Captivity?

Images race before her mind as she stares up at Lorkan’s dark eyes and hard face.

Swinging her sword amidst screaming travellers, cutting them down and stealing their worldly goods.

Charging alongside the bandits, blades and axes falling on a ragged band of pilgrims.

With a sick sense of defeat, she knows she has **** at all. Even if it means the end of her freedom - and of Melira’s - she cannot join forces with these men, and break her oath.

Melira would understand. She knows the vow I made to the Matron.

She hopes that she’s right. Hopes more fiercely still that she will be able to escape, or even leave to find Melira, after whatever Lorkan and his men decide to do with her.

To me.

She can see the undisguised lust in each of the men’s eyes, along with something that might be contempt? She tips her head back defiantly, steeling her spirit for whatever is to follow.

Or so she hopes.

“I won’t break my Oath for the likes of you: won’t help you attack and plunder innocents. If I’m to be your prisoner, fine. Hurry up and be done with it.”

The blond beams, clearly pleased with the outcome. His joy sends a cascade of ice down into her gut.

“No, I think it’s fair to say the lads will take their time, before they’re done with it.” Lorkan remarks, his own features seemingly disappointed, but no less contemptuous. He nods to the others, who waste no time in drawing knives and hauling Lavorra to her feet.

She tries to wrestle herself free, but it’s no good. Still winded, she finds also that the weaselly blond is stronger than he looks. Then his knife is pressed to her throat, as One-eye sets about stripping her of her armour, sawing roughly through the leather straps, till her plate lies useless on the forest road.

She feels blades prick against her skin, as her arms are folded behind her back and tied tightly. She grits her teeth, unable to fight back or even protest with a knife under her jaw, as they take their time running greedy hands over her buttocks, her waist, and her soft, generous chest.

“Gods an’ all, she’s stacked like a tavern wench.” The One-eyed outlaw whistles, drawing the neckline of Lavorra’s shirt down with his blade, taking a long look at her cleavage.

“Admire them when we’re back at camp.” Lorkan grunts, starting to make his way up the road. “Only remember: you’ll be sharing.”

“More’s the pity.” One-eye grumbles, rough hands moulding and squeezing Lavorra’s breasts painfully.

She looks him in the eye, and spits in his face.

The next moment, her cheek is aflame with the **** of his slap, but she takes what satisfaction she can get, even as terror and dread grip her as they **** her along the path to their camp.