The Chieftain’s Daughter (4 page)

“You are a cruel keeper.” It was the only thing she could think of to say.

Mechan did not flinch, but instead, he smiled very faintly and continued to wash Ishara almost lovingly, as if he bathed with someone else entirely. It was the first time she’d seen him smile. He did not seem to even see her any more.

“Free me.”

Mechan continued to smile, the way a parent would smile to an unknowing child. “No. Your women are ours. It is the price of taking from a woman what your tribe can never give back.”

This was the first time Ishara heard any sort of reasoning behind the slave raid of the Oolani. Still, a part of her did not understand. “So why should you punish these poor women who caused you no offense?”

Mechan stopped washing Ishara’s hair, abruptly handing her the vase. His brows drew together, his stony gaze strong, and without answering the question, Mechan began to wade his way back toward the shore. Ripples danced across the surface, leaving a pool of swirling water behind the chieftain.

Ishara dropped the vase, immediately choosing to go after him. “I want to know why. Why do you punish these women and children?”

Her lithe form moved more easily than his. She caught up with him rather quickly, and when she was within range, Ishara reached out with one hand and grabbed Mechan by his biceps. He did not turn. She pressed her feet into the cold, clay mud under the water, and pushed in front of him, putting her whole body in his way.

The touch, insistent but gentle, did cause Mechan to stop. Ishara thanked the spirits. He could have simply run her over. Drowned her. Beaten her. But instead, he stopped and only looked at her.

“Why do you avoid me?”

“I am not avoiding you. I have chosen not to answer you.” Mechan crossed his arms over his chiseled chest.

Ishara pursed her lips, not content with the answer. He didn’t want her to know, and whatever it was might be used against him later. She tucked the question away for another time.

Mechan rose out of the water, and as he emerged, droplets rolled down his muscular back and over his firm buttocks. Ishara watched him dry himself. It could not hurt to at least peek while he faced the other way.

His movements and stature reminded Ishara of the elk that roamed the prairies back in Oolani. They were graceful creatures to watch, but when it came time to stalk and kill one, they reared their massive heads and reminded the hunter with a jerk of its antlers that it would not go down without a fight. The chieftain of the Manahotchi would also not go down without a fight.

Eventually, Ishara forced herself to look away from his toned thighs and the manner in which his taught shoulders pulled back as he brushed his hands over his dark hair. He would leave without her if she did not keep up, and though she hated to live on his schedule, she did not have a choice in the matter. Mechan spoke the truth—she no longer was a chieftain’s daughter.

There had to be a way out.

Chapter Four

The journey back to camp exhausted Mechan. He couldn’t get her questions out of his mind as they echoed through him over and over again. Why did he punish the women and children? Who was she to ask him something like that? It annoyed him that something so small, so helpless, so controllable somehow managed to ensnare the emotions that he worked diligently to keep to himself.

He listened to the soles of Ishara’s delicate feet slap against the muddied path as she followed behind him. Sometime they slowed, and when he turned to make sure she still followed, Mechan caught the young woman staring up into the trees, or at the forest flowers, or the small mountain cat cave half hidden behind creeping vines. The caves seemed to draw her attention the most.

“What do you look at?”

“That cave. What lives there?” Ishara willfully started in the direction of the cave.

Her lack of hesitancy and lack of reprimand, curled his hands into fists. “Where do you think you are going, slave?”

“If you did not wish for me to go, you would have stopped me by now.” She bounded out of his sight, popping up a few moments later behind a fallen tree trunk. She moved quickly. Stealthily. Gracefully.

He stared, watching her as if she were his prey, then stalked after her, determined to recapture his wandering slave. “You will come back here. If I have to catch you myself, you’ll regret it, little one.”

Ishara called back, though Mechan lost sight of her once more, “I told you to stop calling me that.”

Picking up his pace, his wide strides quickly carried him to where Ishara stopped, crouched down behind a wild berry bush. He reached out, grabbing her by the shoulder, and hissed between clenched teeth, “I told you to stop.”

Ishara grabbed him by his wrist and yanked him down to crouch beside her. “Shh! Look.”

Mechan momentarily forgot about Ishara’s mistake when he saw what it was that she watched. A mountain cat, female, followed by two young cubs loped in front of the cave. He glanced at Ishara, who ignored him completely, devoting her attention to the beasts that retreated back into their home. He had to admire her boldness, the way she seemed to gravitate toward nature and become a part of it. But it was enough. She would respect him.

Reaching behind him, Mechan pulled his spear off his backpack with the intention of hurling it at the family of cats. But as he raised the weapon above his head, Ishara reached out and grabbed at his hands, stopping the forward motion and ruining the only chance he had to strike the mountain cat. The mother and her children disappeared into their cave, and Mechan’s anger rose from deep within his core. That was his opportunity to take away Ishara’s power. To punish her for being so obstinate.

Dropping the spear, he caught Ishara by her elbow and knocked her to the ground. “I will not remind you again. You are a slave. If you continue to be defiant, I will not show you or anything else any mercy.”

“That cat did not deserve to be killed so that you could prove a point,” Ishara hissed between gritted teeth. “This is why your land is dead. You have no respect for the life it presents to you.”

Mechan’s dark gaze rested on Ishara, her words echoing through his head. Maybe it was true. Had he really become so disrespectful to the Spirits? Perhaps it was after his wife’s death that he started to shut out the Spirits. He’d turned his back on the ones that had stolen his wife and child, leaving him alone for the rest of his days.

She watched him with those irresistible green eyes. They softened with pity and her nose wrinkled when she took in his pain. He had made a mistake by dropping his guard down and revealing a hint of his emotions to her. Before she had a chance to pull herself to her feet, he grabbed her by her dread locks and yanked her up to stand. “Now, we will return home, and I won’t hear a word out of you the whole way back, girl.”

She snarled at him. Her animalistic reaction reminded him of the prowling cats, stirring something within him.

They walked the rest of the way back to the camp in silence. Often, she hissed in frustration, but did not talk, just as he asked. He followed behind her, watching the way the curves of her ass shifted up and down as she climbed over fallen tree limbs, making her way through the dense, forest path. He studied the muscles of her thighs as they tensed and released.

Tugging at the strings of his loincloth, he tightened it around his waist. He forced his mind to keep thinking of his wife, his dead wife, whom he loved so much and would never betray. But Ishara, the enemy’s daughter? She called to him without having to say one thing at all, and she threatened his promise to himself—to never love or take another woman again.

When they reached the camp, Mechan immediately drug Ishara by her arm and put her into her slave pen. He wanted to yell at her. He wanted to scream. If she would just obey him, he would not have to punish her. But she did not and he had no choice. Her defiance reflected his failure as a chief.

In the end, he chose to say nothing and walked back to his tent—alone. Pulling aside the beaded flap, Mechan ducked into the coolness under the canvas that protected him from the burning, afternoon sun. He pinched the bridge of his broad nose and lowered himself into a pile of heavy furs, the furs he had Ishara kneel on as he emptied his seed down her throat.

The more Mechan sat alone, thinking about her, the more his thick root responded. It almost hurt him. He could not give in. He loved his wife. Loved her…his dear, dear wife.

He rose and approached an old trunk. Dipping one of his hands into the items within, he fished around and pulled up a thin thong of leather with a tooth pendant. His wife wore it around her neck when she lived, a reminder of the first kill that Mechan brought back for her—a mountain cat, just as he almost killed for Ishara, though for different reasons.

Mechan’s hand closed around the necklace. He tucked it back into the trunk once he had cooled, no longer lusting for the pretty, disobedient thing out in the slave pen. “She will learn her lesson, or I’ll keep her in there for the rest of her days.”

Or maybe he would have her for company come dinnertime. It would not be so insufferable eating by himself if he had someone to talk with. Even if that someone grated his last nerve and set his loins on fire.

* * *

Ishara sat naked across from Mechan, her legs folded and tucked under her bottom. Her stomach rumbled in hunger, but she left everything in her bowl untouched. She wanted nothing from him. If that meant she had to starve trying to prove her point, then she would.

Her dreadlocks were still damp, despite hours of lounging outside in the pen watching camp life pass her by. It embarrassed her to be locked away like a pet for all to see. Her renewed sense of pride overcame the hunger pains. Food was the least of her worries. She had to find a way back home.

Ishara categorized the things in the room, all of which were shrouded by a shadow from the only lit fire in the tent. Most of the objects were dusty and untouched, ignored for what could have been months or years. She noted a large, dead tree branch propped up in the corner of the tent, helping to elevate the canvas. The wood twisted, pressing upwards into what used to be beautiful limbs once lavish with green leaves. Now, the ends were dull and bare, but the piece possessed a certain mystic beauty, a certain secret story that she yearned to know. “Why do you have a stick?”

Mechan lowered his knife and impaled deer meat. After finishing the chunk in his mouth, the chieftain looked over his shoulder. “It is an offering. Or was.”

Ishara continued to watch the stick, waiting for it to move or do something impressive. At long last, she pushed herself up out of the furs, abandoning her bowl of whatever Mechan served her for dinner. She padded across the tent, bare toes nestling into the warmth of the pelts that covered the floor. “I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘an offering?’ It is a dead branch.”

“Before the Manahotchi men get married, they offer a branch to the woman they wish to court. It is a symbol of peace and growth.” Mechan looked away from the branch, and Ishara caught the glint of sadness deep in his gaze when he went back to stabbing at the meat in his bowl. “After the marriage, you use it to build your new home.”

She reached out to touch it. It came from one of the elder trees whose branches started many feet off the ground. Any man would find it challenging to climb the long trunk all on their own. “In my tribe, the boys often challenge each other to see how high they can climb the trunks of the elder trees. I’ve seen many of them break bones after losing their footing.”

Mechan grunted, his lips smacking together as he chewed his dinner.

“It must be a great honor to receive not only a branch from the chieftain, but an elder branch. Very impressive.” Ishara allowed him a small compliment, abandoning the branch in search for something else she could entertain herself with. Her respect for his personal space waned. If he insisted on keeping her as a slave, then he would have to insist on her sharing his space as well. She also grew bored of watching the chieftain brood.

She spotted a wooden trunk with two large hands imprinted into the dust and hurried in its direction. The trunk rested on the edge of where the main confines of the tent lead back into the private sleeping area, where hardly any light reached. Ishara checked over her shoulder, noting that Mechan no longer paid her any mind. He scooped a handful of mashed yams into his mouth and lanced another piece of meat onto his knife.

Ishara knelt down beside the chest and opened it carefully. Resting on top of a pile of suede dresses was a tooth threaded onto a leather thong. She reached inside and lifted the necklace up into the firelight, admiring the sharp edge of the ornament, and then slipped the piece around her neck, knotting it in the back. The tooth was cold against her chest, and at the same time, Ishara felt empowered by something, as if the Spirits themselves have filled all the empty spaces in her body.

“You should come back and eat your food before it cools.” Mechan spoke to her, but did not bother to look at her.

She watched him the whole time, knowing well that she should not be going through his things. She lifted one of the dresses out of the trunk, pressing it to her naked form, relishing the silky, soft feel of the hide. Small designs of burning suns embellished the hem, which would stop just above the knees if worn. With another peek back to Mechan, she noticed that his attention belonged to his food, and decided that she could get away with trying on the dress.

“I’ll be fine. I’m not even hungry.” She tugged the dress over her head and down the ample curves of her hips. The garment fit snugly, as if it could have been made just for her. In some places, she filled it in a bit more, especially around her breasts and waist, where the suede pulled tight. She twisted her body so she could look down the back of her form, admiring the piece wholly. “Beautiful.”

“What?” Mechan turned at the misplaced comment, and when his dark eyes found Ishara, she could see something inside him set aflame.

It frightened her.

“Take it off.”

Ishara stood where she was, transfixed. She shook her head, though she didn’t know why she chose to fight this battle. He looked at her with both anger and greed. She wanted more.

Mechan rose to his feet, towering inches above her. He took another step closer, his hands tightening into angry fists. “I am telling you to take it off. Those are not yours.”

“They are your wife’s?”

“Yes. You will take it off now, or I will have to take it off you myself.” Something visceral buried itself deep down in Mechan’s tone. Something that called for Ishara to attack it. To own it. This moment was hers.

“Are you not the mighty chieftain, Mechan? Will you let a dress be the thing that destroys you?”

Mechan’s teeth gnashed together, and he closed the space between them. “Do not toy with me, girl. Not with this.”

Ishara stepped back, her heels pushing up against the trunk behind her. “Tell me about her. Was she pretty? What did she look like?” She tried to bait him into the conversation. She wanted him to play her game for once. She wanted him to be a slave to her.

“Take it off.” Mechan pushed Ishara backward and she tumbled over the trunk, all limbs.

She found her feet again, and after dragging her palms down the sides of her dress, smoothing it free of wrinkles, Ishara smiled devilishly and shook her head. “She must have been a beautiful woman to have made you so angry with longing.” Ishara continued to move backward, breeching the private space of the sleeping quarters in the back. She sank into the protective darkness while watching Mechan. And when he caught her, she had no idea what she’d do.

“I am not angry,” Mechan growled from deep within his gut. His shoulders rose up and down with each hot breath he inhaled, and his nostrils flared when he exhaled. He reminded Ishara of an angry stallion, either ready to mate or ready to kill.

She grew wet.

“You are violating her memory.”

“Oh am I? And how am I doing that? By wearing clothes that she can no longer wear herself? What were you going to do with these clothes, hmm? Keep them in a trunk, untouched, for the rest of your life?” Ishara stopped her retreat and decided instead to ground herself where she stood. She would let him catch her. She wanted to see what he would do. “I must say that I make a much better use of them. Don’t you agree?”

Mechan did not stop his pursuit. “Take it off. And take off the necklace. You are disrespecting my wife’s memory.”

Ishara resisted the urge to take another step back as Mechan eventually caught up, nearly standing on top of her. She could feel the heat of his breath on her skin and it caused her cunt to pulsate in desire. “Take them off me.”

His hands struck outward, pulling at what little fabric he could manage to peel from her body. He yanked her forward as he fumbled. The action lacked seduction. Mechan did not feel what she felt, or at least she started to draw that conclusion when he violently jerked the dress up once more. This was not about her at all. He truly was insulted that she wore his dead wife’s dress.