Chapter 1
Eliot Hawthorne had just purchased Lady Isolde for two silver coins from the local human traffickers, and now she sat stark naked on his wooden bed, glaring at him with fierce eyes, having left three bloody scratches on his forearm. He found himself locked in a standoff with this fiery girl, his mind still reeling from her sudden presence at his home. It all began a little while ago when Eliot, a hunter by trade, had ventured out to the Inn of the Roaring Lion in Havenbrook to trade his catch for silver coins every few days. That morning, he had checked the traps set by his friend, Thomas, and brought back two wild chickens and a plump boar. He delivered his haul to Gideon, the innkeeper, and was pleased to receive two silver coins in exchange. With coin in hand, Eliot had intended to buy a quality bow and arrows at the blacksmith’s shop on the eastern side of town. An excellent bow would maximize his hunting efficiency, allowing him to spare the trouble of setting traps and ensuring animals wouldn’t escape once caught. As he strolled through the bustling marketplace, he suddenly felt a light tug on his pant leg. He glanced down to find it was Isolde, her grip weak but insistent. He instinctively pulled away, only to turn back, intrigued by her. What he saw made his heart sink. Lady Isolde was locked inside a narrow wooden cage, filthy and forced to hunch over so her long hair fell in tangles around her face. Her delicate arm slipped through the gaps of the cage, the same arm that had grabbed him moments ago. It now hung limply at her side, caked in dirt, with ragged nails littered with grime. Lady Isolde, surprised that he paused, lifted her head slowly. Her tangled hair revealed half of her face, which bore the same dirtied look. While she seemed beaten down by life, there was a brightness in her eyes—a fierce, unyielding glimmer. She had an oval-shaped face, a delicate mouth, and a small nose, though a dark scar marred her forehead, a grim reminder of the trauma she had endured. The dried blood on it had turned black, leaving behind a sinister mark. This broken woman, stripped of her dignity, brought to mind the cruel realities of a world rife with turmoil and conflict. Eliot had witnessed suffering before but had never felt compelled to act, until now. He studied her for what felt like an eternity. Despite her pitiful condition, the fire in her eyes remained—like a wild animal caged yet restless, she refused to yield. It tugged at something within him, much like the time he encountered a pure white fox caught in one of his traps. The creature had howled in pain but fought fiercely to escape, its brilliant blue eyes flashing with defiance as it tried to free itself, even if it meant losing a leg. He had waited three long hours before returning to that trap only to find the fox willing to do anything to avoid becoming prey. That fierce pride had struck him deeply. He finally opened the trap and let the fox go. Now, that same indomitable spirit appeared in Lady Isolde's gaze; he could not help but feel a connection to her struggle. “How much for her?” Eliot dared to ask the human traffickers, pointing at Lady Isolde in the cage.
Chapter 2
In the dim light of the tavern, the human traffickers caught sight of Eliot Hawthorne, dressed in ragged fabric that spoke of hardship and struggle. They underestimated him, assuming he was just another poor soul looking to join the revelry. One of the traffickers, young and eager, called out, “Two silver coins for the girl—no haggling!” Two silver coins could feed a family of three for a month, while the price for the frail, worn-out Lady Isolde was a small fortune. Eliot, however, showed no hesitation. He pulled two silver coins from the clasp of his belt, the coins glinting in the low light, and extended them towards the traffickers. “Here you go,” he said gruffly. The traffickers' eyes widened at the sight of the coins, amazed that this country dweller was so well-off. They quickly switched gears, their voices turning smooth and persuasive. “Sir, wait! Look over here. We have several more, all at competitive prices. Though they may cost a little more, I assure you, they’re far lovelier and far more accommodating than this worn girl. Perfect for warming your bed at night!” “I don’t need to look elsewhere. I’ll take her.” Eliot’s gaze locked onto Lady Isolde, who was trapped inside a wooden cage. She understood his words, her eyes flickering with a hint of hope, yet she remained silent, trapped in an anxious stillness. The trafficker, sensing a potential hiccup in their deal, added, “Sir, I pride myself on honest dealings. Isolde is the one you’ve chosen. If there are any issues later, there’s no return policy.” Eliot dismissed the man's words with a wave of his hand, shoving the coins into the trafficker's palm without further discussion. Without even using a key, he bent down and with a single, powerful tug, he snapped a wooden slat with his muscular arm, freeing Lady Isolde from the confines of her imprisonment. The scene left both the traffickers and Lady Isolde astounded. None had expected such a swift act of force from this seemingly destitute hunter. In that moment, Eliot’s determination radiated fiercely, revealing his fierce spirit, undeterred by the dark world around him.
Chapter 3
Eliot Hawthorne was no stranger to stubbornness, and he was certainly not one to mince words. Clutching Lady Isolde firmly in his arms, he marched forward with purpose. The sun was setting, casting long shadows on the often-trodden path leading back to Havenbrook. Her soft body pressed against his chest, she squirmed, her legs tangled around him as she attempted to break free from his grasp. It was like carrying a wild creature trying desperately to escape. If he turned her around, it would look like a child caught in a moment of instinct, relieving himself on the ground. But Eliot, despite the shock of his actions, felt no shame. His silver-spurred boots sank into the dirt as he continued onward, the weight of his decision already bearing down on him. A mere half a mile away awaited the modest confines of Havenbrook. The reality of their situation seemed to weigh heavily on Lady Isolde; she barely acknowledged the fact that she was being cradled in the arms of a rough stranger. However, with Eliot's strong iron grip on her waist and shoulder, she found herself gasping for breath against his muscular frame. Desperate, she began to kick and scratch, like a wild beast caught in a snare. Eliot had seen plenty of desperate prey in his time, armed with instincts that could outmatch any instinct. He anticipated her every move. With one arm holding her securely and the other pressing down gently on her back, he kept her from slipping away, like a chain binding her to him. Lady Isolde had been locked away in that wooden cage for weeks, surviving on little more than a thin broth a day. Though her strength was fading, she fought with surprisingly fierce energy, leaving scratches across Eliot’s neck as she strained against him. Frowning in irritation, Eliot slapped a hand against her rear, his voice low and firm. "Stop moving. If you don't, I'll drop you right here." Standing at nearly six and a half feet, Eliot towered over her as he held her against him. Despite the fear radiating from her, Lady Isolde couldn’t escape the instinctual awareness that he was in control, both physically and mentally. But it wasn’t his threat—nor the slap—that quelled her struggle. It was the inevitable collapse of her energy. At last, she sagged, her breath coming in shallow gasps against his shoulder. Eliot thought maybe, just maybe, she had finally settled down. Then, to his surprise, pain shot through his shoulder as she bit down on his tunic, teeth sinking into his flesh, a flicker of defiance reflecting in her fierce, dark eyes. The pain wasn’t much to Eliot—not more than a mosquito bite. Besides, he was built from hardened muscle and grit; if anything, it would probably hurt her more than it hurt him. Ignoring her little display, he continued to move forward, not caring about the noise or the pain she inflicted. Minutes passed, and inevitably, her grip loosened. She had no choice but to breathe softly against him, her breaths lighter than before. Eliot couldn’t help the small smirk that crept onto his face. There was something oddly satisfying about carrying the defiant woman, knowing she had finally reached her limit. He felt a rush of triumph as he started to walk faster, the path familiar beneath his boots. With her body resting against him, he inhaled her scent—a mix of sweat and dirt lingering on her delicate skin, mingled with a hint of something reminiscent of fresh wood as if she were a part of the forest itself. Yet, he wasn't oblivious to his own aroma. He had spent the day tracking game, the scent of boar still clung to him, mixed with the sweat of exertion from the long journey home. Not exactly pleasant, but the smell was far from repugnant. Eventually, he reached his humble abode and gently laid Lady Isolde on the rustic wooden bed. Eliot then hurried to the cookhouse, where he started a fire to heat water, grabbing a wooden basin as he prepared for her arrival. With swift and rough hands, he stripped the filthy garments from her, discarding them carelessly onto the floor, revealing the tattered remnants of her past. Today was just the beginning, and she would soon learn that reality had a way of confronting the strongest wills.
Chapter 4
Lady Isolde was exhausted, her sleep shallow ever since the humiliation she endured at Thomas's hands. For weeks now, she had remained partially awake, even in her dreams. When the physician—Fellow Richard—began to remove her clothing, Lady Isolde's striking, defiant eyes shot open. In a frantic response, she lashed out, her sharp nails raking across Eliot Hawthorne's hand, leaving behind three crimson lines. However, despite her struggle, Eliot continued his ruthless task, pulling her clothes from her, until she was standing completely bare before him. The dimly lit room was nothing but a shabby little hut, its window tightly closed, letting in only the faintest glimpse of sunlight. Lady Isolde's eyes fluttered, confusion flickering across her face as she struggled to understand her surroundings. Eliot was furious at the injury she had caused him. The first time had been a fluke; he had been unable to escape her grasp. This time, however, she was once again in his clutches. His anger boiled over, evident both in his expression and rough hands as he swiftly and callously stripped her of her remaining garments, including her undergarments, leaving her completely exposed. Lady Isolde fought back with all her might, her voice a desperate series of muffled cries—like a cornered creature fighting for its life. Eliot had once set a fox free because it was merely an expendable pawn in his grander schemes. But Lady Isolde was different; she was a prize he had paid dearly to reclaim. She was Eliot's Ellen, and he would not let her go. Her struggles only further ignited Eliot's rage. He furrowed his brows, binding her hands with rough, coarse fabric; the rough brown cloth wrapped around her wrists three times before he tied it with a tight knot. “Hmmph,” he grunted from the side of the bed, his eyes fixing on the sight of her. He scanned her form, anger briefly subsiding as he took in the stark reality of her nudity contrasted against her porcelain skin, bathed in dim light. Lady Isolde—a vision of quiet strength—lay helplessly upon the bed, exposed in a vulnerable position. Despite the confusion of her situation, she was undeniably beautiful, her long legs… with that delicate waist and soft curves, Eliot could already imagine how blissful it would feel to claim her. In the midst of his thoughts, he noticed her rapid breaths, each one a soft quiver that stirred his desires further. The tiny red marks where she'd scratched him still throbbed, and he couldn’t help but feel a darker hunger building up inside of him. “Tsk,” he uttered, discontented with the image before him. Even though Lady Isolde was bound, she still glared at him defiantly, her fiery spirit undaunted in the face of his dark lust. Eliot's amusement at her bravado faded as he felt her fury radiate like heat. He moved deliberately, pressing himself to the bed, encircling her with arms that were both powerful and possessive. “Ah…” she struggled again, sensing the danger that loomed ever closer. With a sudden movement, Eliot raised his hand sharply and brought it down with a resounding slap against her backside. Despite controlling his strength, the force was enough to leave a deep, red mark upon her. At just seventeen, Lady Isolde was no stranger to pain, yet, nothing could prepare her for such humiliation at the hands of a man she barely knew. “Umm… ah…” she gasped as he struck her again. Each hit was met with her useless attempts to evade, but Eliot did not relent. With a sadistic satisfaction, he alternated the strikes, turning her tender skin into a crimson hue until not a single patch of white remained. Eventually, after several more blows, Lady Isolde ceased her movement, whether from surrender, fear, or exhaustion—it was hard to tell. She lowered her head, biting her lip, tears swelling in her eyes but refusing to spill. Eliot finally halted, his calloused hand resting atop her backside as he breathed heavily. “You are mine, purchased with silver to serve as my Ellen. Even if I wanted to take you against your will, it would be nothing more than a natural consequence of your presence in my domain. You will obey me, for you are now under Eliot Hawthorne’s roof.”
Chapter 5
Eliot Hawthorne hadn’t read many books and his language was rough. The coarse terms he used were all learned during his time in the military. He noticed that Lady Isolde had stopped struggling and was lying still; the physician’s hands remained steady as if in a midwife’s touch. Lady Isolde’s skin felt feverish, and Richard’s hands were even hotter, pressing against the inflamed wound, sending waves of heat coursing through him. Eliot understood the nature of a beast — Lady Isolde’s quietude was not a sign of her acquiescence or resignation. It was merely temporary compliance; once she caught her breath, she would still strike back at him like a cornered animal. Everyone said to conquer Isolde, one must first crush her spirit, a truth that Eliot recognized. With a mocking tone, he remarked, “I can tell you’re not satisfied, that you look down on me, a rough soldier like Matthew. But that’s the world we live in: it’s survival of the fittest. You can’t overpower me; your only way out is through death, bashing your head against the wall again.” He hadn’t forgotten the gash on her forehead — her head must have taken quite a hit. Upon hearing these words, Lady Isolde, exposed and vulnerable, tensed up. Her previously relaxed hands curled into tight fists, revealing her fury. Eliot noticed her subtle reactions and continued, “I know you don’t want to die. If you truly wished for that, you could have chosen to perish when those human traffickers captured you, so why hang on? Why struggle to survive, only to reach out for my trousers in the street? You’ve chosen me, and I’ve chosen you, so you must adhere to my rules.” His words rang deep within her heart. Just as Eliot dubbed it, the wound on her forehead was not an act of desperation. When she had fallen into the grasp of the brothel keepers, she had been forced into exchanging her purity for survival... Blood had streamed down her face, and her captors had assumed she was dead, leaving her discarded in a mass grave. She had fought to regain consciousness, only to succumb to blood loss once more, awakening in the hands of the traffickers. For the past two weeks, she had been shoved around, unaware of where she was being led. She did not know how, when she saw Eliot on the street, she had suddenly reached out. This Richard was a choice she had made. Now, a flicker of doubt appeared in Lady Isolde’s heart, causing her to retract her sharp thorns. Eliot waited patiently and, noticing that she remained composed, felt a sense of satisfaction. “Remember my name: I’m Eliot Hawthorne. The Thorns of Hawthorne.” He said, tightening his grip around her waist, pulling her onto his lap as she sat between his legs. When he glimpsed tears shimmering in her eyes, he reached out a rough finger to brush them away. “Why cry? If tears worked, you wouldn't have been sold like cattle. If you’re going to cry, let it be because of what old Matthew does to you in bed.” At his words, Lady Isolde’s subdued gaze reignited with defiance, glaring fiercely at him, pain flaring beneath her eyes—not from tears, but from his callous touch. Eliot ignored her fury, picking the naked Lady Isolde up and relocating her to a wooden basin he had prepared. The basin was shallow, meant for a child, and barely accommodated her size. She shivered at the cold water, the temperature having cooled while they had argued, and her complexion turned pale. Watching her discomfort, Eliot muttered a low curse, “What a hassle.” Lady Isolde was awkwardly seated in the basin, her eyes finding Eliot’s, unsure whether his annoyance was directed at the puddles on the floor or at her. Just then, Eliot stood abruptly, his tall frame looming like a mountain. Without giving her a moment to breathe, he left the room and returned moments later, carrying a bucket of steaming hot water.
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