The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

“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.Content bel0ngs to Nôvel(D)r/a/ma.Org.

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.