Preview

Ingrid was getting thirsty.

It had been an hour since the Strong family—or rather, the other half of the Strong family—had defeated her and her son Albrecht. She had been stripped of the fetishistic Nazi apparel that she wore both to showcase her beautiful supremacy and taunt Tom Strong with the sexuality he had once succumbed to. Without the earrings, the choker, the corset emblazoned with swastikas on its wonderfully crafted buckles, she was naked but for her elbow-length gloves and thigh-high boots, both of black leather.

They had tied her up. She was uncomfortable—the chains were too strong for her to break, so it would come as a shock if they didn’t cut off her circulation, but her fingers and toes felt alright so far. She could still wiggle them.

“Excuse me,” she said, in a voice that was unusually contrite for her. “Can I have a glass of water?”

She knew someone had to be listening to her, monitoring her. She’d been taken to the Stronghold and set in a room, but it wasn’t a prison cell. There was a bed, furnishings, comforts—only she was tied to a chair.

The door opened suddenly. Dhalua Strong—tall, dark black, with lush obsidian hair falling down to her back—stood there. Tom Strong was there as well. Neither of them wore any semblance of modern clothes, but the tribal clothing of Attabar Teru. Tom had on only a loincloth of tanned leather, showing off almost all of his robust, virile physique, while Dhalua wore two scraps of animal fur strung over her pubis and backside, a feathered necklace doing only a little to conceal her voluptuous breasts. A headdress of animal bones held her mane of long hair in one long tail.

“Quiet,” Dhalua said immediately, and Ingrid felt anything she might say shrivel and die, even as a thought. Dhalua had beaten her savagely before she was captured, and though Ingrid’s superhuman body had healed in the interval, she hadn’t forgotten the pain and humiliation of being on the receiving end of Dhalua’s fury.

“Husband,” Dhalua said, “her water.”

With all Tom’s exceeding height and burgeoning muscles, Ingrid had missed that he was holding a slim glass of ice water. He brought it to her, holding it so she could drink. When Ingrid finished, she looked into his eyes. She was searching for some emotional foible to play on, some seduction or ploy to work, but there was no help for her in the cold, blank darkness of Tom’s eyes.

“Understand this,” Dhalua said, her voice as cold as the water. “Ingrid Weiss, you have violated my husband, taking something only I have a right to. You’ve born a child by him, my child, and raised that infant to be hateful scum, as you are. My husband holds out hope that mercy and forbearance can work at you—that there is a single accounting of morality by which you may deserve life. But my anger, my people, my tradition insist that you die for the wrongs you have committed against so many, including your own stolen son. The only way I can make peace with both what you have done and my honored husband’s wishes for you is to revive an old custom of my tribe. In defeat, the women and children of a destroyed people can ask for sanctuary among the victors. They are given work as slaves and taken as wives by the warriors who undid them. As my husband defeated you, I will accept that you asked for this mercy, and that in accordance with Oda tradition, Tom took you in. As his property, the two of you mated. Since then, you have been an exceptionally willful, disobedient slave. You will be punished for that. Then, you will serve us, as you should have for all those years when you instead defied your masters and betters.”

“This is our only concession to you,” Tom said, his ringing voice somehow muted. It was clear that there was no appeal, no distance between husband and wife on this matter. He backed Dhalua’s play one hundred percent. “If you don’t accept it, you can die.”

“The Oda have traditional means of doing that as well,” Dhalua said, a hint of threat creeping into her already ominous voice. Whatever her fate would be, Ingrid could well believe Dhalua would relish it. “We don’t discriminate between the male and the female when it comes to rape. We have a punishment that is equally effective on both.”

Ingrid gulped. “I’ll submit,” she said. “I’ll be your slave.”

“Good,” Dhalua said. “Then it’s long past time you learn your place.”