The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

As King Irron stands upright, his expression begins to lose its charm and is replaced with what Mora guesses to be his true self, “Why Princess Namora, I am afraid I don’t understand,” he says flatly.

“Oh you don’t?” The frigid sarcasm in her voice is obvious. She turns from Irron to look at his guards, searching from face to face. Though they all look different, they share the same blank eyes. Finally, she spots the one she is looking for; his face is dotted with healing scratches and though he sits tall on his horse his right arm seems to rest awkwardly at his side. Frankly, she is surprised that there is only one injured guard, but then she realizes that the others are probably too crippled by their injuries to be of much use to Irron. Mora holds out a slender hand, pointing at him, “Perhaps your guard could remind you.”

King Irron looks stiffly at the man before turning back to Mora, warning her to rethink what she says, “I think your imprisonment in Sceadu has begun to affect your rationality.”

She smiles tightly, “A piece of advice, my King-the proper way to cut down a burwood tree is with a saw, not an axe.”

Even though she is prepared for it, Mora’s body is still weak from the previous day, so when King Irron wraps his left arm around her neck she is unable to avoid it. He spins her so suddenly she almost loses her footing. Pressed against his body, she is now facing the Queen.

Though Rick tried to rush to her aid, the Queen has a firm grip over his wrist, stopping him from saving her. Mora locks onto his eyes; not only is he furious but he is also terrified at losing her. He tries to wrench free from his mother’s grasp but Mora shakes her head slightly, telling him not to. His face darkens with rage.

Behind them, the Wardens along with Daniel, James and Sari dismount their horses before stepping cautiously forward, swords drawn. When Irron reaches across Mora’s body with his right hand, drawing his own sword, everyone freezes. She knows that she is on her own; her mind frantically tries to come up with a plan. The more she squirms the tighter he squeezes, his unforgiving arm threatening to crush her throat.

He whispers into her ear but she knows that the wind carries his words to the others, “It is a shame really, that you managed to live. I was counting on your death to ignite the rage against Sceadu but now I guess I will have to improvise. I am sure that after I kill you, I will be able to convince the Geofens that it was really Prince Varickan and his unkind ways that caused your death.”

His chest feels hard against her. She recalls the time he almost broke her wrist with the plate of steel around his middle. Her plan begins to piece together. He starts to drag her backwards towards the public road. She lets her body go limp, forcing him to slow down when he has to carry her extra weight. He shifts his hand from around her neck to just under her arm to compensate, releasing his tight hold on her throat. Desperately, she inhales, forcing the air into her muscles; she hopes that she will be able to summon enough strength. Slowly, everyone moves forward to follow them. Mora thinks she can see the veins pulsing in Rick’s neck as he tries to restrain himself from running to her aid. She tries to stall Irron until she can find the last piece of the puzzle, “King Irron-you know my father will fight with the Sceadu.”

“I beg to differ, my dear. I will simply let him know that if he does, I will ensure that each and every person who fights against Alumenia will be tortured and murdered. Any Derven, even your father, couldn’t stand the thought of allowing that to happen,” he purrs to her, his voice thick with pleasure at the thought of death.

“King Irron, please stop…,” she lets her voice go small and weak, surprised at how good her acting has become over the past few weeks; she adds a touch of longing, “I will go with you.”

Mora knows her lie is convincing when the Sceaduians before her stop, dead in their tracks. The hurt look on Rick’s face gives her anger enough fuel to cause her skin warm. She feels slightly betrayed at the idea that he, of all people, believes her. However, his disbelief combined with Sheynne’s outrage are enough to make Irron stop. From the corner of her vision she can tell they are but steps away from the public road. Mora clenches desperately at the sides of Irron’s cloak, pretending to use her hands to brace herself while she regains her footing; with his face pressed against hers, she can feel his stubble scratch her cheek as he begins to smile. When she finds what she is looking for, she lets her feet plant into the ground. Her hands remain still, grasping his cloak tight; though it appears that she holds on to him for protection, in actuality her left hand is clamped over the wooden knife in his belt.

“Oh really, my love?” Irron tilts his head forward, letting his lips press against the curve of her neck. She focuses on Rick-Sheynne no longer holds him back; completely dumbfounded by her betrayal, he stands alone with his arms folded over his chest. Mora has to close her eyes to block out the pain she causes her love; she leans her head to the side, offering up her skin to Irron. His mouth runs along her neck back up to her ear, “I would prefer you be dead, but I suppose I would rather enjoy bedding you first,” he breathes to her.

His arm loosens as he takes a hold of her right shoulder to spin her around. Filling herself up with all of the hatred she has towards him, she feels her face grow cold when she opens her eyes. She is able to catch a brief glimpse of shock on Sheynne’s face when it dawns on her. As King Irron spins her to face him, Mora slides the dagger out of its sheath and swings her arm upward with the momentum. She catches him alongside his cheek, leaving a long red gash. He shouts with surprise and drops his sword. When he reaches up to cover his face, he releases Mora. She quickly hikes up her skirt and plants her foot square in his stomach, kicking him harshly backwards onto the public road.

She inches away from him, hands holding her skirt and raising it a little so that she doesn’t trip over it. Mora tilts her head to one side, voice heavy with sarcasm as she backs up, “I am shocked, King Irron, that those beautiful words have yet to secure you a wife…” She stops fifteen paces away from him, before releasing her skirt to hide her feet as they plant themselves firmly into the ground. Her body is intentionally turned away from him with her left side forward so that she can hide the dagger in her right hand behind herself. She grasps the blade so tightly in her fingers that it slices into her skin. Though her body is rigid, preparing for attack, no one can tell.This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

Irron scrambles to his feet, angrily grabbing a sword from one of his guards, “It is a shame you are so beautiful, Princess Namora. I will almost regret not having you to myself before you die.”

It is almost as if time begins to slow. She watches Irron’s knuckles turn white from his grip on the sword. His whole body shifts forward as he prepares to run at her. With perfect form and execution, her body winds up and releases–before anyone has a chance to react, the dagger leaves Mora’s raised hand. She can see each spin it makes, knowing exactly where Irron will be when the two impact. It hits him in the right shoulder with such force that he is thrown off balance before he can bring himself to a stop. The sword falls from his useless hand. She feels a wicked smile form on her face when she knows her perfect aim has completely severed the muscle that controls his dominant arm. The satisfaction she gets from seeing his face change from shock to rage to pure agony makes her own bleeding hand stop hurting.

Clearly in pain but full with anger he screams at her. He has to hold his right arm tightly with his left so that it doesn’t move while he backs away towards his guards. Through clenched teeth he snarls at her “I declare war! One week, right here!”

Irron has to be helped onto his horse before they gallop away as fast as possible.