Chapter Two

Rough hands turn me and I'm staring into the faces of half a dozen men garbed in dark, patchwork leather armor. For a confused, terrified moment, I think bandits have found their way to my home, though I can't imagine what would draw them here.

Their armor is rough, but their cloaks are fine, a deep blue – vibrant enough to show its color even in the twilight – with silver lining.

Two of the men hold my arms fast and press me up against the rough-weathered wood of my cabin, pinning me there and kicking my feet wide apart to unbalance me. The largest of the group towers before me; his cloak is held shut by an ornate clasp fashioned to look like two snarling wolf heads. The shining metal catches what little light there is and holds my gaze, saving me from looking up into the leering face of the man who wears it.

"So, the rumors spoke true," he says. "And here I thought the townies were just trying to turn our gaze away from their own sins."

He catches my jaw, digs in until I fear the joint might pop. "What's your name, boy?"

For a moment, my mind goes blank. I've never spoken to a stranger, only to my own Da, and the months of silence weigh heavy on my tongue.

"Your name!"

He shifts his hold, presses my head back so that my eyes are dragged from the snarling wolves to his sneering lips. The base of his hand presses against my throat, an implicit threat that demands my answer.

"J-Jaro," I croak out. "Jaromil Kennetson."

The pressure of his hand doesn't ease. "How many summers have you? Twenty? More?"

I can't imagine why I would count the summers of my life, but I find the answer in a warning my Da gave me, just after he began to cough, before we knew the sickness would claim him.

"It's not just the sickness we have to fear, Jaro." His voice comes to me, as clear as if he'd spoken that morning, and not nearly a year ago. "The Wolves run that town, and now that you've twenty years on you, they'll snatch you up and devour you if the whim takes them."

I didn't understand, then, and I still don't, but I sense the man holding me will know if I tell him false. So, even though Da's remembered warning tells me to lie, I speak true.

"Twenty...last summer," I whisper.

He gives my head a threatening shake. "And did you make the pilgrimage to the Temple in this past year, as the law commands?"

I only stare at him. I know nothing of a Temple or a law, and I wonder what my father concealed from me, hidden beneath his dire warnings to stay well away from the town.

My captor growls. "No Temple, and a man grown. We have a bounty on our hands here, and a fine looking one besides; the priests will be pleased when we bring it in."

He grins, and his free hand runs down my chest, tearing off the fasteners of my old, much-mended shirt until hit hangs open. A sensation I don't understand – dread and shame and something else, all tangled together in the pit of my belly – shivers through me as the hand on my throat slides down my chest in a caress, his fingers settling on the flat plane of my stomach. "Mayhap they'll let us watch as he's tested."

His words mean nothing to me, but his touch makes me squirm, the roving hand igniting a heat in my blood that frightens me. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I don't fight the men holding me as they drag me away from the cabin and bind my arms.

I tell myself it's fear, but my cock is half-hard beneath the loose fabric of my trousers.

They bind my wrists behind my back with leather cords, and one of the men ties a length of rope to my bonds and takes one trailing end, while a second man takes the other. I'm caught between the two, one ahead, pulling me along, and the other behind, forcing me to keep my distance from the man leading me.

I can't imagine what threat they think I'll offer, bound and unarmed, one man against six. The dusk is fading into full night, but they make no move to light torches or lanterns, seemingly able to see in the dark while I stumble along, caught between the two holding the rope, while the others laugh and joke and lay wagers on my fate.

"He liked your touch well enough, Garik," one says, the the coarse guffaws of the others. "Reckon he'll like it from the priests just as much."

Another takes up the taunt. "Mebbe if the gods don't want him, they'll let us have a taste, eh? Put that pretty mouth to good use. A mouth like that might be worth more'n his ass."

My cheeks burn at the jeering words, but my cock hardens, shame flooding me at my body's reaction. Their crude talk sets strange fires burning in my blood, and I try to put it from my mind, to ignore their words and the unfamiliar heat they kindle.

"It's his arse the gods will want," another says. "Bet he's tighter than a miser's purse, out here in the Wastes, with no man to break him in."

"The Wolf Gods won't care about that," a third says. "If he's an omega, they'll break him right quick. Breed him up like a bitch in heat, that's what I hear."

Omega. Heat. These words are as foreign to me as their Temple and law, but somehow, my belly clenches at the sound of them. My breath speeds up, my pulse pounds; my feet falter, and the men holding the rope yank hard, nearly pulling me off my feet.

The leader halts and turns to me. He backhands me hard, and my lip splits, the sharp tang of blood filling my mouth. "Walk, pup. You're a valuable bounty for us, but if you're an omega the coin won't be any less just because you have a few bruises on that pretty hide of yours."

I lick at the blood on my lip and nod, not wanting to draw another blow. The men jeer again, one of them adding, "And if you aren't an omega, we've other ways to take our payment, haven't we lads?"

The man in front of me grins, all teeth and malice. "Don't worry, pup, you'll still have your uses, whatever the priests say."

I stumble along, head down, but it's not cold that makes me shiver as their crude suggestions grow more explicit, leaving no doubt what they intend for me.

Nor is it fear, for I'm still half-hard and aching, my skin hot with the memory of the leader's hand on my throat, and the scrape of his fingers down my chest, the heat of his palm on my bare stomach.

No, it's the strange word that echoes unbidden in my mind.

Omega.