Bound by the Viking, Part 3: Consumed by Delilah Fawkes Page A

wreathed in flame, lighting up the night, bodies strewn face-down in the trampled mud by the gate.
    She choked down the cry welling up within her.
    Ey may mean my land , our isle , or something close to it, she thought. They mean to sail again. They must. Their greed can’t be sated with just one raid on my homelands… Not with treasures like that for the taking.
    She smoothed her skirts and hurried away, her chest heaving with each breath, passion stoked inside of her like stirred embers burning to life again.
    And treasures like me displayed each night for the men to see…
    The memory of the men’s eyes on her body as Alrik, the chief, spread her legs wide that first night, how they jeered and laughed, how they touched themselves without shame as they gazed upon her most intimate place.
    How their cheeks reddened with lust as she cried out, her master’s touch overwhelming her, even then, even despite the hatred burning in her heart. The shame covering her like grime.
    Yes, they’d go back to her isle for more, she was sure of it. They’d go back, and when they made ready and darkness fell, she would be on that ship. She would make her escape, and then she’d pay them back for what they’d done.
    She’d pay them all back, tenfold.
    She owed her family that much at least.
    Every night she kept an eye on the hall’s crowd of men and serving women for a glimpse of her sister, Brenna, and that night was no exception. Aislin’s last memory of her was her pale face contorted in a scream, her body thrown over the back of one of the barbarian’s horses, her wrists bound behind her as they stole her away.
    Did she travel to these lands, tied up in the bowels of a different ship? Was she here, even now, faceless among the thralls that served in different halls, with the freemen instead of the chief’s warriors? Did she cry in the night, mourning for her sister, or was she silent, vowing her revenge?
    Or worse… did she live at all, or was she with the spirits now in the underworld, her light snuffed out like the rest of her loved ones? All dead now, all turned to ash, burned away by the fires of conquest…
    She set her water pail down, a chill creeping up her spine, deeper than the cold that surrounded her, and pushed open the door to the hall.
    The fires blazed, the heat on her face making her blink back tears, the roar from the men who tore her life apart, filling her ears like black magic.
    Bersa’s rough hand grabbed the pail away from her, the glowering woman yelling back at the girls who turned the spits. She pushed past Aislin and lumbered away, but not before barking over her shoulder.
    “Don’t stand there with your mouth open, catching flies! Go to your master, lazy, useless little veslingr!”
    She swore under her breath as she made her way back to her post, hips swaying as she carried the water bucket as if it were light as a feather.
    Aislin ran a hand over her forehead and sighed. No matter what she did each day, she couldn’t escape this moment. The moment when her master called her forward to serve him. The moment when the hard labor stopped and the humiliation began.
    The moment when she began to lose herself… no matter what she did to stop it.
    She felt his eyes on her all the way from the front of the hall. His gaze had weight, like he was touching her, laying claim to her, even from a distance. She sucked in a breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and made herself go to him, one foot at a time, not sure if she was dragging herself to her duty, or if his presence pulled her, drew her, unwilling, but unable to fight against his desire.
    Her eyes flicked upward as she reached the dais, and she froze, pinned where she stood by his cool, blue stare.  His hands were tented beneath his jaw, a cruel smirk playing across his face as he assessed her.
      Tonight, he was flanked by Lord Denholm again, but this time, the handsome Englishman dawdled a serving girl on his knee. Her braids dangled over