Page 9 of The Sea-Ogre's Eager Bride

VALI

Sleeping on the “floor” of the tent isn’t the most comfortable, but I’ve had worse. I wake up surprisingly refreshed to find myself alone in the sea-ogre’s quarters. He didn’t awaken me when he left, but that’s fine. He strikes me as a bit of a loner, and it’s going to take him some time to get used to having a wife around. I wonder if we’re going to live on the back of this turtle or if there’s a more suitable place. I can’t exactly ask. My new husband is already prickly with me.

At least, I think he’s my husband. I’m not certain what the marriage laws are with his people, but I know in certain lands, all it takes is a declaration towards a woman and then you’re bound to one another. We could be wedded at this point. I prefer to think of it like that. It gives my new situation a little bit more permanence, and my life has had very little of permanence thus far.

Yawning, I try to tidy the bags on the floor. I’m not sure what the reason is behind attaching a dried fish to each one, but I’m sure there’s a reason. Perhaps an offering to Vor if thebags should fall overboard? I should ask so I can do the same. I still need to give my offering to the great god of the seas, but I think he’ll understand that I’m not exactly equipped to fish at the moment. The bags in the tent are heavy, most of them laden with what sound like metallic objects. There’s a crate, too, but I don’t open it or any more of the bags. Ranan gave me a sour look yesterday when he saw me opening one, and I’m determined to get on his good side today.

I need him to like me because sleeping in his arms was far more comfortable than shivering out in the open. Plus, I’m absolutely famished with hunger, and he’s no doubt got food around here somewhere. If I make him annoyed at me, he’ll swim off again and then I won’t see him for hours, and I can’t catch my own food.

At least, not yet. If we’re to live on the back of a turtle, though, I suspect I’m going to have to learn.

Once the bags are straightened into (mostly) neat piles by the sounds they make when the objects inside clink together, it leaves a lot more room on the floor of the tent. Room enough for both of us to spread out comfortably, and I wonder if there’s bedding somewhere, or if it’s just not something he uses. I suppose I can ask when we get a bit more comfortable with each other.

I wish he’d let me suck his cock. Men are far more amenable to a woman’s demands when they’ve had their cocks sucked.

The ground shifts underneath my feet and I wobble, falling against the side of the tent with a yelp. I manage to catch myself before I crash through the strange leather and tear it, and stagger outside, looking around.

We’re…moving?

Even though I don’t see the turtle’s head, I can feel the strange surge of the body moving, and every so often, the lift of a long, angular flipper rising through the waters. The sea aroundus glimmers in the sunlight, startlingly beautiful, and I can see why someone would live on the waters. It’s so pretty. Seagulls fly through the air high overhead, clouds dot the blue sky, and it’s an absolutely gorgeous day with fair weather and a gentle breeze. It’s so much nicer than the cities, where everything smells like last night’s chamberpots and the only greenery to be seen is on sale in the market, and won’t be eaten by slaves because it’s too expensive.

I take a deep breath of the sea air and hug my arms to my chest. Get a blanket and some food and I could be happy like this, I think…provided my new husband will speak more than two words to me.

As if my thoughts have summoned him, Ranan’s head surfaces through the waters nearby. He tosses a fish the size of my arm onto the turtle’s back and then hauls himself over the side and onto the shell. He’s dripping with water, wearing nothing but his usual loincloth and the knife-belts that cover his chest. The sail atop his head shivers when he shakes himself off, and I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the flying droplets that go everywhere. “Good morning, Ranan,” I say cheerfully. “Are we going somewhere?”

There’s no answer. Why am I not surprised? The man acts as if he doesn’t even like me, which is quite odd considering he’s the one that asked for a bride. Perhaps he’s just not a chatty sort. If he prefers silence, I’ll have to learn to be a bit quieter. The old man I served when I was first enslaved liked for me to talk. He said it filled his empty house a bit, so I learned to chitchat as I did chores and talked about everything and nothing. If Ranan doesn’t want that, though, I can learn to be quieter.

I can be anything he needs, as long as he keeps me safe. And last night, he was kind to me. He saw me shivering and pulled me in his arms and kept me warm. If he truly hated me, hewouldn’t have done such a thing. Pleased at this realization, I beam at him.

Ranan eyes me with a hard gaze.

“If I do something that bothers you, please let me know,” I say, keeping my voice gentle and even. “I’m not here to make you miserable, but I won’t know you’re displeased unless you speak up.”

“It’s fine,” he says, voice gruff. His gaze falls to the gaping neck of my slave shift and then just as quickly veers away again.

I noticed him looking at my body last night. I might not be a noble lady, but I’ve got a strong frame and rather nice breasts, if I do say so myself. My slave shift is old and showing its wear, and I’m starting to think that dirt was the only thing holding it together. Now that it’s gotten wet, pieces of it have started to fray and tear quickly. The neckline gapes open far too low for a modest household, but we’re on a turtle’s back. I don’t know the etiquette for this particular location.

If I’m to stay with him, I should probably get something a bit more suited to sea life, though. Something that won’t fall apart too much. Something warmer, perhaps. Then again, he’s not offering and I’m not going to ask. It’ll do until it falls off of me, and then I can just run around in a loincloth like he does. I have to bite back a smile at the thought as Ranan stalks away.

He moves with purpose, I notice, as I follow after him. Every step is one made forcefully, as if he has a battle plan in mind and is simply executing it. I like it. Slave men tend to meander, because a prompt and eager slave just gets more work handed to them. You learn to be slower—cheerful but slower—and you learn to lie a lot.

Lies serve a slave more than the truth. I learned that very quickly. No one wants to hear from a slave that their work is too much, their master’s cock is not appealing when waved in one’s face, and the lady’s arsedoeslook big in that. Lies are aslave’s armor. They’re our safety. Of course we lie. It’s to protect ourselves. I do it as naturally as breathing nowadays.

Ranan picks up the fish flopping on the turtle’s back and then pulls one of his knives from the loops on his leather straps. I study them, noting that there are several loops and the knives themselves look to be made from large sharp teeth, some from hard scales, and some look like they were crafted from thick flakes of rock. All of them look rather deadly, and when he cuts open the fish with a single stroke, I realize they’re sharp, too.

With expert, quick movements, he slices the fish and guts it, tossing the innards over the side of the turtle. A moment later, he cuts a large, thick chunk of pink flesh out and holds it up to me with one of his many hands. Oh.

I take it gingerly and try not to wrinkle my nose. Parness was farther inland, too far from the shore for fresh fish, and the ones we got from the river were smelly and unpleasant. “I don’t mean to be a bother,” I say to Ranan, knowing that he’s going to hate my question. “But I truly don’t know how to cook without a fire of some kind. Can you advise me?”

He narrows his eyes at me. A moment later, he carves a second chunk from the fish and shoves the entire thing into his mouth, eating it raw.

Oh. Oh my. My nostrils flare and I swallow hard, because I’ve never had raw fish, and I’m not sure I’m prepared to eat such a thing. Growling stomach or not, food has to godownwhen one eats it, and right now my throat is locked tight. “I’ve never had raw fish,” I whisper, as if a quieter protest will somehow make him less irritated with me. “Won’t we get sick?”

He takes another chunk from the fish and eats it, staring deliberately at me as he chews. It feels like a dare, a challenge. If I’m to be a sea-ogre’s wife, I have to learn to eat like a sea-ogre, don’t I? Bracing myself, I take a small, nibbling bite, expecting it to taste horrendous.

It’s…quite nice. The flesh is tender and flavorful, and I pop the entire thing in my mouth with a noise of surprise. “I didn’t realize it’d be so good.”

He cuts off another piece and holds it out to me. “Never ate fish with all the other sea-ogres, eh?”

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