Her every nerve aflame from the depridations he subjected her body to, she nevertheless slid closer to him in the bed. Her hair draped across his chest as she ran her fingers across the scarred flesh of his face. Though she knew she should despise him for what he had done to her and her family….to countless families…she was, still and all, entirely his to do with as he wished.
Sometimes, in the coldness of the night, she felt shame for her subservience. Yet, she did not refuse him anything. He was The Warlord and would be so, until that eventual day when someone more ruthless wrested power from him.
Annoyed by her continued presence…her intimacy, he pushed her roughly away from him, belting a robe about his muscular form. She knew the morning would bring more death, more conquest. As long as there remained a single soul not subject to his domination he would not be content. And yet, she wondered if, just this once, she might dissuade him.
Her voice seemed small as she dared, at last, to speak, “Master, must your campaigns continue? Does the knowledge you have destroyed not merely villages or cities but entire countries not sate your need for bloodshed?”
Not deigning to even face her, she heard in his voice the sneer that twisted his features, “They were small countries. Now, cease your chatter and be gone from me.’
Sighing with resignation, she did as he commanded…as she always had…as she always would.