By My Side ... (A Valentine's Day Story) (9 page)

"Thank you, Elena."

It was the first time he had
used her name. Elena tried to concentrate on that, on her name,
rather than on the reasons for the gratitude underlying it. He knew
what had happened. So did she. She had accepted his rule, not on a
rational level, as she had done that night she came to him first,
but instinctively, deep in her soul.

His attention shifted to the
person behind her and the smile shifted with it, becoming less
predatory, less scalding, without losing its appreciation.

"And thank you, Keren, though I
am surprised you have been drafted into service already."

There was humour in the tone,
but also a hint of reprimand. The disapproval bothered Elena more
than it should have. She watched one of the female orcs, the one
responsible for their provisions throughout the journey, set down a
tray with food on the table besides them.

Keren was a sensible woman,
large and more orcish than the other females, with shoulders almost
as broad as some of the men. Even though the disapproval was
neither directed at Elena, nor its reason known to her, its
existence shimmering through Reschkar's voice made her
uncomfortable, let tension seep along her sides. The fingers
cradling her face began to soothe a slow path of warmth over her
cheek, the caress calming, not erotic. It was enough to settle her
and make her listen to the actual verbal exchange.

"No, Sir, we have not been
assigned duties as yet, but we offered to serve up here."

Reschkar's raised eyebrow was
enough to make the female orc elaborate:

"We thought it might be easier
for the ErGer to have some familiar faces around. In the
beginning."

The woman busied herself with
arranging the food she had brought on the table, embarrassment
tingeing her every move. Elena swallowed hard. When she had thought
to sacrifice herself for her family, with the strange hope she
might be able to help these people too, she had never thought she
would receive kindness for it. How conceited had she been? How
sanctimonious to think her presence would in some way civilise
these people. They did not need civilisation, did not need to learn
to act with thoughtfulness and consideration. Despite all the
cruelty they must have suffered, despite slavery and subjugation,
all they needed was time. Elena's eyes met Keren's and she knew the
other woman saw the gratitude expressed there. But it was Reschkar
who spoke:

"A kindness which is
appreciated, and I will gladly accept in her stead, for the moment.
But I will not allow anyone to isolate her from her duty as ErGer
-- or from me. No matter what."

There was a distinct threat in
that last part, though his voice did not rise. The other woman
cringed as if in expectation of violence before she caught
herself.

"Of course, Milord."

The words were spoken with such
and air of automatic obedience, it was only too obvious they were
an established habit. The title, Milord, fell from her lips without
inflection. It was a title used for any higher level member of a
court, but one Elena had never heard in conjunction to Reschkar.
Not at any time over the long days of travel, by no one but
herself. It was the title of a slave master.

Keren's eyes had filmed over
with remembered pain, not seeing the here and now. Her breathing
becoming shallow, panicked. Elena wanted to go to her, do something
to snap the orc out of those images only she could see, to reassure
-- and it would have been the wrong thing to do. Sometimes all you
have left is pride and it is the only thing that keeps you
together.

Reschkar seemed to know that.
He waited, body relaxed, unthreatening, patient; though Elena felt
the tremor, the way he readied himself to act without any outward
sign of his vigilance. And just as quickly as she had fallen into
the horrors of her past, Keren pulled herself from her fugue, her
eyes clearing to return to the moment. It was over in a second and
Elena doubted the other woman was even aware they had witnessed her
moment of weakness. As she set the last item on the table and
turned to leave, her demeanour was deferential and calm once again.
Elena watched her go, amazed at the fluidity of her movements, no
sign of the fear left.

"Most of us have scars, not all
of them visible. Not even the majority of them."

Reschkar's voice was pensive,
though he looked at her, not the retreating orc. Did he think she
did not know that? Or that she did not see the ones writ large in
his eyes?

The scent of the food reached
her, seduced her, held a perilous lure, heavy spices and delicate
flavours teasing her. She was hungry and even though she would have
given anything to hide the fact, her stomach's growl made it
impossible. Embarrassment warmed her cheeks. She wanted to cringe,
lean away -- away form the food, away form him, away from
weakness.

Food was dangerous, its power
immense. With it, one person held so much control over another,
held all the dominion. She had learnt that lesson. Food could be
reward or punishment -- or it could simply be a way to impose one's
will, to torture and tease. She had trained her body years ago,
when the first attempts at bonding had begun, not to expect food at
regular intervals. Elena had skipped meals and often gone whole
days without nourishment in order to minimise the power food could
hold over her. She was good at it, or had been. Since the steady
diets of the last few days, however, her body had come to expect
more habitual nourishment and was objecting to the sudden state of
scarcity. It cramped in protest, demanding food. Worse, it growled
audibly, the sound loud in the quiet of the room.

She hated this sign of her
weakness, especially as it revealed an area of shame too dangerous
to bare to a potential enemy. Elena knew food was her enemy. Her
slightly too large breasts, the curve of her hip, all attested to
that. She was not self-conscious of her body, not to any real
degree. You could not be when your surroundings main desire is to
dominate you, to break your self-possession and mental protections
without causing you any physical harm.

Nudity, the resulting sensation
of vulnerability, of being at someone's mercy, and the verbal barbs
and humiliations any physical imperfections could be based on, were
the obvious choice. So she had spent a not inconsiderable part of
her adulthood naked among predators waiting for her to falter. In
an odd way, the regular nudity had desensitised her to her own body
and its physical imperfections. It lost the power to hurt her soul
very fast. One simply could not live and always be embarrassed.

But it allowed a person to
develop some realism. No matter how little she ate as an adult, she
would never have the lithe, graceful slenderness of a true beauty.
She hated food. Shame and fear warring for predominance in her
mind. Her hand covered her stomach as if she could hush it with the
gesture, too aware of the danger of letting others know your
weaknesses. Nudity and hunger she could deal with -- the constant
betrayal of her own body would be harder to fight. Elena found
herself glaring at the offending food.

Reschkar laughed, entirely
oblivious to her discomfort, the sound free and open, filling the
high ceilinged room with a surprising outburst of humour. He
grinned at her, his strong thighs a cage surrounding her, but a
relaxed cage. His head lay against the backrest, the white hair
contrasting against the dark wood like moonbeams on a mountain
lake. His features lazily calm, the brilliant yellow of his eyes
dimmed by sleepy lids, the line of the scar on his cheek softened
in the firelight. It gave him an even more fantastical air, a being
out of this world, strong and sensual, dangerously erotic and still
a monster. How would a normal human see him -- a threat or a
wonder? Throughout all the days of their journey, she had never
seen him this relaxed before.

"Well then, darling, it is time
to eat."

He smiled as he carefully chose
one of the bite sized pieces on the table. He offered it to her
lips, the memory of each time he had done so on their travels
swimming between them. Her lips parted, though not enough to take
the food. She hesitated, caught in the strangeness of the moment.
When had she come to expect her food to have the underlying tang of
his taste, to be offered to her from his hand? The days on the road
had conditioned her fundamentally, deeply enough that she expected
her most basic needs, food and shelter, to be under his control, to
be provided and met by him. She had never even considered what it
was he was offering her, had merely opened her lips to receive it,
in the secure knowledge that whatever he would provide, she would
take. How far was she falling? How fast?

The savoury, pastry-wrapped
bite hovered before her lips, the succulent smell making her mouth
water and still she hesitated. She could not take it. His eyes had
lost their sleepiness, were large and sharp, holding her in place,
demanding compliance. Gone was the relaxation, supplanted by a
predatory tension focused on her mouth. Just as had been the case
throughout the travel the simple act of feeding her held a by far
deeper meaning to him. He would not allow her to deny him that
importance. His fingers touched her lips as he stroked the piece of
food over her mouth, leaving behind the taste of cinnamon and
clover -- and underneath that, the spice of him.

The tip of her tongue snaked
out to wet her lips and found his finger. Heat coiling in her, met
its mirror in his eyes. Images, sense-memories rose. His lips on
hers, the taste of him invading her core, subsuming all sensations
under its power. This quickly she was reminded of their kiss, his
touch an addictive temptation beckoning to her. Her mouth fell open
before she had made the decision to give into the call of his
touch. When her lips closed around the offering, she barely noticed
the taste of the food under the sensation of his fingers
withdrawing, their touch almost abrasive over the sensitised skin
of her lips.

Somehow, Elena became
mesmerised by the curve of his lips, as if the act of feeding her
had somehow created a link between them. There was a tingling
sensation, an electric prickling along the inside of her lower lip,
where his fingers had touched her. Each breath she took
aggravating, her own heartbeat pulsing through that spot she could
still feel his touch. It was near painful, the pulsing heat
spreading through her, sizzling along her skin.

She felt goose bumps rise along
her arms, the small muscles along her spine tensing with each
breath. When she swallowed, she had no idea what she had eaten, but
her whole body was primed, yearning for the next bite, his next
touch. Her hands had fisted on her thighs, the temptation to stroke
over her own skin, to alleviate the tingling need for stimulation,
overwhelming. But she knew her own touch would not be enough.

Elena was transfixed, with him
the focus of her whole being. When his tongue wet those generous
lips, the sheen of moisture darkening the inhuman paleness of his
skin, she wanted to lean in, felt the movement as a shadow on her
own lips. She groaned, the sound low and almost inaudible. Her mind
had no awareness of the second bite of food she had eaten. He
chuckled.

"Close your eyes, little
one."

The command, and the
expectation of obedience behind it, broke her preoccupation. Her
eyes jumped to his in alarm, her question out before she could
censor it.

"Why?"

Elena cringed, the expectation
of punishment an electric current waking all her instincts. Was she
allowed to speak without invitation? Had he ever said anything on
those lines? She could not remember. She needed to remember the
rules. Confusion and a strange sense of loss swamped her.

Before, at the court, her
position of submission would have meant punishment for any word she
spoke uninvited. Here, it was different, it felt different. He was
subtly changing the rules, changing what she had come to rely upon.
She froze in her uncertainty, torn between the expectation of pain
or an answer to her question. When his hand rose she jerked away,
adrenalin too high for her to control the automatic reaction. Her
head turned aside, its angle designed so that a blow would miss her
nose or eye, do the least amount of damage. Elena hated the lack of
depth perception when her eye was swollen closed.

His knuckles grazed her left
cheekbone, a caress not a blow, his skin cool against the heat of
hers.

"I like it when you speak,
Elena. There will not be any repercussions for breaking your
silence, rather the reverse. If I want you mute, I will gag
you."

Was that intended to reassure
her? How was she supposed to react to a statement like that? But it
was clear he did not expect any reaction from her, what he expected
of her was obedience. His large hand stroked over her eyes,
repeating, without words, his command to close them. It was hard,
hard to close them and hard to keep them closed. She felt him lean
in, felt the warmth of his body reflected along the line of her
brow. She had to clench her eyes closed to resist the temptation to
look, to know what he was doing. His large hand stroked her hair in
a slow, sensuous move, cradling her brow to his chest, his warm
palm coming to rest as a soothing weight against her nape. She felt
his words caress her ear.

"You are preoccupied with what
you see, not what you feel."

It took her a moment to
understand the seemingly random words. Then, realisation dawned. He
was answering her question, he was telling her why he had forced
blindness on her. And he was right. Without sight everything seemed
to crash in on her, sensation, scent and sound; all that had been
overshadowed by the power if his presence came back, swirling
around her senses.