Her scent is still on my hands. Rose and arousal and the sweet musk of omega submission. I bring my fingers to my nose and inhale deeply, and the reaction is immediate.
Both cocks spring fully erect, demanding attention I've denied them for the past hour. I unfasten my trousers with hands that aren't quite steady, releasing the pressure that's been building since she first lay across my lap.
I wrap one hand around each shaft, closing my eyes and letting myself remember. The weight of her across my thighs. The way her breath caught with each strike. The heat radiating from her reddened skin. The moment her scent shifted from fear to arousal, proving that her body knows what it needs even when her mind rebels.
The memory of her broken "thank you" after the twentieth strike sends pleasure racing down my spine. I stroke both cocks with firm pressure, imagining the day I'll have her mouth around one while the other presses against her slick entrance.
Soon. Once her heat hits and I claim her properly, I'll be able to fill both her holes at once. Feel her stretched around me while she begs for more, grateful for every inch I give her.
The thought sends me over the edge with surprising intensity. Seed spills over my hands as I bite back a groan, my release more powerful than it's been in decades.
When the waves subside, I clean myself with magic and refasten my clothing, already planning tomorrow's lessons. The spanking was just the beginning. Now that she knows her bodyresponds to my dominance, I can begin the more intimate aspects of her training.
Soon, she'll understand that pleasure and pain are both gifts I choose to give her. And she'll be grateful for whatever I decide she deserves.
CHAPTER 9
ELISE
DAYS 24-27
I've learnedthat words have power here.
Day twenty-four, I need more firewood. My pile is running low and the temperature has dropped—even for this perpetual winter, it's colder than usual. The cold has a different quality now, sharper somehow, like it's testing me. My breath fogs in the air even inside my chambers, and despite the thick quilts, I wake up shivering.
I find Aratus in the library, reading something ancient and leather-bound. He's settled in a chair near the fireplace, the flames casting golden light across his pale features. There's something almost beautiful about him like this—relaxed, absorbed in his reading, the harsh lines of his face softened by firelight. The thought appears unbidden and I push it away immediately.
"I need firewood," I announce from the doorway.
He doesn't look up from his book. Doesn't even acknowledge I've spoken. The only sound is the soft whisper of page turning and the crackle of logs in the grate.
"Did you hear me?" Frustration creeps into my voice, along with something that feels dangerously close to hurt. After yesterday's strange kindness with the bath, I'd expected... what? That he'd suddenly become attentive to my every word? "I need wood for the fire or I'll freeze tonight."
"Will you?" He turns a page, utterly absorbed in his reading.
I stand there for a full minute, waiting for him to respond properly. To tell me where the wood is stored, or offer to help, or at least pretend to care that I'm about to spend the night shivering. My heart pounds with a mixture of anger and something else—something that feels like abandonment, though I don't understand why.
Nothing.
The silence stretches between us like a physical thing. I can hear my own breathing, can see the frost patterns forming on the windows in response to... what? My frustration? His indifference? The magic in this place responds to emotions I'm only beginning to understand.
"Fine," I snap. "Where do you keep the firewood?"
Still nothing. He might as well be carved from ice himself for all the attention he's paying me. The book commands his focus completely, as if I'm nothing more than background noise in his perfectly ordered world.
The memory of yesterday's spanking is still fresh—my ass only stopped being tender this morning. The way his hand felt against my skin, firm and controlling. The way I'd grown wet despite the humiliation, despite my anger. I don't want another punishment. But I also don't want to freeze.
More than that, I don't want to be ignored. The realization hits me like a slap. When did his attention become something I needed?
"May I..." The words stick in my throat. I've spent twenty years demanding, not asking. Twenty years of having servantsjump at my every word, of never needing to beg for anything. "May I please have some firewood?"
Finally, he looks up. Those frozen-lake eyes assess me for a long moment, and I feel like he's looking straight through to my soul. There's something in his gaze that makes my skin tingle—approval, maybe, or satisfaction. Like I've finally said the magic words he was waiting for.
"Much better." He sets down his book and stands, unfolding from the chair with predatory grace. Every movement is controlled, purposeful. "Wood is stored in the courtyard shed, east wing. Take only what you can carry yourself."
Relief floods through me, warm and surprising in its intensity. Such a simple thing—his approval—but it settles something anxious in my chest that I hadn't even realized was there.
"Thank you."
