"The chemise."
She pulled it off. The fabric caught on her hips, and she had to tug it free, and the gracelessness of it sent color washing up from her hairline to the tops of her breasts.
Then she was naked.
And her hands came up immediately, one arm across her chest, the other pressed flat against her belly, trying to cover what couldn't be covered.
Varek had expected it. Had been waiting for it.
He stepped forward and caught both her wrists in one hand. She gasped, her eyes flying to his face, and he saw the moment she understood what he was going to do.
"No," she said. "Varek, don't—"
He walked her backward until her shoulders hit the bedpost. Lifted her wrists above her head. Wrapped her own belt around them, once, twice, and threaded the end through the carved loop at the top of the post.
"Varek." Her voice cracked on his name. "Please."
He tested the knot. Snug but not tight. She could work herself free if she truly wanted to, but it would take time and effort and she would have to choose it.
"Please what?"
"Don't look at me like this."
He stepped back.
She was shaking. Fine tremors running through her whole body, her arms stretched above her head, her hands clenched into fists around the leather. The position pulled her breasts up, pushed her belly forward, made it impossible for her to hide any part of herself.
Varek looked.
He looked at the freckles scattered across her shoulders, darker where the sun had reached her in the kitchen yard. At the soft weight of her breasts, full and heavy, the nipples peaked tight in the cold air. At the curve of her waist and the generous swell of her hips, the bruises he'd left there two days ago fading now to yellow at the edges. At the soft round of her belly, the thick thighs she tried to press together, the red curls between them darker than the hair on her head.
"This," he said, "is mine."
Her breath caught. He watched her throat move, watched her try to swallow whatever she was feeling.
"This is what I tracked through a blood-soaked kitchen." He moved closer. Close enough to see the gooseflesh rising on her arms, the rapid flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat. "This is what I scented in that pantry and knew, before I saw your face, that I would kill anyone who touched."
He reached out. Laid his palm flat against her belly.
She flinched. Tried to pull back, but the bedpost was already there, and his hand stayed where he'd put it.
"Soft," he said. "Warm. Mine."
His hand slid lower. Over the curve of her hip, the bruise his fingers had made when he'd held her down and fucked her until she screamed. He pressed his thumb into the fading mark, just hard enough to make her gasp.
"I put these here." His voice was low, rough. "I remember exactly how you sounded when I did it. You remember?"
She nodded. A small, jerky motion.
"Say it."
"I remember."
"Good." His hand moved again, tracing the line where her hip met her thigh. "You think gray roughspun changes what you smell like to me? You think an apron makes your cunt less sweet?"
Her whole body shuddered at the word.
Varek stepped closer. Close enough that his chest nearly touched hers, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to see his face. His hand stayed on her hip, thumb still pressed into the bruise.
