K.L. Nofziger's Blog
October 25, 2022
Excerpt of Chapter One: Virago Saga, Book 2
22 December 469
Cadabyrig, Logres
War. We are going to war.
“Virago, sit. Take your new place in the circle.”
I’m fourth rank. I’m not supposed to be in the circle.
You are now by unanimous vote. You have been promoted to third rank where Knox once stood as. His words deafen my ears from hearing the sounds of quickening feet. However, they draw me to the floor as the vibrations come closer.
Cal laps up shriveled pieces of lettuce with his tongue and nabs at a thin carrot. Before he snatches a slab of meat, there sits Liusaidh on her knees and slides it back onto the plate out of his reach. She makes a scoop with her long, thin fingers.
I’ve dropped my dinner.
Where did she come from?
“Virago, please. The rotation call will sound soon and we must solidify some strategies for the campaign.” I need all the expertise I have, he had said.
Campaign. We are going on campaign.
“Don’t just stand here. Get over there, you fool,” Liusaidh whispers at my feet, shoving the wolf’s muzzle from sneaking any more food scraps. One of her hands cuffs my heel, urging me forward.
My stomach is in knots, yet I maneuver around the stable girl and the eager wolf. These men watch my every move. I can feel their stares as I circle this throne arrangement towards the quadrant closer to Riothamus. Between Blair and the open seat, I slip in and sit on the pelt. Cool shivers rush down my back, despite the warmth underneath me and the fire in the center. My fingers clasp the edges of the armrests while I try to keep my breathing even.
Appeased, Riothamus resumes, “Now, as I said, we will arrive at Danabyrig just as winter ends. We will then assemble in a fortnight or later depending on the severity Ambrosius discloses. At least two enemy tribes have aligned and attacked our ally in Deira. Their neighbors, the Brigantes, occupying Derventio have yet to be invaded. Ambrosius received a warning from them that Saxonii will come back for more when spring begins. For the last week, the Parisii have been replenishing what is left of their final harvest.
“There are two forts once occupied by the Empire that we will use. If not at Derventio as a whole army, we will also set up base camp at Eboracum. It has been some time since it was active, yet it will provide shelter and protection for our soldiers.
“As most of you are aware, no high ranks will proceed into battle. All will execute my orders and keep the higher ground. Only dire circumstances will permit any of you to leave your intended positions.”
Though I focus on Riothamus, his assertive, stately voice turns indelible. He might as well have marbles in his mouth. The tribal name drops and latinized locations are all gibberish to me, none that I instantly recognize other than Eboracum. That will be modern day York or Yorkshire.
The rest of his strategy excerpt is too much to dissect, even as he begins to list off our initial duties. Words like rank, post, and northside jump at me as if in emphasis. Internalization dueling inner serenity will do that.
Likely, he will reiterate my orders when we arrive to Ambrosius’s neck of the woods.
My pupils are like a pencil, tracing his profile. Shading every detail, every line, and every dip and angle, of his formidable disposition. I zero in on his mouth, when he pauses to lick them.
They might not be blood brothers, but they sure have a distinct likeness when put side by side.
Oh, God, Ambrosius. What am I supposed to say to him? On Samhain, we made no promises but the incentive was there. Yet so much has happened in mere weeks.
Hell, in a matter of seconds.
I veer to the hearth, but listen with sincerity to my almost lover. My sovereign, I amend trying to clear my head.
“However, like previous campaigns, one must stay behind to stand as Regent.”
“Protector.” The presumably corrected word for regent comes from unassuming, and visibly dismal, Torryn.
“Yes, protector.” How Riothamus says that word comes off wistful, but more tiresome. But what startles me is when I see his usual stolidity while his fingers drum on the armrest. It almost feels like a drum roll. A bit prophetic, I muse morbidly. “Torryn will stand in my place here while we are gone.”
My gaze whips to the reserved face of my superior. Next to me, with his chin propped by a fist, Torryn stares unwaveringly at the lively flames. I catch the active veteran’s other hand clench so intensely that, the longer I stare, it shakes.
“In my name, he will oversee all my responsibilities, be it disputes, distribution of supplies, the law and all. He knows it all as much as I do. Torryn will ascertain that Cadabyrig remains strong, prosperous, and protected. No one will dare touch this fortress and the territories aligned with it.”
Wait, this is good. That means he will stay here with Kenna. A little subdued for a temporary substitute, but Torryn would be the best choice. Sone is too headstrong and restless as Theoden is too much of a hothead and partial to severity. Neither have a neutral mind or a solid conscience to reign fairly over others.
Speaking of others, the other ranks’ faces either show solemn indifference or sturdy resolution. It’s frightening how easy they succumb to the near future.
Unless they’ve been given more time to digest.
My examination flicks back to Sone through the corner of my eye and we instantly link.
Sone looks at me as if I were a stranger and a crack forms in my heart. Why didn’t he warn me of this? How long has this decision been debated over? No lies, no secrets, we promised each other, and yet here we are to discuss our parts to play in this sick game of blood and battle.
Third Rank of Special Forces, I acknowledge with a gulp.
Knowing Sone, I can forgive him for choosing his sovereign over me in this covert decision. Even more so with Riothamus. Such an underhanded action is expected from the warlord. It’s not the first time he has sprung up a new course of action and then cornered me to follow orders. He saw what I could do and wanted to use it for the sake of his soldiers and his people.
Yet a surge of betrayal presses into the aortic crack and creates a gaping hole. To feel hurt, by the one man I anticipate to do such a thing, makes this whole situation exponentially worse. This is by far the worst thing he has ever done to me.
And I know why he’s done this: to make sure I’m within reach. I won’t be some ominous soldier in special forces. Delegating half of the branch will ensure my safety as much as access to his bed.
How could he be so impulsive with this decision? He’s overestimating the results of my methods. His confidence in me is too early to call. The initiates have a fighting chance, yes, but I’ve no idea what Saxon tactics entail and my men have no field experience. Well, that I know of. Two additional months isn’t enough to dive into the rigorous upheavals of war.
Sire has plans for you. Sone’s words rise from the abyss of my memory. He said that with such absolution on the day of acknowledgements. The day I was officially introduced as a fourth rank. I knew my position would be short-lived once the time to fight would come. I’d take orders under special forces, being a faceless soldier and assist as a healer. But never did I anticipate such an escalated series of events.
“...each ally will extract a portion of their own soldiers to replenish any onslaught. It was confirmed by messenger this morning. As for Gwynedd, she will return from her lands with whatever reinforcements her brother can spare upon departure.”
My eyes flash back to Riothamus.
What did he say? Gwynedd is coming with us?
If he expects me to converse strategies with his wife while being his lover, he has surely lost his mind. She could literally have me killed, if not by her own hand, before we reach Danabyrig. He’d reassure that she wouldn’t touch me but somehow I doubt that.
No, I can’t accept this. I won’t do it.
I will not risk conflict amongst ourselves if I’m to be responsible for the lives, or deaths, of a thousand souls, if not more.
It’s one or the other: my duty or him.
The legions must come first. So unless he rescinds the promotion, we can’t be together.
My heart drops into my stomach again, exacerbating the knots.
It’s too much. It’s incredibly unfair. I’m by far the youngest and most inexperienced. Observation alone confirms that. With each scar and line on every rank, they showcase their exposure and exploits. Age is superficial for these skilled killers.
Along with them, Riothamus has had years to adjust, but I haven’t been exposed to the fatalities of war. Whatever the number of conflicts he endured, he had no choice but to suck it up and develop a thick skin, while in the process of developing an even thicker skull. His intent is that I follow the same course.
My gaze shifts to the wooden beamed ceiling. Now would be the time for a sign, I pray to the big man above. At this point, it couldn’t hurt to reach into the unknown.
This whole existential escapade is one giant leap of blind faith.
“If nothing further needs to be addressed, then you are all dismissed for dinner.”
One by one, they extract themselves from their designated seats, not waiting a moment longer to leave the intense atmosphere for the comforts of a warm meal and full belly. I don’t blame them. The room reeks of foreseen sorrow and carnage.
Sone is the last to leave, lingering at the door frame. He frowns at me remaining in my new seat of power. Rather than reassure him, I look away. I don’t have the patience to deal with him right now. An interrogation will be scheduled for another time.
“Leave us, Sone. Please.”
His footsteps are heavy but glacial. Riothamus doesn’t speak right away. He’s waiting for Sone to be completely out of earshot. I don’t know why. He’s the one who wants everyone to know we’re together. Well, once I say yes. My decision was supposed to be a foregone conclusion. Not anymore.
“Will you ease my worries and take the seat beside me?” Without waiting for a word or action, Riothamus takes Blair’s seat. Leaning over the armrest, his breath brushes my face. “Give me your answer?” He draws closer, each syllable becoming a scorching wave like the flames at our feet.
Eyes fluttered shut, I ask evenly, “When was it decided that I take Knox’s place?”
A few centimeters from my neck, he halts. His cheek, even the edge of his beard, grazes my jawline. It’s cold. “Moments before your arrival.”
“You didn’t think to consider my input on this decision? Don’t I get a say in this?”
He pulls back only to closely examine me. Looking in my peripheral proves that. “The decision wasn’t solely mine.” He’s telling the truth. “You know the terms of this circle.”
“Terms that apparently don’t apply to me,” I state with a small voice. “Otherwise, you would have summoned me earlier.” His masculine scent fleetingly distracts my anxiety. Frosty air worms through pine and juniper. It hadn’t been long since he came in from the cold, I reckon. Nor had my promotion been a lengthy debate. “I need to get my dinner and think this over.”
Before I can stand, he cuffs my forearm. I neither react nor meet his eye. There is no urgency or panic in his touch or his voice. “Come to my quarters. Just before the retirement call. We shall have absolute privacy. I expect your answer then.”
Same to you, I declare inwardly.
When I don’t vocalize this, he gently squeezes my arm. “Fine. We can talk then.” His hold slides up to my wrist and over my limp hand. Drone-like, I say, “You need to let go. I dropped my rations, remember?”
His answer is lifting my fingers and rubbing his lips over my knuckles. An involuntary shudder glides down the left side of my body. “Look at me, Vivienne.”
I swallow, but turn my chin to him. He scans my face then swoops in for a kiss, using his other hand to hold me in place. As if to persuade me, to remind me of our bond, he urges my mouth open and loves every inch inside with his tongue. Mine instinctively strokes his, and when our lips slide over each other, a whimper slips out of me. The tip of his thumb brushes my pulse.
Easily coaxed, he knows the effect he has on me. It didn’t take much time in his company to figure that out. My face may have given away my misgivings, possibly my decision.
All the same, I can taste his desperation as much as his desire. It nearly has me clinging to him, ready to climb into his lap. Riothamus forcibly breaks the kiss before I give in. Unsteadily, he says, “Go then. I will see you later tonight. I will make you understand then.”
I already understand your reasons. I just won’t accept them when we speak.
As I rise from my stone throne, he keeps us connected through our fingers. Like getting out of a warm bed on a frigid morning, I pull away by sheer willpower. He must not see how stirred I am. He will do whatever it takes to convince me, to keep me. The mission to do so has already begun.
Without looking back, I maneuver out of the circle and out of sight. By hearing his claws scraping the floor, I know Cal follows loyally behind.
Within seconds, the wolf leads me back to the short queue of soldiers waiting to retrieve their final daily rations. He looms around the room with his tail swaying, searching for fallen scraps, while I’m in line. Whether or not Liusaidh conserved my food through the five-second rule, I need to eat something. Even though meager sustenance is the last thing I want.
Not much time passes before the soldier in front of us accepts his dinner with vocal gratitude and vanishes into the second room. Cal immediately comes to heel. We’re next and whatever gaily reply Willa has in mind is shut down by her concerned lour. “Virago, is everything well with you?”
Coming from her, it’s a bit strange to hear her say my epithet. Then I understand why she addresses me so formally, due to the growing line of soldiers behind us. Lightly, I say, “Yeah, sorry, uh, I dropped my food. Liusaidh took it away.”
“She likely gave it to the cats. Not to worry. Let me just resupply the stew pot. I shall return.”
I nod, not that she sees it. She disappears around the corner of the cookhouse holding a bulbous pot by its handle.
I should have passed on the stew. She wouldn’t have left me with my thoughts, inadvertently reminiscing the sensations that washed over me only moments ago. His touch, his skin, his lips, his every mannerism. His inferred reasons for the impulsive intimate exchange.
Third Rank. Special Forces. Leader of a thousand soldiers. Ominous.
Too many factors wager in my mind. No matter what, we both lose. One will resent the other. Either I be with him or fight under him but not both. It’s impossible. The pending rejection will make him hate me, perhaps have me lose any chance for coming together, down the long run. But he will understand. Begrudgingly so, once he reigns in his temper, that is. He is a sensible and compassionate man, I know that much.
Now it hurts to swallow as if the walls of my esophagus are lined with sandpaper.
Oh boy, there’s no way I’m going back there to eat. Riothamus will watch me, searching for any sign of my decision. Expectations will be met and desires will be denied. Again.
It’s become an incessant pattern between us. One that is unintentionally cruel.
What is worse? The frightened faces of fallen men? Or the despair of an untouchable yet exceptional one? His value is singular and partial to me which solidifies my decision.
The wolf’s wet nose pokes at my hand but I ignore his demand for attention.
The twisting and churning in my gut rises into my chest then in my throat. I clamp a hand over my mouth.
I’m going to be sick.
Cadabyrig, Logres
War. We are going to war.
“Virago, sit. Take your new place in the circle.”
I’m fourth rank. I’m not supposed to be in the circle.
You are now by unanimous vote. You have been promoted to third rank where Knox once stood as. His words deafen my ears from hearing the sounds of quickening feet. However, they draw me to the floor as the vibrations come closer.
Cal laps up shriveled pieces of lettuce with his tongue and nabs at a thin carrot. Before he snatches a slab of meat, there sits Liusaidh on her knees and slides it back onto the plate out of his reach. She makes a scoop with her long, thin fingers.
I’ve dropped my dinner.
Where did she come from?
“Virago, please. The rotation call will sound soon and we must solidify some strategies for the campaign.” I need all the expertise I have, he had said.
Campaign. We are going on campaign.
“Don’t just stand here. Get over there, you fool,” Liusaidh whispers at my feet, shoving the wolf’s muzzle from sneaking any more food scraps. One of her hands cuffs my heel, urging me forward.
My stomach is in knots, yet I maneuver around the stable girl and the eager wolf. These men watch my every move. I can feel their stares as I circle this throne arrangement towards the quadrant closer to Riothamus. Between Blair and the open seat, I slip in and sit on the pelt. Cool shivers rush down my back, despite the warmth underneath me and the fire in the center. My fingers clasp the edges of the armrests while I try to keep my breathing even.
Appeased, Riothamus resumes, “Now, as I said, we will arrive at Danabyrig just as winter ends. We will then assemble in a fortnight or later depending on the severity Ambrosius discloses. At least two enemy tribes have aligned and attacked our ally in Deira. Their neighbors, the Brigantes, occupying Derventio have yet to be invaded. Ambrosius received a warning from them that Saxonii will come back for more when spring begins. For the last week, the Parisii have been replenishing what is left of their final harvest.
“There are two forts once occupied by the Empire that we will use. If not at Derventio as a whole army, we will also set up base camp at Eboracum. It has been some time since it was active, yet it will provide shelter and protection for our soldiers.
“As most of you are aware, no high ranks will proceed into battle. All will execute my orders and keep the higher ground. Only dire circumstances will permit any of you to leave your intended positions.”
Though I focus on Riothamus, his assertive, stately voice turns indelible. He might as well have marbles in his mouth. The tribal name drops and latinized locations are all gibberish to me, none that I instantly recognize other than Eboracum. That will be modern day York or Yorkshire.
The rest of his strategy excerpt is too much to dissect, even as he begins to list off our initial duties. Words like rank, post, and northside jump at me as if in emphasis. Internalization dueling inner serenity will do that.
Likely, he will reiterate my orders when we arrive to Ambrosius’s neck of the woods.
My pupils are like a pencil, tracing his profile. Shading every detail, every line, and every dip and angle, of his formidable disposition. I zero in on his mouth, when he pauses to lick them.
They might not be blood brothers, but they sure have a distinct likeness when put side by side.
Oh, God, Ambrosius. What am I supposed to say to him? On Samhain, we made no promises but the incentive was there. Yet so much has happened in mere weeks.
Hell, in a matter of seconds.
I veer to the hearth, but listen with sincerity to my almost lover. My sovereign, I amend trying to clear my head.
“However, like previous campaigns, one must stay behind to stand as Regent.”
“Protector.” The presumably corrected word for regent comes from unassuming, and visibly dismal, Torryn.
“Yes, protector.” How Riothamus says that word comes off wistful, but more tiresome. But what startles me is when I see his usual stolidity while his fingers drum on the armrest. It almost feels like a drum roll. A bit prophetic, I muse morbidly. “Torryn will stand in my place here while we are gone.”
My gaze whips to the reserved face of my superior. Next to me, with his chin propped by a fist, Torryn stares unwaveringly at the lively flames. I catch the active veteran’s other hand clench so intensely that, the longer I stare, it shakes.
“In my name, he will oversee all my responsibilities, be it disputes, distribution of supplies, the law and all. He knows it all as much as I do. Torryn will ascertain that Cadabyrig remains strong, prosperous, and protected. No one will dare touch this fortress and the territories aligned with it.”
Wait, this is good. That means he will stay here with Kenna. A little subdued for a temporary substitute, but Torryn would be the best choice. Sone is too headstrong and restless as Theoden is too much of a hothead and partial to severity. Neither have a neutral mind or a solid conscience to reign fairly over others.
Speaking of others, the other ranks’ faces either show solemn indifference or sturdy resolution. It’s frightening how easy they succumb to the near future.
Unless they’ve been given more time to digest.
My examination flicks back to Sone through the corner of my eye and we instantly link.
Sone looks at me as if I were a stranger and a crack forms in my heart. Why didn’t he warn me of this? How long has this decision been debated over? No lies, no secrets, we promised each other, and yet here we are to discuss our parts to play in this sick game of blood and battle.
Third Rank of Special Forces, I acknowledge with a gulp.
Knowing Sone, I can forgive him for choosing his sovereign over me in this covert decision. Even more so with Riothamus. Such an underhanded action is expected from the warlord. It’s not the first time he has sprung up a new course of action and then cornered me to follow orders. He saw what I could do and wanted to use it for the sake of his soldiers and his people.
Yet a surge of betrayal presses into the aortic crack and creates a gaping hole. To feel hurt, by the one man I anticipate to do such a thing, makes this whole situation exponentially worse. This is by far the worst thing he has ever done to me.
And I know why he’s done this: to make sure I’m within reach. I won’t be some ominous soldier in special forces. Delegating half of the branch will ensure my safety as much as access to his bed.
How could he be so impulsive with this decision? He’s overestimating the results of my methods. His confidence in me is too early to call. The initiates have a fighting chance, yes, but I’ve no idea what Saxon tactics entail and my men have no field experience. Well, that I know of. Two additional months isn’t enough to dive into the rigorous upheavals of war.
Sire has plans for you. Sone’s words rise from the abyss of my memory. He said that with such absolution on the day of acknowledgements. The day I was officially introduced as a fourth rank. I knew my position would be short-lived once the time to fight would come. I’d take orders under special forces, being a faceless soldier and assist as a healer. But never did I anticipate such an escalated series of events.
“...each ally will extract a portion of their own soldiers to replenish any onslaught. It was confirmed by messenger this morning. As for Gwynedd, she will return from her lands with whatever reinforcements her brother can spare upon departure.”
My eyes flash back to Riothamus.
What did he say? Gwynedd is coming with us?
If he expects me to converse strategies with his wife while being his lover, he has surely lost his mind. She could literally have me killed, if not by her own hand, before we reach Danabyrig. He’d reassure that she wouldn’t touch me but somehow I doubt that.
No, I can’t accept this. I won’t do it.
I will not risk conflict amongst ourselves if I’m to be responsible for the lives, or deaths, of a thousand souls, if not more.
It’s one or the other: my duty or him.
The legions must come first. So unless he rescinds the promotion, we can’t be together.
My heart drops into my stomach again, exacerbating the knots.
It’s too much. It’s incredibly unfair. I’m by far the youngest and most inexperienced. Observation alone confirms that. With each scar and line on every rank, they showcase their exposure and exploits. Age is superficial for these skilled killers.
Along with them, Riothamus has had years to adjust, but I haven’t been exposed to the fatalities of war. Whatever the number of conflicts he endured, he had no choice but to suck it up and develop a thick skin, while in the process of developing an even thicker skull. His intent is that I follow the same course.
My gaze shifts to the wooden beamed ceiling. Now would be the time for a sign, I pray to the big man above. At this point, it couldn’t hurt to reach into the unknown.
This whole existential escapade is one giant leap of blind faith.
“If nothing further needs to be addressed, then you are all dismissed for dinner.”
One by one, they extract themselves from their designated seats, not waiting a moment longer to leave the intense atmosphere for the comforts of a warm meal and full belly. I don’t blame them. The room reeks of foreseen sorrow and carnage.
Sone is the last to leave, lingering at the door frame. He frowns at me remaining in my new seat of power. Rather than reassure him, I look away. I don’t have the patience to deal with him right now. An interrogation will be scheduled for another time.
“Leave us, Sone. Please.”
His footsteps are heavy but glacial. Riothamus doesn’t speak right away. He’s waiting for Sone to be completely out of earshot. I don’t know why. He’s the one who wants everyone to know we’re together. Well, once I say yes. My decision was supposed to be a foregone conclusion. Not anymore.
“Will you ease my worries and take the seat beside me?” Without waiting for a word or action, Riothamus takes Blair’s seat. Leaning over the armrest, his breath brushes my face. “Give me your answer?” He draws closer, each syllable becoming a scorching wave like the flames at our feet.
Eyes fluttered shut, I ask evenly, “When was it decided that I take Knox’s place?”
A few centimeters from my neck, he halts. His cheek, even the edge of his beard, grazes my jawline. It’s cold. “Moments before your arrival.”
“You didn’t think to consider my input on this decision? Don’t I get a say in this?”
He pulls back only to closely examine me. Looking in my peripheral proves that. “The decision wasn’t solely mine.” He’s telling the truth. “You know the terms of this circle.”
“Terms that apparently don’t apply to me,” I state with a small voice. “Otherwise, you would have summoned me earlier.” His masculine scent fleetingly distracts my anxiety. Frosty air worms through pine and juniper. It hadn’t been long since he came in from the cold, I reckon. Nor had my promotion been a lengthy debate. “I need to get my dinner and think this over.”
Before I can stand, he cuffs my forearm. I neither react nor meet his eye. There is no urgency or panic in his touch or his voice. “Come to my quarters. Just before the retirement call. We shall have absolute privacy. I expect your answer then.”
Same to you, I declare inwardly.
When I don’t vocalize this, he gently squeezes my arm. “Fine. We can talk then.” His hold slides up to my wrist and over my limp hand. Drone-like, I say, “You need to let go. I dropped my rations, remember?”
His answer is lifting my fingers and rubbing his lips over my knuckles. An involuntary shudder glides down the left side of my body. “Look at me, Vivienne.”
I swallow, but turn my chin to him. He scans my face then swoops in for a kiss, using his other hand to hold me in place. As if to persuade me, to remind me of our bond, he urges my mouth open and loves every inch inside with his tongue. Mine instinctively strokes his, and when our lips slide over each other, a whimper slips out of me. The tip of his thumb brushes my pulse.
Easily coaxed, he knows the effect he has on me. It didn’t take much time in his company to figure that out. My face may have given away my misgivings, possibly my decision.
All the same, I can taste his desperation as much as his desire. It nearly has me clinging to him, ready to climb into his lap. Riothamus forcibly breaks the kiss before I give in. Unsteadily, he says, “Go then. I will see you later tonight. I will make you understand then.”
I already understand your reasons. I just won’t accept them when we speak.
As I rise from my stone throne, he keeps us connected through our fingers. Like getting out of a warm bed on a frigid morning, I pull away by sheer willpower. He must not see how stirred I am. He will do whatever it takes to convince me, to keep me. The mission to do so has already begun.
Without looking back, I maneuver out of the circle and out of sight. By hearing his claws scraping the floor, I know Cal follows loyally behind.
Within seconds, the wolf leads me back to the short queue of soldiers waiting to retrieve their final daily rations. He looms around the room with his tail swaying, searching for fallen scraps, while I’m in line. Whether or not Liusaidh conserved my food through the five-second rule, I need to eat something. Even though meager sustenance is the last thing I want.
Not much time passes before the soldier in front of us accepts his dinner with vocal gratitude and vanishes into the second room. Cal immediately comes to heel. We’re next and whatever gaily reply Willa has in mind is shut down by her concerned lour. “Virago, is everything well with you?”
Coming from her, it’s a bit strange to hear her say my epithet. Then I understand why she addresses me so formally, due to the growing line of soldiers behind us. Lightly, I say, “Yeah, sorry, uh, I dropped my food. Liusaidh took it away.”
“She likely gave it to the cats. Not to worry. Let me just resupply the stew pot. I shall return.”
I nod, not that she sees it. She disappears around the corner of the cookhouse holding a bulbous pot by its handle.
I should have passed on the stew. She wouldn’t have left me with my thoughts, inadvertently reminiscing the sensations that washed over me only moments ago. His touch, his skin, his lips, his every mannerism. His inferred reasons for the impulsive intimate exchange.
Third Rank. Special Forces. Leader of a thousand soldiers. Ominous.
Too many factors wager in my mind. No matter what, we both lose. One will resent the other. Either I be with him or fight under him but not both. It’s impossible. The pending rejection will make him hate me, perhaps have me lose any chance for coming together, down the long run. But he will understand. Begrudgingly so, once he reigns in his temper, that is. He is a sensible and compassionate man, I know that much.
Now it hurts to swallow as if the walls of my esophagus are lined with sandpaper.
Oh boy, there’s no way I’m going back there to eat. Riothamus will watch me, searching for any sign of my decision. Expectations will be met and desires will be denied. Again.
It’s become an incessant pattern between us. One that is unintentionally cruel.
What is worse? The frightened faces of fallen men? Or the despair of an untouchable yet exceptional one? His value is singular and partial to me which solidifies my decision.
The wolf’s wet nose pokes at my hand but I ignore his demand for attention.
The twisting and churning in my gut rises into my chest then in my throat. I clamp a hand over my mouth.
I’m going to be sick.
A Year With December
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The spicy app full of stories with every genre and fantasy you can think of!
Summary:
Two unexpected friends become lovers after saying “I do”. A slow burn erotic romance. An age-gap affair for the ages... Young assistant professor, Rebecca "Beck" Valens has made great strides in the world of academia. When a scandal leaves her humiliated, she is given a new teaching opportunity in Boston where she meets enigmatic, tenured Magnus Hjelm. Soon, false allegations arise once more. So, he offers a proposal. Marriage. Husband and wife in public, friends in private. For one year. After all, nothing could actually happen with a twenty-year age gap between them. Or so they thought...
The first nine episodes are unlocked and for a limited time you can get early access to the recent episodes!
New episodes every Tuesday only on the flaming hot pink Radish App...
