Bullied Bride

  Bullied Bride

  Hollie Hutchins

  Contents

  1. Pearl

  2. Pearl

  3. Desmond

  4. Pearl

  5. Desmond

  6. Pearl

  7. Desmond

  8. Pearl

  9. Desmond

  10. Pearl

  11. Desmond

  12. Pearl

  13. Desmond

  More By Hollie

  For Sale On Display

  Sold To The Master

  Sold To The Prince Of The Meldanians

  Let’s Be Friends!

  Copyright

  1

  Pearl

  I knew it was risky, heading to Graves territory. After all, the Graves are more tolerant of the other families. Unlike my father, who would sooner shoot a member of the Claymore clan rather than suffer their presence in his lands, the Graves allow all the families to intermingle. Families who have various monopolies on the economy around here – people who’ve managed to carve themselves out a niche since everything changed.

  “The bar they have is great,” Emma assures me, though she has a hand braced against my shoulder blades, as if to suddenly push me somewhere if danger intruded. “It has a lot of the tech from the old world, so we can play games, play pool – there’s even a small golf course in its garden where people play.”

  Golf and pool aren’t things I’ve tried before, and I’m eager. Everything’s utilitarian in the Hartson farmsteads. My father, and all the other Hartsons and their retainers believe in effort and toil, and loathe wasted time. Doesn’t stop the younger of us going out and finding ways to waste our time, anyway, but the family motto follows us all the way to the afterlife. There is one thing bugging me, though.

  “We won’t see any Claymores there, will we?”

  Emma scrunches her face in distaste, sharing it with me. “It’s a possibility,” she concedes. “I haven’t seen any there yet, though. Even if we did see one,” she adds, brown eyes glittering fiercely, “they can’t hurt us. The Graves will see to it. They don’t like the families fighting. Not at all.”

  I’m dubious, but too excited to see what the bar is like. My father’s retainer families seem to head over here all the time. I keep hearing them talk about this great place they keep visiting in Graves territory, how it’s great they have a neutral policy so that any feuding families just drop their weapons at the border, so people don’t have to worry about talking a walk through their territory and being gunned down by someone… it seems too good to be true. My uncle Ian was originally a Graves, before he married my aunt. It took Emma a lot of persuading for me to leave my own gun behind, because I didn’t feel safe leaving the farmstead without it.

  The green, arable lands of the Hartsons and our retainers fade into the rough, craggy domain of the Graves. The plant life is scarce, mostly grass with scraggly flowers and some twisted trees. My brother says that the Graves territory was hit by a really big bomb back in the day, which is why there’s a great crater where the original city used to be. You can still see the bones of some of the buildings, metal and stone, but the Graves have since focused on building their city outside of that ruined center, and preserving the heart as a kind of pilgrimage location. I’m interested in seeing it for myself, since all I can imagine is great metal spikes sticking out of the ground, and black earth beneath them. We have ruins in our lands as well. Old corroded structures, and a place people say used to be an entertainment park of sorts, where people used to ride on cars that went on bendy train tracks, and slide down metal chutes. I’ve tried the Ferris wheel as a child – most of the Hartson kids like to boast they’ve rode it at least once. No one’s died on it… yet.

  My mind is full of the past as two Graves retainers inspect us as we cross into their territory, patting us down to make sure we’re not holding any weapons. I notice how the Graves keep their weapons very open and obvious, and don’t like feeling so vulnerable to them, but they let us through without much incident.

  “It’s not much further. You’ve got to try their ale, they’ve got a special one they call a Coughin’ Coffin, but we just call it the Coffin.”

  “Is that safe?” I don’t think naming a drink after a coffin sounds particularly safe. We produce some lovely ciders on our farms, thanks to our well-tended orchards, but I’ve heard they only have access to gut-rot drinks and hard liquors where the land isn’t so good, and if they don’t want to trade with us.

  Like the Claymores. Excellent land with isolated areas where they produce some supposedly great ales and meads, but there’s a conspicuous gap in trade between our families. Those curious to try the enemy family’s goods will get them in neutral territory. Most of us, however, would not touch a Claymore product.

  “It’s about as safe as any drink you’re going to get. Oh yeah, make sure you don’t leave it unattended – sometimes you get guys trying to get lucky by drugging lonely drinks. You drink one of those, next thing you know, you’re naked in some alleyway somewhere.” She grins as she says this, but I find myself feeling more and more alarmed by the second. Emma sold me on all the amazing things about this bar, but now she decides this is the time to start cramming with all the potential dangers of going to it.

  Thanks, Emma. Really helpful.

  “I suppose you’re going to warn me about the bandits, too?”

  “Oh, we’re fine from bandits. The Graves patrol their territory better than they do ours,” Emma says, and I let out a little snort at that. Families like mine, the Hartsons, pay the Graves to patrol around our perimeters, to stop invaders outside of the economy threatening us. There’s people who live wild out there, rather than adhere to laws like we do, or trade for resources. A few nomads risk the journey to bring our families luxury goods from other lands, but mostly, we shoot bandits on sight.

  Emma finally stops pushing me on the back, long enough to point out a fancy looking building with white walls and black beams running across it. A thatched roof completes the look, and we walk inside the building, instantly hit by warmth. Two fires are burning, puffing their smoke into chimneys, and people are sat at tables, or standing up at strange, glittering machines, or walking in from what looks like a back garden, holding long, thin clubs. I tug at my Hartson sash nervously – yellow with black stripes – and shrink behind Emma.

  “Damn, your family really needed to let you socialize more,” Emma says, gently prodding me towards a table. “Okay, I’m getting you a Coffin. Sit tight!”

  A coffin, I think wryly, looking at some of the decorations in the crowded bar, and seeing miniature coffins dotted around the counter, including one with a drink tucked in its open casket. It feels strange to sit here, with so many strangers. I’ve been in bars before, sure – we have plenty on Hartson lands, given that we make some fantastic drinks and it’s a shame if we can’t even sample them ourselves, but I know almost everyone in those bars. Everyone wears a Hartson sash to show they belong to us or are us, and you’re safe among your fellow people.

  Here, there’s different sashes. Different colors, different families here, including some I don’t recognize. There’s no flood of yellow and black to provide security. Other people choose to ditch their sashes altogether, so we’re left with nameless people who could be bandit or Graves, for all I know. It doesn’t feel safe. I watch Emma like a hawk as she orders drinks and brings them back. “It’ll set a fire in you, promise,” she says.

  I grimace and sip at it from the glass. It looks like black sludge, and I can certainly imagine that being in someone’s coffin, and the first assault of flavor is so strong that I cough, spluttering. A few patrons near us cheer and slam their mugs down at my reaction.

  “You have to sip at it,” Emma says wit
h a huge grin. “Or you give the drink its name, you see?”

  “Ha,” I croak, coughing a little more, before doing as she suggests. It goes down slower this time. There’s still a burn, but I also catch some strangely sweet notes in it, too. Huh, not too bad. The Graves can make some decent things.

  Though Hartson drinks are far superior, of course.

  When it doesn’t look like people are hovering in wait to spike my drink, I begin to relax a little better, and Emma eagerly prepares to lead me to all the things she’s been raving about, ever since she discovered I’d never gone to the Border Bar. At Emma’s persuasion, I take off my sash, so that I can be truly neutral.

  “When you come here, you should let go of what you are,” she insists, demonstrating the lack of sash she’s wearing as well. I do it, though I can still see quite a few people who’ve chosen to keep their sashes all the same. I feel naked somehow, without my sash on display. It’s a banner of pride, a mark of identity, and it no longer defines me.

  First, Emma takes me to the machines, which are arcade games. I have to pay old style quarters which the bar provides in exchange for our currency, and it’s fun, being able to control characters on the screen and make them do things. We’ve had evening games, of course, and physical games we played in the fields, but this is the first I’ve seen of this type. Emma drags me along afterward to the mini-golf course in the back garden, and we have those long, thin clubs too, and we’re supposed to whack a tiny white ball into tiny holes, except it’s not as straightforward because there are obstacles in the way.

  About halfway through my course, I bump into two guys who are stuck on the same obstacle. Bump is probably not the best way to describe it, as I saw the men ahead of us, and I definitely noticed they were stuck, and we were closing in on them with each successful hole.

  “Hey,” one of the men says. “You’re gonna have a hell of a time with this one. Bobby here still can’t get it done, and it took me probably 15, 16 tries.” He shakes his head, and I smile. He’s got a wonderful, easy manner to him, and there’s something in the glint of his dark eyes that draw me in.

  “What’s the problem with this course?” I ask, while Emma happily lines up her shot, ignoring the man’s companion, Bobby, who seems about ready to throw his club at the wooden wall of the bird-hut obstacle.

  “That,” the man replies, pointing at the bird-hut. “The left and center holes reset it. The right one’s the correct one, but if you hit too hard, it goes off course and resets, and too light, it gets stuck in the box. There’s some tube the ball rolls down, but it’s probably broken.” He seems happy to explain to me, and I’m more than happy to listen, as he has a deep, soothing voice, the same kind I remember Bearded Mitch having down at the farm, when he read stories to the kids before bedtime.

  Aiming a golf club isn’t that much different from shooting a bow, or a gun to me. You need the correct angle, the right pressure, and with the man’s advice, Emma and I get the ball through the right hole instantly, while his friend Bobby starts from the beginning again.

  “Shouldn’t have said anything,” he says sourly.

  “Thanks!” I reply, giving him one of my biggest grins. Emma watches us with a rather knowing smirk on her face.

  “So!” Emma says, suddenly bounding between us. “I’m Emma. This is Pearl, and she’s a real Pearl, I can tell you that, raised up right and everything. And you are…?” She looks expectantly at the man, who has one of his eyebrows arched.

  “Desmond,” he says, reaching out a hand for me to shake. I accept it, noting his strong, solid grasp, thinking that my father would approve of a good handshake like that. “The slob over here’s my buddy, Bobby. Tell you what, Pearl and Emma – you beat us in this course, we’ll treat you to a round of drinks. Sounds good?”

  “Sounds great,” Emma purrs, and I find myself blushing. I see what Emma’s doing, and I resent it.

  “Don’t try and smush us together like dolls,” I hiss to her, as we take on the next course, while Desmond shouts both insults and encouragements at Bobby. “I’m just here to try out the bar.” And see the Graves territory. And be out of the shadow of my family, constantly bearing pressure on me to look to one of our vassal clans for a favorable match, as I would be allowed to keep the Hartson surname, and produce more Hartsons for our extensive dynasty. This particular change was introduced some ninety years back when the head Hartson ended up producing something like twelve women and no men, threatening to end the Hartson name, since a plague had taken everyone else. About two major clans had become extinct in the male line without this law, sitting instead as a sad footnote in our histories.

  “What’s the point in living life if you can’t have some fun as well? Nothing wrong with some friendly male interaction,” Emma hisses right back.

  “I can’t do that,” I insist, screwing up my next shot, feeling a tiny bite of annoyance. “My father’s going to arrange a marriage for me, one that’s going to benefit us greatly. It’s how it’s done with our families. I’m not like you, Emma. You can marry whoever you want. I can’t.” It’s a truth I’ve a hard time swallowing, even if I know the lines by heart. Emma’s a retainer without the Hartson name. She works for our family, but her marriage won’t make or break things. She can choose who she wants, move to whatever land she wants and shed identity freely, because she doesn’t have the weight of a name behind her. She is free to love. I must look to politics first. I must represent the Hartson clan. I must uphold their legacy.

  “It’s silly is what it is,” Emma says. “What’s the point in marrying someone you may never like? Wealth and power don’t hold a candle to love.”

  Easy to say, I think, looking at my friend, when you don’t have any wealth and power.

  My next shot connects, and we progress to the last of the obstacles in the course. Bobby seems to have finally overcome his, though there might have been cheating involved. A Graves bouncer wearing his gray and black sash peers at us to make sure there’s no trouble, and Desmond catches up slowly, smiling a light smile, the kind that steals attention for unexpected seconds at a time. Watching him discreetly, I have to admit that he’s a handsome devil. Annoyingly handsome, like he was built in that specific way to appeal to all my senses, and I dislike it. His dark eyes are hooded, holding a lazy brilliance to his expression. His cheeks are sharp and defined, what my mother might refer to as noble cheekbones. Whatever that means. His midnight hair frames out in curls, messy ringlets plastered to his forehead from when he’d slathered his whole face in water to cool down.

  There’s a lean strength to his body frame, too, barely concealed by the white tunic he wears, and the black shorts. Even with the sunlight fading above us, there’s a shimmering heat to the land that keeps us all warm. Or maybe the heat is all my own doing.

  “You’re staring,” Emma whispers, nudging me. “Possibly drooling.”

  Damn. So I am. I instantly try to play it cool, like I was interested in the tree with a few birds perched on its slender branches, but I’m fooling no-one. Desmond strides up to me, one sharp eyebrow raised, a rather incongruous smile attacking his lips. “You’re dawdling on the last shot. Is everything okay?”

  “Just admiring the scenery,” I say lightly. Admiring you, I think, hating and loving the heat of desire blooming in my soul. It's not the first time I've felt an almost rabid sexual attraction to someone, and it probably won't be the last. Sometimes desire hits like a punch, limiting my capacity for reason. Turning me into a base creature craving the touch of a man. You need to save yourself for marriage, my mother says.

  Loosen up. No one cares if you fuck before you marry, from Emma, from so many others. They all do it anyway.

  “I’m doing the same,” he says, ostentatiously examining me from head to toe. Stoking the flames in me further. No chance of pretending he hasn’t noticed me looking, then.

  “Perhaps we should get to know each other a little better,” I say, voice dipping to a whisper.

 
He grins, his eyes twinkling and hard, the smile almost a leer. “I’m thinking the same. Drinks? On me, of course.”

  “Sounds great,” I purr, taking my shot, and landing it in the last hole. Emma claps, and Desmond nods in acknowledgment.

  Many drinks later, and bad judgment all around, we plummet into bed, dissolving into the sweaty world of lips, hips, and tongues. Of bodies melded together, chasing release and a deeper connection. Though I fling myself in the act, it's too sloppy, too quick for me to truly love it. My senses are too muted from drink, my balance all out of equilibrium.

  Not quite the romantic first time I'd dreamed of. Propping myself up on my elbows, I watch as Desmond, humming tunelessly, washes himself down and dresses himself back up, taking a long time with the buttons of his tunic. The sour taste of beer lingers in my throat, though I’m sobering up better now, registering that yes. I did give into that desire. I did do contrary to what my family wanted.

  I can’t help but notice that twang of disappointment within. Something about the sex was missing. No other way to think about it. We were both drunk, both dazed with lust, fumbling at one another in a graceless heap as we sought the skin beneath. There was even a discussion about which hole to use, and I believe we were together for all of two minutes before he was spent. I had that tantalizing promise of something more, of fluttering on the precipice of true pleasure, of finally understanding what it is about sex that makes people rave about it – and then nothing.

  It ended. Though he apologized profusely, Desmond didn’t want to do anything afterward. If anything, he almost seemed embarrassed by what he’d done, as if he was ashamed of giving into his desires. Perhaps he has his own pressures to live up to. Perhaps he feels like me.