“Little mouse?”
“W…what are you doing here?”
The servant girl…Little mouse… stood frozen, her soft body trembling. In one hand, she clutched a heavy stone, its edge sharp and bloody. Her teary eyes were fixed on the form of Lady Anya, who was slowly, pushing herself up from the floor.
The girl’s lower lip quivered. A choked sob escaped her. The stone fell from her nerveless fingers, hitting the fur rug with a dull thud.
She rushed forward, tears already spilling in hot tracks down her cheeks. Her bare foot came down squarely on Theron’s stomach, as she scrambled over him.
She crashed into Anya, her arms wrapping around the woman’s waist with desperate, bruising force. She buried her face in the space between Anya’s neck and shoulder, sobbing loudly, the sounds raw and ragged.
“You’re alive… you’re alive… you’re alive…” .
Anya stiffened for a heartbeat. Then her arms came up, encircling the shaking girl. One hand pressed against the girl’s back, feeling the frantic hammer of her heart. The other came up to cradle the back of her head, fingers tangling in the messy hair.
The girl pulled back just enough to look up, her face a wreck of tears and snot. Her gaze swept Anya’s face, down to her mouth, on the dark, glistening line of blood welling from the cut on her lower lip... when Theron had hit her earlier...
“I thought you had died,” the girl wept, the words tumbling out. “They said you were sold to the men, and I thought… I thought they had killed you…”
Her breath hitched. Her eyes, fixed on the blood, clouded over. The sheer, desperate relief curdled, transforming in an instant into a blazing, fury.
She looked down at the king, at the man who had touched her goddess. A guttural sound rose in her throat.
Before Anya could stop her, the girl twisted away. She drew back her foot and kicked Theron hard in the ribs. A sickening thump echoed in the chamber. She kicked him again, aiming for his gut. “How dare you!” she screamed, each word punctuated by another kick.
Anya lunged, grabbing the girl’s wrists. The girl fought, a wild thing, her strength surprising. Anya hauled her back, pulling her against her own body, pinning the girl’s arms to her sides.
“Enough!”
“He hurt you!”
“I’m okay.” Anya said, her voice dropping to a whisper. She shifted her grip, releasing one wrist to cup the girl’s tear-streaked face instead. Her thumbs smoothed over the girl’s cheekbones, forcing her to meet her gaze.
“Look at me. I am okay. See? Just a little scratch that won't kill me.”
The girl stared, her fury dissolving again into a whirlpool of overwhelming emotion. Anya’s touch was cool, her scent…blood, fear, and that underlying, powerful perfume that had not faded… filled the girl’s senses. Her gaze dropped back to Anya’s bleeding lip. The wound was a dark, beckoning stain on the perfect pale skin.
Anya tried again. “How did you get here? Did….”
The girl didn’t hear. Her breathing slowed. Still cupped in Anya’s hands, she leaned in, her eyes locked on the blood. Her tongue darted out, a pink, hot point. It touched the swell of Anya’s lower lip, just beside the cut. A slow, deliberate lick, collecting the coppery salt of her blood.
The girl did it again. This time, her lips closed over the cut itself. She suckled, gently, her mouth forming a soft, warm seal. She drank the tiny welling beads of blood, her tongue swiping over the broken flesh.
Anya stared, utterly stunned. The girl’s mouth was so tender, so fervent. Anya’s own lips parted on a silent gasp.
A groan from the floor shattered the moment.
King Theron stirred. One hand rose, fumbling to the back of his head. He felt the sticky mat of blood and the rising lump. His vision swam as he turned his head, his eyes struggling to focus on the two figures entwined before him.
His confusion melted into towering, purple rage. “Who…” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “You cunt… Anya… how dare you… attack your king…”
His cock, which had semi-softened, gave a thick, obscene twitch, as if stirred by his own fury. He tried to push himself up, his movements clumsy.
“I’ll have you… flayed alive… I’ll let my dogs fuck your holes before I hang you…”
He gained his knees. His eyes, bloodshot, fixed on them. His vision clearing.
Crrack.
A large, batlike stick slammed down with tremendous force across the king’s exposed groin.
A choked, airless guh exploded from his mouth. His eyes bulged. He toppled back, his head smacking the fur rug. The shock from the hit had stopped his heart instantly.
Standing over him, holding the murder stick in both hands, was Queen Elara.
Her face, a rictus of pure, undiluted hatred. Her sharp eyes blazed. She was dressed in a night-robe of silver silk, her fair hair disheveled. She didn’t look at Anya or the girl. Her entire world was the corpse of her husband.
“Did your cock feel that, Theron?” she hissed, her voice like shards of glass. She raised the stick again. It came down with a sickening thwack on the ruined flesh.
“Did it? Does it feel pleasure now?!”
Thwack.
Each blow was accompanied by a spray of dark fluid. She was panting, her breath coming in ragged gusts.
"Don't look back." Lyssa hissed.
The girls stumbled, their bare feet slapping the cold ground.
They sprinted after the guard’s back, Lyssa naked, vulnerable and exposed to the open air.
“Don’t look back!” she hissed again.
“I will not!” the guard hissed back.
The wind bit at Lyssa’s skin, raising gooseflesh along her arms and thighs, but she kept moving. She could feel Mila’s fear in the way she lagged, her steps erratic.
"Hey!" Lyssa said, taking Mila’s hand squeezing hard enough to bruise. "We’re going to be okay."
The guard led them through a series of narrow, arched corridors, moving with a precision that suggested he knew every shadow and crack in the fortress. He kept his head high, ignoring the two girls…one naked, the other commando… scrambling behind him, though Lyssa noticed his pace was just slow enough to keep them within reach. He didn't look back, not once. His focus was entirely on the path ahead, dodging a patrol here, slipping through a side passage there.
Finally, he halted before a heavy, iron-banded oak door set into a recessed archway. It looked unused, the wood gray with dust and neglect. He pushed it open just enough to slip inside, then gestured for them to follow.
Lyssa helped the girl through the gap first and followed, the door clicking shut with a finality that made her heart hammer. They were in a small, windowless antechamber that smelled of old cloth and dry rot. The guard turned to face them, squeezing his eyes shut.
"There are clothes inside," he said, his voice rough and strained. He pointed a gauntleted finger toward a deeper doorway leading into the main room.
He turned his back to them, facing the door they had just entered, and crossed his arms over his chest.
It was strange, for a man in his position. He felt entirely out of place in this fucked up world.
Lyssa stared but didn't have time to question. She pulled the girl into the next room. It was a storeroom, high-ceilinged and cavernous, filled with rows of wooden shelves. The air was thick with the scent of linen and dust. It was a slave store house, a repository for the garments of the palace’s property. Piles of coarse fabric were stacked high, and racks hung with simple tunics stretched into the gloom.
Lyssa moved to the nearest shelf, her fingers brushing over the rough material. These were not the clothes of free women. There were no fine silks, no embroidered hems, no layers. Just the uniform of the chattel.
She pulled a short, coarse linen shift from the pile. She shook it out, the fabric stiff with disuse. It was a simple tube, sleeveless and cut short, designed not for modesty but for utility and easy access.
She handed one to the girl. The girl took off her current one and pulled the new shift over her head. The fabric was rough against her skin, scraping her nipples as it slid down. It barely covered her ass, the hem stopping high on her mid-thigh.
Lyssa looked down at her own dress. It was thin, almost translucent in the slivers of light that filtered through the high vents. She ran her hands over the fabric, smoothing it over her hips. The air circulated freely against her open slit, the coarse weave rubbing against her sensitive lips with every slight movement. She felt naked, arguably more exposed than she had been before..
Her nipples were clearly visible through the thin linen, the peaks pressing against the coarse weave. If she bent over, if she even leaned forward slightly, her cunt would be on display. There was no protection in the cloth, only a frame for the flesh.
"You… you look good." the girl whispered, giggling slightly.
"Welcome to our world, your highness."
Lyssa sighed softly. She reached out and adjusted the girl’s shoulder, centering the fabric.
Their savior guard was still standing in the doorway, his back to them.
"We’re done," Lyssa said.
The hems of the shifts rode up as they walked silently through the palace corridors, showing the ripe curve of their buttocks.
“It’s going to be alright,” Lyssa whispered.
Mila whispered back, a terrified breath. “Can we trust him? What if he’s leading us to a trap? He’s a man. They’re all…”
Lyssa stared at the guard's back. She quickened her step, her bare feet slapping on stone.
“Where are you taking us?” she said, her voice sharper than she intended.
The guard half-turned.
“The dungeons. To your father. We can free hi... ”
thwuck.
Lyssa saw the steel tip first, a glistening point erupting from his back. It was followed by a hand’s length of bloody spear shaft.
He coughed. A spray of crimson flecked his lips.
He sank to his knees and turned his head, his gaze Lyssa's.
“R.. Run!” he gurgled, blood now flowing freely from his mouth.
“Ru…”
His heart stopped. Kneeling in a spreading pool.
The attacker stepped from a shadowed alcove ahead.
“I knew it…I fucking knew it Dorn… you wanted the cunt all to yourself? You greedy bastard.”
Lyssa’s breath seized. She flinched back, yanking Mila’s hand. She recognized that voice.
You’ll cry for your daddy? He ain’t comin’. His head’s probably on a spike. Your mother ….
I know you’re sweet and tight everywhere…
You’re just a pretty piece of meat now, and meat gets passed around..
She turned fully, pulling the girl into a blind run back the way they’d come.
She heard his sprinting footsteps. A hand tangled viciously in her long hair, yanking her backward off her feet. She screamed, her grip on the girl torn away. She hit the stone floor hard, the impact knocking the air from her lungs. The sheer dress rode up to her waist, exposing her completely.
Garv was on her in an instant, his knees pinning her thighs.
“I’ve waited for this,” he panted, his breath sour with ale. “Look how sweet your are now!”
His hands grabbed the neckline of her dress trying to rip it downward to her waist
“Get off her !” Mila shrieked, launching herself at his back clawing at his eyes.
With a roar, Garv bucked, throwing her off. He spun, grabbed the girl by the neck, and slammed her head-first into the stone wall. A sickening, wet crack echoed. Mila slid down, limp, a trickle of blood snaking from her hairline.
Lyssa screamed. Rage, white-hot and blinding. She scrambled up as he turned back to her, and she launched herself at him, her teeth sinking into the gristly cartilage of his ear.
He bellowed in pain, stumbling back. He drove backward, crushing her between his body and the rough stone wall. The air whooshed from her lungs again. She lost her bite, gasping.
He shoved away from her, turning his fury on Mila who was now holding his legs.
“L.. Leave her alone,” the girl stammered, blood tricking heavily on her face.
“You little whore!” he snarled, kicking her stomach hard.
He was on her the next instant. His palm flattened against her stomach, just below her ribs, where he had been kicking. He pressed, not hard, but insistently. Mila screamed. Then he began punching her face.
Thud.
Again. And again. Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound was wet, brutal. Blood splattered the wall, the floor, his knuckles, as he rampaged, fists landing on the now motionless girl.
Lyssa’s world narrowed to a tunnel of red horror. She screamed, a raw, endless sound, and jumped onto his back again, beating at his head with her fists. This time, he didn’t bother backing to the wall. He simply reached back, grabbed a handful of her hair and slammed her forward over his shoulder. She sailed through the air and crashed onto the stone, her vision exploding into stars, then blurring into grey fog.
She tried to push up, her arms shaking. Through the haze, she saw him standing over her, fumbling with his trousers. He freed a thick, ruddy cock, already fully hard. He dropped to his knees between her splayed legs, one hand groping her bare breast, squeezing painfully.
“Going to fuck you right here next to your dead friend,” he grunted.
Footsteps. Rushing, pounding footsteps.
Garv paused, craning his neck, thinking it was the girl.
CRACK.
A fist landed on the side of his jaw. His head twisted instantly, violently, from the sheer force of the blow. He crumpled sideways, collapsing in a heap, his eyes unseeing, dead before his head had started twisting.
The owner of the fist was a silhouette of pure fury. He didn’t stop. He dropped onto Garv's corpse, and his hands…big, calloused… crashed down on the dead man’s head.
Again. And again. Crunch. Splatter. The skull gave way, the features dissolving into a grotesque, pulpy mess. He kept hitting, a wordless, savage rhythm of obliteration.
Lyssa pushed herself up to her elbows, tears welling, overflowing, streaming down her cheeks. She crawled forward and grabbed the savior by the back of his sweat-dampened tunic, pulling weakly.
She clung to him, pressing her face against his broad back, her body wracked with sobs. She cried loudly the terror and relief pouring out in a hot flood against his back.
Slowly, he turned.
Kian enveloped her in a tight, crushing hug. He buried his face in her hair, his massive shoulders shaking.