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Prey - Prologue

“Damn it!”

It has been a testing day.

It has been a testing year, and I’m close to my breaking point.

Gritting my teeth, I double-down my efforts to free the trapped plow.

It’s a battle of wills, and I’m confident the plow is winning.

Percy, my stoic workhorse, looks on while I grunt and strain. He’s doing his bit, pulling when I ask, but I can see the blade has got wedged under a sizable chunk of rock. A short distance away, Shep, my black mongrel, watches with curiosity.

I push, pull, and get on my knees in the dirt and try to dig around the rock in my path. Shep tries to help—he gets in the way.

This obstacle is more than a mere rock in a field. It represents my life, a thousand big and small happenings that have led to this conjuncture. I convince myself that if I can only move this rock, everything will magically be fine.

I do stupid things like that, try and guess the outcome of mundane activities and allocate mystical properties to getting it wrong or right.

I’m committed now, and the future quality of my life depends on my ability to free the plow.

Time passes. Percy snoozes on his feet, while Shep is lying down with his nose to his paws, seemingly still baffled by his human’s antics.

My functional shirt and breeches are the same color as the dirt by the time I’m done. Finally, when I roll the beast of a rock out of the way, Percy lumbers forward with ease.

I burst into tears.

A wet tongue laps at my cheek, and I throw weak arms around Shep’s neck. “Good boy,” I say as I ruffle the fur on his wriggling body.

I feel like I’ve conquered the world, but I’m so tired I’m shaking, and I can barely regain my feet. Dusk has fallen over the landscape while I’ve been struggling with my belligerent rock. My stomach rumbles in protest, reminding me that I’ve not eaten since this morning.

“Come on, Percy,” I say as I pat his hairy neck, and, leaving the plow in the middle of the field, unhook him from the harness. Shep barks his approval.

Guilt swamps me. I shouldn’t leave the plow in the middle of the field. My father never left a job half done; he’d have finished this small lot in a few hours. I’ve no idea how I’m going to plant it, but I’m going through the process in the hopes that it will all miraculously fall into place.

My tears dry against my grubby cheeks as I lead Percy into his stable, his hooves clattering against the cobbles of the yard. Shep lopes circles around us. He’s probably hoping for food—he’s not alone in this.

The days are getting shorter and the evening wind has bite—my problems are coming to a head.

I take his bridle off and give Percy his feed. He’s a gentle old soul, and we’ve had him since I was a little girl. I can’t remember a time before Percy.

He lifts his head while I’m still busy, snorting for attention, and I stop to pat his neck. There’s a little white at his brows now. He’s getting old.

Beyond the stable door, Shep sits, waiting patiently.

They are all that I have left.

What will I do when Percy goes?

What when they are both gone?

Dashing fresh tears from my cheeks, I kiss Percy’s hairy neck. “Chin up, eh, Percy.”

Closing the stable door, I head over to the rickety, wooden cottage that I call home. Shep is sitting expectantly at the bottom of the three steps that lead to the door, tail beating at the rough, cobbled ground.

Home.

There was another place I lived once, but this is the only place I can call home. Only, it’s not a home any more. It hasn’t felt like one since my father died last fall.

Opening the door, I head in. Shep trots in behind. Shadows fill the interior, and I can barely see a thing. The fire has gone out, and it’s not much warmer inside than out. It’s late—I’ve been so distracted by that damn rock.

Shep whines and beats his tail against the floor. “Okay boy, you want the bone?”

The remains of a salted leg of lamb sits on the side under a cloth—this is the last of the stored meat. The beating tempo picks up. How can I resist? I hand him the bone, and he’s off like a shot.

I curse the little fiend. I’ll never get him back inside now he’s got his treat. I shouldn’t really have him in the house, he’s half wolf-hound and meant to guard the site. But ever since my father passed, I’ve been letting him sleep inside.

Occasionally, I also let him on the bed.

The door slams shut as a gust of wind batters it. I lift the bar into place under automation. It’s not like anyone visits anymore. Not since I left that sign. I didn’t need my father’s warning to implement that plan. I’m a small female, helpless—the kind that is preyed upon—visitors are not welcome here.

In the gloom, I can’t see much, only shadows. The table takes up most of the space, the fireplace dominates the rest. To the left of it is an alcove hugging the chimney breast with a heavy drape that can be closed to keep it warm. That’s my bed.

Right of the fireplace, another bedding nook has been closed for a year—that one belonged to my father.

I’m hungry and dirty, but mostly tired. I should light the fire and get cleaned up before I get into bed.

I should eat.

I can’t remember when I last had a drink.

But I’m so damn tired.

This life isn’t for me, not on my own. I’m small, and although I pride myself on my determination, I know I’m wallowing in denial.

I can’t survive on my own, and the stores of food are dwindling at an alarming rate. This is fall, there should be grain and fruit aplenty, but it hasn’t worked out. The rains came before I could gather the few crops and they spoiled in a matter of days. The small orchard became riddled with fungus before the fruit could ripen.

Then the barn developed a leak and the grain stores were ruined.

I’m running out of options, and yet I don’t know what to do for the best. Failing a miracle, which have been in woefully short supply since my father died, I will need to leave soon.

It is a three day trip to the nearest village, the town, another week.

I sigh.

I am prey. This isn’t self-pity talking. This is an acknowledgment of a fact. I am small and weak; I am an Omega. I am a prize that men war over.

I need to leave soon, or I will die here. But that isn’t for today or tonight, but a decision for tomorrow.

“Fire first,” I tell myself, reaching for the tinder box. I try to keep the fire stocked since lighting it is a quest. It can take me a good five or ten minutes to encourage it to catch. The light is fading though, and if I don’t do it now, I’ll have to wait until morning.

I don’t have any other lights since oil for the lamp has run out long since, and that despite rationing it. Once dusk falls, the fire is it.

Kneeling before it, I prep the tinder, and go through the motions of striking and hoping. I can’t see much of what I’m doing, the odd spark, the occasional brief glow.

My hands are shaking, my arms and back are on fire after wrangling with that rock, but I’m determined. If I can light this fire, everything will work out.

The fire becomes a source of personal conquest.

It represents a hope far greater than warmth and comfort.

It represents my life.

I will light this damn fire. This is a quest I can’t afford to fail.

My knees hurt, I swear every muscle in my body is screaming, but I’m not giving up.

But it’s really late, and I can’t see what I’m doing.

And I don’t light the fire.

I try to ignore the bleak cloud my failed quest perpetrates, and the crowding specters judging the sorry state of my life.

Stripping from my filthy clothes, I wash in cold water, and donning my night shift, climb into a cold bed.

Excerpt, Prey © L.V. Lane 2021

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Trained For Their Pleasure - Prologue

Hazel

“Have you ever kissed a boy,” he asks.

“Kissed a boy?” I send a surreptitious glance at the Alpha lad sitting beside me on the riverbank. “No, never,” I say.

I do not know Alphas well, other than the few who pass through Oxenford, our village, which sits on a thoroughfare between north Hydornia and south. My father is a smith and farrier, and his work is held in high regard. Although we are only a small village, he gets plenty of work from the local city and those passing through.

“I’m too young to kiss a boy,” I say, repeating my father’s phrase back to the Alpha. I swear Papa says it twenty times a day and more frequently of late since my body started to change. “I am only thirteen.”

I stare at the river. The lad sitting beside me is an Alpha, and a little older, although he is not yet a man. He is also so handsome that I think it borders upon beauty. His name is Fen, and I have seen him occasionally when he passes through with his stern older brother.

This is the first time I have really noticed him. And the first time we have spoken.

I am also sure it is the first time he has noticed me . . . and my breasts, which he has stared at often in the short time since he arrived. I think he might have stared at them more than the whole of the rest of me. For reasons that elude me, I quite like that he looks at them with an expression somewhere between wonder and pain.

I sneak a glance, finding him staring at the river with a brooding expression. He sends a small branch sailing, and it lands in the river with a splash. A fat toad bounds out of the water, darting straight for us only to avert course at the last moment.

I squeal.

Fen chuckles. It has a pleasing timbre, although I’m assuredly not happy that he is laughing at my expense.

“It is only a toad,” he says.

“I know that,” I say, glaring back. I am not scared of a toad like some weak, simpering lasses, and I burn with indignation that he is thinking me so. My mother died three years ago, and I have taken responsibility for my younger siblings ever since. My father married again, but she is not a hale woman and is forever supping tonic for some ailment or other. “I was surprised, is all.”

Still smirking, he turns toward the river again. I have a strange feeling he does not trust himself to look my way without staring at my breasts. “I would not allow anything to hurt you,” he says.

There is a compelling quality to his words. Like he really would not allow anything to hurt me.

Since he is looking away, I allow myself an opportunity to study him. He is easily twice my size, tall, broad-shouldered . . . and a barbarian, for he comes from the eastern clans. He wears only hide pants and boots, leaving his muscular upper body exposed. My tummy gets a little flutter as I watch his biceps bunching while he pokes about in the grasses with another stick. I did not think a man, never mind a lad, could be built thus.

His stick stills, and he turns, catching me in the act of perusing him. Heat flames my cheeks, and my dress becomes tight across my breasts, making the simple act of breathing hard.

“You have hazel eyes,” he says. “Is that where you got your name?”

“All babies have blue eyes,” I say, feeling like I must be wiser for knowing this fact.

“They are very pretty,” he says.

That statement disarms all my thoughts. Now he is staring at my eyes in a way that makes me breathless all over again. I chuckle. It is colored with nervousness at being complimented and caught staring at him earlier. “They cannot be that pretty, for you have not looked at them often.”

His lips tug up. “I am looking at them now, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” I agree. “But I have a feeling you would rather be looking elsewhere.” Happen, we would both rather be looking elsewhere . . .

His eyes crinkle at the corners with amusement. They are dark brown. I also think them pretty, although they hold an intensity that seems misplaced in one so young.

“You make me wish I had ten sets of eyes so that I could look everywhere at once,” he says, smiling. “I want to kiss you. To be the first boy to kiss you. And I don’t know why, but looking at your eyes makes me want to kiss you more than when I was looking at your t—”

“Fen! I will tan your fucking hide if you are up to mischief!”

The roar is near enough to rouse the dead. We both start. It is the voice of the stern older Alpha. It is the voice of his brother.

“Fuck!” Fen mutters. Smirking, he rolls his eyes. Then he groans, and capturing my face between his strong hands, plants a swift kiss upon my lips. “I am coming,” he hollers back before scrambling to his feet and hastening to his brother’s command.

I should go too. I have chores aplenty. Then there are my sibling brats who will be up to all manner of mischief without me there.

But I linger a little longer, for I do not want the spell broken.

My lips tingle. I brush my fingertips over them, imagining Fen’s mouth is still there.

When I came to the river, I had never kissed a boy. But now, I have.

I feel both older and yet too young.

I want to kiss a boy again. But only that boy. I want to learn more about the softness of his lips and the tickle of the scruff where his beard is starting to grow. I want to pet all the gleaming muscles. I want to explore all the dips and ridges. I wonder how much stronger such a lad must be compared to me, yet how gentle he was when he cupped my face.

I want to experience things I do not yet understand.

I know kissing leads to rutting. My father is a blunt man who has warned me more times than I can count about lads and their propensity for rutting.

I am too young for rutting. That is for once a lass is married. But I do not think I am too young for kissing.

There is a spring in my step and a lightness in my soul as I return to the cottage. I hope that Fen and his brother have reason to pass through Oxenford often, and that if they do, he might kiss me again.

Only the Goddess has other plans, and the war with the Blighten sends many men away. I do not see Fen or his brother again. After a while, I cannot even remember the young Alpha’s face.

Then on my eighteenth birthday, as is expected, I marry a Beta male.

Excerpt, Trained For Their Pleasure © L.V. Lane 2021

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