"I did that," I said. "Not for you. Not for the empire. For me. Because I'm selfish and ruthless and I wanted you all to myself. And your sons paid the price. You paid the price. And I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, and I know that doesn't fix anything; I know it doesn't bring back twenty years, but I need you to know that I see it now. I see what I did. I see what I am."
Algerone hadn't moved. His face was still as stone.
"So I'm not here to ask for forgiveness," I continued. "I know I don't deserve that. I'm here to ask what you want from me. Whatever it is, I'll do it. If you want me to spend the rest of my life making amends, I will. If you want me on my knees serving you until I die, I'll do it. If you want me to resign and disappear, I'll do that too. I owe you a debt I can never repay, and I'll spendthe rest of my life trying. Just tell me what you need, and I'll become it."
I stopped, chest heaving, waiting for the blow to fall.
Algerone rose from his chair.
He crossed the room slowly, his cane tapping against the hardwood. I held my ground, though every nerve in my body screamed to kneel, to bow my head, to assume the posture of submission I'd offered him so many times before.
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath.
"A debt," he said quietly.
"Yes."
"You'll serve me because you owe me."
"Yes. Whatever you need. However long it takes."
"You'll kneel because you're paying penance."
"Yes."
"You'll let me use you because you deserve to be punished."
"Yes." The word came out ragged. "I deserve all of it."
He studied my face for a long moment. Then he shook his head. "No."
I blinked. "What?"
"I said no." His voice was flat. "I don't want that."
"I don't understand." My heart was hammering. "I'm offering you everything. Complete surrender. Whatever you want, I'll give it to you."
"I don't want a debt slave," he said firmly. "I don't want you kneeling because you think you owe me. That's not submission. That's martyrdom."
"Then what do you want?" I asked desperately. "Tell me and I'll do it. I swear I'll do it."
"I want the truth." His hand came up to grip my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Not this performance of guilt. Not thisoffering of penance. The real truth. Why do you actually want to kneel?"
My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
"You've been serving me for thirty-two years," he continued. "Long before you had anything to atone for. Long before Imogen. So tell me, Maxime. Why did you start? Why have you stayed? And don't tell me it's duty or loyalty or debt, because we both know that's a lie."
"I don't know what you mean."
"You do know." His grip tightened on his cane. "You've always known. You just don't want to admit it because it makes your devotion something less noble. Something selfish."
My whole body was shaking.
"Say it." His voice dropped lower. "Tell me why you really kneel."
The truth clawed its way up my throat, and I couldn't stop it.
"Because I want to." The words came out broken, shameful. "Because I crave it. Because serving you is the only thing that makes me feel whole. Because when I'm on my knees for you, when you're using me, when you're taking whatever you want from my body, I feel more like myself than I ever feel otherwise." My voice cracked. "It's not penance. It's not debt. It's need. Pure, selfish need. And that's worse, isn't it? That I'm not sacrificing anything. That I want this. That I've always wanted this."
