Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 125077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 625(@200wpm)___ 500(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
I heard gasps and whispers from the other girls. I realized they were looking at me, at my red hair—the hair that marked me as different, as exotic to them. I felt my face flush hot with shame, the blush spreading down my neck to my chest.
“Look at me, Mary,” Sven commanded.
Slowly, reluctantly, I looked up at him, my cheeks burning as his eyes roamed over my naked body. His gaze seemed hungry, possessive, making me feel like a piece of meat on display. Beneath the shame and fear, though, to my dismay, I felt again that forbidden thrill; something about being naked in front of him brought a stirring below my belly that I would much rather not have felt.
One of the other girls whispered something, too soft and too fast for me to understand.
“Silence!” Sven suddenly barked in French, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Unless you want to feel the bite of the whip, you will keep your mouths shut.”
The girl who had whispered fell quiet immediately, her terrified words cut off. In the tense silence that followed, I could hear the rapid breathing of the girls around me, smell the acrid fear radiating from their trembling bodies.
Sven gestured, and several men entered the corral—one for each of the other girls. My eyes widened as I recognized one of them as a staff member at the university. What kind of… of… organization… conspiracy… was this?
Sven’s rough hands reached out and grabbed my wrists, pulling them in front of me. Coarse rope bit into my skin as he bound my arms tightly. Another of the men attached a long rope to the bindings, connecting me to the other girls. We were being strung together like animals.
The petite brunette was at the front of the line. I found myself at the very end. The girl just in front of me was taller than the rest of us, athletic, with short dark hair and defiant eyes. I admired her bravery even as I trembled.
“C’est Camille,” she whispered to me, turning her head over her shoulder. “Et tu?”
“Mary,” I whispered back, trying to take some courage from her example.
“T’es Américaine?” she asked, her eyes wide.
Then she cried out, I heard a sharp crack, and I saw something fast and thin and made of leather strike Camille right on her bottom. I cried out too, in surprise and fear and, worst of all, arousal at my jumbled impressions of the lash—the sight and the sound of it… the vivid red mark that now bloomed on the other girl’s pert little bottom.
“Silence!” Sven repeated.
Camille’s eyes had become bright with tears, but I thought I could still see resistance there, and I tried again to embrace that idea despite everything.
These horrible men clearly want us alive. That gives us some small bit of leverage, doesn’t it?
To my dismay, part of me refused to see Sven as horrible, and I felt disgusted with myself for it. On the other hand, I had no problem labeling the other five ‘warriors’ as assholes.
The assholes began to lead us out of the corral, tugging on the rope to keep us moving. We stumbled along, our bare feet slapping against the cold stone floor. The underground chamber opened up into winding tunnels lit by flickering torches. The dancing shadows made everything seem surreal, dreamlike.
As we walked, I tried to take in my surroundings, to look for any chance of escape. But the tunnels all looked the same—roughhewn limestone walls, damp with moisture, leading ever deeper underground. I quickly lost all sense of direction.
Finally, the tunnel opened up into a vast cavern. My breath caught in my throat as I took in the sight before me. In the center of the space sat an enormous wooden longship, its dragon-headed prow looming ominously in the torchlight. The silence felt oppressive, broken only by our ragged breathing and the soft padding of our feet.
We were led up a ramp and onto the deck of the ship. As the first girl’s foot touched the wooden planks, Sven began to speak. His voice took on a rhythmic, chanting quality that reminded me of the ancient Norse poetry he had taught us about.
“You stand now upon sacred ground,” he intoned in French, as he stood by the tiller at the stern of the longship, on a raised platform that the helmsman must have used at sea. “From this moment forward, you belong to the Sons of Odin. You are bed thralls, as countless women have been before you throughout the ages.”
My mind reeled, struggling to process his words. Bed thralls? Sons of Odin? This couldn’t be real, could it?
As Sven spoke, his words seemed to reverberate through my very bones. The ancient ship creaked beneath our feet, as if awakening from a long slumber. The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows across the carved wooden planks, making the intricate knot work designs seem to writhe and dance.