The Brush Tiger of Derven Ch. 12-14

"It seems they fit well," he says.

Mora nods. When he doesn't move or speak, she realizes that he is stubborn enough to make her talk. She points to the last remaining article of clothing on the chair, "I'm afraid I don't know what to do with that...Sir."

She can feel his eyes wandering over her back. Rickan walks slowly to the chair and picks it up, "I will show you, Mora." His voice makes her shiver.

She can feel him pinch the fabric of her ruffled shirt, between her shoulder blades. Reluctantly she lets go of the collar, she can see her heart pounding through her breasts. Rickan pulls the shirt backwards somewhat; to Mora's relief it covers a little more of her cleavage. He holds open the other item and Mora can distinguish that it is a vest of some sort. She threads her arms through the holes, keeping her eyes down while willing herself to breathe slowly.

Rickan stands in front of her and begins to lace up the vest against her torso. His large chest takes up her view of the floor; she tries to find something to look at that isn't a part of his body, but having no choice she resorts to staring at his abdomen. The dark green shirt he wears doesn't hide much of what lies beneath; she can see the faint lines distinguishing his muscles through his shirt. His body is very tone and masculine.

Mora can feel her face and ears grow hot. She frantically tries to find something else to focus on and finally tries to blur her eyes but curiosity draws her gaze back to the lines of his body. Her mind begins to wonder what lies beneath his shirt, the texture and temperature of his skin. When her heart beats faster she resorts to closing her eyes but the darkness ignites her imagination. She takes a deep breath to center herself; she inhales his smell. Rich and earthy, it has a lingering scent of soap and fire.

Her cheeks get hotter when his hands tighten the top of her vest. The stiff fabric tucks itself under her breasts and he ties the strings up into a bow below them; though he doesn't touch her, she can feel the heat radiating from his hands. When they are gone, her skin flushes with the cool air as if removing a blanket after sleep.

In the darkness behind her eyelids she can feel the tingling of his arm moving in front of her; soon she feels his fingers on her chin. They apply pressure and tilt her head upwards. She keeps her eyes shut. She is unsure if she does so to savor the touch of his warm hands, tough yet smooth against her skin or if she is afraid of what he might do to her if she looked directly at him. Or afraid of what she might do to herself if she looked directly at him.

"Please look at me, Mora," Rickan says quietly. The tender tone causes a twisting feeling in her chest.

She opens her eyes, locking on to his deep, glassy blue ones; her heart does something it has never done before—it skips a beat. She sees his face clearly for the first time. He is close to her age but a few years older. His sun kissed skin, unlike the other Sceaduians, is framed by rich, golden blonde hair. The severe lines of his jaw and nose emphasize the lushness of his lips. All in all, he is an extremely handsome man. Her cheeks continue to flush and she feels heat well up inside but it is not anger. No, she thinks, this can't be... her heart begins to race, threatening to break free from its constraints in her chest.

All at once her mind's rationality comes crashing down: she is engaged to be married in less than five days; she agreed to marry Irron for her people, not for herself; this man before her is her Master, and she is his slave. No matter how many logical thoughts she can come up with, her heart continues to pound. She tries to force herself to look away but her learned nature doesn't let her.

"I'm not like the other Masters, Mora. You can look at me. In fact I would appreciate it if you did," he lets go of her jaw but remains close to her, keeping eye contact. Her skin seems to retain the imprint of his hand because she still tingles from his touch.

She draws in a deep breath before she responds; she intends to release her normal, authoritative voice but when his scent invades her lungs she caught off guard by the weakness that comes from her lips, "Yes, Master Rickan."

She swallows to wet her dry throat and intentionally leans to the left, causing her knee to ache and flare up in pain. Embracing the pain as it grounds her, she tries to tamp out the flames in her chest. All she succeeds in doing is stifling them a little.

He gives her a somewhat annoyed look, "And please, don't call me Master. It's a bit too vulgar for me."

Shifting her full weight to the left, she bites down on the inside of her cheek in pain before she releases her voice and replies, "Yes, Sir."

The irritated look on his face doesn't subside; he grabs her arm gently, taking the weight off of her injured leg while he turns her around. Leading her past the screen, she sees the couch her chains are on. The warmth inside of her snuffs out, leaving a cold ache in its wake when he sits her down and picks up the chains, but instead of clamping them down on her wrists he sets them on a side table before picking up a brush and a few ribbons. When he hands them to her, she gratefully takes him.

He walks over to a desk, fiddling with something in the drawers. His voice comes drifting over his shoulder at her, "And don't call me 'Sir.' Rick will be just fine."

Mora drags the brush through her hair, combing out the knots at the bottom first. His permission is all she needed-her eyes follow him freely across the room. Rick comes back to sit next to her, a few bottles and other things in his lap. When their eyes meet again she quickly looks into the fire, continuing to straighten out her waist long hair while he waits patiently. She rarely styles it herself, except at the Festival, so she pulls it together at the base of her neck and braids it as tightly as she can manage, like she would if she was in the forest. She ties the end off with a ribbon before placing her hands in her lap, waiting for Rick to tell her what to do next.

The silence grows between them, causing her nerves to make her hands sweat. Normally she would diffuse the situation with pleasant conversation about business or culture, or even tell a story about Derven's history but since she cannot hide behind the comfortable, royal facade she has spent years perfecting she is at a loss at what to do.

"Lie back," he says.

The instant the words leave his lips, Mora's eyes snap to him. She tries to restrain the panic in her face. She tips backwards, supporting herself on her elbows. She draws her legs up onto the couch, knees bent so that they are closer to her than to him. She is unsure what he is going to do with her, and for the first time since she saw Franklin below John's sword, she feels worried.

When his hand brushes her left leg near the bottom of her pants, her heart pounds even faster. The instant he begins to pull the pant leg up over her knee, she instinctively tries to jerk her leg away; that is when she realizes his other hand is clamped firmly over her ankle. The concern must be showing on her face, because when she looks up from his hand to his eyes, he is looking right back at her.

"I'm not going to do anything unsavory; I just want to take a look at this bite."

Despite his calming words, her breathing quickens. Mora tries not to move. The sensation of his hands on her bare skin leaves an odd tingle in their wake that creeps up her leg and into her back. Having never correlated this sensation with a touch it takes her a moment to realize that the fluttering in her stomach is excitement. Her ears sharpen when the adrenaline pulses through her body; it is a different feeling than when the three Wardens held her down. It is a different feeling than a fight. It is a feeling she hasn't had before. When Rick uncovers the wound, he lets her go and opens the jar in his lap.

"I am surprised you are alive, let alone walking. The few that have managed to actually get bit by a borderwolf didn't survive long enough for the poison to be drained," he isn't gentle when he rubs the cream into her wound but the pressure against her knee has no effect on her as the adrenaline pushed out the pain. The medicine removes the heat from her leg, replacing it with a soothing cold feeling. Almost instantly, the smells of lavender and spices overwhelm her, like she can taste it. Her heart slows down as she begins to relax, her leg going numb. Without anything to focus on, she realizes how tired and achy the rest of her body is.

Though she watches Rick wrap a clean bandage around her wound she doesn't feel his touch. He pulls her pant leg back down and she folds her hands over her stomach, letting herself fall back onto the couch. He picks up a pair of soft, leather boots and slips them over her feet, lacing them up her calf and over the bottom portion of her pants. Mora finds it curious as she has never had anyone put her shoes on her before. When she tries to sit back up, she realizes the medicine he put on her leg completely drained the remaining energy out of her body-even if she wanted to, she wouldn't be able to stand up, let alone put her own boots on. Or fight off Rick.

After he finishes, he lifts her legs behind him so that he sits on the edge of the cushion. He slides up the couch, his lower back pressed into the side of her rib cage. He isn't looking into her eyes any more, but at the collar around her neck. When she laid back it shifted up, revealing for the first time her self inflicted wound. She doesn't feel ashamed of what she did but for some reason she doesn't want him to see it and think less of her. However, in her situation, it seems more likely that one of the Wardens did it. He dips a finger into the jar and slowly rubs it into the cut on her throat, looking up and deep into her eyes.

"You tried to kill yourself?" His voice comes out a curious whisper.

Slightly taken aback that he could know that, she speaks quietly but harshly, "How did you..." she clears her throat, swallowing against the pressure he puts on her neck, "Your Queen didn't give me much choice."

"Your wound is small but on the side of your neck. It is on your left, opposite of your dominate hand. If another had tried to slit your throat, it would be here," he runs his finger across the front of her throat. Mora shivers, her heart reawakened, "because someone standing behind you would pull across, not away from the body. But a wound there means that it was self inflicted. It is deep," he stops rubbing in the medicine. His hand lingers for a moment before drawing back, but he never looks away, "which means that you had every intention of going through with it..."

Mora looks away from his prying blue eyes. She wants to sit up, to run away back home but she just lies there instead. Her body aches. She can feel her eyelids grow heavy.

"Rest," he orders her, putting the lid back on the jar. "When you wake up, you can come downstairs," Rick gets up and leaves the room.

Even though she doesn't want to, Mora lets her eyes fall shut and drifts into a dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER 14: FIGHT

Awaking in a panic she isn't sure at first where she is. A fire flickers in front of her, she wonders if she fell asleep next to Franklin and had a horrible dream. Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she begins to feel the softness of cushions under her and then she takes in the wooden floors and the huge stone fireplace. Her body feels heavy. Her hand reaches up to her throat, she feels like she is choking, the cold fingers of King Irron wrapped around her neck. When her fingers touch metal she jerks her arm away quickly, remembering the collar that keeps her tied to this land.

She must have slept deep because at some point while she was out, the tub was drained and removed, the screen put back across the room in the corner. Mora sits up. She takes several deep breaths while taping her left foot on the ground to check its sturdiness before she stands. She rises and tentatively puts pressure on her leg; while it aches a little, the majority of the pain is gone. Mora tests it out by pacing a bit around the room. She is able to walk delicately like normal, her body only feeling like Laren got the best of her during training the day before.

She quietly paces around the room, surveying everything as she contemplates escape. Rick's large, plush, four poster bed is against a wall next to huge glass doors that open up to a balcony. Hiding herself behind the curtains, she peers out the windows. The darkness outside is only broken up by the lights from the nearby buildings. The drop is about twenty feet. While on a good day she could do it with little discomfort, she knows she won't be able to do it with her knee.

Discounting the balcony, she turns back around to look for another option. The large room is furnished much nicer than Mora would have thought possible of a tavern owner and certainly nicer than any merchant's house in her home town. Thick, fur rugs cover almost the entire floor except in front of the fireplace. Beautifully woven tapestries, depicting animal hunts line the walls. One in particular, above the fireplace, has a dark, huge tree on it. The tree is surrounded by a grey design that looks similar to a cave; below the tree, several people sleep peacefully with their arms crossed over their chests. She gets the odd feeling that the people are dead.

Near the foot of the bed, sunken down into the floor, is a pit perhaps six feet by six feet. It is lined with expensive, soft looking pillows in rich shades of colors that Mora didn't know existed. It seems like an odd thing to be in a room; if it were meant for relaxing, it would make more sense to be near the fireplace. When she sees thick, iron rings bolted into the wood at each corner, she gets a chill when it dawns on her-it is meant for indentured servants...like her.

Mora keeps her eyes out for anything that could be used as a weapon. She looks hard but doesn't move anything or open any drawers; she gets the feeling that Rick would know what she touched and didn't touch. Despite her attentiveness, she finds nothing more than furniture and soft fabrics. She sighs. Even if she could escape, what was the point? Mora tentatively touches the cold metal collar around her neck. If she ran, she could only come within feet of freedom before she bled to death. Even if she could get across the border, she would end up with King Irron, which to her was the equivalent of dying a slow, painful death.

Even though she doesn't want to, she walks towards the doors to the tavern. She will go crazy if she is left alone to her thoughts for the rest of the night. Pressing against them with the weight of her body, they give way. The quiet room is soon filled with the loud ruckus of laughter and the clinking of glasses on tables. Hesitantly, she steps out on to the balcony. The doors drift shut behind her as she peers over the railing to the floor below.

The tavern isn't set up like she would have expected. While the worn, rough looking wooden tables and chairs that line the walls opposite the balcony could sit almost a hundred, the majority of the room is filled by a large, raised, wooden stage that is directly below her. The walls are dark, long seasoned by the smoke from the torches that are placed every few feet to light the room, while the center of the tavern is lit by several huge candle chandeliers.

Against the wall that lies directly under Rick's bedroom is a long, empty bar. Behind it, the wall is adorned with hundreds of different looking bottles, the largest collection Mora has ever seen. Dervens drink but they don't usually vary much from ale, mead and wine. The Barman, Eric's friend, sits on a stool with his head buried in an old looking book. He looks like a smaller, normal sized version of Eric but without the scars. His back is leaned against the wall, his feet on the counter in a very comfortable, informal looking way.

Mora scans the tables below. While almost half are empty, the floor still looks full. Several contain rough looking customers who sit quietly, drinking their beers. Her eyes land on a table with three men and two women. The three men sit arrogantly in their chairs but the women sit on the floor. When she squints, she realizes that they are indentured like her but unlike her their chains are still on. Each woman has a set that clasps to a man's belt, like a dog. She feels her face twist in disgust before she forces herself to wipe it clean. Her eyes continue to wander until she finds out where the majority of the noise in the tavern originates from: one table in particular and when she spots it, her eyes fall on Rick. He is watching her.

With the smallest movement of his hand, he motions for her to come down the stairs to join him. This time the heat that burns inside of her is anger. She doesn't like the idea of anyone being a slave, least of all herself. At least he didn't whistle for her to come like an animal. She clenches her jaw tight, trying to keep her face blank.

He sits at the largest table, his back to the wall. Around him are four other figures, laughing and drinking. Her eyes trace the path from him to the bottom of the stairs before she returns her eyes to the balcony. The soft boots make her steps silent amongst the ruckus and with her light frame she barely presses a creak out of the wooden stairs, however when the noise stops, she realizes that all eyes have turned to her. Despite her attempts at trying to change her stance and her pace, Mora is unable to walk like anything other than the nobility that she is.

She makes her way across the room to Rick, everyone following her movements. When she reaches his table, she keeps walking until she is at his side. She intentionally summons up all of her grace, as if to put everyone to shame for the treatment of the other women. Mora tips forward to her knees before fluttering back onto her heels, sinking down to the floor next to Rick like a swan. After she folds her hands perfectly in her lap, she drops her chin, forcing herself to look at the leg of the table so no one can see the profuse amount of irritation in her face.

The sudden scrape of Rick's chair moving backwards doesn't faze her; she is locked securely behind her placid exterior. When his warm hand appears under her chin, she lets him tip her head up and locks her eyes on to his. The anger in his face slowly fades when he finally sees the true Mora for the first time. She lets the pressure of his fingers pull her up like a puppet until she is standing in front of him unable to look away.

When his hand leaves her face she follows him, as he walks backwards, to the opposite side of the table, their stare never breaking.

"Sit," he commands. She feels her eyes narrow, anger lashing out at being ordered like a slave when he wouldn't let her sit on the floor. She stands defiantly, continuing to watch him while he walks back to his chair and slumps over in it, his leg thrown casually over the arm.

She can feel a smile cross her lips but she knows that it isn't coming off as genuine when she answer him, "Yes, Master Rickan."

Before she can pull the chair out, the Barman pulls it out for her, motioning for her to sit down much like one of the attendants in her castle would. Her anger quickly dies down from the courteous gesture; she breaks her stare with Rickan to look at the Barman, this time the smile on her face is legitimately grateful. As she perches herself delicately on the edge, back stiff, legs crossed at the ankles below her she begins to regret her outburst. The treatment of the other women isn't Rick's fault; he himself told her that he was different from the other Masters and he proved so by having her sit at the table as an equal with him and his friends. She keeps her chin up but looks down her nose, lest Rick see the regret in her eyes.