The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

Namora grabs onto a tree to stop him. She lets go of his shoulder and shoves him away from her, “I can’t, it hurts too much.” The pain from the wound on her leg feels different from a normal bite. Every movement of her body sends searing heat burning through her blood.

Jackson looks at her bleeding leg even though he cannot see it in the darkness. Quickly assessing the situation he moves in front of her, holding his sword tight with both hands, he stands ready to kill the oncoming pack of dogs.

“No,” Namora grabs the back of his shirt and pulls him towards her. She shoves him hard towards the road, motioning with her free hand, “You must run without me!”

He gives her a dumbfounded look, “I will not leave you, Princess.”

Namora makes her face stern. She draws up all of the authority she can manage in spite of the pain and speaks down to him, despite the way she hates doing so, “Officer Jackson that is a direct order. You will leave me behind. You must reach my father and tell him what has happened or he will never know. Tell him that if he doesn’t hear word of me by sunset tomorrow, I am in trouble and will need assistance,” she lets her voice soften a little, “I will be fine. Take this,” she pulls a chain off of her neck with a whistle on it, “when you reach the road, blow this three times. Greystar will come and you must go back to the castle at once.”This is property © of NôvelDrama.Org.

Jackson lowers his sword just a little. He doesn’t want to leave her alone in the woods, even though he knows she can defend herself. The thought of being the last one to see her alive terrifies him into disobedience, “No!”

She grits her teeth. Letting the anger that always boils inside of her rise up and out of her mouth, she growls at him, “It is an order! Now go!”

Against his better judgment, he reluctantly takes the whistle. She has to shove him again in order to get him running but before long, she is alone in the darkness. Processing the steps carefully to draw her attention away from her leg, she presses her back against a large tree so that the dogs cannot surprise her from behind. She has to lift the hem of her skirt a little to get a wide stance. Namora closes her eyes, letting the sounds of the oncoming dogs echo in her ears while she breathes slow and deep. When she knows they are close, she grips the familiar handle of her hunting knife tight and opens her eyes. They run up quickly but stop. The pack forms a circle around her, as if they are waiting for something.

Her eyes scan each carefully; above their snarls and growls, Namora can no longer hear Captain Franklin’s shouting. She feels a pang of regret for all of the things she should have told him and all of the things she might have done differently to prevent his death. Though her heart pounds rapidly, her breathing is steady and even. The adrenaline pulses unfamiliarly through her body-never before has she been the prey. Even though she feels no fear of her death, she feels fear of the consequences that it might bring up on her people. As she waits for one of the dogs to attack, a million thoughts of things she wanted to do yet in her life come into her mind. For the first time, she is thankful that she doesn’t know the love for another because she doesn’t think she could bear the pain her death would cause him.

Hearing something she does not, the dogs relax a little. Seeing some lay down and some sit only causes her nerves to set in. All eyes remain on her. As she begins to wonder what has calmed them down, her breathing starts to increase. The pain in her leg over takes the adrenaline that has begun to fade from her body. Through the movement of leaves nearby, Namora finally sees why they have calmed down and her heart begins to pound faster, the pain subsiding again as her body prepares for attack. A large, brute of a man comes strolling up. In the dim light of the stars she can’t make out much of his features but his sword is casually rested on his shoulder. She slips the knife carefully into her right boot. When he sets eyes on Namora, he lets out a rude whistle.

“My my, what do we have here, puppies?” The bear sheathes his sword making the mistake of not seeing Namora as a threat. When he comes closer, she can see that the man is clad in well made, well worn leather amour and he is adorned with many battle scars. He reaches to the back of his belt, unclasping a crudely made pair of shackles. “Come here, darling,” he calls to Namora, walking without fear right up to her.

Though she doesn’t give it to him willingly, Namora lets him grab her left hand and clasp one of the shackles to her wrist. As soon as it is locked on, without hesitation or even thinking, she pulls the shackles from his grasp and swiftly kicks him in the groin, almost falling when she puts the weight on her left leg.

He instantly doubles over in surprise, groaning with discomfort. She seizes the opportunity and quickly wraps the chain around his neck twice. Once she is behind him, she uses her left hand to hold the open end of the chain and pulls the dagger out with her right. Bracing her knee against his ass, she roughly pulls him backwards into a standing position and slams the dagger through the side of his leather armor. She twists it until it pierces his skin; she only stops pushing it further in when he cries out in pain. The moment he tries to struggle, she twists the knife in his side until he quits.

“If you try to fight me, I will thrust this dagger into your rib cage and you will die from a punctured lung,” her voice is full of the venom that her anger brought with it. She hears a threatening growl come from the man’s mouth but cuts him off before he has a chance to speak, “You will slowly walk me back to my camp or I will kill you now and be done with it.”

Reluctantly, the man moves forward. He has a difficult time walking because Namora doesn’t let up the tension on the chain. She uses it to take the weight off of her injured leg. The burning pain jolts through her body, almost causing her to lose her vision. The only thing that keeps her conscious is the fury that rages inside of her, coupled with the Derven stubbornness to complete the task she set out to do. She can feel her heart beat pulse blood out of her wound and down her leg. Her right hand begins to grow numb due to the amount of pressure she keeps on her captive but she doesn’t give in. It seems like it takes an eternity to return to her camp but she thinks it is due to the fact that she ran away and is now hobbling back in pain.

When they finally reach the almost snuffed out campfire, Namora takes care to ensure that her body is completely hidden behind the man. She can still see around him if she leans carefully to the left. Her eyes quickly fall on Franklin. He is on his knees and arms chained behind his back. His face is almost unrecognizable as he has been badly beaten and one of his eyes has swollen shut. Another man, somewhat smaller than her pursuer but dressed similarly, stands with a sword positioned at the back of Franklin’s neck, ready to sever his spine.

“Well, Dell, did you find what the dogs went after?” his smaller companion asks.

When Dell doesn’t respond, Namora twists the dagger in his side, pushing it in just a hair to let him know she means business. He lets out a scream of pain.

“On your knees!” she orders him. She leans on her right leg so that she won’t topple over when his support is gone. When his elbow hits her knife hand, he groans in pain. He puts his arm up and rests his hand on the back of his head before he makes it all the way down.

Finally seeing Namora once Dell kneels, the other guard tenses and grabs Franklin by the hair. Franklin’s good eye lands on her and she knows he is angry that she didn’t follow his wishes.

She lifts her chin up, sizing up Dell’s companion. Her voice comes out threatening, “You will let my guard go or I will kill this one you call Dell.”

He sneers smugly at her, leaning down to look at Franklin at the edge of his sword. He looks back up at her and says with a cool voice, “I don’t think that you are in a position to bargain, darling. We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way.”

Namora twists her knife. Dell’s scream makes the other man jump. “Is that so?” she responds, “Now, while I don’t know Dell personally, I can imagine that if I don’t kill him he will most likely kill you for gambling with his life. As you have already deprived me of one escort,” she surprises herself with how nonchalantly she can talk about Gregory’s death, “I demand that you release my remaining guard and let us continue on our way. Due to your obvious ignorance, we will gladly forget your attack on my caravan.”

The man looks from Dell, to her, seeming to weigh his options. His smug smile never leaves his face; she gets the fleeting idea that he is stalling. “Fine,” he says finally. He kicks Franklin square between the shoulders, pushing forward so that he falls face down on to the ground. Franklin’s head hits with a crack; she knows that he is out cold. “I see that you want to do this the hard way,” the man taunts as he starts towards her.

Namora, calculating her odds, believes that she can easily take down the man after she kills Dell. Of the two, Dell would have been the most difficult to take head on but since she had the element of surprise on him earlier, she now has the upper hand. Her body tenses, giving the other man a fraction of a second to change his mind. When he continues to move towards her, she leans to the right to put force behind the dagger and plunge it into Dell’s ribs. Before she has a chance, she feels a cold, metal object on her throat. It instantly reminds her of the still cold, foreign ring on her finger and her rage begins to boil once more.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” an unfamiliar voice whispers almost softly in her ear. Her mind frantically wonders why she never thought to consider a third man into the equation-probably due to the severe amount of pain in her throbbing leg. Rough, unknown fingers enclose her hand. Even though she wants to pull away from both of the men, not liking their close proximity to her, she keeps her arm tense, dagger firmly planted in Dell’s ribs. But even on a good day, in the same situation she wouldn’t be able to break free from the new man’s death hold. His firm grip tightens on her hand and he pulls it and the dagger away from Dell’s ribs.