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I chose him. I chose him.
She never knew why her body betrayed her—whether she had worked so hard to pretend that she had crossed an invisible boundary—but when Brandt slid his fingers inside her and caressed her with skill, she unexpectedly moaned in response.
Brandt smiled. “I knew you could. Now do it again.”
That night he would not yield her to the next man until she had cried out for all to hear.
* * *
HE SET NEW demands on her and watched to see that Ilse complied. Yielding wasn’t enough. Consent wasn’t enough. He wanted her willing participation.
I can pretend anything, she told herself.
No matter how shameful the act, she never resisted, knowing that Brandt watched sometimes, when she coupled with the
other men. His presence was like the night breeze upon her skin, or the salt taste in her mouth. With Brandt himself, she had entirely lost her defenses, it seemed, because when he caressed her, she moved, and when he entered her with his customary skill, the tightness in her belly relaxed into warmth. She had never meant to make a trade like this. She would have wept, except for Brandt’s dark eyes that studied her so closely.
Four weeks passed. Ilse never saw Volker, except at a distance. Sometimes she caught Brenn glaring at her. She didn’t blame him. She didn’t blame any of the men. Not Ulf, who was always glad for his turn. Not the horse boys. Not even Niko, who liked it rough. Blame was too easy.
The fifth man for the night had just left. Ilse was wiping her face with a dirty cloth, thinking she had just one more obligation for the night, when a soft voice said, “My turn.”
Brenn pointed from her to the blanket. She obeyed and lay back with her skirt pulled up. He unlaced his trousers and took her quickly, not bothering with kisses or talk, the way some did. When he finished, he rolled off to one side with a groan. “Alarik has plans,” he whispered.
Ilse started. “What do you mean?”
“He says he’s done with you. He wants the money your father offered.”
“He can’t,” she whispered. “He promised.”
“He will,” Brenn insisted. “He’ll hand you over to your father’s agent in Donuth. He’ll get a reward and be gone inside a week.”
“My father will have him jailed.”
Brenn shook his head. “He’ll say he found you on the road. Niko will back him up. If you talk about whoring, Alarik can say you started it yourself.”
“That’s not true. I—”
“Ilse, everyone heard what you told Brandt. You did ask for it.”
Cold swept through her. She had. By Lir’s mercy she had asked Brandt to make her a whore.
I pretended too well.
Brenn pulled her close and kissed her on the mouth. “One more time,” he murmured. “Pretend good for me, Ilse.”
So Ilse slid her arms over his back and kissed him with feigned passion, whispering all the words Brandt had taught her. She moved her body in time with his, urging him with every caress to finish quickly. Only when his breath came ragged, and she knew he was on the point of his climax, did she turn her head away, too weary at last to pretend. There, just beyond the circle of firelight, stood the scholar.
* * *
THE NEXT THREE days passed in a chill gray blur. The late autumn rains had commenced, a cold steady downpour that soaked their clothes and turned the hard-packed dirt road into sludge. Brandt’s mood, never good, turned as foul as the weather. He drove the men harder, ordering longer marches. The horses slogged through the mud, heads down, but their progress slowed to a few miles each day. Campfires served only to make wet clothes into damp ones.
By nightfall of the fourth day, the rain had subsided to a heavy drizzle. Mist rose from the wet ground; above, a veil of clouds obscured the half moon. Ulf tried in vain to light his campfires and succeeded only in burning his fingers. The scholar used magic with greater luck, but the wet logs smoked more than they burned. In the end, Ulf handed out cold beef wrapped in flat bread.
Tired and miserable and damp, Ilse finished her meal and drank her coffee. It was bitter stuff, thickened with bark, and hardly warm enough to ward off the cold. All that was left of her was an emptiness, a pervading chill and damp, and not only from the rain. But if she thought too long on that, she found herself weeping helplessly, and so she would not let herself dwell on Brandt, or her condition, or how she had once hoped for freedom. Even when Brandt summoned her, she obeyed but could not bring herself to pretend. Another week in servitude remained to her. Then a term locked up in Donuth. Then her father. After that, she would be just another kind of prisoner.
Brandt leaned against a wagon. He grabbed Ilse’s hair with one hand. With the other, he pushed down on her shoulder. She knelt and opened her mouth. She was used to this routine as well. Her mind wandered. She let it, wondering idly if Brandt would increase her duties next week, or if he had set a limit.
We want this one to last.
