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

fair like it’s a feast. I eye the tasteless mush without any enthusiasm. The ground is wet and soggy, but I hunker down beside Raglan rather than linger near the others.

Derick grows ever shorter on temper the longer we ride. Another man says something that angers Derick, and he punches the man to the ground, where he kicks him savagely over and over.

I swallow and avert my eyes. This is a constant occurrence that further frays my nerves.

“Eat your mash,” Raglan says, cutting a scowl my way when I poke at it with the spoon.

I do not like Raglan well for all he smells delicious and can turn me into a weak-kneed lass when he purrs. I’m an Omega and can no more help my response to a dominant male and Alpha than I can help shivering when cold.

“I do not like mash,” I hiss at him. He may be a prisoner like me and have betrayed our King, but he is not like the outlaws. There are aspects to his way and demeanor that confirms he is a bad man, but there is also roguish humor. He has not confessed what he did to betray the King, but it must have been terrible for him to be sentenced to hang.

I do not want to like him, yet at odd times, I find I do. “I would kill a man for a slice or two of honey cake,” I say.

He chuckles. He finds great amusement at my expense often, which only inflames my irritation with him.

“Honey cake? It is little wonder you are so small living on honey cake. Never fear, wench. Let us hail a passing servant that they might quickly whip up such a culinary delight.” He pretends to hail a nearby outlaw.

They pay no heed, for they have their faces in their mash, pretending there is not a man lying beaten bloody on the ground.

“You are insensible,” I mutter, poking the mash with even less enthusiasm now that I’ve thought about honey cake. “Perhaps Derick’s boxing of your ears has left permanent damage.”

 He chuckles, amused by my insult. He is an oddly happy sort despite falling out with the King sufficient to see him ordered hanged, and his subsequent ‘rescue-capture’ as he refers to it by these Blighten scum. Imminently, he will be subject to torture as they seek information on the King.

“The only person suffering damage when Derick cuffs me is Derick to his own fist.”

I do not want to laugh at this man, who must be truly villainous that outlaws keep him chained, but a small, snort-laugh escapes me nevertheless. It does not escape Raglan’s notice. Very little does. He derives great pleasure in getting a rise from me. Or any of the outlaws, and even if it sees him get a cuff or a beating. Not that any of this hurts him, for he is a huge Alpha shifter. I even believe Raglan’s boast that it is Derick who suffers after beating him, for I have seen Derick walk away flexing his fist more than once.

I sigh. I’m full of sadness at losing Posey. I still cannot reconcile that it is real and she is gone. But these interludes where I forget for a brief moment that my dear sweet girl is dead, and that I am a prisoner of foul Blighten scum, are precious, for they give my heart a reason to beat.

They remind me that I have mates who are doubtless worried about me, and who are searching for me as I sit, poking at my bowl of mash.

It reminds me that I must not give up hope.

“Eat your mash, lass,” he says, voice lowering to a growl-purr.

I have no desire to do as he tells me, but there is something about his stern voice that makes my spoon dip of its own accord . . . almost like a compulsion. It is not the first time I’ve obeyed him despite my desire to do otherwise. My eyes sneak a peek in his direction as I eat the hated mash. He seems not to notice that I’m doing as I’m told . . . again.

Raglan

Tomorrow, we will reach Darkmouth, and I wonder what awaits us there as I eat the grim mash. I’ve lost weight since my rescue-capture and don’t balk at whatever they shove in my direction . . . unlike Priya, who has to be ordered before a single spoonful passes her lips. The tiny thing will disappear if she does not eat what’s given.

“Are they really taking us to the Blighten?” she asks.

“Aye,” I say. I’ve dedicated a great deal of travel time to contemplate my fate and the course laid out before me.

“I have never met an Orc,” she says. “Other than Osric, who is very sweet.”

I huff out a breath. “Do not mention that green bastard to me,” I say. “Osric is not sweet. He’d have happily skewered me before I betrayed the King. He would do so twice as swiftly now. I cannot fathom what wenches find so appealing in his ugly face and tufted ears.”

“I’ve heard their warlord is cruel,” she says, voice soft and wavering with fear. “And that he feasts on the humans he captures.”

My head whips around, and my eyes meet hers. “Orcs do not eat humans, wench. Not even the most bloodthirsty ones. What nonsense have you been fed? There, I’d taken you for a clever lass.”

Orcs do eat humans. They do worse than eat them. But I don’t like that her head is full of such tales, and I will not be the one to add more.

“I am clever,” she says, tone sharp enough to remind me that she is highborn, despite her grubby, bedraggled state.

The Omega has thrown everything into turmoil since she joined our party, not least because her scent maddens me more with every passing day.

“Why has your scent not changed?” I demand, feeling as surly as Derick. I will soon be pressed up against her