Fire, Fury, Faith

Grateful for the quelling blackness of the night and the glowing full moon, Serwa slipped away from the village. The melodic drums, tapping feet and clapping hands, boisterous laughter, and good cheer made her escape a surprisingly easy task.

Following the jagged line of the unimpressive, solemn lake that served as a natural and fragile border between the two warring villages, Serwa glanced behind her, the burning torches from the village enclosure growing dimmer the deeper she sank into the woods.

She turned away. There was no one tracking her, or at least no one she could see or hear. Serwa couldn’t be certain her absence hadn’t gone unnoticed. Would he send one of his guards after her? She darted another furtive glance around, nervous, brown eyes slowly searching the shadows for movement. Nothing. But he would send someone for her, she thought. The grim possibility of being dragged back against her will chilled Serwa. An unwelcome coat of cold sweat trickled from tense nape to resolute shoulders. She quickened her pace, bare feet hitting the ground with determined strides.

She broke into a sprint. Long, toned legs used to the exertion propelled her forward, the freedom awaiting her on the other side of the lake an incalculable motivator. So Serwa ran. A hint of cool mist danced down from the swaying overhanging trees, their branches rich and heavy with vibrant leaves meant to tempt. But she refused to be enticed by the intoxicating aroma or the sinfully beautiful sight of the Wawa Aba Forest in full, bountiful bloom. No, she had to get to the other side before they came for her.

Pushing the tide of black hair away from her sticky brow, Serwa slowed, hid behind a towering baobab tree, and peered across the river. The village she spied was farther in the distance, but all was quiet save for the hypnotic chirping of— Two strong hands caught her unawares, one going to her waist, the other across her mouth, effectively silencing the scream that threatened, forcing a compressed, trembling swallow.

Serwa’s heart sank to her soles, her short-lived escape plan dying with each step her captor took. He carried her deeper into the forest. The sparkle from the moon glistened off the water, a mocking reminder that an even an unimpressive river could be a prison.

While the urge to fight and flail about welled inside, she squashed the impulse, knowing she could harm no one, even if it meant sacrificing her freedom, her very beating heart. Instead, Serwa relaxed into the powerful hold, accepting her fate, already calculating her next escape plan. For there would be another, and if need be another, and another still until she was free. There was, after all, more than one mode of fighting. Blood and death weren’t the only options, just the ones men often prized, spear and shield their default.

So she closed her eyes and permitted her body to release the tension that had built into a cataclysmic fright the moment she was grabbed. Then a rush of awareness washed over her, causing Serwa’s heart to race. Her dashed hopes of only a moment ago frantically pulled itself from her feet, up her shivering thighs, settled in her lower belly, then exploded through Serwa’s suddenly moist sex.

That smell. Myrrh. Musk. Him.

That touch. Trained. Tender. Him.

That taste. Sweaty. Sensual. Him.

His low, deep voice drifted in her ear, warm honey to her senses. “Everyone is drunk on the winter solstice. They’ll be celebrating until the sun finally rises after a long day of rejuvenating slumber.”

He released her, and Serwa turned to face her captor. Issa, the eldest son of the chieftain of the village across the river, was indeed her captor. For he’d captured her heart six months ago, claimed it as his own, locking the delicate organ away for all time. It was Serwa’s finest surrender, Issa’s noblest victory.

That sight. Dignified. Dangerous. Hers.