“I would like to join these gentlemen in a cigar,” he says, motioning to the wrinkly old white men sitting in chairs across from him.
I comply with another flawless curtsy and select a cigar from the table. Holding it delicately between my fingers, I bring it to his lips. He leans forward, gray eyes locked on mine as I strike a match and hold the flame steady.
The warm glow illuminates his features—the sharp angles of his jaw, the intense focus in his eyes, the way his lips curve around the cigar. He inhales slowly, the end burning bright before he exhales a plume of fragrant smoke.
“Very good,” he says, his gaze never wavering.
The old me would have told him to go to hell, would have met his commanding stare with defiance and a sharp retort. But as I stand here now, the words catch in my throat. There’s an undeniable tension simmering between us, a magnetic pull that wasn’t there before—or that I refused to acknowledge. His eyes hold mine, a storm of intensity and something darker, more alluring. Heat blossoms beneath my skin, spreading like wildfire, igniting sensations I’ve kept buried.
Every inch of space between us feels charged. My heart pounds against my rib cage, each beat echoing the conflicting thoughts in my mind. Logic urges me to resist. Yet a whisper inside me—seductive and persistent—tempts me to yield, to explore. I can’t ignore the thrill that flares within my core when he issues his orders or the way my body responds despite my better judgment.
There’s something in me that desires to comply.
“At your service, my lord.”
Throughout the afternoon, Ronan continues to issue commands—fetching a book, adjusting the drape of his cloak, refilling his glass. The tension between us continues as well. His touch lingers when our hands meet. He watches me from the corner of his eye. He brushes his thigh against mine as I lean in to listen to his direction.
The conversations ebb and flow among Ronan and the nobles, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clink of glasses. I remain poised and attentive, acutely aware of his every move.
He shifts in his seat, and I notice a smudge on his otherwise impeccably polished boot—a line of dirt from our walk through the city. His eyes meet mine, a knowing glint reflecting in their depths. The air between us thickens with an unspoken challenge.
Without a word, he lifts his foot, the command clear.
Equal parts defiance and anticipation make my heart race and flood me with a warmth that has nothing to do with the fireplace.
“Come, pawn. Kneel at my feet.”
Heat colors my cheeks, and a molten sensation pools deep within me. I should yell at him and leave, defy him and his arrogant commands. But he’s awakened a darker, more primal part of me that yearns to submit, so I will kneel. However, the naughty nymph side of me has decided she not only wants to play his game, she wants to beat him at it.
Slowly, I lower myself before him, the rich carpet soft beneath my knees. The fabric of my dress brushes against my skin, making me shiver. My breaths come shallow and quick, and I wonder if he can see the rise and fall of my chest betraying my composure. This isn’twho I thought I was, yet here I am, kneeling before him, both loathing and craving the power he holds over me.
“There’s a scuff here,” he indicates with a slight tilt of his foot. “Use your skirts to clean it.”
I grasp the hem of my skirt, the cottony material rough between my fingertips. As I lean forward, the neckline of my dress dips, and I feel his gaze roam over me. Meeting his eyes through my lashes, I slowly bring my thumb to my lips, the pad of it brushing against them before I slip it into my mouth. I let my lips close around it, drawing it out deliberately, leaving it glistening.
My thumb moves in slow, measured circles, and a hush seems to settle over the room, the distant murmurs fading as I focus on the task. His eyes darken, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he watches me lower my hand to his boot and use the moisture to gently clean the scuff. My gaze trails up to his lap, to the way his breeches have tightened over the swell of his cock.
His stare burns into me, tracing the curve of my neck down to my breasts. I inhale deeply, and my chest rises more noticeably. His gaze intensifies, and a flush of satisfaction only enhances my boldness. I glance up at him and wink, and he narrows his eyes in silent warning. But I don’t relent. I know as well as he does there’s nothing he can do without drawing unwanted attention.
He shifts, stretching out his other leg and sliding his boot beneath the hem of my skirt. The leather grazes the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, inching higher until it presses intimately against me. My body betrays me, warmth spreading between my thighs. A sharp gasp escapes my lips, and heat floods my cheeks. He pushes harder, and my hips instinctively roll toward him.
Ronan leans forward, his smirk triumphant. The tables have turned, and he knows it. My pulse races, a rush of anger and desire humming withing me. I’ve played with fire, and now I’m feeling the burn.
I finish my task and linger a heartbeat longer than I should. My lips part, a soft exhale escaping as I try to steady my racing pulse. I rise slowly, my skirt sliding back into place. “Is there anything else you require, my lord?”
He leans back in his chair and takes a long drink of whiskey. “No, pawn, you’ve served me well.”
I return to my designated place behind him, my hands clasped tightly to hide their slight tremble. The noise of the room rushes back, but everything feels distant, muted.
I should hate him for this—for reducing me to a pawn in his game, for awakening desires I didn’t know I possessed. But beneath the anger lies a dangerous curiosity, a yearning that both frightens and excites me.
Ronan may think he holds all the power, but he underestimates me. For now, I’ll be silent, a good little pawn, but he calls me a naughty nymph for a reason.
Chapter Nine
Ronan
“When I told you to kneel at my feet, I feared your next move would be assaulting my manhood with your foot,” I say as I stride down the cobblestone street with Elara trailing several paces behind me. The evening sun casts a warm glow over the bustling marketplace, and the lamplighter strolls by, illuminating the street as vendors begin closing their stalls.
