Promises

The three women prepared to depart the streamside glade, the sun climbing higher. Sonja tugged on her boots with brisk efficiency, her chainmail skirt settling into place over the curve of her hips. Karela adjusted the saddlebags on her pony, the horn of Dagoth now safely stowed once more, though she kept one hand near the hilt of her curved Turanian dagger.

Conan—still shamefully naked, skin prickling with gooseflesh in the drying air—hastened to gather her **** silks, clutching them to her ample chest to protect her modesty. Her heart hammered as she stole glances at Karela, memories of the previous couplings returning. The bandit queen’s presence opened fresh wounds; every swaggering step, every flash of those coppery eyes, stirred memories of heady nights in the furs, battles fought side by side as equals and their bitter partings when Karela was enslaved. Worse, the way Karela’s gaze lingered on her now felt… wrong. Hungry. Possessive in a way that set Conan’s teeth on edge and her loins a flutter.

As Sonja reached for her sword belt, Conan stepped close with feigned casualness, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “Sonja—please. Do not tell her. Not who I truly am. She… she would never let it rest. The mockery, the ****—she’d make my life a torment of emasculation. Swear it. Keep the secret.”

Sonja turned slowly, one auburn brow arched in amusement. She studied Conan’s flushed face, the wide brown eyes pleading beneath long lashes, the way the former Cimmerian’s hands trembled as they clutched the silk. A slow, predatory smile curved Sonja’s lips.

“Very well, little Connie,” she murmured, voice low enough that only Conan could hear. “I will keep your shameful little secret. But there will be a price.”

Conan’s stomach twisted and she felt that stirring of arousal that cursed her female flesh. “Name it.”

“Obedience. Complete, willing submission. You will be my body **** in truth while we travel—no more sullen glances, no more hesitation when I command you. You will serve me dutifully, eagerly, in every way I require. You will call me mistress and part those girlish thighs when I so desire. And when the Red Hawk tests you…” Sonja leaned closer, breath warm against Conan’s ear, “…you will bend. You will yield. You will prove yourself a soft, pampered toy who knows her place beneath stronger women. Do we have an accord?”

Conan swallowed hard, pride warring with necessity. The alternative was worse—Karela learning the truth, the endless taunts, the inevitable attempt to break what remained of the Cimmerian’s ruined masculine spirit. She nodded once, sharply, sensing she was making a bad bargain.

“Good girl,” Sonja purred, giving Conan’s bare bottom a possessive squeeze before stepping back. “Now dress ****. We ride.”

Karela had already mounted her pony, watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. She could not hear the words, but the body language spoke clearly enough: the smaller girl’s pleading posture, Sonja’s amused dominance. Something about the scene tugged at her instincts, a nagging familiarity she could not place. The girl’s face was pretty … too darn pretty… but there was a hint of unplaceable familiarity… the way the body **** moved, the flicker of blue eyes defiance beneath the fear… it reminded Karela of someone. Someone … infuriating and arrogant.

She shook off the thought. Ridiculous. This Connie was a stranger to her. A mere silken plaything of no impart, a **** that Sonja had acquired somewhere, probably from some pampered court.

As Connie struggled into the clinging silk that were mouth drying translucent and molded scandalously to her every curve Karela found her gaze drawn back again and again. The sway of those full breasts, the flare of hips, the long legs still glistening with stream water. A heat stirred low in her belly, unexpected and unwelcome. Karela preferred men—rough, strong men who could match her fire. Women were for sport or alliance, not this slow-burning fascination.

Yet she could not stop staring and a hunger filled her.

“Mount up behind Sonja, slut,” Karela called, voice rougher than intended. “Unless you think you can handle a pony on your own without falling on that pretty arse.”

Conan flushed scarlet but said nothing, climbing awkwardly behind Sonja on their mount. Her arms circled Sonja’s waist as ordered, breasts pressing to the redhead’s armored back. Sonja chuckled softly, reaching back to pat Conan’s thigh. “See Connie? Already learning.”

They set off along the dusty trail toward the Stygian border, the horn of Dagoth bumping gently against Karela’s saddlebag. The bandit rode ahead, scouting, but she kept glancing back—ostensibly to check the path, but her eyes always found Connie.

Hours passed in the rising heat. Karela called a brief halt at a cluster of date palms to water the animals. As Sonja dismounted to stretch, Karela swung down beside Conan, who had slid to the ground on shaky legs.

“Thirsty work, riding pillion,” Karela said, offering a waterskin. Her fingers brushed Conan’s as the girl took it—deliberately lingering. Conan drank quickly, avoiding the bandit’s eyes, fearful her secret would be revealed and acutely conscious of the bandit queen’s hungry attention.

Karela stepped closer, close enough that Conan could smell leather, horse, and the faint musk of desert sweat. “You flinch like a virgin at every touch, yet Sonja says you’ve served in a queen’s bedchamber. Odd, that.” Her hand rose, almost casually, tracing the line of Conan’s jaw with callused fingertips. “Soft skin. Yet something about you… nags at me.”

Conan’s pulse raced. She **** a timid smile. “I… I was favored, my lady.”

Karela’s lips quirked. “Favored. Aye.” Her thumb brushed Conan’s lower lip, pressing just enough to part them. “I wonder what other favors you may grant me.”

Sonja watched from a few paces away, arms crossed, smirking as Connie shrank under the dominant bandit’s attention.

Karela dropped her hand to giving Conan’s nipple a possessive little squeeze. “We’ll see how dutiful you can be tonight, when the fire’s low and the watches are set. Sonja’s offered you freely. I intend to collect.”

Conan shivered despite the heat.

As they remounted and rode on, Karela’s glances grew bolder—lingering on the bounce of Conan’s ample breasts beneath the silk, the way her thighs gripped Sonja’s mount. The bandit told herself it was mere curiosity, a game to pass the miles. Yet deep down, some buried instinct whispered: Mine. Break her. Own her.