Yes, Friends, here’s a full-length novel FREE to newsletter subscribers and certain other special friends (see details below!). This time around, Delilah fans are very special! Jump into another world and another time as you meet Caerwin and the man who will destroy her life.

We’ve all met men like that, haven’t we?

Caerwin of the Cornovii, a young woman with a promising life ahead. How could she anticipate the horrors about to unfold? Nothing in her experience prepared her for the Roman Army or this commander who would make her his sex slave. Yet between her hatred for him and his deliberate conquest of her body, a strangely luminous emotion takes fragile life between them.

Here’s a scene from the book Caerwin and the Roman Dog. Warning: this exchange is non-consensual.

Her wrists chafed raw at the bindings. Shadows grew dark on the forested hillside and frogs sang in the marshes. Overhead, cloud bands took on the late gold and crimson of sunset. Thin columns of smoke rose from campfires and the smell of roasting meat sent gnawing pangs to her stomach. Chills gripped her body and her teeth chattered in the spring cold.

“Have you tired sufficiently that I dare bring you inside?”

She startled at his voice. He had bathed and wore a long draped garment with a broad red band around its hem. He stood with hands on his hips, watching her. She turned her face away, afraid to speak.

“I asked you a question,” he said, wrenching her head back by her hair and holding her face toward him. “And I expect a respectful answer.”

“You will have no respect from me,” she said, her lips moving stiffly in the cold. “I will kill you at my first chance.”

He gripped her hair tighter forcing tears to her eyes. “Antius,” he shouted. “Come.”

An older man with dark eyes and an oversized nose emerged from the tent. Gripping her arms on both sides, they brought her inside. Warmth from a charcoal-heaped brazier filled the interior. A narrow sleeping platform occupied the far corner, while a small table with chair sat near the entry. Oil lamps flickered and a heady scent wafted through the air.

She stumbled forward as the men dragged her to the center post where her wrists were briefly untied. Her ripped dress was removed and her upper arms and ankles then tied loosely to the post behind her.

“Bathe her,” the tall man said with a wave of his hand. “She stinks of her kind.”

Antius hurried to fill a pan with warmed water and set it near her feet. With a sponge, he scrubbed her face and neck then proceeded down her arms and legs. The warm water soothed at first but then the scratches burned and chills swept over her as air hit her wet skin. Her teeth chattered loudly.

“A drink, Antius. Give her warmed wine.”

The cup rattled against her teeth as the wine came to her mouth. She clenched her teeth with no intention of drinking, but on the man’s order, Antius held her head back by her long braids and poured the sweet wine through her lips. Some of it escaped to trickle down her neck, but more of it filled her throat with acidic warmth. When the goblet emptied, Antius returned to the bathing.

Humiliation consumed her as the sponge scoured every inch of her flesh. Once the bathing had finished, the squat dark-haired man scrubbed her with a dry cloth until her skin heated. He then applied herb-scented oil. She stood naked and gleaming in the lamp light as the tall man came to inspect her.

“My name is Marcellus,” he said. “I am your master. You will learn to do as I say, or you will die.”

“I wish to die,” she said hoarsely. Her tongue felt thick. The day had lasted an eternity and the shock of its events had hardly begun to settle in her. The wine hit her empty stomach and spread dizziness across her forehead.

He waved his hand dismissively. “Easy to say. But death doesn’t come quickly to women in our camp, not to one such as you. Without me, you would wish to die many times before your last breath.”

His touch spared no part of her as he examined his trophy. How many war trophies had he already captured? Surely the Romans took what they pleased. Virico had spoken often of the intelligences carried from other tribes, how the Romans swarmed like a plague of insects covering the land, how bargaining for life came with terrible sacrifice of freedom and hard-won goods. She would not bargain.

She bit her tongue against another remark as Marcellus’ hands cupped her breasts then her buttocks. Her eyes dipped in the effects of the wine and her warming after so long in the cold. He took his time touching her, one hand now between her legs as he fondled her most private parts with studied concentration. A particular spot captured his attention. He stroked her there, inciting tremors in her legs.

“Ah, she is a woman, Antius,” he said with a laugh. “I will tame you,” he said, leaning his face close to hers as his fingers continued a wretched play. “You will cry out on the end of my prick, and joyfully.”

Giveaway

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About the Author

Lizzie Ashworth lives in the wilds of the Ozark Mountains with three cats, two hound dogs, and too many deer in her yard. She’s been writing her entire life and wants her readers to know how much she enjoys sharing her naughty stories.

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