The Warlord's Lovely Prize Novels & Stories

Because there were so many, they could quickly turn on us, up here. But when that time came she laid out for them and let them ravish her holes and cradle her hands as a vessel for them to prod into. She pleased them with every part of her sensuous body. Like she was made for it. Which, I supposed, she was. *** The next morning came, and Warlord was fine tuning a plan to get us out of the castle. He was perusing the great halls. Counting the knights and taking stock of everything that would prove an obstacle.

Her instincts screamed that this man—this dragon—was a predator in the shape of a king, and still her body betrayed her, trembling not just with dread, but something achingly close to anticipation. "To take you as tribute, to spare his people. He would have offered his crown, his blade, his soul. But none of it mattered." The warlord stepped closer. "You mattered." "I am not a—" "Prize?" His voice dipped into something dark, velvet-wrapped steel. "No. You’re the offering." The room spun. She kept her feet through sheer force of will. "You burn like power wrapped in silk," he murmured, eyes dragging down her body with deliberate, predatory hunger. "I could smell it from the gates."

His arm stayed firm across my back, holding me close in a stance of absolute territorial claim that silenced the capital prisoners instantly. “Commanders of the Grand Tribunal,” Lawrence’s voice rolled over the yard like military thunder, cutting through the northern wind. “Your warlord lies beheaded on my battlements. Your legions were held back by my Empress’s shield. You have one chance to surrender your standards—or my wolves will use your bones to lay the new wall’s foundations.”

“This relic is one I’ve never seen before nor had any idea that it even existed. I have no idea where she could have gotten it or where it came from; that information isn’t in one of her journals, and I cannot get it out of her either. Her interrogations have revealed many things, but not this book’s origin or how it came into her possession. It is written by the royal historian during the Great Shifter War. He lived within the castle walls with the royals, as was tradition of all historians before him. It tells of how the war started and how it spun out of control. He and his family escaped with this tomb and two royal artifacts which were entrusted to him by the King and Queen themselves.”

His amber eyes are fierce and filled with shock. He holds my gaze. “Found you,” he whispers. “Sire—” “We’re taking Princess Vivian to the North!” the man declares, and my wolf quivers but for the wrong reasons. “We have won the war. The Eastern Kingdom has fallen. And I’ve got my spoils.” The last part is spoken in a low voice, meant only for my ears, and I know it can’t be a good thing.

They had lost their previous shield-maiden to a rival clan’s blade, and now they sought a new woman strong enough to stand beside them in battle and bed. The ship beached with a grinding crunch, and they carried me ashore like a trophy, my struggles earning only laughter and appreciative slaps to my ass. The longhouse roared with feasting warriors as we entered, fires crackling high and mead flowing freely. There, in the center of the hall before gods and men, they claimed their prize.

Purple light exploded from her chest, forming a wall between Damian and the Warlord’s claws. The claws hit the wall and shattered. Bone splinters flying. The Warlord stared. “Impossible. No queen can—” Luna grabbed his throat. Not with hands. With power. Silver vines wrapped his throat. Red thorns pierced his skin. And in between, purple light poured into him, showing him every memory of every wolf he’d killed, every slave he’d chained. He collapsed, weeping. “Forgive me, Majesty.” “Yield,” Luna said again.

Chapter 2: The Enemy Camp Raid King Torvald moved like a shadow through the enemy camp under the cover of night, his dark cloak blending with the trees as his small elite strike team slipped between tents. The rival warlord’s forces slept soundly after a day of drinking and boasting, but Torvald’s focus was razor-sharp on one target: the warlord’s legendary lieutenant, a towering brute said to possess the largest cock in the northern territories. Torvald’s own thick length was already half-hard inside his breeches at the mere thought. The king had sacked villages, claimed warriors, and built his reputation on taking what he wanted and tonight, he wanted the biggest prize yet.

They were seasoned warriors, their faces lined with the dark, jagged scars of the border wars, their scents a volatile mixture of fear-sweat and lingering defiance. "You have a short memory, Queen Natalia," the lead prisoner, a scarred warrior named Torin, spat onto the dirt floor. He didn't look at the map; his yellow eyes were fixed entirely on Varga’s executioner's axe resting on the table. "You kill our Alpha, you grind our grain into the mud of the ravine, and now you bring us out of the cages to look at your drawings?"

Juwairiyyah said sweetly. "You think I should take him in princess?". "Yes dad, please". "Then it's done!" "Wow! I love you dad, you're the best!. I'll take you to him tomorrow In Shaa Allah". ***** ***** *****