KAITLYN
The silence in the golden-wood hallway was thick enough to choke on. Kaitlyn stood beside Braze, acutely aware of every inch of space between them… of the heat radiating from his big body…of the faint, damp patch she could see darkening the maroon silk panel at his groin. She felt like she ought to say something—maybe an apology for letting things go so far? A question about why he had sucked her nipples without talking about it first? Speculation about what the hell they were supposed to do next?
But the feeling of unseen eyes prickled at the back of her neck. The palace felt alive…watchful. So she stayed quiet, and Braze, a statue of tense muscle beside her, did the same. The big Kindred’s jaw was clenched and his golden eyes were fixed on the door with an intensity that suggested he was trying to burn a hole through it.
Just as she raised a hand, thinking she should probably knock, the door swung inward.
A small woman peered up at them. Her skin was a soft, rosy pink, covered in a delicate pattern of cobalt-blue spots that swirled like constellations across her cheeks and forehead. Her hair was pure white, piled in an elaborate braided crown atop her head, and her eyes were a sharp, intelligent black.
“Ah,” she said, her voice as dry as the rustle of parchment. “You must be the lovely couple Her Majesty said was coming. Come in, come in. Don’t dawdle in the hall.”
She ushered them into a chamber that was less a room and more a huge jumble of textiles. Kaitlyn looked around with wide eyes, momentarily overwhelmed. The space was vast, with ceilings lost in shadowy drapery.
Every wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling racks holding bolts of fabric in every imaginable hue and texture—shimmering silks that looked like captured moonlight…rich velvets the color of crushed berries in deep forests… diaphanous gauzes floating like colored mist, and sturdy, tooled leathers in blacks and browns. Long worktables were buried under swathes of lace, intricate beadwork, and spools of metallic thread. In one corner, dress forms of various sizes stood like silent sentinels, some draped in half-finished garments.
Kaitlyn’s eyes caught on a separate rack near the back. Hanging there were not fabrics, but items of sleek, dark leather—harnesses. Some were simple straps, but others were more complex with dangling metal rings and what looked like attachment points. She saw one with a thick, phallic-shaped protrusion made of polished obsidian. A flush crept up her neck.
What are those for?
She had an idea but didn’t want to think about it.
“Now then,” the Mistress of the Wardrobe said, clapping her hands together briskly. The sound was sharp in the cloth-muffled quiet. “I understand you need proper clothing for yourself and your husband in order to attend the Feast of the New Moon tonight. A most important occasion. We must ensure you are both appropriately attired.”
“Oh, well, I think we just need clothes for my, uh, husband,” Kaitlyn said, gesturing towards Braze. As she did, her gaze flickered downward. The maroon silk was still tented dramatically, the outline of his erection unmistakable. She quickly looked back at the old woman’s face.
The Mistress of the Wardrobe followed her glance. Her spotted eyebrows rose.
“So do you have your own harness?” she asked, her tone practical, as if inquiring about a pair of shoes.
Kaitlyn’s brain stuttered.
“Uh… my own harness? For what?”
“Why, for mastering your husband, of course,” the woman replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She gestured to the rack of leather contraptions. “Every wife of status has one for formal events. It signifies her control, and provides a suitable alternative for her pleasure.
“And naturally,” she added, moving to a cabinet and opening it to reveal rows of polished shafts in various sizes and materials—glass…metal…carved wood—“I have different sized attachments you can fit in it. But first,” she said, closing the cabinet and turning her full attention to Braze, “Let’s have a look at what we’re working with for your husband. We must ensure his attire complements yours.”
Kaitlyn felt a wave of dizzying comprehension. Pegging. The woman was talking about her pegging Braze, in public, as part of their formal wear.
Her mouth went dry. She glanced up at Braze’s face, searching for any reaction—outrage…humiliation…panic. But she saw none of that. His expression was a mask of stoic indifference, carved from stone. But lower down…the silk panel twitched.
His cock was still rigidly hard.
The Mistress of Wardrobe noticed it too.
“My, my,” she murmured, stepping closer. Without ceremony, she hooked a finger in the silky fabric and pulled it aside, fully exposing him.
Braze flinched—a slight, almost imperceptible shift of his hips—as a low growl rumbled in his chest.
“Don’t worry, big fellow, I won’t touch you without your wife’s permission,” the old woman said soothingly, though her black eyes were sharp with assessment. She looked up at Kaitlyn. “He seems rather touch-shy. Would you rather measure him yourself? I don’t wish to offend, but precision is key for the devices I must make for you.”
Kaitlyn’s heart hammered against her ribs. Touch him? Protocol screamed in her head. This was a line she really shouldn’t cross. Braze was her Protector. They were on a mission together—they shouldn’t be touching each other.
But… the alternative was letting this stranger handle him.
The thought sent a possessive, irrational spike of anger through her. She didn’t want anyone else handling his impressive equipment. Also, he had touched her first, hadn’t he? In the throne room—her nipples still tingled from his fingers and tongue.
That had been wrong, but somehow it had felt so right.
