The Crowned Captive
The Privileged Prisoner

What the damned fae male was doing, she had no clue. Not the hunting, she was fairly sure he was genuine with that, but he had been pressing her buttons all day long. He was a very poor captor too, letting her wander freely through the forest looking for wood. If it had been anybody else, she would be sure he had been flirting with her. After pinning her to the ground, after provoking her, after staring her down like a piece of meat he would love to devour, there was little other explanation. But surely an elven warrior had some more maturity than to poke fun at her like a child pulling his crush’s hair. Yet he had grinned, wickedly so, when she had punched him in the face. And that damned grin did things to her that it definitely should not.

She kicked the trunk of a nearby tree at the thought, wishing to drive it from her mind. Her foot barked in pain, and she sighed. She was being a daft girl, looking at him like that. There wasn’t a chance, not a hope under the heavens, that someone like him would even think twice about a weak and boring halfling woman like her. The Fae wanted her dead as quickly as humans did. On top of that, he was gorgeous enough that he could have his pick of anybody. No, he was simply delivering her to whoever had hired him. Her mouth turned down at that, wondering how much longer on horseback she had. They had yet to cross the mountain range that divided their lands, so at least a few days yet. She had somewhat enjoyed her days with Rowan so far, not fighting for food and wearing clothing that had not been patched numerous times. He could even be classed as... entertaining company. When he wasn’t threatening her with torture or bindings or worse, that was.

She sighed as her circle led her back to their camp for the second time, and she dropped another handful of wood for the fire. They had ample now, and the prick still had not returned. She looked around, wondering what else she could do whilst waiting for him to return with whatever food he scrounged together. He had taken his sling with him, so likely small game was what they were eating. With nothing else to do, she began to search around for some greens or herbs to add to whatever food he brought back. She returned to the camp with an armful of vegetables just as Rowan began building the fire. Three plump pigeons sat on the ground beside him. He pouted once again as he looked up and saw her.

“I was just getting excited that I was going to be able to hunt you down again,” he said, waving his hands absent-mindedly as he finished piling up the wood. Flame sprang to life nearly immediately.

“I was getting excited that you had fallen and died,” she muttered, not truly meaning it. He was at least helpful with food.

“How grievously you wound me, Morana, once again. The longer I spend around you, the more I fear for my very soul,” he mocked, a grin across his face as he looked up at her with those intense eyes once more. Mischief undeniably flickered in them currently.

“Funny, the longer I spend around you, the more sure I am that you are no true danger to me,” she replied, not entirely mockingly. Despite common sense, she had found somewhat of an easiness between them in the past day.

“I will definitely have to remedy that, then.” He grinned up at her as he knelt next to the fire, all the amusement vanished and all that predatory sharpness returned. Morana swallowed and turned away, hearing him snicker softly. She was certain he enjoyed seeing her frightened, and she thoroughly hated it.

She quickly made use of herself, finding a small satchel of kitchenware sitting beside the fae prick. She looked through it instead of deigning to reply to him. Finding a knife and small board, she set to work chopping the greens and the herbs she had found. His gaze was heavy on her as she worked, and she wondered if it was because of the knife she held. She chose to ignore that. It wasn’t like the tiny blade would do a lick of good against him regardless, and the only thing she could aptly wield it against was incapacitated animals and plant life.

The fire was burning nicely, slowly producing coals as she finished with the greens. Rowan gently took the board and knife to clean the pigeons he had caught and Morana searched through the satchel and eventually found a skillet in which to cook the greens. Whilst he still cleaned his kill, she searched the stick pile. Finally, with two forked sticks snapped down to size, she made a relatively useful spit to roast the birds over. Enough coals formed that she made work on cooking the greens, catching any drippings from the meat that she could.

“You cook surprisingly well,” Rowan commented, and she looked at him in confusion, expecting some biting insult to follow. His face seemed genuine, deepening her bewilderment.

“It is born of necessity,” she replied, waiting for whatever verbal trap she was stumbling into. “It’s not like I had parents to cook for me, and the damned orphanage I first ended up in definitely had no chef. As soon as I was turned out, I taught myself.”

“Necessity breeds merely adequate cooks, believe me. I fall into that category. You truly have skills, which usually indicates enjoyment.”

“I suppose I enjoy it, but there isn’t much else to enjoy in poverty. I would love for singing to be my thing, but my voice is honestly horrid.” She frowned as he snickered. “Paints and papers cost money, so my art is my food.”

“Such a lovely thought,” he murmured, and amusement danced in his eyes then.

“What is your art?”

“Death. And sex.”

With no reply to that, Morana simply frowned and watched as he turned the skewered birds over their makeshift spit. Fat sizzled as it dripped off them, and her mouth began to water as she stirred the greens. If she ever saw civilisation or lived as a free woman, she knew she would remake this, with the birds stuffed with herbs and a wider array of vegetables.

They ate in silence, and Morana buried the leftover bones a little ways away from the camp, hopefully deep enough that no predators would be lured in the night. In the meantime, Rowan erected the lone tent, placed his wards, and then patted the mare to let her know she was free to graze. The bay gelding remained tethered to her, likely so she would not allow it to wander off. Morana turned back to assess the progress on the tent, to see Rowan completely naked from the waist up.

Her head snapped away, but the glance had been enough to send her blood racing in a way that was not filled with fear. He looked as if he had been carved by the gods themselves, a smattering of scars only accentuating the wicked beauty they had created. Her heart barrelled against her chest as he laughed, deep and sultry, across from her.

“Come now, Morana, we have established you have seen a naked man before. It shouldn’t be a shock,” he called from where he lounged lazily in front of the tent. Morana forced herself to turn back to him, not letting him think her embarrassed.

“I am not shocked,” she ground out, wondering how she was going to stay sane with that sleeping nearby.

“Did they not please you as much as I do? Come now, what else could you expect from someone as charming as myself.”

“Seeing you are far from charming, I did not expect a whole lot. I think my expectations were obviously too generous, regardless.”

“Oh Morana, we both know that is far from truthful. I can smell your body’s response.” His forest eyes sparkled in the light of the fire. It took a few seconds before what he had said clicked into place in her mind, and then her heart flopped inside her chest like a dying fish. Damned fae senses.

“I have no clue what you are talking about,” she replied, forcing a blank mask over her face.

“It is only natural, Princess,” he spoke, eyeing her as if he could see through her clothes. “You would be far from the first to have such a reaction to me.” He stared down at her through heavy-lidded eyes, and she felt a throb in places that definitely should not be doing anything because of him. She stalked past him, wishing to lay down in her half of the tent and be done with it, to see a single bed roll.

She then looked back at him, and he grinned up at her, fangs bared, and simply shrugged.

There was no damned way she was sharing a bed roll with this arrogant fae lunatic.

And yet there was nowhere else to sleep.

“I do not allow riding clothes in my bed, by the way,” he purred.

“I didn’t grab any of those stupid frilly lace nightgowns,” she replied, mouth dry. Surely he hadn’t expected her to wear those, especially in bed with him. He simply shrugged.

“I saw your mistake and grabbed them before we left. It is either those or nothing.” That was all he offered. “I would not be opposed to nothing. I am tired, so you have three minutes to decide before you sleep in front of the tent in bindings.”

Something in his voice told her he wouldn’t be disappointed in that possibility, and Morana heavily weighed how uncomfortable the ropes would be. She wished she could punch him again, and make it hurt, as she quickly undressed behind the tend and then pulled on the wisps of fabric that was her nightgown. It was barely opaque and left absolutely nothing to the imagination with a lace fringing that rested halfway down her chest and at her mid-thigh. And she was to sleep next to a far too attractive fae kidnapper who had spent the evening blatantly flirting with her.

She crawled into the bed roll before he did, refusing to make eye contact. She positioned herself to the very left edge, covering herself with the edge of the blanket to hide as much of her skin as possible. Rowan snickered as he trailed in after her, suddenly grabbing her arms. She yelped in response, trying to pull away as he bound her wrists again.

“What the fuck was that for?” She yelled as he flopped into the bedroll next to her, the end of the rope bindings now tied to his trousers.

“What can I say, I like the women I sleep with bound,” he purred as he closed his eyes, obviously far more relaxed than she was. “Be grateful you got the bed at all; it is far more than most of my charges have gotten.”

Her mouth dried at the innuendo he made, but he made no further move against her. She yanked at the bindings, frustrated, but all that did was threaten to pull his pants down. She did not need that right now. With a huff, she flopped back down on the edge of the bedroll and attempted to relax. She could feel the heat from her captor, he lay that close. Attempting to block out the thought, and the dull crackle of the fire that still sounded outside the attempt, she focussed on her breathing and willed the darkness to whisk her away.

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