The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

Her anger flares inside of her again, rushing from her stomach, past her cold heart and to her throat. She is irritated that these Sceaduians aren’t taking her seriously; to make her point, Namora presses the knife against her skin. Her heart races when she feels the sharp metal break through and warm blood rush to the small cut. She can see Franklin lean forward, pulling on his chains, trying to find a way to stop her even though he knows it is pointless. The other three men shift nervously while the Queen stands still.

“I am afraid, Warden Eric, that it is unheard of for a Derven to make a threat without the full intention of carrying it out,” Sheynne’s cold voice says.

Eric balls his hands into fists. Though her eyes are connected with the Queen’s, she can see his jaw clench in anger. He takes a large step towards Namora. Without hesitation, she pushes the knife further, widening the wound so that blood flows freely down her neck and into the fabric of her dress. She wonders if anyone will visit her grave. She hopes not.

He freezes. All eyes remain on Namora. She gives the Queen a moment before making her decision to carry out her threat, “Very well then.” She finds it easy to threaten her life, as it was never her own. All she was, was a protector of Derven. She realizes that she never had true control over anything but now she has control over her physical death because without anything to live for, her heart died a long time ago.

Her arm tenses, readying itself to draw the knife across her neck and end her suffering when the Queen finally stops her, “Enough. I will concede to your demands. Warden John, you may release the Captain and escort him to the border. Warden Dell, send for Master Rickan. Warden Eric, see to it that the Princess doesn’t get a hold of anymore weapons,” the irritation in her voice does not suit it well. She spins on her heels and leaves the room, followed by Dell.

John unchains Franklin, helping him to his feet. It seems odd, since hours ago he wanted to kill him without a second thought. As soon as Namora drops her arms into her lap, Eric quickly makes his way across the room. He angrily takes the knife from her, “Such recklessness,” he mutters.This text is © NôvelDrama/.Org.

Franklin walks stiffly to Namora, dropping down to one knee in front of her. She can see the pain in his one un-swollen eye. He is not happy with what she has done. In another time, in another world, her heart might have opened up for him but now it lays dead, beating for no man.

“What shall I tell the King, Princess?” he speaks quietly to her, the words sounding a bit more personal than they should have.

She ponders his new found gentleness to her; it takes her a while to realize that he isn’t complaining about her, which means that he is actually furious. She supposes she would be too, if someone tried to sacrifice themselves for her. “Tell him that I am under the care of the Queen. She wishes a meeting within one week to discuss the terms of my release,” she pauses. She removes the wretched Alumenian ring from her finger and hands it to Franklin, “Tell Laren to send word to King Irron that until negotiations have been made, our wedding will be on hold and that he is not to do anything to jeopardize the meeting between my father and the Queen.”

Franklin takes the ring, “Anything else, my lady?”

She nods, “Yes…” hesitating, she tries to word what she wants to say correctly, “Also tell Laren this: ‘While a harsh winter overcomes the forest, the brush tiger always sees the rising sun with remorse.'” Franklin gives her a questioning look. When she doesn’t say anything more, he puts his fist to his heart. She selfishly hopes it won’t be the last time she sees him. He stands slowly, not wanting to go but is forced by John to leave the room.

Through her composition she has told Laren that even though she is a prisoner to the Sceaduians, she sees it as slightly better than being married to King Irron. An odd smile crosses her lips when she thinks of last night; it wasn’t in the way she wanted but she got her wish. She crossed into Sceadu land and though she is now a prisoner she starts this day with nothing and free from the responsibility of a Princess. She never imagined the cruelty of the Sceadu but she is slightly grateful for it because if they had been kind they would have let her go and her fate would still be the same. It seems selfish for her to consider enjoying the possibility of being free from her country only to be enslaved by another but when it all boils down to it, she simply exchanged the Derven chains of selflessness for the real ones of Sceadu.

Eric kneels in front of her, revealing a finely made, delicate set of chains. He unshackles the thick heavy ones from her wrists, “Do you know much of Sceadu?” He speaks quietly.

Namora gives him a befuddled look, “Do you honestly think if I knew much about your barbaric practices that I would have come anywhere near this country?”

He snorts, “Fair enough. I am sure that our practices seem cruel and harsh to you but the way we do things has kept our lands safe from intruders for hundreds of years,” he lets the shackles fall to the floor before gently putting the other set around her left wrist. “The people of Sceadu treat those of higher positions with respect. Since you are to be an indentured servant, in order to pull it off you must do as your Master commands, run at his every beck and call, take care of that which he needs.”

“Ha,” Namora can’t help but laugh; when Eric gives her a stern look, she explains herself, “Doesn’t sound much different from a marriage. Except for the marital obligations…” she trails off when Eric shifts nervously.

“There are a few of the rather deplorable Masters who require those services of their servants as well…”

Namora clenches her jaw, fire raging inside. I’d like to see him try, she thinks. She attempts to calm her voice trying not to sound too angry, “And this Master Rickan, he is one of them?”

Eric shakes his head, clasping the other chain around her right wrist, “I do not know him personally, but I do not believe so. I do know his Barman, however-”

Namora cuts him off, “Barman?”

“Yes, Master Rickan is a Tavern owner. If he tries to do anything,” Eric tenses up, “Anything at all, you tell the Barman to send for me. Understood?”

Namora looks at him closely, for the first time. Her anger and rage towards the man that prevented her from escaping seems misplaced now. After all he did save her life, even if it was extremely painful. When he raises his green eyes and they lock their gaze, she waits for her heart to pound. There is nothing, only the ache of her tired body. She comes to terms with herself, truly knowing for the first time that even when stripped of her title, she is not like other women. Her heart beats for no one. She speaks quietly, “Am I to understand, Warden Eric, that you have a fondness for my well being?”

Eric looks away quickly. He avoids her eyes by busying himself with a kerchief that he pulled from his pocket. He wets it with water from a canteen. He slowly reaches up to her, recalling what happened last time he tried to touch her skin. When she doesn’t move, his hand drifts forward and he tenderly wipes the drying blood from the small amount of exposed skin on Namora’s neck, “I can’t imagine that there is a man alive on this island who wouldn’t fall in love with you, Princess.”

She catches his eyes when they flicker up briefly. She sees what she believes is a genuine desire in them. Shifting uncomfortably she wonders what that feels like, to want someone. Pushing the thought out of her head, she thinks that had the circumstances been different, he could have been as likable Gregory and Jackson but as he remains her captor, any feelings of friendship she has towards him don’t exist. She can see the longing in his eyes while he looks at her neck and decides to defuse the situation with a joke, “I don’t think that Warden Dell could ever like me.”

Caught off guard, Eric laughs deeply. He stands up in front of her, “I’m sure that when he gets over the fact that you tried to kill him, he’ll come around.”

Namora tests the sturdiness of her new chains, tugging on them slightly, avoiding Eric’s wanton gaze but his voice draws her eyes back to his, “They are more symbolic than functional.”

“They mark me as a servant?”

He nods, “Yes, but not just any servant, an extremely expensive, desirable, obedient servant. Even though you are lower than any other free person in town, there is still a caste amongst servants. I doubt you will come across any of them but this will tell the other Masters that you are off limits.” He regretfully opens a wooden box that sits next to her. Inside is a beautiful silver choker. It takes Namora a moment to recognize that its designs match the chains on her wrists, at which time it begins to lose its appeal. Eric sighs, lifting it out of the box. It appears to be tiny in his hand, more like a bracelet. He pulls it open carefully and leans towards her. His rough hands brush her skin when he pushes her hair away to latch the collar around her neck. When it clicks shut, he drops down onto the bench next to her.

“This collar is the mark of an indentured servant. Below the borders of Sceadu is a line of a great material they call magnetic shale. This collar is the opposite of it. Should you try to cross the border, the opposing forces of the two will cause several metal points to protrude from the inside of the collar. The wounds they inflict are fatal-you will bleed to death if you try to leave.”

Her life being of no consequence to her, she has no fear of the collar killing her, “How close could I get to the border without dying?”

Eric gives her a stunned look, “You’re not going to go do something stupid like you did with that knife, are you?”

She draws her eyes away from his, “Of all people, you are not one who can tell me what I can and cannot do with my own life.”

He doesn’t like her answer but he thinks that maybe if she knows better she won’t test it, “I imagine you could come within ten feet or so, though I don’t know for sure. The closer you get, the more the collar will cut into your skin,” he looks at the silver circle on her neck. From the corner of her eye, she thinks she can see regret in his eyes, like he wishes he could be the one to take care of her for the week. His voice is softer, “I would guess you could get within five feet of the border and not die from the wounds, though I wouldn’t recommend it.”