By My Side ... (A Valentine's Day Story)

by Christine Blackthorn

  All of a sudden his hands left her and she felt bereft, the cold hitting her skin where his hands had been. Her arms fell from his neck, her shoulders curving in an instinctive hunch, all arousal forgotten. He caught her wrists in his before they could come to rest on her thighs in the well known position of submission.

  "Can you tell me what is going through your head right now?"

  His question drew her eyes away from the darkness of the shadows to meet his yellow gaze. There was hardness there -- and sad incomprehension. Could she make him understand her thoughts? Could she make him grasp the truth she had known from the first moment but had not allowed herself face? Did she want him to? The questions were mute, her mouth too dry, her mind too full to even try to speak. Silently she shook her head.

  To her surprise his expression softened, his mouth stretching in a smile holding as much pain as it held regret. What did he see when he looked at her now? Did he already see the pitiful failure she knew would come -- or did he see the desperate pride which had become the steel infusing her spine, holding her head up? She might be a failure, a burden to her family, a source of pity and veiled disdain but at least she would not let them see that she knew it. His right hand let go of her wrist, let it fall to her thigh in a heavy thud, a sensation, not a sound.

  She did not expect his fingers in her hair, the cruel strength with which he wound her braid around his palm, stretching her neck without mercy. The pain was sharp, immediate -- and salutary. She fought it because it was something she could fight and win, something she could do right. She felt the tug, the giving way of single hair breaking under the strain of his strength and still he did not let go. Her teeth found her lower lip and, when she could not counter the pain on her scalp with the pain of her lip anymore, her teeth ground together in an attempt to keep the sound of agony from spilling from her mouth.

  "You are not very good at following orders -- are you? It surprises me. I had heard the ErGer of Innsbruck is so well trained in obedience she never needs an order repeated and now look at you. I have to say, I am disappointed. Your fame was clearly exaggerated."

  His words hurt but also confirmed something in her, let that little Gordian Knot of acid in her chest writhe in happiness. What had he expected? Of course she was a disappointment. She had disappointed everyone else, so why not him? Who was she to hold onto her last, her only, accomplishment: her proficiency in the rules of submission? She was almost grateful for the physical pain, the cruelty of his grip. It helped her step away from the agony of her emotions, the hate she felt when she thought of herself. But he was not finished yet in listing her faults:

  "You disobeyed, you refused me an answer and then you lied. I asked you a question and you lied, not only violating the very foundation of what you should have been taught -- but in direct contravention to the promise you gave me. What do you think I should do with that?"

  Heat burned in her cheeks but there was no space for embarrassment under the pain of his grip on her hair. Her neck muscles strained against the savage strength of his hold and breathing became difficult under the stretch of her neck. She tasted the salt of blood in her mouth from where her teeth had buried into her lips. Darkness danced in the corners of her vision and it took all her concentration not to break her position, not to fight him outright. Only as she thought she would have to surrender to the pain and let the scream pressing against her throat out to fill the room did he loosen his grip, by a minute amount. Just enough to let her breathe, just enough for the prickling burn of blood rushing to sensitive skin to take over in her awareness and replace the overwhelming pain in her heart.

  She was caught by the expression of intent concentration, of studious attention in his eyes. He watched her every move, every flicker of emotion on her face and body with avid attention -- and then his lids lowered, hiding his thoughts from her, his moods, his intent. It was terrifying.

  "I'm sorry." Her voice was breathless and lost, thin under the pressure of his disapproval.

  "Sorry because you fear the consequences?" The tone of the question was all hard stone, the melodic quality crystallising into diamond edges. But he was wrong. She was not sorry because she feared what he would do to her, not really -- she was sorry because she could not even give him this. She might never have been a naturally biddable woman, but she had learnt to follow orders, had learnt to play this game of submission. Elena had always understood it to be her destiny, her only chance to fall into the position her genetic make-up had chosen for her.

  But it felt different here. For the first time in her life she respected, she desired the man trying to bond her. For the first time she wanted to bond, to give her power to another -- not to find a place in this world, but so that he could. It was hard to admit it, even to herself, but she wanted to please him. She wanted his forgiveness and at the same time, she feared what that would mean.

  "No, Yes, No." She was too confused by her own scrambling thoughts, whirling to find an answer that made sense in the framework of reality. Words she wanted to say, but then discarded unheard, pinged off her mind like so many skipping stones, barely touching before flitting away again. But he wanted an answer and knowing created a visceral need in her to give him what he desired. So she said the first thing coming to mind: "I don't want to disappoint you." And more quiet as if a dam had broken: "I do not know why."

  Under his lowered lids his eyes glittered in an emotion she could not identify but thought it might be triumph, and a little bit of pride. She did not care where that pride came from, did not have the strength to wonder about it. She was emotionally, mentally exhausted. Too much happening in her mind, too fast. She let it slip, allowed it to buoy her without question and took the strength it gave her. She said:

  "I am sorry and I will try to do better. I don't know if it will be enough. I don't know if I can be enough. But I'll try. I promise. I will make sure to pay attention, not to get distracted anymore. Just punish me and let me try one more time."

  A long moment of thoughtful silence. What was he thinking? She felt his eyes on her but did not dare to look at him. She did not fear the anger that might darken his eyes -- but the disappointment he must be feeling would hurt too much. So she waited, her eyes fixed over his shoulder, whilst his fingers held her head in a painful grip. The minutes trickled by without a sound, or movement, from him.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was contemplative:

  "Punishment?"

  She tried to nod, the movement cut short by his hand in her hair. The contemplative light in his eyes watched her with the attention of a hawk.

  "So you have been taught to expect punishment and in your eyes punishment will erase a misstep?"

  Panic rose. He would not let her try again, would not let her make up for her momentary lapse in obedience. Her words tumbled over each other as she tried to convince him.

  "It won't erase it. I know that. But it will prove to you that I will try, really try. Do what you want with me and I will endure it. I promise I can still try to be useful."

  Her eyes found his, begged him for this second chance. Would he give it to her? She doubted any of the other men ever having tried to bond her would have given her a second chance based on the smallest infraction. Not even Adrianus. It was why she had learnt to obey, to anticipate and strategise. The silence stretched and she could read nothing in the calm gaze meeting her own. When he finally spoke, there was speculation in his eyes.

  "Alright then. Punishment. Do you promise to accept anything I chose?"

  A second chance. It should have made her feel lighter, instead it made her feel lost. What would he choose? Would she be enough? She wanted the warmth in his eyes back, wanted to see those embers of respect in his expression again. Even if they failed in the bonding in the end, even if he would bleed her dry, for one moment she wanted to see it again, wanted to see herself as a being, not a thing, one more time through his eyes. How pathetic was she? Yearning for even the smallest piece of warmth from an orc, wh
en all he needed was her body. Her insecurity was audible in the tentative quality of her answer.

  "Yes."

  The next question shocked her:

  "Why?"

  Elena did not understand the question. Had she not made clear to him she wanted to bond to him, that she would do anything for that end?

  "The bonding ..."

  The hand in her hair tightened, streaks of pain fanning out from her scalp, along her neck, her shoulders. She screamed, the sound escaping her before she could control it.

  "Not good enough, little one. You are lying again."

  "No!" Tears pooled in her eyes.

  "Yes, Lena. You are lying. Tell me why you are hoping for me to punish you?"

  The words were spoken in a raised voice, his tone harsh and demanding, nothing left of his usual calm. It shocked her. He had been so controlled, so careful throughout their travels, even when he scolded her, his voice had always been restrained. Now it held only anger. It was a whiplash which snaked into her mind and ripped out the words she so desperately tried to keep from him:

  "I want to please you."

  Her body began to tremble under the impact of mortified shock. He let her braid slip through his fingers, let it slide from his hands but before she could lower her head in shame. He cradled her face in his palm.

  "There you go, little one. That is what I wanted to hear."

  Tears fell from her eyes, burnt her cheeks. Pathetic indeed.

  "Why do you make me say it?" Humiliation tinged the question with bitterness.

  "Because you needed to know."

  "I needed to know how weak I am -- I know that already."

  "No, you needed to understand that this is different from anything you have felt before, that I will not let you hide behind the bonding. I will have the bond -- and I will have you. All of you."

  His eyes were serious as they searched hers, delved deep into her soul as if they saw something she did not know existed there. Then he smiled a smile of dark anticipation, a smile full of a promise she did not understand. Not yet.

  "I want you." The stark truth -- and one no one else had ever told her. And she wanted it too, wanted to be wanted. If she would have one ounce of courage left, she might have even admitted she wanted him.

  "Will you let me take you? Will you give me what I want?" His eyes burnt into hers, all cold dispassion gone in a flash of possessive heat.

  She wanted to say yes, wanted to promise him all her being. But she had disappointed too many.

  "I will try."

  The kiss was heartbreakingly tender. Then he let his hands fall from her.

  "I know you will, Lena."

  With a single, fluid movement he rose to stand over her, power and grace in every inch of him. His features held no tenderness, no warmth -- only power and control. He looked down on her and she was only too aware of the cruel light in his eyes, a gleeful awareness of her absolute vulnerability under his rule. She knew she would not find mercy in his hands. That knowledge, she revelled in it. He expected her to take whatever he threw at her, endure what he would demand of her -- and more. And where she doubted herself, he did not. He was certain, confident in her, even though she had already failed once. And through him she saw her own potential for strength. She could almost believe him.

  "Eyes on the fire, Lena."

  Playtime was over. This time he would not let her escape. When her eyes found the dancing flames once again, no relaxed heat rose in her muscles, no calmness found her mind. Instead, she was hyperaware of his movements behind her, of the drag of cloth and the heavy thud as something was dropped to the floor. A metallic creak and the sound of wood hitting stone made her think he had opened one of the heavy wooden chests along the wall, a suspicion proven correct when, after only a moment, the lid was closed, the snap of a fastening sliding home.

  She felt him move across the room back to where she knelt at the fire and marvelled at the utter quietness of his movements. He made no sound as he walked across the stone floor. Still she knew exactly where he was, so conscious was she of every move he made, as if thin strands of gossamer silk connected him to her; a spider web of awareness stretching between them. Then there was quiet, the room having lost all life suddenly. No anxiety touched her. He had not left her, had not abandoned her. That was all that mattered for the moment.

  With three, distinct thuds objects fell to the pelts besides her, the sounds of their impact jarring her with cruel finality. Elena's eyes were caught by them, her mind considering them dispassionately. A riding crop, one of the broad, wooden cooking spoons and a short stranded flogger. She knew all three could cause significant hurt, even harm -- the last, the flogger, had been known to kill. She had seen it come close to do so, once.

  A visitor to the court had brought ten orcs to travel with and one had earned a flogging for some infraction, imagined or real. She had only been twelve then and had snuck to the servant's quarters for some company. She had not seen the actual punishment, only the blood streaming down an already scarred back, seven deep slices dissecting flesh and muscle. It had been horrific.

  She was no orc and after the last few days she could appreciate just how superior their physical abilities, let alone their perseverance, were. What she had seen as a child had not been a prone body at the limit of its ability to endure, laying there in desperate need of medical care. No, when she had seen the orc, he had calmly knelt besides a trough washing his own blood from the heavy strands of the very implement which had turned his back into raw meat. A human would have died from the punishment.

  Her hand stroked over the flogger, her fingers touching the soft leather strands tentatively. She was human. She could die under its wicket bite. Was that what he wanted? Had he given up on her already? Or was it a test, to see how much she was willing to risk? Did it matter?

  "Choose one."

  Pain

  Fear is a curious emotion -- it sharpens the mind, the sensations and then leaves the human in a cloud of hyperawareness, seemingly rational and still completely detached. She wanted to run, to hide, to escape; she wanted to give him all she was. His large, heavy hand came to rest on her head, the fingers tangling with her hair as they stroked through the soft strands. The rough callouses on his skin caught in the fine texture of her braid, pulled on it, reminded her of the pain of his grip in her hair only minutes before. Was his hand holding her in place -- or was it giving her solace? She was not certain.

  "Choose." Softer, gentler. He would not have had to remind her. Her hand was already reaching for the flogger. The choice was, at least in part, instinctive. Of the three it frightened her the most, was the most alien and held the most threat. It was the biggest challenge, the fiercest test she could meet. And she would meet it -- for him. For herself.

  When her eyes found his she saw unhappiness lurking in their depth. It wiped away the moment of certainty, of security, she had felt and left her falling into nothingness again. She thought he had wanted her to choose the most difficult, choose that which would show her contrition, her willingness to give herself freely to the bonding, most. Instead he frowned at her. She started, shifting uncomfortably under her own doubts. His face blanked, all emotion wiped away in the face of her distress.

  Reschkar offered her his hand to rise. She took it and let him pull her to her feet. Her knees shook. It was barely noticeable, even to herself, but he noticed it, noticed too much entirely. Without a word he pulled her closer, not close enough to force her into an embrace but close enough his hands could hold her, steady her until she had found her footing.

  "I thought you wanted me to choose the flogger?" She felt the need to ask, to make certain she and not displeased him again. He looked at her for what seemed to be a long time, his gaze never wavering but also never revealing his thoughts. Finally, he said:

  "I expected you to do so." Then, with a sigh, almost too quiet for her to hear. "But I would have preferred if you would have chosen from trust, not hate."

&nbs
p; Elena did not understand that last part. She had only thought to please him, to prove herself to him. What did he want? She could have assured him that she did trust him -- but it might have been another lie. She was not certain she knew what trust was. So what could she give him?

  Did he think she was mocking him? Wanted to remind him of the way he had been used by the courts, the evidence writ large on his skin?

  "I wanted to please you. I did not mean to insult you, or to insinuate anything. Please, if you do not want to..."

  She was babbling, she knew it but she needed him to know there was no disdain, no dislike in her for his people. They were amazing. A pale finger came to rest on her lips, stopping the deluge of reassurances.

  "I know, little one. I know. It is not me you despise." He sighed, then his eyes hardened, his features setting into harsher lines. "Though you will before we are done."

  Confused, she was again left without the ability to form words. He did not give her the opportunity to recover her wits, instead he let her go, turning from her to walk across the room towards the heavy four-poster bed.

  "Come."

  Her feet were already moving when she realised he had still not told her why he was unhappy with her choice of the flogger.

  He waited for her by the bed, his hands filled with leather -- not the flogger, which he had discarded on the bed, but a set of cuffs. They were broad and heavy, frightening. They weren't toys. If those cuffs snapped around her wrists, the soft inside moulding to her skin, she would not be able to escape them. No matter the insistence with which her rational mind told her that she was already caught, by word and deed, there was a purely instinctive, and primordial reluctance to step closer, to let him close those restraints over her wrists, predator to prey. He watched her reaction, watched her eyes fix on the restraints, tense under the threat of their presence. He saw her reluctance.