While wiping the warlord of his own potent cum, River realizes two things; one of them being he holds a beautiful, distinct mole just below his navel, like a dappling horse.

The second is, beneath his intent, lambent gaze the room suddenly swells around her like a bruise. It is just the two of them yet she feels the four wood walls press towards her, like lungs that had breathed in.

As the cloth rubs at his torso, feeling ridges of muscles bump beneath, River focuses on each narrowed breath. The room smells musky and sour at once, as though a thousand suffering people lay sweating in it, and then ground roses into the floor with dirty feet.

She lowers her head further, chin almost brushing her chest, urging the singed strands of hair to curtain her face as fingers of flame slowly wrap around her neck then ears, pinching them red. River blinks hard as the cloth scrapes lower and lower still, sucking her tongue hard as his cock comes to view, limply resting on the crevice of his thigh.

Hadrius is corpse still beneath her washing, and perhaps he is gauging for her reaction, she does not know.

River hesitates as the cloth brushes his stained tip, then demurely jumps over it to proceed wiping the front of his thighs.

She expects him to chastise her. Force her to wipe his manhood clean, but the warlord’s silence only stretches further until she is done wiping him.

Only then does he rise without so much of a glance in her direction.

“Dress yourself,” his startling deep voice is curt as he turns and pulls on a tunic, “and follow me.”

Hadrius, River realizes with slight awe bitterness, had the longest legs she had ever seen, and the effects of it never truly crossed her mind until now, as she she struggles to match his pace.

At five feet five, River considers herself of average height yet beside the Lycan’s behemoth figure, she feels something short of a dust speck.

Hadrius does not glance back as she jogs by his heels, folding and unfolding the large shirt and pants he had tossed at her during their morning meal in the bedroom. It had once belonged to a female slave whose frame was slightly larger than River’s, forcing the her to bunch it numerous times along her waist and at the ankles.

Nonetheless, it is better than her torn clothes.

All around the camp, men and wolves move with a sense of purpose, matching Hadrius’ own determined long strides. They practice on the open fields, barreling into each other in human forms and snapping at necks and hind legs as wolves.

It is a great wonder, seeing such beasts in the open with gilded forms and bare dusted feet that smooth the earth’s ragged surface divinely.

River’s steps falter as her eyes linger on two men that stand within a circle, both stripped bare save shorts. Their bodies are littered with bruises and cuts, one man’s eye is swollen shut while the other sports a busted lip. She stills as they break off in a run at each other, then flinches as one shifts midair and slams into his opponent as canines sink into the length of his exposed neck.

The public display of outright brutality has her heart slamming and she tears her gaze from it, wavering on the empty path before her.

“Fuck,” she mutters, picking up pace and jogging down a winding dirt path that drifts further from the campsite and into a small clearing where Hadrius stands in the presence of two other men.

Dante, his second in command, casts River an unfocused glance then returns to the map set on a table. In hand he expertly twirls a dagger between rough fingers, pausing to swipe at blood and dirt from beneath his nails.

Something soft slaps River’s face, completely covering it.

Her hand rises and grips the shirt’s edge, carefully lifting one edge from over her eye as she peers at Hadrius work the belt around his waist, then drops his pants leaving him in only boxers. Nonchalantly, and without a second glance in her direction, he tosses the pants at River.

“Winter will begin shortly,” Dante observes, tilting his head heavenwards at the sight of dark clouds. The heady scent of snow and frost eddies from the horizon and with it comes a sullen atmosphere. Back in her city, such times would be spent stocking the sheds with pieces of chopped wood, smoked and salted meats and dried harvests meant to feed her mistress and herself for the winter.

Dante licks his teeth with a whistling sigh, “The final raid will be conducted on our return to the kingdom.”

“Let the men know.” Hadrius cracks his neck and lowers himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged as the other man draws out what seems to be a short blade, the wicked double edge flickering dull light.

With a final bow in Hadrius’ direction, Dante rolls up the map and plucks the golden compass that had been set atop it. River lowers her eyes respectfully as he brushes past her.

Her eyes rise once he drifts past and seeks Hadrius who sits with his side profile towards her, steadfast, vacant gaze on the forest before him. The man cards a hand through his obsidian hair then wraps it with a silken tie before placing the knife’s edge just beneath. His motions are oiled to perfection and swift, slicing upwards, severing the handful of locks from Hadrius’ scalp.

“Your hair-” the words fled from River’s lips, shock rounding her eyes at the sight of his hair now whispering to the earth. Her gaze flickers up to Hadrius’ face, calm and stoic, hardly bothered by the sudden adjustment to his face.

The man proceeds to cut off excess ends, trimming his hair down to his scalp then stepping back to wash the blade.

“Every year the Alpha sends his best men and Beta to conquer lands and lay claim on territories for expansion,” River’s eyes slant towards the old man who wipes the blade clean while speaking, he returns to Hadrius and carefully turns the warlord’s head sideways, cutting along the sides of his head such that the top had more hair.

Wisps of inky darkness drift to the ground and the closer he shaves, the more visible his scalp markings are, “During the year while away from the Kingdom, some men prefer to grow their hairs out.”

“Why?” River questions, unable to comprehend reasons as to why the warlord would waste such godly hair.

“Cleansing.” Hadrius’ interrupts resonantly, like the ringing of a crystal glass. “We spill blood during yearly raids. As an atonement to please the Luna goddess, we cut our hairs before returning to the Kingdom.”

River falls silent, mulling over his words. Such rituals had never been heard of, and yet it somehow brings clarity to their actions. She cannot help subtly scoffing at their method of atonement. Slaughtering thousands of men throughout the year only to shave their heads as a ‘cleanse’ did not rid their hands of blood.

She does not realize just how long she had been staring at Hadrius until the man pulls back with a satisfied grunt and he rises, brushing strands of hair from his body. He seems rather different at that moment, a sense of clarity set on his symmetrical masculine face -- the cut on his upper lip seems more docile in comparison to the severe coal depth eyes that regard her.

River blinks, realizing that his hand is held out; “Clothes, human.”

“Right, sorry.” She mutters, stepping closer and allowing him to pick one item draped over her shoulders before slipping it on.

River’s eyes flicker to his nipples, each pierced with a horizontal barbell and small horns on each tip. Her fingers twitch with a curious urge to reach out and flick one nipple.

She wonders if it would hurt or please him.

“Can I cut my hair?’ River suddenly blurts, head tilting back and briefly clashing with his.

A sliver of surprise flashes across his features, then schools to that of indifference. She clears her throat warily as he draws on his pants, “I’ve never truly enjoyed it, and the edges had been signed a while ago, and taking care of long hair as a slave is tedious and--”

“You may.”

She stares at him in cautious wonder, “Really?”

Hadrius straightens, “Yes,” he turns to the old man who had begins to place his blades away, “Jacobi, cut her hair according to the length she desires,” then finally slides his eyes back to her, “return to me when you are done.” With those words, he begins to walk away.

River stares at his retreating figure a moment longer then turns to Jacobi who gestures for her to sit where Hadrius had sat moments ago. The earth is still warm from his body.

“What would you like?”

River licks her lips contemplatively; “Like him.”

“Beta King?”

She nods, feeling his rough calloused fingers card through her hair. “Nothing feminine?”

“My features are feminine enough,” She counters defensively, and her belly rumbles in anticipation as Jacobi gathers a handful of her hair, dutifully placing the blade just beneath where he grips.

A swift upward motion and her head suddenly feels lighter. River’s hand automatically reaches for her head, noting just how empty it is where her hair used to be.

He cuts in silence, a soft bellying breeze occasionally breaking or the passing by of a slave that casts either of them curious, furtive glances.

Dusk begins to eddy when the man finally sets the blade down, brushing a thick hand over her hair-carpeted shoulders. “This should be…” a pause, “acceptable.”

River reaches for her head again, running a tentative hand through the short strands of hair that slip between her fingers like fine sand.

“May I see?” She inquires with slight eagerness as he lowers a small mirror before her face. River turns her face this way and that, studying the girl that mimics her.

Her warm brown hair is now short, each strand lustrous as though lit from within. Their is a sharpness to her chin that is less than pleasing.

The man echoes a vague sound of consideration. His head tilts to the side whilst studying the slave as he fingers the wisps of her hair, examining her eyes and the cut of her cheeks.

River shifts, setting the mirror back in his palm. “What?”

“I see the semblance between you and her.”

Her eyebrow shifts to a rise, “Me and who?”

“Hadrius’ mate.”

Read 2 chapters ahead on Inkitt; BewareofChicken