I look down at myself, pink from heat and embarrassment. I cover my breasts with one arm and my center with the other as I stand. It’s clear he’s not leaving, and my clothes are in the other room—what remains of them, anyway.
I reach for the towel, but he’s quicker, lifting it beyond my grasp with an almost playful expression.
He approaches with the soft fabric in his large hands. Clearly, he intends to dry me himself. My first instinct is to refuse.
Yes, we were intimate last night, but that was part of our agreement, wasn’t it? Physical connection in exchange for my healing.
But this feels different somehow—more personal than our bargain requires.
When he begins gently patting away water droplets, though, my head goes pleasantly dizzy.
I want to tense or pull away, but my entire body relaxes under his surprisingly tender ministrations.
For all his intimidating bulk, he can be remarkably gentle.
So gentle, in fact, that like a fool, I let my eyes drift closed in contentment.
I hear the soft metallic clink too late, jerking back to awareness just as cool metal settles around my throat.
“What—?”
But he’s already secured what feels like an ornate collar around my neck, a chain of elegant links hanging to the floor, and locked it into place with an antique key.
I grasp at it—the metal is warm and smooth, clearly crafted rather than crude iron. My fingers barely span the decorative band.
“What is this?” I demand, though my voice wavers more than I’d like.
He looks genuinely puzzled by my distress. “You are my consort. This shows you belong to my household, under my protection.”
He steps back toward the bedroom, the long chain trailing between us like an elegant leash.
When I don’t immediately follow, he gives a gentle but insistent tug.
I stumble forward, disoriented from leaving the warm bath for the cold air. And I’m still completely naked!
But he doesn’t slow his pace, clearly knowing his destination as he leads me back through the bedroom toward the second door.
My thoughts race chaotically. If he has this magnificent castle, why was he living in that filthy cave in Alaska? Why wait until this morning to... claim ownership?
He tugs me forward by the chain when I hesitate too long—guiding me toward the bedroom’s second door.
What have I gotten myself into?
Is it any comfort that as I follow him, it’s on strong, steady legs? The sensation is still so new I can barely believe it.
“Where are we going?” I ask as we pass through the door into a corridor.
All I receive in return is a low rumble that might be amusement.
A rumble. Ever the reminder that I’m not dealing with an ordinary man.
We move down a long stone corridor that stretches into shadow, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into darkness above. Ancient tapestries line the walls between flickering torches—some depict hunting scenes with creatures I don’t recognize, others show battles between winged beings and armies of humans. The fabric is rich but faded, deep crimsons turned to rust, royal blues now navy with age. My bare feet move silently across worn flagstones that countless others have walked before me. My mind spins, wondering what comes next as we reach a steep spiral staircase carved directly into the castle’s stone heart.
His powerful wings shift and flutter ahead of me as he descends with purpose.
I’ve always been stubborn—a Taurus born kicking and screaming, according to my mother.
I was wild before illness tamed me, and since I got sick so young, I never fully appreciated those unrestrained years.
