Taken, Lane L.V. [free novels to read .TXT] 📗

CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

EPILOGUE

About the Author

Ravished

Omega Awakening

Taking Control

Predictive

Taken

L.V. Lane

Copyright © 2021 L.V. Lane

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author

CHAPTER ONE

Raglan

AS WE REACH the top of a steep rise in the forest, a gap in the trees provides a sweeping view of the Wittner estate. Lush green and golden fields, ripe with crops ready for harvest, meet the castle to the east and the estuary to the north. The ruin of the old, abandoned castle pokes up through the canopy of the forest to its south, while in the center, the distant port town of Darkmouth is just visible through the hazy sky.

Here we dismount, taking a short break while our villainous leader, Derick, engages in a heated discussion with two of his men.

Is Hawthorn at the castle today? Perhaps, he will be patrolling. Maybe he will find us.

There was a time when he was like a brother to me, as we fought side-by-side against the Blighten.

Now I’ve betrayed the King, been sentenced to hang, escaped, and ride with Blighten scum.

Hawthorn is an honorable bastard to his core. He would skewer me without a moment’s hesitation should he happen upon me, even though my hands are bound.

No, he’s as righteous as he is honorable. He would free my hands before he skewered me.

The way I feel today, I would probably let him.

Pride.

Once upon a time, I was a man abound in pride of every flavor. In my prowess and battle skill as a shifter, in my intelligence and cunning, and rutting the wenches. Today, I’m filthy, always hungry, and experience very little sense of pride. The sweet tavern lass who rode me so enthusiastically is a distant memory. Now the most attention my cock gets is when I take it out to have a piss.

We have been traveling for many weeks, but our destination, the harbor of Darkmouth, is now within our sight. From here, a ship will take me to Blighten lands.

It feels like a long time since my rescue-capture from the castle.

I wonder what my king, Davide, is doing.

I wonder about Osric, too, although the green bastard would have happily skewered me before I was sentenced to hang. He has a poor sense of humor, I’ve a poor sense of caution, and I suffer an irresistible urge to bait. He is half Orc; his mother was raped by the Blighten during a raid and left for dead. It is in the worst possible taste for me to taunt him with his hated heritage; nevertheless, I do.

It doesn’t help that his mother, who is an excellent cook in the King’s kitchen, has a soft spot for me. Which was our little secret until Osric caught the two of us chatting in the kitchen, and worse, I was scoffing the last slice of her apple pie. I thought for sure he was about to beat me to death with the small wooden plate of pie crumbs. But alas, his sweet mother stepped in and coshed his thick hide with a rolling pin until he stomped off in a huff.

We have never mixed very well, he and I, even before the incident with the pie. Excepting, if it really came down to it, I would give my life for that ugly sack of green shit, and Davide, and even Hawthorn.

Happy memories of my verbal sparring with Osric fade. My horse lowers his head, hacks a chunk from a nearby bush, and munches with gusto. The wind is biting cold up here on this exposed bluff. Winter is looming, and if we don’t sail soon, the passage will not be safe. I wonder if this is what Derick, the leader of these Blighten lap-dogs, is discussing so heatedly a small distance away. To get to Darkmouth, we must either take a significant detour or cross Wittner lands. Few outlaws want to travel Wittner lands for Hawthorn, the estate Captain of the Guard has a reputation for dealing harshly with raiders of any kind found within the bounds. But my captors also have an unforgiving master in the form of the Blighten leader.

“A man could die of hunger and cold waiting for a decision,” I mutter. “Your capacity to stand around with your heads up your asses is a constant source of—uff!”

“Silence!” Jerry barks. The blow he lands upon my shoulder delivers surprise rather than a genuine threat. The pockmarked young man with a scrawny beard and greasy hair is like an annoying gnat. He is small and weak compared to me, and the only time he can cuff my head is when I’m sitting down. “All you do is think about your belly.”

This is not true. I think about my belly often, but certainly not all the time. “I will be a shallow husk by the time you deliver me to your green-skinned masters! I’m all but wasting away.”

I get another thump. He puts all his force into it, becoming enraged when I merely glance down at him with an expression of fake confusion. More blows rain, and I endure them with stolid sufferance until he rips his dagger out and thrusts it against my throat.

It’s a long way up for him, and he will need to jump to do more than nick