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

“What did you do?” she asks. “Are you their prisoner like me?”

“Many things,” I say evasively. “And, aye, lass, I am.”

“You are not like them,” she says. Her small fingers skim along the edge of one cuff, and it brings an instant tightening in my gut. “What did you do, Raglan?”

My name on her lips creates a compulsion every bit as strong as my Alpha voice does on her. “I betrayed my King.”

“How?” she demands, body softening into me further.

“That is between him and me,” I say.

“You make it sound like you know him.”

“A lot better than I would like to,” I say with a little bite, for she is playing with my cuffs again, and my cock is soon stone hard, despite my attempts to conjure images from a particularly gruesome massacre.

Alas, dead bodies cannot hope against her potent scent and gentle touch. Thank the Goddess her bunched skirts make a barrier of sorts, or she would be screaming and begging Derick to give her over to someone else.

“I have never met the King,” she says a little wistfully. “Now, I never will.”

“Well, he is a sour bastard for the most part.” I do not add that he’s no match for Hawthorn on the sour-scale, so perhaps she might like him well enough. For reasons I cannot explain, I fear confessing my former relationship with her mate might give her false hope regarding my virtue.

A small snort-laugh escapes her before she fidgets like she is embarrassed to have found a moment’s joy.

“Why were you outside the castle alone?” I ask. “You are mated, are you not?”

“Someone came for me,” she says sadly. “I didn’t know what to do, so I fled.”

I growl low before I can stop myself—a shudder ripples through her in response that is not entirely fear.

“Your mates should be horsewhipped, allowing you to wander on your own,” I say before I can think better of it. I’d been prepared to let Hawthorn skewer me should we meet, but now I’m inclined toward beating some sense into him first. “Happen they are all as simple as the late Jerry for their negligence.”

“It is not their fault,” she says quietly. “I’m a broken Omega. The Goddess cursed them in giving me to them as a mate.”

I huff out a breath. “Broken? How are you broken? You appear to have all the usual parts that I can tell.”

She appears to wrestle with a decision on speaking further before she whispers, “My scent has not changed. I overheard the castle scholar talking to my brother, and it makes me reckless. If I hadn’t fled on Posey, we might both be safe in the castle now.”

I hear the catch in her voice that signifies the onset of fresh grief.

“It is not your fault that Derick is a bastard,” I say.

“I should not have left.”

“You should not have left,” I agree. “But you could not have known what would happen next. Sometimes in life, we make sound decisions. And sometimes, we do not.”

“What about you? How did they capture you?”

“A prison break,” I say. “I was sentenced to hang on the morrow. But Derick and his companions had other plans. They will be hoping I’ve information valuable to their Blighten masters.”

“They will torture you,” she says sadly. “They will do as much, but perhaps differently to me.”

My hands tighten against her, but she makes no complaint. I vow, here and now, that over my dead body will they harm her.

Priya

I’m dizzy, a little sick, and half witless from both the punishing pace and lack of proper rest.

At first, it felt unreal, like a waking dream. Like I might be able to rouse myself if only I could shake myself hard enough. It is no dream any more. It’s real with no end in sight. Where once my rescue seemed imminent and certain, every thud of hooves against the forest path diminishes my hope.

It rains all the time. I’m damp, dirty, and smell ripe.

I suffer misery and despair.

Ahead, Derick calls for a rest, and we pull into a small clearing. It is late, and likely we will rest the horses for a few hours before riding again. Raglan dismounts first, helping me down from the saddle. My thighs shake until a few stiff steps and knee bends ease some of the soreness from my muscles.

Downtime from the saddle is rare, and sleep snatched fitfully, often while still on the horse. Although I’m loath to admit it, I feel safer when riding to let my guard down and sleep.

The outlaws set to bickering among themself as they prepare the mash. I hang close to Raglan, although I’ve no idea how a prisoner of outlaws might protect me.

“Do you need to go?” he asks, eyeing my knee bending suspiciously like I’m a three-summer-old brat who is reluctant to do their business.

“My legs are stiff,” I say defensively, even though I do need to go. Not only am I wretched in every way imaginable, but I must suffer the humiliation of an escort when I go.

His lips tug up, wolf-blue eyes crinkling at the corners. I have soon ascertained that the man is a scoundrel who finds amusement in the most inappropriate things. He is also as big as a barn door and possesses an otherworldly beauty I’ve found synonymous to the few shifters I’ve met. Despite his size, ungentlemanly disposition, and status as both prisoner and betrayer of the King, I prefer him watching me than any other man here present. I can still remember Jerry putting his sweaty hands on me as he tried to wrestle me to the horse. I should not wish for a man’s death, but I suffer only relief that he is gone.

I go. Better to get it over with while the Blighten scum are busy.

When we return to the temporary camp, an outlaw thrusts a bowl of mash into my hands. Raglan sits back against a tree heedless of the damp ground and tucks into the grim