Chapter 4: Bridgepoint

Damian left Chel on the furs inside the lodge, legs still spread, the heavy mix of his seed leaking slowly from her used cunt onto the dark hides. The flap stayed open. Anyone walking past could look in and see the British officer’s claimed woman exactly as he had left her—naked, marked, belly faintly rounded from the volume forced into her in front of her own people.

Outside, the rest of the morning continued under the pale sky. The other Native women who had been taken by the soldiers and the few Native men who joined them were eventually herded back toward the pens or left where they lay for any man who still wanted another turn. The remaining villagers were locked down. Fires were built higher. Loot was stacked. The conquered village settled into the uneasy quiet of occupation.

Damian spent the next hours giving orders: perimeter, food stores, which lodges would be kept and which burned. He returned to the lodge only when the sun stood higher. Chel had not moved far. She sat now with her back against one of the poles, knees drawn up, one arm across her breasts, the other hand pressed low between her thighs as if she could hold the soreness and the seed inside. When the flap opened she looked up, dark eyes steady but exhausted.

He studied her for a long moment in the filtered light.

Then he spoke.