I sailed through the howling gale to claim what was ripe for the taking.
Her village burned under our torches. Axes sang. And there she stood, this fierce spitfire barring our path with a spear like it was her last breath.
I wrenched it from her grasp. Pinned her down in the choking smoke of her own hearth, my brothers howling victory around us.
She spat curses that could curdle blood. Clawed like a wildcat. But her body arched into the plunder anyway, trembling under the weight of five raiders' hands.
Now she's lashed to the mast of my longship, salt spray whipping her skin as we carve through endless seas. My men circle like wolves, but she's mine to break first. Nights under thrashing sails, her sweat mingling with ours in the dim hold, every thrust a war cry she answers with bitten-back moans.
I was born to conquer. To hoard gold, thralls, glory. Never a woman's soul.
Yet this one haunts me. Her barbs slice deeper than any blade. She craves the shield of my arm against the world's wolves, but begs for nothing. Won't yield her pride. And gods help me, that defiance makes me want to storm her walls forever.
We rut in the fog-shrouded isolation of the deck, breaths heaving like thunder, her nails raking my back as if to draw blood for blood. Violation turns to velvet chains. Hatred melts into something that tastes like fealty.
One wrong swell, one mutiny from my crew, and she slips my grasp. Her fragile world of hearth and safety shatters for good. Mine too, if this hunger unmakes the raider in me.
But how long can a plunderer's heart beat for the enemy who fights surrender with every gasp?
