Beast of Burden

by Alexandra Christian

  Chapter 9

  Sascha burst through the hidden door of her bedchamber and leaned against it, panting with fear. She silently prayed that she wouldn’t hear Lord Marek’s heavy footsteps behind her. She was sure that he’d seen her watching, and she had most definitely seen him. All of them. Once, while she’d been cleaning Sera’s room, she’d discovered an old book hidden under a plank in the floor. The pictures in that book came close to what she’d seen going on in Lord Marek’s bedchamber. It had both disgusted and aroused her to see them there, writhing and moaning with no regard for decency or modesty. Only Lord Marek had managed to keep his clothes, but even he seemed disheveled and flushed. Sascha felt a pang of jealousy to go with her rush of lust as she remembered the dark one, Neesa, kneeling before him. The woman’s wild mane of hair had prevented her from seeing exactly what the Syban was up to, but given the look on Marek’s face, Sascha could only imagine.

  A pounding at the door gave her a start. She looked around the room, searching for any possible escape route. She was starting to panic a little. What if that pounding was Lord Marek? How could she explain herself? And the book, she had to hide the book. Her hands searched the inside of her dressing gown, pawing for the warm leather binding. It wasn’t there. “Oh fuck,” she whispered as the pounding started again. She must have dropped it in the corridor.

  “Sascha!”

  All of her blood suddenly migrated south. It was Lord Marek and he didn’t sound happy. Her eyes went wide as she stared around the room, looking for someplace she could hide where he’d never find her. Not likely considering this was his house.

  “Sascha! Open the Goddamn door!” There was more pounding, followed by something that sounded like splintering wood.

  “Shit,” she squeaked. “He’s going to break the door.” Another brutal blow to the wood made her jump. It slowly dawned on her that he wasn’t going to give up. He was coming in and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. “I’m not decent,” she called weakly, trying to buy herself some time. Perhaps Anya would hear the noise and come to rescue her.

  “I didn’t ask you that, slave,” he growled. “Open this door or I swear to God I’ll tear it off the fucking frame!”

  Sascha went slowly to the door and turned the knob reluctantly. Before she had a chance to push it open, he’d jerked it out of her grasp and thrown it wide. She made a small noise as he shoved his way into the room, kicking the door closed behind him.

  “My lord,” she stuttered. “It’s late…I was sleeping…”

  “Liar!” he roared, grabbing her wrist tightly and shoving her ahead into the inner bedchamber. “Thieving little spy!” His skin bristled in his anger and for a moment, he was afraid of what he might do. Obviously, she was too because she immediately cowered in his grasp. Her eyes, so much like Bella’s, should have given him pause, but in fact, they only fueled his rage. That and the sound of Ioin’s laughter still lingering in his ears. The very thought that anyone, much less Ioin, might think of him as weak was enough to make his blood heat to boiling beneath his skin.

  “I didn’t mean to spy, my lord,” she pleaded, trying to break from him. “I was lost…”

  “Hold your tongue lest its serpentine deceit weave more links in your chain!” His words were accented as he pushed her forward violently across the bed. She whimpered softly, trying to get her knees underneath her body to crawl away. He reached down, grabbing her ankle to make her fall forward again.

  “Please, my lord. I wasn’t trying…”

  “Save your pleading,” he forced through gritted teeth. “I have neglected your education for far too long already.”

  She could hear the rage in his voice. His power. It was terrifying and exciting all at once. She was afraid of what he might do, but more afraid of what he might not. She tried to turn her head to look over her shoulder at what was happening behind her, but he wouldn’t allow it. Tangling his fist into the hair at the back of her head, he held her down. She could hear him rustling around behind her and again, she struggled to turn, but he was too strong for her, and the dull ache of her hair being pulled compelled her to stay put.

  Sascha felt the icy air on her back before she heard the ripping. Blushing clear down to her toes, she realized that she wasn’t wearing a stitch of underclothing and as he laid her gown open with his furious tearing, she was completely exposed. Humiliation washed over her like a bucket of cold water, and she couldn’t stop the tears from springing to her eyes. Before he could say a word, desperate pleas were tumbling from her lips. It was a nightmare come true, exactly as Sera had predicted.

  “Please, Lord Marek! Please forgive me, I beg you.”

  “Begging will hardly save you,” he replied, his voice taking on an ominous calm.

  She felt the heat of his body behind her, knowing he stood closely between her feet, which dangled precariously over the end of the mattress. She heard a loud snapping sound that seemed to echo off of the walls around her. She wasn’t certain what it was until she felt the sting of the first lash, hard across the curve of her ass. She gasped, more with utter shock than pain. He hardly gave her time to recover as the next blow landed in nearly the same spot. This time, the pain blossomed, drawing a choked whimper from her. She squirmed, attempting to shield herself from the next blow. Anticipating her every move, he used his free hand to gather her wrists tightly, pinning them at the small of her back. She struggled harder, but it was of little use.

  “Be still or it shall be worse for you, little one,” he snarled, so close to her ear that the small hairs on the back of her neck prickled. He moved behind her again, snapping the belt against her flesh three more times in rapid succession. Sascha shrieked with each stroke, still struggling to escape the sharp sting of the leather.

  “Please, my lord,” she cried into the sheets, not sure if it was the pain of his belt or the shame of being spanked like a child that brought her to tears. Or even worse, the rush of moist heat between her thighs. The small nub of flesh at her center, still swollen from her earlier manipulations, tingled, and she found herself wanting to press it against the rough coverlet beneath her. “Please,” she whimpered, wetting the sheets with the tears that now flowed freely down her cheeks.

  Her tears were of little use and seemed to only fuel his anger as he began to strike at her in earnest. The strap landed over and over, leaving furious stripes of heat. Involuntarily, she spread her thighs wider in an effort to lessen the force of the lashing. He struck at the backs of her thighs and sometimes higher across her spine, but always returned to the same fleshy part of her backside. The stinging had become a burning throb and to her surprise, her body began to arch backward into the strokes. As if her skin were craving the pain. A violent ache settled in her center. Modesty forgotten, she opened herself wider, certain that he could see her sex fully, but not caring. His next blow landed lower, the leather licking at the swollen lips of her sex. Sascha screamed, but not in agony, with pure, unadulterated lust. She raised herself slightly as if inviting another strike. He was happy to oblige her, a turn of his wrist assuring that he would hit his mark over and over.

  Sascha could hear labored breathing, assuming it was herself, but she soon realized that she could feel the warm breath of her captor against her back and shoulders. He struck once more, but lightly this time. She heard the leather strap slip from his grasp and puddle on the floor at his feet, the buckle clanging loudly on the hardwood floor.

  The room was silent again, save for their shallow breaths. Both of them knew that something had happened between them during the sudden act of violence. As if a dam had broken and a confused wave of emotions had washed them away. She expected him to speak, but there was only a sound almost like the purr of an animal. She wanted to turn and look at him, to express sorrow at how she’d violated him. To beg forgiveness. But her fear was like a heavy rope holding her helpless in place, waiting for what would happen next. And what he did was more than surprising. Marek dropped to his knees b
ehind her, the ends of his messy hair brushing against her thighs.

  She gasped as his fingertips moved over the tops of her thighs, feathery light. They trilled over the welted flesh. The sensation sent a chill of pleasure and pain up her spine in a radiating starburst. His careful caresses became targeted sweeps of his hand that made her whimper. He examined the wounded flesh carefully, scraping the corner of his fingernail over it. He became bolder until her whimpers of pain became groans of pleasure. She wanted him to touch her more intimately. To soothe the burning ache down below in that same intimate way that Bella had described. Sascha wondered fleetingly if the two of them had engaged in such, if she had felt the erotic fear of his animal lust. She purred in a way that was unmistakable, arching into his caresses, praying for any misstep.

  And then he stopped. She felt him pull his hands away from her as if the touch of her skin burned him. Tossing her hair to one side, she looked back at him with ravenous eyes. She couldn’t read his expression. It wasn’t anger or lust. His eyes reflected something between fear and agony. His face went pale, the warm blush fading from his cheeks.

  “Lord Marek,” Sascha started, her voice still quivering.

  “Just don’t,” he stammered, stumbling backward and sitting down hard on the floor, knocking over the side table as he went down. He held his head between his hands, squinting his eyes shut so tightly that he could see spots behind them. He could feel the tiny hairs on the back of his neck bristling, and the warmth that had been lurking beneath his skin suddenly became an insistent burn that ran straight to his core. The change was coming fast, and he wasn’t sure he could stop it this time.

  Sascha rose from the bed with a bit of struggle, her chemise still tangled around her middle. “My lord? Are you all right?” She reached out to touch his shoulder, and he jerked away as if her fingertips were poisoned arrows.

  “Don’t touch me!” he roared, making her cower back. He made a fist, not wanting her to see the transformation that had already begun in his hands. He clenched them tightly, letting the razored edges of his lengthening fingernails dig into his flesh. He groaned from the pain, but it was a relief. If he could feel it, he was still himself. The pain could stop the changing, for a little while at least. “Just let me be,” he rasped, his voice calmer this time. “Go get Anya. She’ll see to your…” His words were cut short with a pained bellow Sascha could feel reverberate against her own chest. He doubled over, his body finally rebelling against his fighting.

  “My lord? Are you...?”

  “Get out!” he shouted, shocking her into action.

  Sascha bolted from the room, fresh tears stinging the corners of her eyes as she ran off to find Anya. She blushed deeply and slowed her pace. Anya. What was she going to tell her about the welts? She couldn’t confess such a shameful thing, she just couldn’t. But what about Lord Marek? Shouldn’t she get Anya to come to his aid? Whatever had happened was obviously painful. What if he were really hurt, lying on the floor, too stubborn to ask for help? She walked faster, suddenly overcome with the frightening revelation that Lord Marek might be in trouble. Looking around frantically, she hoped for some clue as to which of the plethora of doors might be Anya’s. Thinking it through, she reasoned that since Anya was a servant, her chambers were probably on the topmost floor. Sascha ran to the main staircase and realized that she was standing at the top.

  “The back stairs,” she said to herself, turning this way and that.

  A bloodcurdling roar rang in Sascha’s ears, bringing her down to one knee, her hands covering her ears. “My God,” she cried. “He’s dying!” She shouted for Anya as she wove through the labyrinthine hallways.

  “What was that noise?” a heavily accented voice asked behind her. Sascha turned to see the youngest of the Syban slaves. The one with the silver hair poked her head out of one of the doors lining the corridor.

  “Have you seen Anya?” Sascha barked, not missing a step. When the girl gave no answer save for a puzzled look, she moved on, ignoring the previous question.

  She finally whirled around the corner and ran headlong into the old woman. “Anya! Thank God!” She grabbed her arm and began pulling her toward her bedchamber.

  “What are you doing out of bed, child? It’s late…”

  “Come quick! It’s Lord Marek! I think he’s sick.” She panted.

  Anya looked confused, pulling out of Sascha’s grasp. “What do you mean sick?”

  “He just…” She didn’t want to explain the events leading up to his doubling over, but she wasn’t quite sure how to avoid it. “He just got angry and told me to get out. I was trying to do as he asked when he just slumped over, groaning.”

  An expression of understanding and clarity washed over the old woman's features. Her eyes sparkled with fear as Sascha sighed and ran back toward her room. “Sascha! Wait!” she shouted, taking off after her. “Stop!”

  “We have to help him!” she cried, jerking the outer chamber door open with little effort and pushing her way inside.

  “Sascha! Wait, you don’t understand.” Anya crashed into her just as she opened the inner chamber door. And the sight was a little unexpected.

  The room was completely devoid of life save for the low-burning embers of the fireplace. But even that afforded little warmth as she realized that the balcony doors had been thrown open with such force that they hung limply in their hinges, letting in the cold, early morning wind.

  “Lord Marek?” Sascha called, creeping into the room slowly. The bed was still in disarray and the side table lay in pieces where he’d turned it over. She wandered around the expanse of the room, looking for some evidence of what had transpired while she’d been looking for Anya. She saw something glisten out of the corner of her eye and she went to it.

  “Sascha. We should leave. You’ll catch cold with that damp air coming in. I’ll make up one of the guest rooms for you.”

  Sascha ignored the old woman and knelt down. Cianan’s leather sash still lay in a tangle by the bed. It didn’t seem very unusual until she found pile of ripped remnants of his clothing that had been kicked under the edge of the bed. She recognized the tunic as the one he’d been wearing earlier. When she picked it up, she could still smell the woodsy scent of that Syban woman mixed with his own peculiar spice. “His clothes…” Her voice trailed off into a confused pause. “Why would he?”

  Anya interrupted her thought with a gentle tug of her arm. “Come, child. Let’s get you warmed up.”

  “We should go look for him, Anya,” Sascha began. “He was in pain. I just know he’s hurt.”

  “We will do no such thing,” Anya answered, turning Sascha’s body to face her. Her eyes were dark with urgent warning. “It’s very late and you need your sleep. Besides, it’s cold and damp out there.” The old woman’s grey eyes pierced into hers dangerously. “You are not to go off into the forest looking for a grown man that can take care of himself.” She paused, her gaze far away. “You’ll catch your death.”

  Chapter 10

  Sascha wandered across the open courtyard in front of Monkshood Castle. The air had the autumn scent of burning leaves and a crisp chill. It seemed to clear her head and she inhaled deeply. It had been nearly a week since the incident with Lord Marek, and since then, she had seen no sign of him. Anya had assured her that it was simply part of the man’s nature to go wandering without warning or explanation, but Sascha couldn’t help but think there was more going on here than met the eye.

  Several things from that night were still weighing heavily on her mind. For instance, why had he reacted to her with so much violence? And even more disturbing, why had she reacted with arousal and pleasure rather than pain? She was no fool, he had obviously been affected by their encounter, but it seemed to only anger him further. She refused to believe he was as unpredictable and mad as everyone in town had always said. She had seen kindness in his eyes. And then there was the diary. Lady Isabella had written of him so tenderly, with so much love. Surely there was gen
tleness there.

  In the days of his absence, she found herself wandering out of doors more and more. Lord Lescoux and his army of whores seemed to haunt her every step. Each morning, she dressed quickly and rushed down to breakfast in the hopes that Lord Marek had returned, but was always disappointed as only the Syban sat around the table, cooing over their latest sexual adventure with their master. She tried to look interested, knowing it was expected of her, but was having difficulty being believable. After choking down her meals over barely concealed yawns, she would flee to the sanctuary of the gardens and spend all day exploring the boundaries of Lord Marek’s lands. Anya, of course, was always bothering her with worry. Warning her not to venture too far into the forest beyond the castle. All manner of wild animals were said to roam out there, bears, mountain lions, and wolves. But considering the alternative company, Sascha wasn’t sure if she might not like keeping company with a pack of wolves instead.

  She sighed, brushing her fingertips across the bristly bushes that lined the path out of the gardens and into the forest. There was a tree just beyond that she’d been longing to climb into. The lowest bough was a perfect place to crawl into with her book and wile away the hours until dinnertime. As she moved down the foot-worn path, it occurred to her that her life had changed so drastically in the last week. Mostly for the better, she thought. She’d never had so much privacy and freedom at The Golden Goblet. Sera had always followed her around, trying to catch her doing something wrong, and Penny was always standing there with her rag, ordering Sascha about to do one chore or another. Though technically she was still a slave to Lord Marek, he didn’t seem to expect anything of her except obedience. Sascha gave a contented sigh as the forest rose up in front of her. Her destination was just ahead, its branches reaching proudly toward the sky with its flaming foliage. I could get lost here for hours, she thought. And perhaps when she returned, Lord Marek would be back.