The interior was dim, lit only by a small hearth and the grey light leaking through gaps in the walls.
It smelled of smoke and damp wool and the sour tang of a house that had seen too many winters without enough repairs.
A low bed against one wall, furs piled on top. A table. A loom in the corner, half-finished work still stretched across it.
Castor closed the door behind him and barred it.
Outside, he could hear Greta's voice, high and desperate, begging someone to help Derran. No one would. They were too afraid. He'd made sure of that.
He crossed to the loom, ran his fingers over the fabric. The work was competent. Not exceptional, but steady. She hadn't lied about that, at least.
The door rattled. "My lord—please—"
He unbarred it.
Greta stumbled inside, hair wild, face streaked with tears and dirt. She looked at him with something between fury and terror. "What do you *want*?" she hissed. "You've crippled him, taken our names, what more—"
"You," Castor said simply.
She froze.
He stepped closer, and she backed up until her spine hit the wall beside the loom.
He kept coming until he was close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
"You're beautiful," he said. "I noticed the moment I saw you. Your husband noticed me noticing. That's why he got brave."
"I'm married," she whispered.
"I know." His hand came up, fingers brushing her jaw, tilting her face toward the thin light. "I don't care."
"He's bleeding outside—"
"He'll keep bleeding whether you fight me or not." Castor's thumb traced her lower lip, and she flinched. "But if you're smart, you'll make this easy. If you scream, if you claw, if you make me work for it, I'll have them break the other leg before I leave. Do you understand?"
Her breath hitched. Tears welled fresh in her eyes. "You're a monster."
"Yes," he agreed. "And you're going to let me fuck you anyway."
He kissed her.
She tried to twist her head away, but his hand was already in her hair, holding her still. His mouth was hard, claiming, tongue forcing past her lips. She whimpered into it, hands coming up to shove at his chest, but he caught her wrists and pinned them above her head with one hand.
His other hand moved down, rough and sure, tugging at the laces of her dress. The fabric was coarse, tied clumsily. It gave easily under his fingers. He dragged it down her shoulders, baring her to the waist.
She wasn't wearing anything beneath.
Her breasts were full, nipples already pebbled from cold and fear. He palmed one, squeezed hard enough to make her gasp, then bent his head and bit the other.
She cried out—half pain, half something she didn't want to name.
"Please," she sobbed. "Please don't—"
"Shh." He straightened, looked into her eyes.
"You'll live through this.
You'll go back to your husband, and you'll tell him you fought.
You'll tell him I forced you.
And he'll believe you, because it's easier than admitting his wife got wet for the man who broke him."
"I'm not—" She choked on the denial.
Castor's hand slid lower, bunching her skirts, dragging them up.
His fingers found the heat between her thighs, and she whimpered when he pressed against her through the thin fabric of her smallclothes.
"Liar," he murmured.
He tore the smallclothes away, fabric ripping.
His fingers slid through slick folds, and she shuddered, hating herself, hating him, hating the way her body responded when her mind screamed.
He worked her with his hand—two fingers pushing inside, curling, thumb circling the sensitive pearl above.
She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, trying not to moan, but her hips jerked forward against her will.
"That's it," he said softly. "Your body knows what it wants, even if you don't."
When she was trembling, thighs slick, breath coming in ragged gasps, he pulled his hand away and began unlacing his breeches.
His cock sprang free—thick, hard, already weeping. He gripped her hip with one hand, lined himself up, and thrust in without warning.
She screamed.
He didn't stop. Didn't slow.
He buried himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke, and the sound she made was somewhere between a sob and a moan.
Her walls clenched around him, tight and hot and wet, and he groaned at the feel of it.
He fucked her against the wall, hard and rhythmic, one hand still pinning her wrists, the other gripping her thigh and hitching it higher to get deeper.
The angle made her gasp, made her body arch despite herself.
"Tell me you hate this," he breathed against her ear.
"I—I hate you—"
"Louder."
"I hate you—"
Her voice broke on a moan as he ground against her, hitting something deep that made her see stars.
"Good." He bit her neck, sucked a bruise into her skin. "Hold onto that. Remember it. When you're lying beside your crippled husband tonight, remember how much you hated the way I made you come."
"No—I won't—"
But he knew bodies better than most people knew their own minds. He angled his hips, changed rhythm, circled her clit with his thumb, and felt the exact moment her resistance shattered.
She came with a wail, body convulsing, walls clamping down on him like a vice. He fucked her through it, relentless, chasing his own edge.
When he felt his balls tighten, he pulled out and spun her around, shoving her forward over the loom. She caught herself on her hands, gasping, and he kicked her legs wider and slammed back in from behind.
This angle was deeper, filthier. He could see where they joined, see his cock disappearing into her again and again, slick and obscene. He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise and pounded into her, the wet slap of flesh on flesh loud in the small room.
She was crying again, but her hips pushed back to meet him.
"That's right," he panted. "Take it. Take all of it."
He reached around, found her clit again, rubbed hard and fast. She shattered a second time, sobbing his title— "my lord" —like a prayer or a curse.
That pushed him over. With a groan, he buried himself as deep as he could and came, cock pulsing, flooding her with thick ropes of seed. He ground into her, making sure every drop stayed inside, marking her in the most primal way.
When he finally pulled out, cum leaked down her thighs, white against skin reddened from his grip.
He tucked himself back into his breeches, laced them calmly. She stayed bent over the loom, shaking, unable or unwilling to move.
"Clean yourself up," he said. "Go back to your husband. Tell him whatever you need to."
She turned her head, looked at him with eyes that burned. "I hope you die screaming."
"You and half the North," he replied evenly. He reached out, almost gently, and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "But I won't. And you'll remember this every time you see my colors."
He unbarred the door and stepped out into the cold.
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The village was silent.
Derran was still on the ground, pale and sweating, his leg splinted with rough wood and cloth. The headman knelt beside him, hands shaking. The rest of the villagers stood in a loose half-circle, faces carefully blank.
Castor's men were mounted and ready. Jeren held the completed ledger, ink still wet in places.
Castor swung into his saddle without looking back at the house.
He flipped through the ledger Jeren handed him, noted the names, the numbers that finally matched reality.
He closed it with a soft thump.
"Headman," he said.
The old man looked up, fear naked on his face.
"You'll send your counts on time from now on," Castor said. "If I have to come back here, I won't be as pleasant."
He let that settle, then turned his gaze toward the mud house. "And I'm taking the weaver."
The words dropped like stones into still water.
Derran's head snapped up, eyes widening despite the pain glazing them. "No—my lord, please, she's my wife —"
"Was your wife," Castor corrected, tone indifferent.
"Now she's coming to the Dreadfort. Her hands are skilled. I have use for skilled hands." His eyes flicked to the headman.
"Fetch her. Now."
The old man hesitated only a heartbeat before scrambling to his feet and hurrying toward the house.
Derran tried to rise, got his good leg under him, but one of Castor's men-at-arms stepped forward and put a boot on his chest, shoving him back down into the mud.
"Stay," the guard said flatly.
"No —" Derran's voice cracked, raw and desperate. "You can't—she's done nothing—"
"She's a resource," Castor said, looking down at him with the same expression he might use for a broken cart. "And you've already proven you can't protect her. So I will. In my hall. In my bed. Wherever I decide she's useful."
Derran's face contorted—grief, rage, helplessness all twisting together. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a choked sob.
The door to the house opened.
Greta stumbled out, the headman's hand on her elbow, half-guiding, half-dragging.
Her dress was retied, but poorly—laces crooked, fabric rumpled.
Her hair hung loose and wild around her face.
Her eyes were red, swollen, but the tears had stopped.
Now there was just emptiness.
She saw her husband on the ground and stopped, pulling against the headman's grip. "Derran—"
"Keep moving," the old man muttered, voice low and urgent. "Don't make it worse."
"Worse?" Her voice broke on the word. She looked at Castor, mounted and still, backlit by the grey sky. "What more can you take?"
"Anything I want," Castor said simply.
He dismounted in one fluid motion, boots hitting the frozen ground with barely a sound.
He crossed the space between them in a few long strides, and the headman released Greta's arm immediately, stepping back as if she'd caught fire.
Castor stopped in front of her, looking down. Even disheveled and broken, she held his gaze—hate burning in those dark eyes, the only resistance she had left.
"Come," he said, and reached for her.
She jerked back. "Don't touch me."
"I already have," he reminded her quietly.
His hand shot out, catching her wrist before she could retreat further.
His grip was iron, fingers wrapping completely around the delicate bones. "And I will again. As many times as I please."
He pulled her toward his horse.
She dragged her feet, tried to twist free, but he was stronger and she was still weak-kneed from what he'd done to her inside that house.
When they reached his mount, he put both hands on her waist and lifted her into the saddle as easily as if she weighed nothing.
She immediately tried to slide
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