The morning sun streamed through the high windows of the great hall, painting long, warm stripes across the flagstones. Lyssa sat at the vast oak dining table, her hands wrapped around a large, mug of ale. She felt… different. Every slight movement, every shift in her seat, sent a quiet, pleasant echo through her body. A deep, satisfying ache nested between her thighs, and a sharper, more secret tenderness pulsed from her backside. She wore a simple gown of deep green wool, her red hair braided neatly down her back. But beneath the civilized exterior, her skin felt sensitized, humming with the memory of calloused hands and desperate touches. Her lips were slightly swollen. She took a sip of ale, hiding a secret smile.
He’d gone out the window before dawn, she remembered, a thrill of danger mixing with the afterglow. An unauthorized servant found in a noble’s bedchamber wouldn’t be whipped. They’d be burned.
Across the table, Lady Anya sat with her usual cool perfection, her own gown pristine. The servant girl, her face pale, tired, stepped forward to refill Lyssa’s mug. The girl’s hands trembled slightly, causing the ale to slosh. The girl’s eyes were wide, fixed on nothing. And behind her, hidden from everyone’s direct view by the girl’s own body, Lady Anya’s hand was moving. It crept around the girl’s hip, under her simple slave dress, and squeezed the soft curve of her buttock through the rough linen. The girl flinched, a tiny gasp escaping her. Anya’s expression didn’t change, her other hand delicately raising a piece of bread to her lips.
“I’M BACK!!”
The voice boomed through the hall, a sound of pure, unchecked vitality. Anya’s hand vanished instantly. The servant girl bowed slightly then scurried backwards into the shadows of the hallway, disappearing. Lyssa jerked to her feet, her chair scraping loudly. Anya stood too, smoothing her gown.
Lord Barlon filled the doorway. He was a mountain of a man, taller and broader than any soldier in his service. His shoulders seemed to strain the leather of his travel-stained jerkin. Chestnut hair, streaked with grey, fell in a wild mane to his shoulders, and his beard was thick and bushy. He wasn’t just large, he was powerful. Every movement spoke of raw, physical strength. He looked like he could lift a horse, or, as he promptly demonstrated, two women.
With a booming laugh, he strode forward. Before Lyssa could utter a greeting, a massive arm hooked around her waist, and another around Anya’s. He lifted them both clean off the floor as if they were sacks of feathers, squeezing them in a crushing, affectionate embrace. Lyssa’s feet dangled, her breath whooshing out. She caught a whiff of horse, leather, and male sweat.
“My beautiful girls!” he roared, setting them down with a careless thump. He dropped into the great chair at the head of the table, the wood groaning in protest.
“Ale!” he commanded, and a different, servant rushed forward.
He drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand adorned with heavy silver rings.
“By the gods, it’s good to be under a solid roof. A month in a damned tent, listening to my captains snore.” He launched into a tale of his raid on a riverland village, his voice filling the hall. He spoke of broken gates, scattered resistance, and rich plunder now loaded on wagons trailing behind his company. He ate with the same vigor, tearing into a joint of meat with his fingers.
Lyssa picked at her food, the pleasant aches in her body a private counterpoint to her father’s bluster. Her mind was in the stables, with the quiet boy whose silence spoke volumes.
“Oh, and a funny thing,” Barlon chuckled, swallowing a mouthful. “On the road back, just at dawn, I saw that milksop priest, Eldrin. Stumbling about near the treeline by the west pasture. Looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Pale as a ghost, robes all askew.” He laughed, a great, rumbling sound. “Probably drunk on communion wine. Or more like, drunk from fucking whores all night!” He slapped the table, delighted by his own joke.
Lady Anya’s face was a serene mask.
The meal concluded. Lord Barlon pushed back his chair, the legs screeching. He stood, stretched his massive arms, and then, with a playful growl, reached for Anya. He didn’t offer his hand. He grabbed her by the wrist, yanking her up from her seat. In one fluid, powerful motion, he bent and tossed her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of grain. She let out a genuine, breathless giggle, her fine gown hiking up to reveal her calves and the delicate straps of her shoes. She gripped the back of his clothing.
“A month is too long, wife,” he said, his voice dropping to a intimate, possessive rumble as he turned toward the great staircase. He landed a loud, open-palmed smack on her buttock, the sound crisp in the hall. Anya yelped, then giggled again.
“Dry masturbation in a tent full of smelly men is no substitute,” he continued, starting to climb.
“I intend to compensate. Thoroughly.”
He was halfway up the stairs when he stopped. He turned, looking back down into the hall. His eyes, bright and sharp, found Lyssa. The playful tone vanished, replaced by business like finality. “Almost forgot. My daughter. The discussions with Lord Corvus are concluded.”
The name hit her like a physical blow. Corvus. Old. Fat. Smellsmock. Lecher. A breath that smelled of decaying teeth.
“He’s eager. You’ll meet him tomorrow at noon. He’ll want to inspect his new bride. See that you’re presentable.” He gave her a firm nod, as if settling a matter of livestock, then continued up the stairs, Anya’s delighted squeaks fading.
Lyssa sat alone in the silent, sun drenched hall. The pleasant aches turned cold. The secret smile died. Tomorrow. Panic, sharp and clean, sliced through the afterglow.
Fear.
Huh?
Without thinking, she moved. She strode to a cloak-stand near the door, pulling a heavy, hooded woolen cloak around her shoulders. She pushed open the great oak door and stepped into the crisp morning air. Her feet, in soft leather boots, carried her across the dew jeweled courtyard, past the kitchens, down the gravel path.
Toward the stables.
The familiar smell of hay, horse, and leather filled her senses. She slipped inside, the dim light after the bright sun making her blink. And there he was. Kian. His back was to her, his strong shoulders flexing as he forked fresh hay into a stall. He wore his simple tunic and trousers, the fabric stretching across his back.
He was just a stable boy. Her stable boy.
He must have sensed her. He went still. Slowly, he turned.
The sight of him, here in his domain, after the terror of her father’s announcement, broke something in her. The cool composure she’d worn at breakfast shattered. Her chin trembled. Tears, hot and sudden, welled in her eyes.
Kian’s eyes widened. He dropped the pitchfork. It clattered on the stone floor. In two long strides, he was before her. His hands came up, hovering near her face, his expression etched with urgent concern. A silent question.
“ My Father is back,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “The marriage... I have to meet him. Corvus.” She sucked in a shuddering breath.
Kian’s jaw tightened. He reached out and pulled her into him, wrapping his arms around her cloaked form. He held her tightly, his face buried in her hair. She clung to him, her tears soaking into his tunic, her body shaking.
After a long moment, he pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes, dark and intense, scanned her face. Then, one hand came up. His thumb, rough with calluses, brushed a tear from her cheek with a tenderness that made her sob harder.