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prove a point,” Ishara hissed between gritted teeth. “This is why your land is dead. You have no respect for the life it presents to you.”
    Mechan’s dark gaze rested on Ishara, her words echoing through his head. Maybe it was true. Had he really become so disrespectful to the Spirits? Perhaps it was after his wife’s death that he started to shut out the Spirits. He’d turned his back on the ones that had stolen his wife and child, leaving him alone for the rest of his days.
    She watched him with those irresistible green eyes. They softened with pity and her nose wrinkled when she took in his pain. He had made a mistake by dropping his guard down and revealing a hint of his emotions to her. Before she had a chance to pull herself to her feet, he grabbed her by her dread locks and yanked her up to stand. “Now, we will return home, and I won’t hear a word out of you the whole way back, girl.”
    She snarled at him. Her animalistic reaction reminded him of the prowling cats, stirring something within him.
     
     
    They walked the rest of the way back to the camp in silence. Often, she hissed in frustration, but did not talk, just as he asked. He followed behind her, watching the way the curves of her ass shifted up and down as she climbed over fallen tree limbs, making her way through the dense, forest path. He studied the muscles of her thighs as they tensed and released.
    Tugging at the strings of his loincloth, he tightened it around his waist. He forced his mind to keep thinking of his wife, his dead wife, whom he loved so much and would never betray. But Ishara, the enemy’s daughter? She called to him without having to say one thing at all, and she threatened his promise to himself—to never love or take another woman again.
    When they reached the camp, Mechan immediately drug Ishara by her arm and put her into her slave pen. He wanted to yell at her. He wanted to scream. If she would just obey him, he would not have to punish her. But she did not and he had no choice. Her defiance reflected his failure as a chief.
    In the end, he chose to say nothing and walked back to his tent—alone. Pulling aside the beaded flap, Mechan ducked into the coolness under the canvas that protected him from the burning, afternoon sun. He pinched the bridge of his broad nose and lowered himself into a pile of heavy furs, the furs he had Ishara kneel on as he emptied his seed down her throat.
    The more Mechan sat alone, thinking about her, the more his thick root responded. It almost hurt him. He could not give in. He loved his wife. Loved her…his dear, dear wife.
    He rose and approached an old trunk. Dipping one of his hands into the items within, he fished around and pulled up a thin thong of leather with a tooth pendant. His wife wore it around her neck when she lived, a reminder of the first kill that Mechan brought back for her—a mountain cat, just as he almost killed for Ishara, though for different reasons.
    Mechan’s hand closed around the necklace. He tucked it back into the trunk once he had cooled, no longer lusting for the pretty, disobedient thing out in the slave pen. “She will learn her lesson, or I’ll keep her in there for the rest of her days.”
    Or maybe he would have her for company come dinnertime. It would not be so insufferable eating by himself if he had someone to talk with. Even if that someone grated his last nerve and set his loins on fire.
     
    * * *
     
    Ishara sat naked across from Mechan, her legs folded and tucked under her bottom. Her stomach rumbled in hunger, but she left everything in her bowl untouched. She wanted nothing from him. If that meant she had to starve trying to prove her point, then she would.
    Her dreadlocks were still damp, despite hours of lounging outside in the pen watching camp life pass her by. It embarrassed her to be locked away like a pet for all to see. Her renewed sense of pride overcame the hunger pains. Food was the least of her worries. She had to find a