Traded For Their Pleasure

Traded for their Pleasure Coveted Prey Book 16 L.V. Lane Copyright © 2023 L.V. Lane All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-922630-30-8 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author. The author does not grant permission for any AI solutions to read and process this content. Cover character art by Softdraws Cover design by Three Spires Creative Editing by Steph Tashkoff Created with Vellum Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Epilogue About the Author Chapter One Megan My husband is a con man who is always working a scheme. Hal buys and sells bits and pieces, usually at a loss. We have a house full of junk and a storage shed stuffed to the rafters with more. He was sweet and charming when we first met. He used to make me laugh. Then we married, and it all went downhill from there. He travels a lot, trading and bartering all over the land. I barely see him, which is a blessing, for whenever he is home, I wish he wasn’t here. I know my thoughts are wicked, and I imagine that the Goddess surely looks down with a frown. But when I wedded him for better or worse, I didn’t know it would always be worse. I live on scraps, mostly. Today, I’ve called on our meager stores and a few root vegetables from the garden to prepare a stew, which might last us a few days if I keep the portions small. With the help of herbs and spices, I have added a little flavor. I sew, and I weave, and that brings in a small amount of coin or supplies. This week I’ve gotten half a dozen duck eggs, a sack of oatmeal, and enough coin to buy flour to make the bread that will supplement tonight’s meal. Hopefully, Hal has something from his latest travels that our local lord might want. He returned yesterday morning from parts unknown with a laden cart, and then went off to peddle his wares, promising that we would be eating the best beef for supper. If anything is bought, it will be out of a sense of charity. The lord’s men have taken to warding Hal off afore he even gets near, so I don’t hold my breath. If Hal sells naught, he will be in a bad mood and waste whatever coin he has supping beer at the local tavern all night. Maybe he will leave again tomorrow. If he leaves, I can stretch the stew for a couple more days. When he enters the cottage, however, I already know it has not gone well for Hal or me. He is drunk, and bemoaning our lord as a bastard. Our lord is a fair man who takes no nonsense. He also stepped in last year when Bessy lost her husband to the pox, taking both her sons as apprentices to work his land and gifting the widow enough supplies so she could get through the winter. As Hal takes a seat at the table, I feel shame for my situation and that we have come to this. His cheeks are ruddy from the drink, and his speech is slurred as he orders, “Get me some dinner, wife!” I get him a bowl of the stew and put the fresh bread on the board before him. He scoops a spoonful of stew up, only to spit it back out. “What is this filth?” He tosses the bowl to the floor and rises from the seat. “Where is the beef I bought?” I stare at the rolling bowl for long moments before I can find words. “Husband, you brought no beef.” He seems confused, staring around the room before he storms out of the house. “Going to make some fucking money,” he calls. “One of us has to.” Then he is gone, and the door slams behind him. “Money? What money? When have you done anything but leach what little I can scrape from our vegetable patch and the two scrawny chickens?” No one answers, for there is no one here but me. I heave a breath, eyes lowering to the mess he has made on the floor. I want to cry. I want to cry that he’s wasted food. I want to cry that I picked him. I want to cry that I have been a fool. Instead, I swallow my tears. I pick up the bowl and clean up the mess. That is one less meal that either of us might have. Hal will go back on the road. Perhaps, even now, late in the afternoon, he readies his cart to depart. I pray that he does. Worse, I know that, when I take to my cold bed tonight, I will pray that he may never come back. My problem is that he always does. Sometimes he is drunk, like tonight, and sometimes he has a cart full of junk that he claims he will sell for a profit but never manages to. I dash a few errant tears from my cheeks with the back of my hand and tell myself not to linger in self-pity. I will get through this, somehow. Maybe I can talk to Hal once he sobers up. Maybe if I make him a cup of his favorite tea, with the last of the honey, I can sit him down and