When she finished her duties, it was well past the joining of the triple moons. Hessa trudged to the barracks where she slept at night. She washed her body with soap, tepid water, and a cloth, then crawled into her small cot and pulled the single blanket over her body. Sleep didn’t claim her as it usually did, despite how tired she felt. Instead, she lay awake staring up at the ceiling. Her fingers ran across her lips, back and forth, as Gunnar had done. She imagined he was with her in the small room, and that his large body crushed down atop her. She sighed, content in her fantasies.

Waking dreams like this were futile. When the women were sent to Gunnar’s cell, he would take them. All men did. She had seen enough of them go through the cells to know. Some were violent. Some were not. But all of them took that offering. His soft touch was probably all a façade to gain her trust.

She grazed her fingertips across her cheek, then down the side of her neck until her hand dipped beneath the blanket. Although she knew she should not want to be one of the brothel women, she wanted to be one, if only to be placed in Gunnar’s cell for a night-a single night to be taken by him, or touched in the way he had caressed her. She turned to her side and closed her eyes, trying to sleep.

Outside the small window of her allotted room, the wind picked up, tapping a branch in the glass. She thought the sound was like a tiny heart beat, a rhythm steady and slow, and she soon fell into dreams. They were not the usual nightmares she suffered of her masters beating her when she didn’t work fast enough, or the large, black bugs that hid in the privy. This night she dreamed of Gunnar’s body, of setting her fingers in the bindings of his loincloth and untying the fabric. Her night vision had her pressed nude against his warm body, held close by his strong arms. She knew what he was-a warrior, a protector. And if anyone needed such a man, it was her.