think you're being treated badly now, then I invite you to walk—naked—through my camp, keeping in mind that these men know that if they touch you, they'll die, and for some of them, even that won't be enough to save you."

  And what's more, she knew he was right, because she'd seen men slain right in front of her—and had slain no small few herself—who would have done nothing less and probably much worse than he had.

  She felt more defeated by what he'd just said—by the stark realization of how much she'd already lost—that she couldn't move. She felt frozen to the spot, her body still—forever, it now seemed—throbbing and aching for want of him—for want of an act that she craved but now knew she hated, and that hurt her in almost incomprehensible ways.

  Was this to be her life? Would it, perhaps, be better to simply take the opportunity and run out into the night, to let fate decide for her what would happen to her? A quick death would be preferable to a life of subjugation and servitude, wouldn't it?

  When she'd just about made up her mind to go out anyway, she'd already missed her chance because he was right next to her—appalled that she was actually in the act of taking another step towards the door and turning the knob before he scooped her up and brought her back to the bed with him.

  Ebby fought him with everything she had, even knowing that it was useless to do so and that she was wasting the precious little energy she still had.

  But, no matter what her body said, she did not want him to do that awful thing to her again. She couldn't let him do it.

  Regardless of her wholehearted commitment to fighting him, she ended up less than a minute later secured with gentle yet firm bonds around wrists that were pressed together then caught somehow at the head of the bed on a very short tether. He was staring down at her raptly, his eyes drinking in everything they hadn't been able to when he'd taken her the first time.

  She was small and deliciously fine—especially considering how hard she'd fought in defense of herself—with long hair that was so yellow it was almost white and had, at one time, he could see, been neatly braided and pinned up. Now it was dirty and flecked with blood, but that made her no less alluring to him.

  Silver eyes—red rimmed and puffy from crying—stared at him, framed by criminal amounts of dark, curly lashes, shining out of the kind of pale face one usually only found on a baby. Her shoulders were narrow and somewhat too small for her bust, arms well-muscled but not overly so, hands showing signs of work that he—for some reason—wished they didn't.

  In fact, they showed signs of her struggles since she'd gotten here—what remained of her nails were broken and bleeding, and he knew it was because she'd been grabbing at the carpet to stop him from getting to her. Granted, that was also probably a part of trying to find the weapon she'd secreted amongst them, but still.

  If he had been able to build her for himself, he couldn't have done any better. Her bottom was generous for her size and he already knew it could take quite a walloping, her hips well rounded, thighs and legs in proportion to the rest of her, and terribly cute feet.

  As fair as her skin was, though, it was far from perfect. He could recognize several scars from various maladies that afflicted the population now—as there were no more of the "shots" his grandfather had told him there had been in his time. He'd had a funny word for them, something that started with a "v" that he couldn't remember.

  Ciaran also recognized the ugly scars from at least two knife wounds and what looked to have been an arrow, perhaps?

  Oddly, they didn't detract from her perfection in the least, as far as he was concerned. The scars only made her seem just that much more delicate.

  "Did you get these from whoever taught you to fight?" he heard himself ask, not really expecting an answer as he lay a finger on the longest of them that stretched down over her ribs for about three inches of puckered red skin. "If you had been mine at the time, I would have worn your bottom out for putting yourself in such danger."

  For some reason, Ebby couldn't keep quiet at what he was saying, and she snorted. "You would have preferred that I ended up—oh, I don't know—somewhere like here, being held captive by someone like, well, you, perhaps, who, as you threatened, wouldn't treat me as 'well' as you have?"

  Despite her sarcastic tone, his voice was far from angry when he pointed out softly, "But even with all of your skills, you ended up here, anyway. Truthfully, it was only a matter of time. Was it worth it, I wonder, to try so hard to escape what you surely recognize is your fate?"

  The words hissed out of her. "Yes, it was. And it is."

  His fingers travelled to the next scar, on her thigh. "Even though your wounds must've hurt you terribly at the time?"

  She had been holding her body taut as he touched her, but all of a sudden, just as she began to answer him in a voice that was devoid of all emotion, she relaxed completely, closing her eyes. "Nothing, and no one, has ever hurt me as much as you have this evening, in every conceivable way."

  This time, there was no forthcoming reply from him, not that she had really expected one.

  But then he whispered so softly that she thought she might have imagined it, "I shall have to see if I can remedy that, perhaps." His lips pressed gently against the side of her breast.

  Ebby immediately became tense again at the thought. "I doubt it. Why would you even bother with a woman who doesn't want you?"

  For the second time, he reached between her legs, more gently than he had previously, to dip his fingers into the river that it seemed had always flowed there. "This is ample evidence to the contrary, my dear. I understand that you don't want me or even like me. I don't care whether you like me—that's immaterial. Your dislike of me can do nothing to disrupt our bond. It's your body that I want, that I'm going to keep constantly full of my babies, and you can't deny that it craves me, that it wants exactly what I want, and it will go so far as to help me breed you—each and every time—while doing its best to disrupt your own willful defiance of me—and thus your own nature."

  He saw her cringe at his words, then force herself not to. She would have made a magnificent soldier.

  Ciaran was nothing if not patient, when necessary, though—as any good leader of men was—and he took his time with her this time when he hadn't before, knowing he was going to have to hold himself to a higher standard this time than the last. There could be no losing control, no simply slaking himself on her. It yielded highly unsatisfactory results, and he fully intended to get an army of sons on her—starting as soon as possible.

  He could barely wait to see her flat little belly heavy with his child, those beautiful breasts swollen with milk to feed it.

  And he would do absolutely anything necessary to achieve his goal.

  Luck
ily, pleasuring a woman was one of the few arts he prided himself on being able to accomplish with a certain amount of skill, and it was imperative that—despite the challenges—he brought her to a full orgasm every time he bred her—preferably many more than one.

  So, he set himself the challenge of doing just that.

  He'd already noted several things that she liked—having heard her breath increase when he'd played with her nipples and when his fingers had found the heart of her pleasure, but he didn't start with either of those. Rather, he began to kiss and lick her everywhere. Her skin was very nearly as delectable as her cream. His tongue found every vulnerable crevice except her mouth, not willing to give her the opportunity to bite him, although he certainly hoped that he would be able to trust her enough to kiss her soon.

  The hollow of her throat, her ears and just behind them, the insides of her elbows and everywhere in between was slightly dampened and thoroughly kissed, leaving a trail of gooseflesh behind him, those enticing nipples peaked long before he got to them.

  Ciaran was alert to any and all changes in her, and he felt her relax all at once again with a soft sigh not long after he'd begun, although her eyes remained closed—at least until he captured one impudent berry between his lips and began to suckle very gently, slowly building the intensity until she couldn't help but arch beneath him.

  He thought his cock was going to snap clean off; it went so fully rigid when she did that, and especially at the slight mewl that had escaped her otherwise tightly closed lips.

  He lingered over her nipples, neither escaping his tender attentions as he heard her body welcoming them as he patiently wrestled away her hard-won control over herself. She continued to offer herself up to greet his lips occasionally, and there was no ignoring the soft sighs that drifted over him.

  Ciaran would have sworn that, as he left those beautiful breasts, she issued a murmur of protest unlike any he'd heard from her so far, although it was quickly quashed.