EDITED: 02/22/2015
Chapter Eighteen
Olive understood now why Scabior was so cruel during the full moon. Her head was throbbing, feeling as if it were going to explode. Heat was running through her - not near as bad as the fever, but enough to make her irritated. All she could do was clench and unclench her fists while they set up the tent, trying her best to force away the urge of violence shaking through her.
In the distance a twig snapped, both of their heads shooting up at the noise. Olive closed her eyes to better hear, the range of her ability reaching far more than natural. Scabior didn't have to close his eyes anymore to concentrate and knew eventually she wouldn't have to either. For now, he let her, watching the concentration on her face and the light sheen of sweat on her brow.
"How many?" he asked, knowing there were seven men. Olive's brow tucked while she counted the footsteps, trying to separate them from the hushed voices.
"Six or seven," she muttered, blinking open her eyes, brow still tucked. Scabior nodded, surprised and impressed.
"Seven," he confirmed, then dumped his bag on the bed and riffled through his things, plucking up her red armband and Snatcher ID.
"I thought you burned them," she said, taking them from his outstretched hand.
"No," he said, eyes flitting down to her picture moving on the card. "I kept those. Just so we wouldn't have to go through all those lines again if you came back."
That wasn't true, though. Scabior held on to those things, as he had the earrings they now wore, because he wanted to keep some small piece of her with him. If she'd been dead, then at least he had her picture to look at.
"Oh," was all she said, then let him tie the red band around her upper left arm. When she did the same to him, it seemed more intimate than before.
"Don't do anything stupid," he chided, hands brushing the hair away from either side of her face. Then one hand snaked behind her neck, the other dropping to press into the middle of her chest. "You can feel it in there. You want to hurt somebody. You're going to want to hit them, kick them, anything. Don't. Don't get caught up and break your Vow. Let me make sure none of 'em are pureblood and then you can do what you want. We won't take 'em to the Ministry, they'll just be practice in case you kill 'em."
Part of him was surprised when she nodded, no look of disgust or declaration that she wasn't sick like him. Scabior always forgot that she'd already killed the Booke twins, already mauled Walrich half to death. And that was before Greyback infected her. Excitement danced inside him, curious to see how she reacted now.
"Let's go," she said, a new darkness in her voice that made him even more anxious to see the damage she was capable of.
Olive was glad when they split paths, having decided on a V-formation to attack from the sides. Things were too intense with Scabior and she was still adjusting. Parts of her still wanted to hate him while most of her hated herself for not being able to.
She could hear him now - his soft footsteps barely kicking up the brush from a good fifty yards away. It was no wonder he always caught her when she ran with hearing like that. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that he was listening to her right now, too. Scabior didn't trust her, as he shouldn't. That much was clear when the darkness quivered in his eyes as she'd suggested they split up. There was something wrong with him, some plan he was hiding. That morning and the night before, he'd been far too easy on her. For whatever reason, he was restraining himself and that made her uneasy, both wondering what he was up to and not liking how she enjoyed the sweet attention. But, it was because all of this game he was playing that he had no choice but to agree with her plan. A V-formation was the most logical with only two of them and he was trying to win her over, no doubt refusing to play the bad guy and tell her no.
The separation gave Olive room to breathe and, once out of his sight, she let a protective hand fall over her stomach. She'd had many plans in regards to Scabior, but none whatsoever about the baby. Olive hadn't the slightest idea what to do about that and so she just kept her stomach hidden, some part of her wishing the problem would just disappear.
Scabior's hushed whisper carried through the breeze. "They've stopped," he said and she honed her hearing, realizing he was right. The men were unpacking their things out of sight, somewhere between her and Scabior.
Olive could feel his muted steps carrying him closer to the group of men. It was growing difficult to concentrate - her skin was becoming more flushed, her head pounding against her skull. The worst was the feeling that gnawed at her chest, a primal urge to hurt something. Her hands had begun to shake as the excess energy built inside her, needing out, needing any release. The need grew with each step closer she took, her feet far less practiced than Scabior's, but quiet enough that they didn't hear. And then she saw them and ducked behind a tree. Across the clearing, she could see Scabior's hair, one eye poking out from behind a thick tree trunk. There were three older men between them, hair balding and greying. The other four looked of age with her - teenagers through mid-twenties, though she recognized none. The seven shared the same ski-slope nose, fathers and sons of the same family probably, and all but one of the younger boys had dark hair. The other had dark blonde. Olive could smell them, the sun on their skin, the sweat on their brows. But, two of them were different, her eyes and nose working together to sort them out. It was the older one with spectacles and the blonde boy, they had to be father and son. Beyond the sweat and the sun, there was something else, something undefinable - a heavy musk that made her heart beat faster in excitement.
Scabior could smell the difference, too, and though he wasn't attracted to the scent, he could see from across the clearing that Olive was, her pupils wide and black while she stared at the blonde one with greed.
"Just stay calm," he urged, trying to quell the dark feeling of jealousy clenching his insides. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't tolerate this behavior, but it was her first full moon. Despite his own emotions being out of whack, he'd sworn to himself that whatever happened, happened. The scratch wasn't her fault, it was Lysia's, and for that he would be more lenient with her until she learned to control herself.
"Wait until they've got their backs turned," she whispered, the soft noise carrying over the group's ears and into Scabior's.
What the fuck was she doing?
Now he could see that Olive had pulled her red band away and tucked it somewhere out of sight. A growl of frustration snaked up his throat while he watched her hijack their plan and stumble out into the clearing. A terrible feeling shuddered through him when each man turned and pulled a wand on her, Olive raising two empty hands in surrender.
Why was she being so stupid?
"I need help," she said to the group, five giving her distrustful looks, the other two looking a bit frightened. The blonde boy was one of the distrustful ones, bordering on angry, and was the first to speak.
"What do you want?" he spat and Scabior was glad for his mean tone. Maybe that would smack some sense into Olive. But she took another step, faking a believable limp. Scabior was still tense, but a small part of him relaxed, realizing she had it under control. One of the older men turned toward him, scanning the horizon for more trouble, eyes missing Scabior's face peeking out from behind the tree. All he had to do was turn around and they could begin the attack.
"Snatchers," she choked out, Scabior never realizing what an actress she could be. "They captured my friends and me. They killed them, my friends. But there was a werewolf with them, he told me he liked the way I smelled."
Olive's eyes were flitting from man to man, not close enough for them to see the growing blackness in her eyes. Her brain urged the older man in the front to turn around so Scabior could attack, unsure of how much longer she could control herself around the blonde boy and his father.
The blonde boy was closer to her and his scent was overwhelming, making it hard to concentrate, her thoughts slipping to him thrusting into her, of strangling him, beating his head off the ground until he stopped moving.
"He…he made me do things," she said, stepping around a large rock to get nearer the group. Olive made her face grow red and ducked her head as if in shame, but really it was just to better see the rock – big enough to need two hands for lifting, but small enough to use as a weapon. "He snapped my wand and left me here for dead. I just – I haven't eaten in so long."
"Bullshit," said the blonde boy, the only one whose face hadn't softened with her half-true tale. "A werewolf would have killed you then and there."
"If you don't believe me, then look," she said, trying to calm the anger boiling through her. This boy would watch on while all his family died, if only for being a thorn in her side. With shaking fingers, she lifted the bottom of her shirt, just enough to expose Greyback's scratch.
"Oliver," said one of the younger boys, Olive's stomach clenching for a moment, thinking they were saying her name. "She's harmless. Let's just take her with us to Fairpike's tomorrow."
Oliver, the blonde boy, never got a chance to reply. The older man in the back had turned to see Olive's scar and now cried out, bound in heavy chains. Oliver was next to be snagged, then another of the younger boys. Olive reached into her boot to free her wand, but was tackled to the ground, a thick forearm laying against her throat. All of the other men were out of sight, yelling curses as Scabior made his appearance, but Olive was swarmed with the sight of Oliver's father on top of her, his scent faded compared to his son, but enough to push her into madness. Her façade snapped in two and she lost herself to the dark part inside her.
Scabior turned toward the last one right as the brat apparated away to safety. Six out of seven would have to do. He assumed Olive took care of the older man with glasses, but when he heard a sick thunk and a masculine cry of pain, his blood ran cold, eyes shooting toward her.
"Stop!" he screamed, right as the blonde boy yelled out for his dad, eyes wide in horror.
Olive was too gone to hear either of them. She was straddling the older man, the rock between her raised hands. All Scabior could do was watch her slam it into the man's head with another deep thunk and hope to hell he wasn't a pureblood. The other two men and the two younger boys watched, mouths hanging open in shock and horror. The blonde boy, Oliver, struggled against his chains, face red, thick tears rolling down his cheeks while he screamed out for Olive to stop.
Another sick thunk. Then another. And with each motion, his moans shrank and the blood grew.
"Stop," Scabior ordered again, not daring go pull her away. If he tried, she may hit him and he was a pureblood.
In the end, it was far worse than Walrich. There was nothing left of the man's face, only a red, sticky crater.
"Sweet'art, he's dead," Scabior tried again, but she just kept pummeling into his head with the rock. All of the men, Scabior and Oliver included, grew silent and watched as her hits slowed, the rock finally tumbling from her grip and landing with a thud on the grass.
Scabior was sure she would realize what she'd done and reduce herself to hysterics, but she stood as if this were an everyday occurrence and looked at him so fiercely that he took a step back from her.
"Did you get their wands?" she asked, black pupils covering most the green of her eyes.
"Yeah," he said, for a brief moment wondering if he looked this scary during the full moon.
"Good," she said, looking down over the five men they had left. "Without wands, they're as useless as muggles. And muggles should die muggle deaths."
Scabior wasn't sure what to think when she waved her wand in four short jerks, each motion producing a long rope. All the men were silent when she set to work, tying knots and leaving a loop at the end of each length. Olive looked up and gave their hostages a dark look.
"You should probably be saying goodbye to one another," she said, then went back to tying her knots, not missing the look of pure hatred Oliver gave her.
When she was done with the ropes, she walked around, examining the branches of each tree.
"Where were you headed?" she heard Scabior ask, turning to see he had his dagger pressed against one of the older men's throat.
"We're not tellin' you nothin'!" Oliver spat, face red and swollen from the tears, obviously the most outspoken of the group. Scabior held the knife a little tighter to the man's throat.
"You said somethin' about Fairpike's, I suggest you tell me."
"I'd rather die," the older man declared, keeping his proud face despite the threat at his neck.
"Give it to me," Olive ordered, dragging the ropes with her across the clearing, hand outstretched toward Scabior. His eyes darkened, not enjoying how she'd been the one to order him, but he allowed it and handed over the dagger. Olive gave him the ropes in return. "Find a low branch and throw them over," she said, turning her attention to the men. Scabior did as she said, picking up where she left off and examining each limb of every tree, though he kept casting glances her way. The men were obviously related, though, so he need not worry - if the first wasn't pureblood, the rest probably weren't either.
"Now," she said, crazed smile taking over her face, "I'm going to give you each a chance to answer. And if I don't have the answer I want by the time you've each spoken, I'm going to turn our friend here –," she paused motioning to the same older man that Scabior had just threatened, "- into a pin cushion."
The drying blood on her hands made it hard for them to disbelieve her.
"You," she said, pointing toward the other older man with the dagger. "What is Fairpike's?" The two older men shared a look, the one in danger giving a slight shake to his head. The other man, his brother she assumed, remained silent.
"Alright," she said, moving along to one of the younger brown haired boys. "What is Fairpike's?"
Still only silence. Scabior was watching again, seeing the blackness of her eyes, the smirk across her mouth. When she tsked, it sent shivers down his arm, goose bumps flooding his skin.
Olive made a loud buzzer noise, over-exaggerated frown crossing her mouth. "Time's up. Not looking good for you, my friend," she said, looking back to the older man in danger.
"And what about you?" she said, kicking her leg up and taking a large step in front of the other brown haired boy. It reminded Scabior of a child skipping and somehow the lightheartedness of her action made this whole thing even darker. "What is Fairpike's?"
That was something she'd picked up from him – asking the whole question to each person you were interrogating, over and over. It was a psychological trick – the repetition made them more nervous.
When the third didn't answer, either, she walked back to the threatened older man and pointed her dagger to Oliver.
"Last chance," she sang, giggle sneaking up her throat. "What is Fairpike's?"
"Fuck off," the boy spat, his brown eyes not daring break contact from the blackness of hers.
"Not the answer I was looking for," she said and then, with no warning, drove the dagger into the top of the man's thigh. All of them, even Scabior, sucked in a breath, the older man screaming out, fighting at the chains around him. "Oops," she tittered, "I think I may have nicked the bone."
Olive drew the dagger back with such a force that it ripped more skin, the metallic smell of blood flooding the clearing.
"Round two," she announced. "Another leg. Then the arms, then the neck. Three more rounds until it really gets fun." Then, as an afterthought, she asked, "Whose dad is this?"
The first brown haired boy began to speak, but the bleeding man barked out for him to be quiet. Olive had already seen, though. The damage was done. She walked over to the boy and knelt before him, red hand still clutching the dagger.
"Is that your dad?" she asked, tone growing softer. The boy was afraid to look away from her black eyes and only gave a nervous nod.
"Charlie, shut the fuck up," she heard Oliver say behind them.
"Your name's Charlie?" she asked, realizing now that he looked younger than her, maybe 14 or 15. Again he nodded, eyes trained on hers.
"Charlie, let me tell you something," she said, speaking low as if she were letting him in on a secret. The other men couldn't hear, except Scabior. The branches, the ropes, they were forgotten. He saw only her wicked eyes, the way the breeze blew her hair out and around her face. Somehow even that made her more monstrous, as if she were controlling the lengths of her hair to dance. "I saw my Dad killed in front of me," she continued, brow tucking while she looked down on the boy with faux sympathy. "It made me a really bad person. Now, you don't want that, do you, Charlie? You don't want to see your dad die, you don't want to be like me, do you?"
The boy was rendered speechless, finally breaking away from her eyes, allowing his own to dart to his dad and then back to her. He gave a quick shake to his head.
"That's a good boy," she cooed. "See, I have no family left, I couldn't save mine. I became a bad guy. But, a boy who spares his father from unnecessary pain is a hero, isn't he, Charlie?"
"Don't listen to her," Oliver called out, but the boy nodded, tension still clear on his face.
"So, tell me, Charlie - what is Fairpike's?"
The boy looked to the side, the warmth of his brown eyes darkening in shame. "It's an inn. It's in South London."
Olive was nodding, perched in front of him, trying to hide her grin. "And what is Fairpike's, Charlie?"
"It's an inn," he repeated, hands twitching when she tsked.
"Don't play games, Charlie, because I play them better. What's so special about the inn? Why were you heading there?"
Scabior was in pure awe of her, not able to tear his eyes away. The two long splinch scars, the yellowing remnants of Greyback's bruises, the blackness of her eyes - it was terrifying. He couldn't think of a single time she'd looked more beautiful.
"What is Fairpike's?" she said, voice staying low, but growing cruel.
"A safe house," he muttered, finally tearing his eyes away to look down to his lap.
"Very good, Charlie. Now you don't have to watch your dad die." For a long moment, the boy looked relieved. "You'll get to die with him."
By the time he registered what she said and started struggling against his chains, Olive had already stood and turned to leave. She crossed the small clearing toward Scabior, eyebrows raised in disapproval.
"I thought I told you to hang the ropes," she snapped, redness growing over her cheeks. Despite how frightening she was, Scabior was on edge, too, with the full moon and that was enough to tip the scale. In one swift motion, he flung the ropes to the ground and got a hold on her - one arm wrapped around her shoulders, the other clamping around her jaw.
"Fuckin' talk like that to me again, sweet'art, I dare you," he said, Olive watching his pupils expand, her own terrifying expression reflected in the blackness.
"Fuck off," she spat, tearing herself away as he shoved her. "Fuck you," she said, "I can't wait for you to be dead."
"You'll die before I will," he assured her through clenched teeth. Olive still had the dagger in her hand, but he had no worry - it was enchanted, it wouldn't let anyone harm the owner. But, she never made a move against him, instead ducking with a growl and picking up the ropes where he'd dropped them. When she bent, he could see the five men staring at them, the two younger boys sobbing. Then she stood and they were out of sight again.
Olive went back to work, absolutely seething. She tossed the four ropes over the first low branch she found and turned back to Scabior.
"Will you please -," she started, dry sarcasm lacing each word, "- bring me the two younger brats and their fathers. Put them each under a rope. The blonde one gets to live, that's his reward for being the smart one. But his punishment for being a little prick is getting to watch."
"You do it," Scabior spat out, Olive giving him a fake pout.
"But I'm not as strong as you," she said in a sickly sweet voice. Scabior had just about enough. When they were done, he would show her exactly how much stronger he was than her. That thought quelled his temper and he did as she said, dragging the two youngest first, then the two oldest. Olive just stood and watched him with a smug expression that he couldn't wait to beat off her face later. Slightly out of breath, he heaved Oliver in front of the men so he could watch.
Olive took her time, sliding a noose around each of their necks and securing the slipknot against their skin. So lost in the insanity pooling through her that she didn't realize she was humming funeral dirges until she stopped. A sad, mocking pout crossed her face as she walked to stand between the men and Scabior, facing the blonde boy with her hands tucked behind her back.
"Would you like to say a few words?" she asked Oliver and a cold chill ran down Scabior's spine.
"Why don't you fight us man to man?" he spat, angry tears welling up behind his lashes. "I hope you both rot in hell."
Olive's grin grew so wide and fierce that she was hard to look at. "I'm sure we will," she said, "Though, let me assure you, we'll be the life of the party."
Then she turned and raised her wand, apparently done with the boy. "Any last words?" she asked, her true cruelty leaking into each syllable. The two older men kept their heads held high in pride, the younger two sobbing even harder. None of them had anything to say.
"Then I am sad to declare that on this day -," she paused, looking over her shoulder toward Scabior. "What is today?" When he gave her a moody shrug, she spun back toward the men. "On this day that we don't know the date, I sentence you to death on charges of being idiots in the wrong place at the wrong time."
And then with a wide whip of her wand, she pulled the ropes toward her, the men rising by their necks until their feet left the ground. The ropes wound around the branch, leaving them hanging without magical help. It took a few minutes and quite a bit of twitching and kicking from the men, but finally all four hung limp and purple-faced, the breeze picking up and swaying them like some morbid swing set.
"What do we do with him?" Scabior said in a grunt. Olive turned her attention to the two men.
"Leave him a wand," she said, nodding toward Scabior's pocket, which was stuffed with the five foreign wands. "Actually, no," she corrected. "Let him find his dad's. He can get a good look at what I did. We'll loosen him up. He'll have to look for the wand, it'll give us time to go."
"Go where?"
Olive looked at him like he was stupid.
"Somewhere else," she said in a slow tone, as if he weren't capable of understanding regular speech. "We're not going to sit here all fucking day."
Scabior's eyes flashed, pupils quivering and widening. "I've had about enough of your mouth," he said, danger clear in his tone.
"And I've had about enough of you," she shot back. "So loosen his fucking chains and let's get the fuck out of here before you make me break my Vow."
Scabior moved in such a rush that it seemed to be one fluid movement. He took two long strides toward her, jaw set when he grabbed her around the arm, and with a single flourish of his wand both loosened the chains and apparated away.
As soon as they landed, he shoved her against the table and the back of his hand struck across her face so hard that she lost her balance. With a furious growl, Olive shot up toward him, but he was quick to grab her wrists and pin them against her chest, pushing her down on the surface of the table.
"Fucking let go of me!" she screamed, a strange feeling spreading through her. This was something new, something primal - something wolf. To be on your back beneath another was a sign of submission. Scabior felt it, too, and pressed her farther into the wood, asserting his dominance, no control over the blackness in his eyes now. Olive fought his grip, kicking and screaming out, but his hands held firm and something deep inside was changing, giving in to him. Scabior was establishing himself as the alpha and everything in her was changing, warping, at her being on her back beneath him, telling her to follow her leader.
Scabior watched the darkness of her eyes clench and expand with her heartbeat, but each time they widened, it was a little less. A completely foreign feeling, to both Olive and the wolf inside, was welling in her chest for him. Respect.
"Get off me," she said again, but the damage had been done and when Scabior let go of her wrists, she made no move to harm him. Or any move otherwise. In one motion, he grabbed her knees and stood, pulling her toward the edge of the table, her legs hanging over. Though her pupils were still wide, much of the green around them was visible now. It was hard to tell on Scabior as his eyes were quite dark to begin with, but Olive saw a trace of warm brown on the edges.
Scabior pulled his wand from his back pocket and held it above her. Both parts of Olive - the wolf and the human - agreed. She'd been outspoken, she deserved what he gave her.
With the flick of his wrist, her limbs sank heavy into the wood, her ankles pulling toward the floor, causing a deep ache in her lower back. A weight was over her and she couldn't move a muscle except to blink her eyes.
"You're going to stay like this for the next two days," he said, looking down on her frozen form. "And maybe next time you'll remember how to speak to me."
After that, he pulled away and refused to acknowledge her. It wasn't just how she'd spoken to him, belittled him in front of other men. Olive was a danger to herself. To others. To him. And if he had to lock her up every full moon to keep them both alive, he would do it.
By the next morning, her back was throbbing from her legs pulling down over the edge of the table. No matter how hard she tried to call out, to tell him he was right, to beg him to release her, no noise would leave her mouth. It felt suffocating, though she could breathe just fine. And no matter how hard she willed herself to budge, to break free, Olive couldn't get angry with him. That respect had settled deep in her bones. She'd overstepped her boundaries and he had to punish her for it.
Scabior finally left the bedroom in the early afternoon and by then her head was pounding, pulse rising, the same urge of violence crashing through her as the day before, only worse. It was the middle moon. But, there was nothing to be done. She watched him stalk outside, right by her, without a glance her way. Then there was a crack and he was gone.
Olive urged herself to sleep to get rid of the violent feeling running inside her, but between her aching back and growling stomach, it was impossible. She held to the hope that he would return that night with beef and barley stew, but he didn't return at all. Or the next day, when the heat in her body was fleeing, her headache fading. Some sick part of her wished Greyback would show up and claw her to pieces so Scabior could see how helpless he'd left her.
The day after that, Olive was taken by such an exhaustion that she fought to keep her eyes open. When a fierce storm started howling so hard she thought the tent would rip away from around her, it was easier to stay awake. Frightened, hurting, tired, and hungry, she felt hot tears build in her lashes and snake down her immobile face. The pain had spread from her lower back through her whole body and now her frustration was winning over, more tears following at a growing rate. But, the unnatural drowsiness surrounded her and she couldn't bring herself to try and break free of the weight laying over her.
In the deafening storm, even with her improved hearing, she hadn't heard the crack outside over the howling wind. When the tent flap pulled back, afternoon light flooded the kitchen, as well as a few raindrops that the wind carried to her face.
Scabior was drenched, his hair clinging to his face and neck. But he looked at her - finally acknowledged her. Hope swelled in her chest when he stumbled over, bloodshot eyes scanning her face, inspecting the tear tracks down her cheeks.
"Did you learn your lesson?" he asked, voice more groggy than usual, as if he'd been asleep. If Olive could have moved, she would have yawned - the exhaustion blanketing her was indescribable. The wolf part of her had faded, and with that her respect for him, but something warm spread through her chest when he wiped her tears away with his thumb.
Despite their shared look of exhaustion, there was danger present in his eyes. The warm feeling stopped dead in its tracks when his fingers dug into her chin. "I'm takin' your silence as a no," he said, new level of wickedness rising in his tone, them both knowing she couldn't speak or even make the slightest noise. He left her side and went to stand between her knees, fingers undoing the buttons on her trousers in one quick motion. With a sharp tug, he had them down around her ankles. As terrible as the situation was, she was glad when he lifted her legs and ducked under the new barrier her trousers created. Having her legs up relieved the pain in her back and a shaking huff left her when he balanced her calves on his shoulders. Relief flooded her to have some amount of change to her frozen position, no matter the cost.
"If you don't give me control, I'll take it from you," he declared, unbuttoning his own trousers and pulling himself free. Scabior rubbed his cock into her, already hard at the sight of her laying where he'd put her, his control over Olive becoming more and more fetishized with each passing day. Thunder boomed so unexpectedly that his body gave a jerk. Olive didn't move, couldn't, and that thought was almost enough to push him over the edge. She'd laid still, no jumps at the thunder, none of her little twitches, since he'd left because he did this to her. He controlled her. He could leave her like this forever if he wanted.
"I want this to hurt you," he said in a dark tone, forcing himself inside against the dry friction between her thighs. The way she closed her eyes was an affirmation of the pain. "So you know not to talk to me like that ever again."
Scabior stood to his full height, stretching her legs up so far that she began to lift off the table. He drew back and thrust into her again, tears welling up behind her eyes, though her face laid expressionless. "The next time you fuck up, Olive, I might just leave you like this for a year. Is that what you want? Is it?"
His hand left one of her knees and he leaned over to pull her shirt up, exposing her to the chilled air.
"I'll do whatever I want to you," he said, starting to pound into her now, satisfied that she was growing wet to accommodate him. That's how it should be. She would grow to always accommodate him, no matter what he wanted from her. "Because I own you, Olive," he continued, "I tell you what to do and you do it. This is what happens when you try an' take control of me. You make me have to put you in your place."
Then Olive opened her eyes and looked at him in understanding. She knew. She agreed. Scabior lost all semblance of reason and started fucking her so hard the table was moving inch by inch, her body rocking with each thrust, breasts bouncing in violent jerks.
It didn't take her very long. Olive closed her eyes and he watched the flush creep over her chest and face. It was the most satisfying thing making her finish before him, the tight contractions around his dick carrying him to his own end.
When he was finished with her, he released the spell and made her eat something. It was also satisfying to see how she limped, her body aching from the position she'd laid in for days. Scabior wouldn't offer to help pull up her trousers when she stood on shaking legs and so she'd just kicked them off and held on to whatever was in reach while she made her way back to the bedroom.
But, the most satisfying of all was how she knew to go to his bed. By the time her head hit the pillow, she was nearly asleep from the strange exhaustion hanging over her.
"You can barely keep your eyes open the first day after a full moon," he said, laying on his edge of the bed and kicking off his boots. Olive only muttered into her pillow, the first noise she'd made since his return. He realized, with great amusement, that though she'd kicked off her trousers, she still wore his boots.
"Olive," he said with that laugh of his, feeling much better after getting out his frustration with her. The laugh was enough to make her stir and look over at him, her heart beating in that strange way. "You've left your boots on."
"Too tired," she mumbled, eyes going unfocused and closing. With a grinning yawn, he leaned down and struggled to free her feet, the boots making two loud thuds when they hit the floor, though they were nothing compared to the thunder outside.
"Roll over here," he said once he'd gotten comfortable and Olive did as he told her. He snaked an arm under her neck, the other resting down on her waist. "You won't do it again, will you?" he said, no cruelty in his voice, no chiding.
"No," she said, opening her sleepy eyes to look at him. "You're in charge."
"Good," he answered, his lips finding her eyebrow. "What do you want to do tomorrow?" he said against her skin, his own voice was growing tired now.
"Whatever you want," she yawned, digging her face into his arm. Scabior pulled back and looked down at her.
"You're still allowed to have an opinion," he told her. Then she looked up at him with both uncertainty and hope behind her eyes. She seemed more awake than she had been for the past few minutes.
"Can we go to the pub and have that stew?" she asked, the look on her face making his throat constrict.
"I think we can do that, love," he said, smile tugging the corners of his mouth when his lips found her eyebrow again.
They spent the rest of the day in bed, Olive sleeping sound while Scabior woke every hour or so from the nightmares. But each time he woke, they were more and more tangled with each other and every time it made it easier for him to slip back into sleep.