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a much larger creature. The ogre who was not quite an ogre entered, gold eyes passing fleetingly over Yhalen’s curled form before ignoring him in favor of shedding the armor that encased his body.
    Yhalen stared—couldn’t help but stare in horror—at the creature into whose possession he’d been given. Piece by careful piece, the armor was shed and placed on a crude wooden rack. Thick, rippling muscles, encased in smooth, pale skin that shifted in the light between olive and ocher, were revealed.
    A fine coating of black hair matted a broad chest, trailing down a stomach corded with muscle, to disappear under the band of leather trousers. Black hair shifted about those broad shoulders, sweat damped, but for all appearances soft and sleek. The ogre went to the bronze basin and washed its face, soaking a rag and wetting the back of his neck under the thick mane of hair. It was a methodical ritual, almost, the care in which he cleansed his body. Quite surprising, considering the stench of the four that Yhalen had traveled as a prisoner of.
    Finally, the ogre turned, damp with drying water, all seven foot plus of him bristling with barely suppressed masculine energy, piercing gold eyes very much now interested in what lay upon his bed.
    He padded forward, his movements rolling and predatory and bent to press a knee to the pallet.
    Yhalen flinched, nails biting into his palms with dread. He curled his knees close to his body, in a vain effort to protect himself—to cover himself—and the ogre’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile of amusement, before it reached down and grasped his knees, turning him easily onto his back, forcing his legs down so that it could access his shrinking body.
    “Please, please, please...don’t....“
    He hardly realized he was whispering. Hardly heard himself over the blood pounding in his ears.
    His supplication had certainly made no difference to the others when they’d been torturing him. The sound of his voice had only seemed to make them want to hurt him more.
    They had no more effect on this one. He ran a hand—granted, a much smaller hand than the others, but still large enough to easily cover Yhalen’s face with his palm—up Yhalen’s stomach, to graze one nipple with a thumb. Then up to his face, brushing back the wild tangle of Yhalen’s hair to bare the curve of his cheek, the hollow of his eye, the smooth angle of his forehead. A finger pressed against his lips, pressing the softness against his clenched teeth, as if it wanted entrance. Terror or no terror, Yhalen wasn’t yet prepared to declare such submission.
    But that seemed to amuse this one as well, and he let his big hand drift back down the body below his, again pushing down the knee that rose involuntarily to protect the flesh between Yhalen’s legs. He was palmed and shifted, the ogre lifting his balls and prodding at the clenched entrance behind them.
    Yhalen did shut his eyes then, mortified, pulling uselessly at the rope binding his hands to the pallet frame.
    “Don’t—touch me—don’t—murdering monster!” he hissed, twisting enough to get the leverage to kick out. The ogre fended off the blow with one arm, his amused smile fading to something more deadly that showed the sharp points of his fangs. He rose suddenly, towering over Yhalen on the low lying pallet, loosening the laces of his trousers and stepping out of them, revealing legs every bit as long and well-muscled as his arms and between them—well, certainly nothing as terrifying as what his full-sized
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    brethren possessed, but—an organ that would intimidate even the proudest human male. It probably wouldn’t kill him, if the ogre planned to use it as he feared—but it would hurt a great deal.
    The ogre, as naked as Yhalen now, but oh, so much larger and stronger, snatched Yhalen’s flailing legs and settled on the pallet between them, turning Yhalen onto his stomach and scooting up so that Yhalen’s legs were spread to