Chapter 53: Volume 1- [ - 54]
I helped Lira out of the carriage.
Lifted her — one arm under her knee, the other around her back — and carried her to a fallen log by the roadside, where I set her down gently, kneeling before her, checking the stump, asking if it hurt. She cried. Said it did not. I smiled. Touched her face.
I cooked. At a stream crossing, I caught fish with my hands — a skill from my previous life that translated perfectly — and roasted them over a fire built with twigs and the Serpent’s Fang’s flint mechanism. I seasoned them with herbs I found growing by the water. Fed the sisters. Fed the horses. Fed Seraphine and Elwen.
The food was good. Not great — not the cooking of a chef — but good in the way that food prepared by a man who knows what he is doing is always good. Seraphine ate and asked for seconds, and the surprise on her face when she realized what she had done was genuine.
“You cook well,” she said, and the admission cost her something — a piece of the wall she had built between us.
“My mother taught me,” I said, and the lie was smooth, warm, the kind of lie that invited sympathy without demanding it.
‘His mother taught him to cook,’ Elwen’s internal voice catalogued. ‘This suggests a close maternal relationship. Unusual for a human noble — the patriarchal structure typically relegates domestic instruction to servants. The deviation is notable.’
‘He is kind to them,’ Seraphine’s internal voice was softer now, grudging, the voice of a woman whose defenses were being eroded by fish and gentleness. ‘The one-legged woman — he carried her. He checked her wound. He fed her first. Before himself. Before us. What kind of lord—’
‘He treats the commoner women as if they matter,’ Elwen observed. ‘This is inconsistent with the typical noble-commoner power dynamic described in the sociological texts. Either he is an atypical noble, or the relationship is more complex than it appears. Further observation required.’
I let them observe. I let them see what I wanted them to see — the caring lord, the protective partner, the man who carried his wounded woman and cooked for his household. I let them see the surface, because the surface was all they needed to lower their guards.
At the third night, the camp was set in a grove near a stream. The sisters were asleep — Lira curled on the bedroll, Sera beside her, their hands intertwined. Seraphine sat by the fire, her armor removed, her blonde hair loose, her yellow eyes reflecting the flames. Elwen sat cross-legged nearby, her wand across her knees, her green eyes closed in meditation.
I stood. Walked to Lira. Knelt beside her.
“I need to refresh myself,” she murmured, half-asleep. “I need to — the stream—”
Sera stirred. Reached for her sister. “I will help—”
“Let me,” I said. My voice was gentle, concerned, the voice of a partner. “You rest. I will help her.”
Sera looked at me. Smiled. The smile was pure trust — unfiltered, unqualified, the smile of a woman who believed, with every fiber of her being, that the man before her was good.
She went back to sleep.
I lifted Lira. Carried her toward the stream, away from the firelight, into the trees. Her arms were around my neck, her face against my shoulder, her body light — lighter without the leg, the absence of weight noticeable in my arms.
‘He is carrying me,’ her internal voice was a murmur. ‘His arms are strong. His chest is warm. I am safe. I am—’
My cock was hard. The Viagra had worn off, but the proximity — her body against mine, her breath on my neck, her naked thigh against my hip — was enough. The itch was back. The need. Two days without a real fuck — the wolf attack and the healing and the travel had interrupted the schedule, and my body was demanding its due.
‘Those two hero-party women are right there,’ I thought, carrying the one-legged woman into the darkness. ‘Fifty meters away. Sleeping. And I cannot fuck them yet. Not yet. Not until I have built enough trust. But this one — this one is mine, and she is here, and her pussy is available, and—’
I set her down. Against a tree — a wide oak, the bark rough against her back. She looked up at me, her green eyes wide in the moonlight.
“I would fresh myself,” she whispered. “But—”
“Let me help you,” I said.
She trembled. “No — wait — my lord, I can—”
I lifted her leg. The remaining one — the left, the intact one. Lifted it, spreading her, the dress riding up, her panty visible — white cotton, practical, already damp. I pulled the panty down. Over her thigh, past her knee, off her foot. It was easy. With one leg, the motion was simple — no second ankle to catch, no second foot to maneuver around. I tossed the panty aside.
Her skirt came next. I lifted it — the fabric bunching at her waist, exposing her pussy — hairy, the dark hair matted with the dried fluids of nights past, the lips swollen, the slit visible in the moonlight.
She closed her eyes. Covered her face. And pissed.
The stream came in a rush — yellow, warm, arcing from between her legs, splashing against the tree roots. The position — one leg lifted, her back against the trunk, her body supported by the bark — made her look like a dog lifting its leg. A bitch against a tree. The yellow flow lasted ten seconds, tapering to a trickle, the last drops running down her inner thigh.
“I am done,” she whispered, her face burning.
My hand went to her pussy. Cupped it. The wetness — piss and arousal, the two mingling, warm against my palm. I rubbed. Slow circles, my fingers finding the slit, parting the hair, sliding between the lips.
“You should clean it, right?” I said.
She trembled. “Wait — but—”
I pulled my hand away from her pussy. Lifted it. Pressed my fingers — wet, glistening, coated with her own fluids — against her lips.
“Lick,” I said.
She opened her mouth. Her tongue found my fingers. Tasted herself — the salt, the bitterness, the faint biological tang of urine mixed with arousal. She licked my hand clean, her eyes closed, her internal voice a whisper of shame and surrender:
‘His fingers — my own — I am tasting — this is — but I want to — for him — I want to—’
“Master,” she breathed, and the word was a prayer.
I pulled her dress down. Exposed her breasts — heavy, the rose nipples stiff in the night air. I groped them, my fingers sinking into the soft flesh, pulling the nipples, stretching them.
“I missed you,” she said, and the words were raw, honest, the words of a woman who had been lying on a bedroll for two days while the man who owned her was performing for strangers. “Due to those two — I cannot have you. Master, I—’
Behind us, a twig snapped.
I heard it. And I heard the internal voice that accompanied it — not Lira’s, not Sera’s, but a new one, sharp and alarmed:
‘Why — what is he doing — is he — his hand — that woman’s — he is making her — lick — what is—’