Lorkan approaches her

She looks up, to see the half-shadowed figure of Lorkan looming over her. He regards her with those dark eyes, his face sporting a mix of dejection and something else.

Desire?

Oh.

He moves closer. Like her, he is naked above the waist, and his rich skin catches the firelight, which dances on a sheen of sweat. He is very good shape, she notes, some small part of her, buried deep behind the misery and despair reacting instinctively. He has a powerful body, marked with many scars, suggesting a life of soldiery, or at least intensive labour. His stomach and chest is a flat slab of muscle, whilst his arms are more sculpted, muscle groups catching the dancing light.

He sits beside her, not pausing for an invitation, and holds a wineskin out to her, his eyes trained on the fire.

“You should drink. You look dreadful.”

“Whose fault is that?” She murmurs, and shakes her head. “No thank you.”

“Yours, I wager. You chose to come with us, and to square up with that walking bulk. Have a drink.” He waves the skin in her face again, insisting.

“It wasn’t much of a choice.” She retorts, feeling her indignation rise from her pit of despair. “Between being gang-**** by your little band, and fighting? Not much choice at all. And I said no.”

“I heard you. And I don’t care.” He turns to face her side on, and with the same speed he showed on the forest road, he seizes the back of her neck, catching her like a helpless kitten. She yelps, and he presses the wineskin to her lips, tipping her head back.

Lavorra’s eyes go wide with shock and fury, and lock onto his. Her lips wrap around the wineskin on impulse, doing her best to control the flow, while her small hands try to wrench his arm away, to no avail.

Wine, sour and strong flows down her throat, and spills over her lips and her chin, some of it pooling in her tightly-packaged cleavage.

He watches her, and his breathing takes on a ripple, his dark eyes fixed on her emerald ones. Lavorra’s freckled cheeks burn red, well aware of the symbolism as she looks up at him, head held and mouth invaded. Her own breath catches, and she finds herself feeling something real for the first time since the battle ended.

He releases her, and she coughs, spluttering on the last of the wine.

“Bastard.” She growls, wiping her lip. She swings a slap at him, but he catches her easily enough. “Trying to get me drunk then? Too much of a coward to…”

She trails off. He still has hold of her wrist.

“To what? Take you? I’d be doing that either way.” He speaks with such certainty. “You needed the drink.”

She is broken and utterly dejected, unarmoured and without her powers to call on. If he wanted to, he could easily have his way with her - and he clearly does. She shudders as she realises that she doesn’t really care. This may be the only way that she will feel something, anything real.

“You said if I helped you, that you promised you wouldn’t touch me. I helped. You have the chest.” She realises that she doesn’t sound very convincing at the same time that she realises her thighs are prickling.

“I said my men wouldn’t. I never made any promises for myself.” He grasps her other wrist, pulling her close to him. Her knee presses between his legs, and she feels the power of his member, already hard as iron. “Besides, that chest is worthless to us. I would rather take what comfort I know I can get. And I imagine you would too.”