“Don’t touch me,” I muttered, but my limbs felt too heavy. Everything ached more than before, but my stomach wasn’t in turmoil anymore. That’s something, isn’t it?
How long was I passed out? I wondered.
“I’ll do wit’ ye as I see fit, nugget, an’ ye’ll shut it and let me.”
What? I wondered sardonically. Is he going to wait until I feel like I’m dying to rut on me like a lusty beast, as Trystan had surmised?
Oh, how fitting. He likes to screw dead people. Erm, almost dead people.
That wasn’t the case as he removed my gown and ran a cool cloth over my skin. Hissing, I shivered and my teeth clacked. The water was a shock against my dry, sweat encrusted skin.
It was cool, but not too cool, and as a breeze drifted into the room my breasts pebbled up. My eyes popped open as he ran the cloth over them gently, and I found his gaze meeting mine evenly.
“Yer weak as a kitten an’ sick as a dog, an’ ye smell like shit. If I have ta play doctor to ye, ye canna be floppin’ about, stinkin’ up the place, smellin’ like a dead fish that’s been baked in the sun.” He punctuated his statement by pulling out something, a small brown vial of some sort, popping off the cork and dumping some on my head and chest.
Nose wrinkling, I sneezed suddenly, the feeling of warm oil and the smell of roses enveloping me.
Leaning in slightly, he gave me an experimental sniff, then nodded, satisfied, proceeding to spread it around on the dampened cloth, all over my body.
“I’m naked.” I stated the obvious tiredly, to no one in particular. I’d lost all modesty as the days had dragged on, having to relieve myself in a hole in the ground in the very back of his dwelling. We reached it through a small maze of crisscrossing catacombs that he led me to every morning, standing watch, making sure I didn’t get lost, again, to lead me back. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he did some kind of magical mumbo jumbo to it, his hole in the ground outhouse, that made it disappear—kind of like the stuff with his crazy fire place. I wasn’t too sure, not wishing to stick around to find out, my curiosity not quite that strong.
Depending on how long I’d been passed out, I feared, in the back of my mind, I might have relieved myself in his presence at some point, right then and there where I’d lain, but I quickly figured it best not to dwell too deeply on that thought at the moment.
I’ll save pitiful thoughts like that for a later date, when I don’t feel like warmed over death. Bathroom theater with an audience of one. Oh, joy to me.
“Aye, and ye’ve lost a bit of weight,” he agreed, running the cloth over my belly and dragging it lower, “it looks funny on ye.”
“Put that on my grave marker,” I muttered, closing my eyes, too weak to do much else.
He chuckled and the action brought the cloth he held loosely skittering across my sex. I gasped and jerked, shocked at the sensation it produced, dancing teasingly across the small bud at the top of my sex.
Troll quickly pulled the cloth back, focusing on my thighs and the rest of my lower half. Once he’d reached my feet, I could hear the sounds of him wringing it out, probably in a bucket or a bowl, before he brought it back.
His hand skimmed over my lower belly again, swiping it clean, and then I felt him hesitate. My breath caught in my throat and I held it, heartbeat in my throat, pounding in my ears. Clearing his throat roughly, he ran it slowly, so slowly, over the tops of my thighs, easing a methodical, meticulous, torturous path until he reached the pearl at my sex, brushing over it again. Tentatively, he did it again.
Squirming a bit, I gasped, unaccustomed to the feeling.
“What… what…” and that was all I could get out, my breath rushing out of me on a surprised gasp. He did it again, his thumb circling it teasingly through the cloth, and a moan slipped free.
My groin tingled in that special place as he gently, experimentally, ran it over me again and again. Warmth pooled, deep in my core, foreign but not wholly unwelcome, and I moaned.
He grunted when I shifted restlessly underneath his hand, dazed by my foggy state and his attentions, and then he moved the cloth away entirely, the fragrant smell of oil, less pungent than before, something else, scenting the air as he placed a few drops just above the top of my mound. I whimpered in protest at the loss of that tingle it produced, almost an itch, one that I wanted madly to scratch.
With surprising gentleness, he rubbed it into my skin in soothing circles with his cloth covered hand, strumming the tightened bud hidden between my folds. I shuddered and my eyes shot up, my mind telling me this wasn’t some odd, crazy dream, and to wake the heck up.
Troll’s head was turned, his sole focus on my sex. The lines on his face were harsh with concentration, his brow drawn tight, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly, shifting his body forward. His thumb stroked it a few more times, rubbing and teasing, tempting me until I felt my body heating up, building towards something. What, I didn’t know, but I hoped he didn’t stop. Is this what the ladies had meant? This intense, pulsing sensation surging through me?
The feelings built up, intensifying, and I cried out as my legs started to tremble hard, falling open as his fingers sped up, brushing me faster and faster until I thought I might burst.
A finger slipped inside my sheath, sliding right in, I was so wet, and then another. They were thick but gentle, his fingers, and that was all it took—my back bowed and I screamed out my release, my sex clenching around his digits graspingly as they pumped into me slowly, masterfully.
Breathing just as harshly as I, he groaned and slowly slid them out once all that was left was a pleasant tingling feeling, dampened by my recent orgasm. My very first one.
My eyes tracked the movement as he sucked his glistening fingers greedily into his mouth, growling at the taste. Snarling as he licked them clean, his eyes met mine as I lay there, panting and gasping for air.
Inhaling deeply, he leaned forward, his breath whispering across my distended nipples before he gave one a quick nip and a lick.
Squeaking in shock, my hands shot up and covered them, trembling as his lips tightened and he pulled back.
His right eye started twitching, orange irises swirling with black, and his jaw tightened, the sound of grinding teeth drifting toward my ears. Muttering a curse, he rolled himself up to his knees and gestured at my lower half.
“If ye loved him, nugget, truly, as ye say, ye wouldna have let me do that.” Eyes narrowing, daring me to argue, he snapped, “What say ye now?”
Guilt hit me like a fist to the gut and my lower lip started to tremble. Tears started leaking from my eyes, as if he’d just cranked the handle linked to my as of yet untapped faucet of emotions.
Watching me, he grunted but didn’t look away, just watching me, his face purposely expressionless as fat tears rolled steadily down my cheeks. His mouth tightened even more when I looked away and couldn’t meet his gaze, and he got up and tossed a length of cloth at me.
“Ye can finish up from here, I think,” he snarled before he stormed off. “Dinna know what I was thinkin’,” he ranted, “shoulda just let ye die.”
Forcing back the sob building up in my throat, I pulled the towel-like sheet over me as good as I could and closed my eyes, quietly crying and shaking, letting it all out until I fell back to sleep.
This was all just a bad dream, I chanted over and over, hoping I never woke up.
But when I woke up the next day, in a fresh white gown, on a pallet with a straw stuffed mattress, covered in soft furs, the smell of roses permeated my senses, and I knew, without a doubt, this was all very real.
Offerings
“Eat.” A platter was tossed down in front of me as I rubbed at my red, itchy eyes, less weak than yesterday, but no less worn and weary, a large purple yolk-ed egg, fried over easy, sitting atop two thick slices of bread on the oversized plate he’d slapped down in front of me.
Slave driver, I mean, Dr. No Death, had picked me up the second he realized my eyes had
opened, and dropped me heavily into an oversized wooden chair.
It was much wider than my own generous rear end, and it made me feel petite, almost, sitting in it as he sat what he constituted as breakfast down in front of me.
It was weird, him making food, since that had been left to me lately. I didn’t know he could manage anything above stale bread and filling a water flagon, or roasting something over a spit. That was all we ever ate if he didn’t have me cook that day.
There was an abundance of cooking supplies available, I’d noticed the first day, in the nook he used to make meals, but not one sharp, or even blunt, knife, or knife-like apparatus, in sight. Nothing to poison him with, either. Sigh.
Was this a good guess on his part—forethought—or smart planning for a creature who’d had many humans indebted to him in such a way before?
A little of both, if I had to guess.
My eyes stayed firmly on the heaping plate of food as he doled up his own and sat down in his usual seat—the other room by the fire.
Staring at my food quizzically, I picked up the spoon he was gracious enough to let me have—no forks for me, apparently—and popped the yolk, watching the runny purple liquid spill out over onto the thick slab platter.
What creature makes purple eggs? Giant purple eggs, if the yolk I’d just popped was any indication for size.
Troll looked up once he’d cleaned his plate, coming into the room to dump it in the wash bucket.
“Ye dinna eat it.” He sniffed and stood over me, an intimidation tactic he’d grown quite fond of when I was feeling defiant.
My cheeks heated and I couldn’t look at him, shame washing over me anew as thoughts of gentle, probing fingers and rose scented oil ran through my head.
“It’s purple,” I blurted, poking at it like I thought it might still be alive.
“Do ye want more broth, then, nugget?” The bite in his clipped out, thinly veiled threat wasn’t lost on me.
“I just want the bread,” I mumbled, picking up a piece and quickly taking a huge bite.
“Ye’ll eat all of it,” he ground out, “or ye’ll starve.”
I can do that—starve. I’d done it until I crashed and you forced vile broth down my throat. Shoulders itching, I almost shrugged in challenge, but I held back. It wouldn’t do to wind him up when I have no chance to defend myself.
Grumbling, he sat down at the only other chair at his backroom, hidden kitchen, and leaned forward, his long, impossibly thick arms resting on his knees.
Those scary intense orange eyes focused on me, watching me as I slowly, meticulously choked down every single bite, using the last piece of my bread to mop up all the purple yolk smattering my plate. It was actually quite good—not that I’d say that out loud.
Every time I snuck a peek at him, just watching me, sitting there watching me, I felt more and more self-conscious. Deep orange orbs, brimming with intelligence, were watching me like a hawk, as if they might burn a hole right through me at any moment, the heat of his gaze intense, intent.
“I made morn meal,” he grumbled out, waiting for a reply.
Peeking up at him, I blinked in surprise. “Uhm... thank you?”
Nodding, he got up. “Ye’re welcome.” Pushing his chair in, he stood up to his full height, snatched the plate up and tossed it in the bucket, and just like that, he lumbered off.
My brow wrinkled as I watched him go. Scowling, I could have sworn his lips were curled up as he rounded a corner, wandering deeper into the catacomb like maze that makes up the back of his home.
“I missed something,” I mumbled to myself absently, scratching at my cheeks idly. “I know I did.”
****
“He willna wait for ye.”
It had been almost two weeks since the rose oil, uhm, episode, and this was the first we’d said more than a handful of words to one another since he’d made the purple yolk-ed eggs.
I was beginning to crave conversation, but I wasn’t about to seek him out for it.
“Who won’t?” I asked curiously, drying off a cup and putting it back in the bin with all the other clean ones.
“Yer whelp. The pisser.”
Looking to him sharply, I glared at the back of his head as he swallowed another huge bite of apple pie.
I almost regretted making them, the two pies he’d inhaled, plus the one that lay in waiting in the middle of the table. But I’d made them more so for me, I kept reasoning with myself. So, it’s okay, then.
“His name is Trystan, and he loves me.”
“But ye’re not comin’ back, so he’ll move on.” Jaw working slowly as he chewed, he grunted and scraped his fork over the pan holding the pie he was currently decimating, running his thumb through it to catch every last crumb.
Denying his claim, I shook my head. “You don’t know Trystan like I do.”
Lifting his head slowly, his eyes met mine levelly. “Ye mean like he knows ye?”
He’d never brought up what had happened that day, and I’d lived in dread at the thought that he might, hoping he never did.
The plate I was washing slipped from my shocked fingers and shattered on the floor, smashing into five huge pieces. Startled, I jumped, squeaking in alarm.
Troll growled and got up, stomping over as he pushed me harshly out of the way. “Now look what ye’ve gone an’ done? Coulda bloody cut yerself!” Realizing his outburst, he grunted, masking his expression, and rumbled curtly, “I liked that bloody plate.”
A small piece of the broken plate was still clutched in my hand and I palmed it, hiding it in my small, clammy fingers. Troll was too busy picking up the other pieces to notice, so I used his distraction to hide the shard in my mattress.
I was almost successful too, but a huge hand landed on my shoulder, stopping me dead in my tracks, right before I’d reached my sleeping pallet.
“What ye got there, nugget?”
“Hmm? Nothing. Nothing.” I laughed nervously, ignoring his held out, upturned hand, fingers curling up and towards him, urging me to hand it over.
“Thought ye said ye wasna a liar?” he tsk-ed.
“Yes, well, I thought you said you weren’t either, now look at us, hmm?” Popping over to the side, I used his moment of stunned silence to run around him.
With a growl, he tackled me and pushed me on my back, shoving my arms up high above my head, pinned to the dirt floor.
“Ye think me a fool, do ye?” he snarled, trying to figure out which hand held the chipped plate piece.
“No!” I shouted back. “You do a fine job of that all on your own!” My knees came up and I pushed, hoping to shove him back.
My foot slipped and slammed into his tender nether regions.
A pain filled grunt rent the air and he slammed his thighs between mine, plopping down on top of me, stabilizing my torso with his lower length.
Skin mottling angrily, he roared in my face, a loud, angry bellow, and started smashing my hands into the ground until they opened, one by one.
Finding the piece in my left hand, he chucked it clear into the river.
“Ye’re no better than the others,” he gritted out. “Shoulda dealt wit’ ye like I did them, then be done wit’ yer sorry arse!”
“Fine! Then do it!” I challenged.
His eyes narrowed and he leaned in close. “Could shut ye up, easily, ye realize.”
My eyes widened as he watched me swallow, his bright orange eyes tracking the motion.
As my heart pounded in my throat, his fingers came up and he traced the movement, pressing his thumb gently into the throbbing vein in my neck.
Eyes blazing, he leaned in and breathed against my skin. “Ye’re so soft an’ small, nugget. Vulnerable. If I really wanted, I could do as they say, ye know. Like them idiots thought I was plannin’ wit’ that emaciated layabout ye share a blood tie wit’.”
My voice came out strangled as he shifted and something hard and thick dug pointedly into my thigh.
Realizing exactl
y what that was, I whimpered.
“No,” I garbled.
“No?” He hummed into the hollow of my throat, biting at it with his wide, flat teeth. Nuzzling my throat caressingly, he bit it again, a little harder, but stopped when I jumped and squeaked. “Ah, but ye dinna stop me before, hmm. I’m thinkin’ ye might even like it.”
The slice of truth to that bothered me more than what had actually transpired between us. I couldn’t deny it.
“Get off of me.”
Pulling back slightly, he lifted himself up a little. “Ye choosin’ now ta find yer voice, nugget?” Naked brow winging upward, orange eyes flashing, he tsk-tsk-ed me some more. “Ye know I canna stand a stubborn female. If I dinna know better, I’d think ye was baitin’ me.”
“What?! I… no!”
“Mmmm,” he grumbled, voice almost a purr, “I’d love ta shove somethin’ down that pretty little throat of yers, give ye somethin’ ta really bitch about.”
My eyes narrowed, lips thinning. He was baiting me, not the other way around.
“You disgust me,” I whispered, watching his nasty smile fall and his face harden.
Snarling viciously under his breath, his chest vibrated with a growl from somewhere deep in his throat, not so much happy this time, and he ground his hips into mine meaningfully.
“Tha’s na wha’ happened the other day, though, was it, nugget? Wasna disgusted wit’ me then, at all, were ye?” he rumbled in his odd way of speaking, his accent, thickening as he glared down at me.
“I was sick.” My excuse was weak and so was my voice, reduced to a diminutive squeak.
Orange orbs darkening, he just raised his brows, knowing I’d just proved his point.
A blush stole up my cheeks and I pinched my lips shut. Gritting my teeth, I squeezed my eyes shut as he leaned down and inhaled deeply at my neck again.
“Say ye’re willin’, freely, and kiss me,” he growled.
Taken aback, I peeked an eye open. Clearly, I must not have heard him right.
“Wuh?”
“I said ta shut it an’ kiss me.”
The Toll Page 8
