Ancientt (Elaine Waters)

The Captain's Slave part 24

Added 2024-11-27 20:08:58 +0000 UTC

Previously…

Malik swings at War, who swings right back. The sound of flesh and bones pummeling makes my teeth clatter.

The two fucking masters are fighting because of me, while our enemies are due to return any second now.

And for the first time in a while, I am floored.

Joan comes running in our direction, dropping her basket. "What happened?!" she shouts.

I truly don't know what to answer.

PRESENTLY…

GRACE

Joan and I don't waste time fawning and gasping over the brawling masters. We're not impressed by the display of muscle and overbearing growls. We're fucking pissed because both War and Malik should know better than this.

They are friends, not enemies. The enemy is past the gates.

Joan goes for War, and I go for Malik. We jump blindly into the melee of fists and, hoping we don't catch one.

The men's instincts abruptly separate them as they realize Joan and I are in danger. Malik grabs me around the waist and moves me aside, looking fixed on continuing his waltz of fury with War.

I cling to his shoulders, my nails digging into his flesh.

"Malik!" I rant his name, trying to shake his enormous frame. But he's anchored down, unmoveable as a mountain. His eyes locked on War with a passion I'd only seen when I laid under him. But this isn't passionate love. It's passionate murder.

For the first time since Malik's delusional, crazed jealousy manifested itself, I fear him.

Malik has never hurt me. Only protected me. But this illness is eating at his brain, and I know that he's going to kill an innocent man one day and put more blood on my hands.

I don't know what has become of him. He used to be so unreadable and controlled. I was attracted to him because he didn't act like the cruel men I used to know.

He was nothing like my slaver, whose cruelty thrived in his eyes. Malik was unpredictable. But now…now, he has become the opposite. He's becoming violent. Repeating this pattern of delusion and paranoia.

I love him, but I don't love what he is becoming.

"Enough," I whisper, my voice trembling as I squeeze his arms. "Enough, please."

War and Joan break into an argument. War scolds her for jumping in and putting herself in danger while she reprimands him about his childish squabble.

War tells her she doesn't understand. And he's right; Joan and I don't understand this innate, biological urge within these masters to dominate with fists. They are bred to be warriors, not human women,

But Joan and I have logic. The men are foolish for fighting with each other when the enemies are out there, scheduled to return with their bloodthirst.

We must avoid more bloodshed and return our focus to our mission: disassemble the flesh markets. Ending slavery is a goal that's greater than all of us and our selfish egos.

I take Malik's hand and tug with all my might. He growls as he keeps his eyes on War, his hand limp in mine. He looks insane. Busted lip and ripped clothes. And yet his lip is curled. Not in pain but in anger. He wants more. He wants to fight to the fucking death.

"Malik," I try again. "Come back to me."

He looks at me, and his brow slowly flattens. His body, inflamed with flexed muscles and full lungs, slowly relaxes.

Once there is recognition in his eyes, I try again to tug him away from War and Joan. It works, and his heavy, stomping feet follow me.

I take him to our tent. To our simple, neat tent where he fucked me so sweetly, so lovingly. And where I rested my head on his shoulder and promised to weather any storm beside him.

But that promise was easier whispered than lived.

"Let me see," I say, reaching for his bruised face.

"I'm fine," he sighs, turning away and hiding his busted lip.

I imagine Joan is doing the same with War right about now. Both men did a number on each other.

"What was that, Malik?"

He shrugs. "Got lost in my thoughts."

"In your jealousy," I correct. "Again."

He runs a hand through his curly, messy hair before reaching to lift his tunic off. Flashing a chest that took plenty of blows and yet still looks impeccable. Charted like a city with its rows of neat abs.

"I didn't mean to disrespect you," he says, tossing his tunic aside.

"You did, though," I press. "You dared to insinuate that I have a thing for War. Ancestors, Malik. That's insane. I've done so much to prove myself and my loyalty to you."

"And so have I," he returns, his voice becoming stern. "I took you in. I protected you, and I'm becoming this monster because of my love for you. But I am ill, Grace. My brain is rotting from the withdrawal of the numbing meds. Don't you fucking get that?"

I purse my lips, torn. He's telling the truth; he's not intentionally being violent and disruptive. But we need to do more than just accept this as our fate.

"I get it, and I love you for saving me and uplifting me from my condemnation. But Malik…I need you to be stronger. I cannot live with this man you're becoming forever. I love the old you."

"Are you threatening to leave me?" he grits, inflaming again like a dragon that's about to blow fire. Nostrils flaring, teeth flashing. If he were still wearing his tunic, it would have torn at the seams.

His hand's fist and I glance at them fearfully, wondering for a split second if he's going to swing at me just like he did at War.

His hands instantly relax, and I find a wounded look when I look at his eyes. He's…sad. Hurt, and I realize it's because I showed him fear.

I showed him just how little I believe in him anymore. I showed him that my trust wavered and expected him to stoop down to violence against me.

And I regret it instantly because it's not what I truly feel. I know–my heart knows, that I'll always be safe with him.

"I–wait, Malik!"

He leaves the tent, abandoning this conversation and whatever the fuck its implications are.

My heart is in tatters, and my stomach is twisted in anxiety. There is too much going on. Too many vultures swirling atop this camp, sensing death.

I don't want to lose Malik. But most importantly, I don't want him to lose himself.

But as strong as he is, I don't know if he will be strong enough to defeat the demons inside his head.

–– ––

It's late at night when Malik returns, still bare-chested and bloody.

I sit up from our bed, where I have been lost in my thoughts. Anxiously picking at my hair–a habit that I fear is becoming compulsive.

"I spoke with War. The girl is staying," he says, his voice raw as if he had just been screaming.

"Really?" I exhale. "So Kitto can stay?"

"Yes," he replies. "But she'll be thrown out the gates if she does anything suspicious."

"What did she say?"

"Joan spoke with her. Kitto cried for a while before accepting. She wants to speak with you. You were right. A home is what she needed."

I smile, grateful that he listened to my advice. I feel uplifted. Respected. He's helping me evolve. I am not the helpless, quiet, and fearful slave that I used to be.

"Thank you, Malik. Thank you for this."

He simply nods, kneeling to rummage through the chest at the base of the bed. There's something in the air that I've never felt before. It's cold and distant.

Malik typically can't spend a minute without putting his hands on me. But tonight, he seems to forget that I'm in the tent as he keeps himself busy.

I hate this.

Clearing my throat, I say, "I am sorry about earlier. I want you to know that I don't fear you. I was just overwhelmed and overthinking"

He halts, keeping his gaze low. After a minute, he returns, "And I am sorry...for everything."

I lay in our bed, feeling uncertain about the future. Malik remains awake, sitting on the table in the corner and writing on parchment, the lanternlight making his square jaw look sharper.

He's a handsome man. His attractiveness is easily recognizable, as it's clearly written on his features. Behind that front, though, is a complex personality. Malik is a difficult man to understand.

I fall asleep without him. And when I woke up the next day, his side of the bed was as cold as last night.

I change into a pair of pants and a long-sleeved top, sensing the chill in the air outside. This morning is misty and quiet.

I step outside, braiding my hair I take in the camp. The earth smells refreshed.

I look around for Joan, War, and Malik, wondering what's coming next. We have unfinished business. The townmen.

I contact War first, finding him pacing outside one of the healer's tents.

"War," I call for him.

I stand before him, and his eyes fasten on me. Dark and unyielding, and yet I'm unfazed because I've got experience with domineering men like him.

"Good day. I wanted to apologize for yesterday."

"It was of no consequence," he replies, reaching for his bruised cheek. "Malik was not himself."

"I know," I reply. "And I understand why you lost your cool."

He nods. "He meant nothing by it. Do not worry yourself, Grace. I still regard him as a brother."

He glances behind him and widens his stance. Looking jumpy. An odd look that I've never seen on this General before.

"Have you seen him, actually?"

He hesitates to answer. And I wonder if he's about to lie.

And why.

"Yes," he replies.

"Can you point me in his direction, please?" I glance at the healer's tent. "Is he getting treated by the healer?"

Right then, I hear a female voice coming from the healer's tent. It's Kitto. Her voice is followed by Malik's deep rumble, though I cannot make out the words.

They're together in there.

Why?

What the hell does Kitto have to do with Malik in private, and why is War standing out here like an inadequate chaperone?

I narrow my eyes on War. "What's going on?"

"You should turn around and return to your tent, Grace. This does not concern you."

It doesn't concern me, but it concerns Kitto? She has no business being in private with Malik. Joan already spoke with her about moving into the camp. Everything should be settled.

"The hell it does," I snap. "Move aside, please. Because I'm getting in that tent one way or another."

I have a bad feeling about this; instinct tells me to get the hell inside.

"I'm sorry," he says, crossing his arms over his giant chest. "But that's not happening."

I ignore him, stubbornly side-stepping him. But then the General does something that I've never expected. Something that would put Malik into another fit of rage.

He puts his hands on me, grabbing my biceps in his giant hands and dragging me back to where I was. His hold warm and strong–just like Malik's, and yet so unfamiliar.

He pins me to the ground, keeping me away from the tent to protect Malik's precious secret.