2

It does not hurt anymore. It was the girl's first thought. Only then came the slow realization that she seemed to be alive. Then fragmentary pictures of recent events flashed in my memories: bloody bodies, an attack by the undead, a wound... Markats!

She opened her eyes abruptly and almost jumped. At that very moment, my stomach was deeply cut with pain, my breath caught, and the bright light blinded me. There were tears in my eyes. Almost immediately, someone's persistent and strong hands pressed on his shoulders, forcing him to lie back down.

The girl tried to catch her breath, not making any more attempts to move. A voice next to him cursed in displeasure. The picture before her eyes gradually gained clarity, and the girl saw a small room, a wide gap in the fireplace opposite, the soft light from which at first seemed so bright. Then she froze, barely breathing - a tall, broad-shouldered man was standing very close, thick reddish-brown hair was gathered in a ponytail at the back of her head and descended below her waist, a rather beautiful face, tensely compressed lips, eyes gleaming with green. A bare torso marked with pale streaks of scars. Scars from claws and teeth. A red tattoo on the chest and shoulders, a tie of some ancient symbols. Markat. Strong, dangerous, ruthless and bloody predator. Werewolf.

"Why am I still alive?"

-How are you? he asked, hesitating. Beautiful and deep velvety voice. There was no threat in it, but the girl was instantly thrown into the cold.

“You know our language,” she said softly and slowly with numb lips. Suddenly, the girl felt how weak she was. This werewolf could kill her now without a second thought. But for some reason it doesn't.

-I know. the man agreed. His gaze slowly slid over the face of the captive, then moved down to the chest and stomach. She was involuntarily thrown into a fever. She lay in bed, covered only with a thin white cloth. The girl just clenched her teeth. "It would be better if he killed immediately ..."

-Who are you? the man asked again, looking into her eyes.

The girl swallowed. What to say? Lie? But Markat will instantly feel the lie. He smells her, hears her heartbeat, follows her gaze. She exhaled softly through her teeth.

“I am Deamara, daughter of Ulgar, ruler of the Anmar,” she said slowly, weighing every word.

The man tensed up sharply. His gaze was frozen. He looked at her almost with hatred.

- Are you the daughter of Ulgar? Not a voice, but a hiss. Another man entered the room, subtly similar to the first one, a little more slender and flexible, younger. Delicate facial features and some sly eyes. Now evil narrowed. Her hair is also red, braided into many small braids, collected at the back of her head in a ponytail. The same tattoos, but less scars. Why are they walking around here half-naked? Deamara involuntarily followed him with her eyes. This is how they usually follow a predator when the muscles are numb, and there is no strength to look away.

“My brother is Bery,” the werewolf, who looked older, explained. He turned around in warning. - I am Aznar, the ruler of the Markats.

She took a deep breath, trying to control her trembling. So that's where it took her. In the very lair of the enemy. The only question is, why is she still alive? Want to get ransom? Kill her in front of her father? Torture? Pictures, one worse than the other, flashed before my eyes.

-What you need? - Deamara could not stand the silence. - My father will pay you. Gold, lands, magical artifacts. Anything you want ... - the words were given with difficulty. The girl felt humiliated, but she wanted to live more.

Hearing the last words, Beria laughed. His eyes were still glaring at her. But there was also some strange interest in them, from which it became uncomfortable.

“We don’t need gold, land, or magic,” Bery came closer, examining the girl, just like his brother before, which made her ears redden and her fingers turned cold for some reason. “You can say goodbye to your father, and with anmars. You will never return home.

Inhale-exhale. The worst fears turned out to be true. They don't want riches, they only want her death. Most recently, she was almost dead anyway. Her people are dead, they're left in that clearing. And she should have stayed there. Sticky fear gripped the girl. What are they waiting for? Don't they have the honor to just kill her, and they first mock her to their heart's content? Although, what to expect from them, they are animals! Deamara looked at these deadly predators with hatred, putting all her courage into this look.

- Will you kill me?

Aznar and Beriy looked at each other quickly. Aznar nodded slowly to his brother.

- We won't kill you, Deamara, - Beria said thoughtfully. You are our Lanaren.

Who?! Deamare sharply lacked air. She expected anything but this. Lanaren is a woman destined by the Gods. The second half, the only fate. The one that will be with Markat all his life. Become his woman, the mother of his children. His property... It's impossible. She is not of their kind and will never be able to love them. And my father would never let that happen. It's better to die than to live among enemies, like... like a concubine with no right to anything.

“Better kill me right away,” the girl asked quietly, not looking at the Markats standing by the bed. -I can not.

“We can’t,” Aznar said quietly, somehow soothingly. None of us will touch you. You can't run away. You just don't have a choice.

“There is always a choice,” Deamara said doomedly, not believing it herself.

“You don’t,” Beria snapped. -Don't think that we are happy that our Lanaren is an inferior anmark!

Aznar shook his head in warning, but Bery ignored this gesture:

- You won't be able to conceive. You won't have children. You are Lanaren for me and Lanaren for my brother too. We will have no heirs and our family is doomed. No other woman will be able to conceive from us, because we have found our ... the only one, - he almost spat out the word, - the cost of our species, you see, - the man finished mercilessly.

By the end of his tirade, tears had flowed from the girl's eyes. She touched her stomach with her hand, feeling the thick bandages through the thin fabric. Damn thing... She was on her way to the fiancé her father had chosen for her. Even if you manage to get out of here, who needs her like that? No one else will marry her. Everyone needs heirs. The heirs are boys. Especially when there is a war going on. Why didn't she die there in the forest like her people?

-Quiet, - Aznar said calmly, putting his hand on the girl's shoulder.

She shuddered involuntarily. They must not see her tears. You can't show your weakness to the enemy. Deamara took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.

-Does your father know where you are? Can he find you? - In the meantime, Beria asked with slight contempt, watching the girl's tears.

“No,” Deya answered quietly, there was no point in lying. - Most likely, when they find the wagon ... he will think that I am dead. There is something left...

"Very good," Berry chuckled. - You're not lying, well done.

- I just know that it is useless to lie to you.

-That's right.

The girl looked at the ceiling. It was sickening to look at the Markats. Nobody will find her here. Nobody will save. What kind of life awaits her here, surrounded by enemies... Lanaren. She can't even give them what they want. She will not have children. Useless. Deamara felt that they were both looking at her and silent. They didn't seem to have anything to say.

-When your wounds heal, you will appear with us at the altar of the Blessed One. We will perform a sacred ritual, and you will become ours,” Aznar explained. - After that - you will live in our castle, the servants will obey you. With any request, please contact me or Beria. No nonsense. Now rest.

They went out. And only then the girl was able to exhale. Despair firmly settled in her soul.

"Blessed". Are they talking about the one that the people call the Goddess of the Moon? This faith was almost forgotten in her homeland, but Deya still knew about it, very vaguely. 

The door creaked. A maid entered the room. Copper-coloured hair in a braid, a small neat face with a sharp chin and a slightly upturned nose. Distrustful and wary look. In her hands she held clean bandages and some kind of ointment.

- My name is Arleta, - the girl went to the bed. - I need to change your bandages.

Deamara gave her a short nod. The maid didn't ask any more questions. She sat next to me, laid out ointments and bandages. Carefully, she pushed back the cloth and carefully, fearful of causing pain, unwound the bandages. Deja scowled at the four crimson swollen welts across her belly. The upper one began under the left breast, the latter passed along the very bottom of the abdomen. It all looked disgusting. It is terrible to think what nightmarish scars will remain for life. Deamara winced in pain as Arleta lightly applied the cool ointment.

-How long have I been here? - the silence strained the princess, and it was foolish to be afraid of a fragile girl. Although the appearance of the Markats could be deceiving, it is unlikely that a maid will suddenly pounce on the chosen of her overlords.

“Three days,” Arleta answered willingly. - You didn't come to your senses. Our healer thought you were going to die... But we managed to get rid of the poison, and you were healed a little with magic.

-From poison? Was that creature also poisonous? Deya asked.

"Probably so," the maid nodded. - I don't know who attacked you.

"Me too," Deamara replied sullenly. I have never seen such hideous monsters before.

- Here you have nothing more to fear, - easily shrugged Arleta. - All right, I'm done. I think you'll be fine in a week.

-So fast? - Deya was unpleasantly surprised, hoping to stay in bed as long as possible. I didn’t even want to think about the ceremony and markats.

“These ointments were prepared by our aim especially for you,” the girl explained happily. -They heal wounds very quickly. Here you will see. 

After that, the maid collected bandages and ointments and went out, and returned a few minutes later, carrying a tray of food. Fresh white bread just out of the oven - still hot, a glass of milk and some white meat. Some blue berries are in a separate clay cup.

-What is it? The princess pointed to them.

-Imnesia. Helps with injuries. Accelerates regeneration and has an analgesic effect.

"Thank you," Deja nodded to the girl.

Do not hate all the Markats without exception. In the end, the attitude towards her could be much worse than now. You should not provoke them once again if she wants to live longer. And I still wanted to live, despite all the unpleasant prospects. Deamara clearly realized this when she thought that she could easily get to the window, open it and jump out.

A day passed, followed by another. Arleta came three times a day to change bandages and bring food. The princess was allowed to get out of bed only in the dressing room, which was located immediately outside the door in the room. And although each such trip was accompanied by pain and pain until darkening in the eyes, the maid claimed that the girl needed to move at least a little.

On the second day it started to rain, pounding against the small stained-glass window. Smooth, monotonous sound of autumn. Aznar and Beria did not come. Where they were and what they were doing, Deamara did not know, nor did she want to know. So she was calmer. At night, the girl cried, unable to contain her emotions. If she fell asleep, she saw nightmares: the bodies of her faithful people, their empty eyes and instantly gray hair, blood, blood, blood and a disgusting scream that cuts through to the bones ...