The hay in the stable loft was soft and golden, smelling of summer and horses. Lyssa sat with her back against a rough timber beam, her fine wool cloak spread beneath them. She pulled a cloth wrapped bundle from its folds. A large loaf of dark bread and a thick slice of cold, salted beef she’d palmed from the breakfast table. She offered it to Kian with a shaky smile.
“Here. You must be starving. After… last night.”
He looked at the food, then at her, his dark eyes soft. He nodded, a faint blush touching his cheeks as he took the offering. He broke off a small piece of bread and began to nibble at it, his movements delicate, almost dainty. It was absurdly adorable. This was the same boy who had pinned her wrists and taken her with such raw, animal ferocity. Now he ate like a shy woodland creature, his gaze lowered.
Lyssa just stared, her heart doing a funny little squeeze in her chest. The fear and panic about tomorrow momentarily receded, washed away by a wave of pure, fond affection. She watched the careful way his jaw moved, the way his tongue darted out to catch a crumb from his lip.
Then, without warning, the dam broke.
She lurched forward, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in the warm hollow between his shoulder and jaw. A ragged sob tore from her. “I don’t want to,” she wailed, her voice muffled against his skin. “I don’t want to marry anyone! I want to stay here. With you. Only you.”
She wept in earnest then, hot, messy tears soaking his tunic. She felt his body stiffen in surprise, then soften. One hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers threading through her braid. He held her while she shuddered and whimpered, pouring out her fears about Lord Corvus, her anger at her father.
And then, as suddenly as it began, the storm passed. She drew in a huge, hiccuping breath, pushed herself back from him, and stood up.
“It’s just so unfair!” she shouted at the rafters, her fists clenched at her sides.
Kian stared up at her, his eyes wide, a piece of meat halfway to his mouth, utterly bewildered by the emotional whirlwind.
Lyssa looked down at his confused face, and a giggle bubbled up through her residual tears. She plopped back down onto the hay with a soft whump, her arms immediately wrapping around his waist, her head finding its place on his shoulder.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
Kian let out a silent breath that was almost a laugh. He shifted, then brought the piece of meat to her lips. She opened her mouth and let him feed her, the salty, rich flavor blooming on her tongue. He did it again with a bit of bread, his movements patient, tender. They sat in silence for a long moment, the only sounds the distant stamp of a horse and their own chewing.
The quiet and the simple act of being fed soothed her. And then, her mind, ever restless, circled back to the source of all her current physical reminders.
She turned her head to look up at him, her chin resting on his shoulder. A mischievous, curious glint entered her tear reddened eyes.
“Kian,” she began, her tone suddenly playful. “Where did you learn all that?”
He blinked, tilting his head in question.
“You know,” she pressed, poking his chest. “The… skills. The things you did. Last night.” Her own cheeks flushed now. “We’ve known each other forever. I’d have known if you were sneaking off to tumble milkmaids in the hayloft. So… how? Are you secretly reading illicit poetry? Did a traveling bard give you lessons?” She was half-teasing, half-desperately curious. The memory of his mouth between her legs made her thighs clench subtly.
Kian’s blush deepened. He shook his head emphatically, a small, helpless smile on his lips. He pointed to his own chest, then made a vague, fluttering motion with his hands near his heart, his expression earnest.
“You just… knew?” Lyssa whispered, understanding.
He nodded, his gaze intense.
In the master’s chambers, the door had barely slammed shut before Lord Barlon acted. He didn’t carry Lady Anya to the bed, he threw her. She landed on her back on the wide mattress with a soft oomph, her fine gown billowing around her. He was on her before she could right herself, his massive body covering hers, his hands not fumbling with laces but grasping the neckline of her dress.
A low, hungry growl rumbled in his chest. He pulled, and the expensive silk tore with a sharp, rending sound, exposing the creamy swell of her breasts and her thin chemise beneath.
“Barlon!” Anya gasped, but it was followed by a throaty, delighted giggle. She arched into him, not away. “I’m not going anywhere, you animal. Relax.”
“Relax later,” he grunted, his mouth descending to suck a hard, possessive kiss onto the skin he’d exposed. His beard scratched her delicate flesh. One hand shoved the torn fabric and her chemise up to her waist, his fingers finding her already slick and ready. He shoved two thick fingers inside her without preamble, his other hand pinning her wrist above her head.
“A month is too long. I need to be in you. Now.”
In the cold, sparse stone cell that served as his chamber at the church, Priest Eldrin knelt on the rough floorboards before his narrow cot. He clutched his rosary until the beads bit into his palms. He was muttering, his voice a dry, desperate rasp.
“…forgive me Father, for I have sinned… the flesh is weak… the temptations of a cruel angel… her mouth, O God, her wicked, perfect mouth… I spilled my seed in depravity and… and drank another’s…”
He bowed his head, a fresh wave of shame heating his face. His cock, traitorous and soft just moments ago, began to thicken against his thigh at the memories. The feel of Anya’s throat. The taste of the girl’s innocence on his skin. He groaned, his prayer dissolving into a confused murmur of guilt and illicit arousal.
Back in the servant’s attic dormitory, the servant girl lay on her thin straw pallet. The other servants were still below, cleaning the hall. Her rough linen shift was pushed up to her neck. One hand squeezed and pulled at her nipple, pinching it sharply, mimicking the delicious pain Lady Anya had given her. The other hand was buried between her legs, two fingers thrusting deep into her own slippery heat.
Her eyes were closed, seeing not the rough hewn rafters but the cool, commanding gaze of her mistress. She remembered the feel of Anya’s tongue. A shocking, brilliant invasion that had made her scream. She remembered the order, “Cream his cock for me.” She pumped her fingers faster, imagining it was Anya’s hand, Anya’s command. A small, broken whimper escaped her as she chased the ghost of that powerful, controlled pleasure, her hips rolling uselessly against her own hand.