The Mystic Shapeshifter

The irony doesn't escape me. Three days ago, I was gathering herbs in the forest near our cottage, my family unaware I'd slipped away during their afternoon rest. Now I'm standing in chains on foreign soil, the coarse ropes having left angry red marks around my wrists and ankles that contrast sharply with my pale skin.

The Isle of Man seems a lifetime away.

I never saw them coming—the men who threw a sack over my head and bound my wrists before I could scream. The ship's hold still haunts me—the stench of unwashed bodies, the sounds of weeping women, the creaking wood that became the soundtrack to my nightmares. Even now, the memory of calloused hands groping in the dark makes my stomach churn.

I've survived by becoming invisible. It's a skill I've perfected over years of avoiding unwanted attention. Keep my head down, let my chestnut hair fall forward to curtain the curves men might find tempting, hunch my shoulders to minimize my already small frame. In these oversized slave tunics that hang loose over my breasts and hips, I could pass for a child rather than a woman of twenty.

Until now.

The marketplace bustles with activity—merchants hawking their wares, buyers inspecting human flesh like cattle. And then there's him. The giant with hair like flames and shoulders that strain against his leather jerkin.

He moves through the crowd with the confidence of a predator, towering over everyone. When his gaze sweeps over our line of chained women, I feel it like a physical touch—lingering too long on the swell of a breast here, the curve of a hip there.

Don't look at me. Look at the others. The taller ones. The fuller ones. The ones who aren't glaring daggers at you.

But of course, he stops in front of me.

"This one." His voice rumbles like distant thunder as he points at me, thick fingers tracing the air just above my collarbone.

The slave trader grins, revealing yellowed teeth. "You've a keen eye, sir. Though she's a bit of a wildcat. Needs a firm hand."

"I'm nobody's property," I spit, yanking against my chains. The movement pulls the tunic taut across my breasts, and I see his gaze drop for half a heartbeat. "And I certainly won't be your fucking plaything."

The other women edge away from me, as if my defiance might be contagious—or dangerous.

"She'll bring nothing but trouble," one whispers.

"Fool girl will get herself killed," mutters another.

The giant—Alaric, I hear the trader call him—tilts his head, studying me like I'm a curious specimen. His eyes are startlingly blue against his sun-weathered skin, roaming my body with deliberate slowness.

"A sparrow with eagle's talons," he says, amusement coloring his voice. "Tell me, little bird, do you always challenge men twice your size while your nipples harden against that rag they call a dress?"

Heat floods my face as I realize the chill air has betrayed me. "Only the ones stupid enough to think their cock is as big as their ego."

A collective gasp rises from the women around me. The trader's face darkens, but Alaric throws his head back and laughs, the sound vibrating deep in his chest.

"By the gods, she has spirit!" He circles me slowly, his shadow swallowing me whole. "How much?"

"No!" I stamp my foot, chains rattling. "Take one of them instead!" I jerk my chin toward the other women, earning venomous glares in return. My heart hammers against my ribs as his scent wraps around me—leather and iron and something dangerously primal.

"Hold her still," Alaric commands, and before I can react, two guards grip my arms, spreading them wide. The tunic rides up my thighs, exposing pale skin marked with bruises from rough handling.

"Don't you dare fucking touch me," I warn, but my voice wavers as his gaze trails up my legs.

He steps closer, close enough that I feel the heat radiating from his body. "Your threats would be more convincing," he murmurs, thumb brushing the hollow of my throat, "if your pulse wasn't racing like a cornered hare."

"I'm shaking with rage," I lie, acutely aware of how his massive frame cages me against the stone wall.

His lips quirk. "And I'm trembling with fear." The mockery in his tone makes my cheeks burn hotter. "But let's see if the rest of you matches that fiery tongue."

The trader moves behind me. "She's small, but well-formed." Cold hands suddenly grip my waist, squeezing the flare of my hips. "Good for breeding."

"She's too thin," Alaric counters, though his eyes darken as they linger on the exposed slope of my neck. "Hardly worth half what you're asking."

"Quality over quantity, good sir." The trader's fingers dig into the soft flesh of my thighs. "And she's untouched. I guarantee it."

Untouched. The word hangs in the air between us like a blade.

"Prove it," Alaric says, his voice dropping to a growl that sends unwelcome heat pooling low in my belly.

My blood turns to ice. "No." I thrash against my captors. "Get your filthy hands off me!"

But more guards appear, pinning me in place as the trader forces my legs apart. I kick wildly, managing to catch one guard in the shin.

"She fights like she's got claws," the trader laughs, though there's irritation beneath his amusement. "You'll want to break her in slow."

Alaric crouches before me, his beard brushing my inner thigh as he reaches for the hem of my tunic. "Be still," he orders, the command laced with dark promise.

"Go to hell," I whisper, but there's a plea beneath my defiance.

His eyes hold mine as he exposes me, the calluses on his fingers catching against sensitive skin. "I've been there already, little bird." His breath ghosts over my most intimate flesh. "Found it lacking... until now."

The intrusion comes without warning—a single thick finger pushing deep. My back arches against the stone as a choked gasp escapes me, shame warring with unwanted sensation. When he withdraws, his beard glistens with evidence of my body's traitorous response.

"Virgin indeed," he murmurs, rising to his full height. His prominent arousal strains against his trousers as he nods to the trader. "I'll take her."

My heart plummets to my stomach. This can't be happening.

"Excellent choice." The trader licks his lips as he eyes Alaric's evident need. "She'll clean up nicely. Might even be pretty once she learns to use that mouth properly."

"I don't want to be pretty for you," I snarl, but neither man acknowledges my words.

Alaric reaches out, tilting my chin up with one massive finger. "You'll learn to obey me, little bird." His thumb presses against my lower lip, rough and demanding. "Or you'll learn how thoroughly a man can punish a stubborn tongue."

I meet his gaze, summoning every ounce of defiance I have left. "My name is Wren, not 'little bird.' And I'll die before I spread my legs for you."

Something flickers in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or respect. But it's quickly replaced by predatory intent.

"We shall see," he says simply. Then to the trader: "Have her delivered to my estate by sundown. And make sure she's bathed thoroughly—I want every inch scrubbed clean."

As he walks away, his red hair catching the sunlight like living flame, I feel the weight of my new reality settle over me—along with the lingering ache between my thighs that mocks my defiance.

I've been captured, examined, and sold in less than a week.

But I am not broken. Not yet.

And if this Alaric thinks I'll be an easy conquest, he's about to learn how sharp a sparrow's beak can be when protecting her nest.