Page 10 of Ravager

Erik swallowed hard. “Break her in?”

“Let’s give it a month. In one month, the wench will be my French bride. I don’t want a girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing in my bed. I’ve never understood these Christians and their reverence for virgins. I want a woman to give me exactly what I want, when I want it. And I want her to like it.”

Rolf noticed the ashen look on Erik’s face and the way he had grown silent. “Come on, old friend. I told you at the beginning that you had to hand her over to me when I demanded it. That was part of the agreement. Did you really think you could keep a beautiful woman like that to yourself?”

“No, I didn’t.”

Rolf gave him a dismissive wave. “And I know you haven’t been fucking her. Otherwise, you still wouldn’t be so uptight. But now you have an order: make sure she’s good and ready for me in a month, maybe sooner than that. Do you understand?”

Erik nodded, hiding the trickles of trepidation in the back of his heart. He focused on the tension building in his groin instead, the anticipation—and the fear—of what was to come.

“Shall I tell the others your plans?” he asked Rolf, who nodded in response. “Then I will be on my way.”

Erik turned on his heel and stepped back into the room. He was almost at the door when he heard Rolf call over his shoulder.

“Oh, and Erik? Try and have a little fun while you’re at it.” He grinned.

Erik exhaled sharply as he left to find the others.

Chapter 7

Cherine

Ifelt like I was drifting away on an iceberg in the northern seas, a chill seizing my body so deeply, I could feel it in the marrow of my bones. It was dark on this iceberg, and I prayed to my forsaken God that I could find peace in the darkness, that the cold would finally go away.

God answered in the form of a warm hand on my shoulder, gently shaking me awake.

“Cherine,” I heard God say. “Cherine, you must eat or you will die.”

Am I not dead?I thought lazily, noticing how easily I had accepted it.

I heard something scraped along stone, and a wavering light flickered in from behind my closed lids, making them glow faintly red. The sound of water being poured followed by the clank of metal echoed in my head.

Warm hands were on me again, this time at my mouth. A trickle of lukewarm water spilled over my lips, and I opened my mouth involuntarily. I hadn’t taken any water for what felt like forever, and it flowed down my throat like a foreign object, nearly choking me.

“Come, sit up,” came the gruff yet gentle voice. I knew now it wasn’t God at all, but Erik. Strangely, for the first time in the week he had been visiting me, I wasn’t afraid of him. I reasoned it was because I was too close to death to care.

I allowed him to raise me until I was sitting up, and my coughing subsided. I felt his large, gentle hands under my chin, tipping my head back. He offered me more water, and the more I drank, the thirstier I became.

“Slow now, dear maiden,” he whispered, his voice somehow omnipresent in the dark. “You don’t want to make yourself sick. Will you eat for me today?”

I couldn’t find the strength to shake my head. He cleared his throat, as if he knew exactly what I was thinking. “If not for me, eat for yourself. Please.”

Then, a soft piece of bread was at my lips. After a moment’s hesitation, I opened my mouth and took it in. My jaw ached as I chewed, but I complied and swallowed. The bread tasted like nothing, but already, I felt warmer from the digestion.

“Please,” Erik said softly, cupping my delicate face in his hands. “Look at me.”

I wanted to keep my eyes closed out of spite, but something compelled me to open them. Erik’s strong, beautiful face was inches from mine. I wondered when I began to think he was beautiful, or if perhaps I had always thought so, and my hatred of him just clouded my judgment. I could see the length of his dark eyelashes, how they framed his icy eyes. Behind him, a few torches glowed brightly, and I could make out a large tub with steam escaping from it.

“You need to drink more,” he said, his voice rich, his Norse accent apparent as he navigated French with ease. “You need to eat more. Then, I must bathe you.”

A small shudder rocked through me.

His eyes softened with concern. “The bath will warm you,” he explained.

I wanted to tell him that I didn’t shudder because I was cold but because I was afraid again. It was a peculiar kind of fear—not for my life or my sanity, but for my pride.

He handed me back the jug, trying for my hands. I grasped it, eager to prove I wasn’t as weak as he thought, but even raising the jug to my mouth was a struggle. Still, I did it, and he watched me like a hawk.