Page 7 of Ravager

I woke up with a start, the weight of the nightmare hitting me like a ton of bricks. The immense pain and blackness spun in my vision, forcing me back to the floor with a groan. The weight of my head injury spread down my neck, and I let the pain smother me for a moment until an entirely different kind of pain squeezed my heart.

Odette,I cried out in my mind as a small sob escaped my lips. My sister had been killed right before my eyes. My whole family was gone—slain. Though I was never close to them, they were the people I had known the longest. They were my family, whether I liked it or not, and oh, how I wished I had been more grateful for them while they were still alive. I cursed myself for being selfish, for focusing on Marc before their death. I had never known how lucky I was to have them, and now, I had nothing.

I slowly opened my eyes and saw only dimness. The ground beneath me was cold and hard, but I had been covered in something soft. I reached up and felt the crusted velvet of a blanket.

I pushed all the thoughts of my family, of Marc, of my brothers battling in the army out of my head and tried to think clearly. I was in a small room with no windows. It wasdark, nearly impossible to see, and the smell of mildew and rat droppings stung my nostrils. Slowly, I sat up, the blanket falling away from my body, as I took in a deep breath to steady my heart while my eyes adjusted.

There was an outline of a door, lit by an amber glow. I listened hard, and in the distance, I heard muffled voices and what sounded like the occasional cheer.

I had no idea where I was or if I was even still in the country. The last thing I remembered was the strange Viking man crouching close to me—the man who spoke French, who had told me to go, to run. I remembered the way his eyes burned like mist in sunny morning fields, and the blood spatters on his face, making him look more inhuman.

Had he been trying to save me?Or was he simply going to chase me down like a hound after a rabbit, spearing me with my father’s sword?

I clenched my fist in a burst of hot anger. Of all things, I was livid he had that sword—the very sword my father had wielded against the raiders from the north, perhaps these very same raiders.

There was no doubt in my mind now: I was their captive. They hadn’t killed me, so they must have wanted something else, and I had heard too many stories about those lustful barbarians to not know what that was.

Footsteps echoed through the darkness, and I sat back, drawing the blanket closer to my chest. A shadow appeared on the other side of the door, sliding underneath the frame like black ink. After a few locks jangled loudly, the door slowly opened, and a short, stocky silhouette appeared before me. A rush of ale and body odor preceded him, and I stiffened.

The man muttered something in Norse, his words slurring, lips sounding wet. My skin tightened and my jaw locked as he stepped clumsily toward me, the vile smell growing stronger.

Suddenly, another figure appeared in the doorway, a lit torch in his hand.

“Hei!” the man called out, and the drunk stopped. He turned to see who it was and gave a sloppy wave, as if to dismiss him. The motion rocked him off balance, and he pitched to the left, stumbling for a few feet. The keys fell from his hands, hitting the stone floor with a loud clatter.

In seconds, the other man snatched up the keys and pushed the drunk out the door. I could see it was Erik, but that didn’t quell my fear. When Erik and the drunk man were almost out of the room, I jumped to my feet, grabbed the blanket, and sprinted toward them, my bare feet slapping the cold floor.

Ignoring the pain ringing through my skull, I leaped onto Erik’s back, wrapping the blanket around his head, blinding him before hopping back down. Surprised, he dropped the torch, and I grabbed it before it could hit the floor, waving the wild flames in front of me like a weapon.

The drunk man looked frozen in shock, his glazed eyes bouncing between Erik, who was ripping the blanket off his head, and me, looking every bit the wild witch with my dark hair and dirty nightshift, my expression crazed in the firelight.

Erik glared at me; then, without taking his eyes off me, he pushed the drunk man away and muttered a command. The drunk man smiled, shrugged, and stumbled away down the hall. I listened hard, his footsteps pattering up a long flight of stairs, and I realized then that I was being kept underground.

“I am not here to hurt you,” Erik said slowly, calmly, in French. He took a step toward me, his arms raised in defense.

I had no answer for that but to scream, one of fear, pain, and rage. Everything came out all at once. I couldn’t form words even if I tried.

“Quiet now,” Erik warned, his voice low. “You don’t want to bring the others down here. They will not understand.”

Get out! Let me go! Who are you? Where am I?But again, I could only cry, a guttural, tormented sound that echoed throughout the room.

Erik licked his lips nervously as his head twitched slowly from side to side. He looked less menacing with his face cleaned of blood, but the shadows from the torch added back that sense of malevolence.

“Please,” he said. “I saved your life.”

“You robbed me of my life!” I yelled at him, the sound and power of my voice surprising both of us, judging by his crumpled brow, and I took the opportunity to lunge at him.

I speared the torch into Erik’s hard middle, the flames catching on his wool tunic. I couldn’t help but grin, even as he snatched the torch and pushed me away. He batted at his stomach, trying to put out the fire, then ripped the smoldering tunic over his head and threw it to the ground, stomping on it until the flames went out.

Now, he was standing before me with a bare, heaving chest, eyes glinting between madness and control. I hated myself for not being able to look away from his face, but I couldn’t help it. Marc had been a muscular young man, or so I thought, but Erik was something else entirely. I had never seen a body like his, each muscle—thick shoulders, sculpted chest, rows of abdominals—lean, smooth, and precise. I had expected him to be hairy, maybe unclean, but he appeared to be the opposite. His skin was even and taut, marred only by clusters of markings running down his firm biceps—inked symbols from a culture I knew nothing about.

“Still,” he grunted, his teeth grinding as he tried to control his temper, “you stand before me. You live.”

In one quick motion, he reached down to his belt, unbuckled it, and pulled out a steel dagger. He whipped the belt off with onehand, and there was only a brief pause before his leather kilt fell to the ground.

Forget being bare-chested; Erik was entirely naked, save for his boots.

Once again, my eyes drifted below where I was trying to keep them, and I saw a man with long, well-defined legs, his manhood partially erect. The sight of it was already enough to make my eyes widen.