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Dressed in silver-white robes that cling to him effortlessly, he cuts a fine figure. His hands are delicate and strong. He’s right: I do like it.
I want his hands on me. I burn inside from shame or arousal. I’m not sure which.
“Yes, my lord.”
He leans forward until his face is inches from mine. The wine on his breath does not make me like him any less. The tart smell of it makes me want him more. I could kiss it from his lips.
He looks directly into my eyes as though he knows what I am thinking. I can almost hear his thoughts as well. Our eyes connect in a long moment that stretches across time and the space between us.
As he opens his mouth to speak, the door bursts open and the guard comes in.
The smell of food drenches the room and my stomach grumbles. When was the last time I ate? The guard places the mountain of food in front of me. When was the last time I ateso well?
The duke leans back. Our connection is broken instantly and I feel cold again. I watch as the guard plates food for me and sets it on the floor at my knees. Hot tears prickle at my eyes again and in an instant I start to cry.
“Stop,” the duke says.
I can’t help it. Everything is awful! Once again I am a child crying for Mama, and once again she is not here to help me.
“I’m sorry,” I say through my tears.
I can’t believe myself. Ireallythought he was going to be kind to me? Ha! As if his words were not enough, making me eat on the floor proves how cold he is.
“Eat,” he commands.
I take the offered fork and spoon and shovel food into my mouth. The food is hot and delicious, but every bite stirs more dread in my stomach. I feel leaden and heavy from the first few mouthfuls.
The tears continue to fall, dripping onto my food. The judgment in Duke Carmichael’s stare burns me even though I cannot bring myself to look at him.
Food sits in front of him, but he isn’t eating. A clatter sounds in front of me as his fork falls to the floor. Did he do that on purpose? I look into his eyes.
“Pick that up.”
I glance at the fork, still ringing from hitting the stone.
A long moment stretches between us where I consider my options. I could try to attack him. I could stab the guard in the neck and kick the duke’s knees in. I could smash the plate over his head. Any of these options would be better than obeying.
I do not choose them.
I pick up the fork.
10
CARMICHAEL
Diane crawls soundlessly, the dull thump of her knees as they make contact with the cold, ridged flooring causes me to tense. Moving in the direction of the fork, she dips her head low. Shrugging her frame underneath the thick cloth covering the dining table, she weaves her lithe body between the massive wooden legs and my own.
I follow the curve of her spine, allowing my eyes to feast on the clear flesh beneath the soft satin I choose for her. Rhythmically, her hips move, slowly shifting from side to devious side, as she fulfills my command without question. The round curve of her ass causes the pale material to shimmy and divot suggestively.
Her movements both consume and madden me. My hands twitch, and I clench them to keep from reaching for her. This is more for my sake than it is for hers. I can’t afford to get distracted by childish, inferior temptations. She is a slave, a purchase made to please me while her beauty still holds the rarity of youth humans only access temporarily. She is nothing more, I remind myself.
Even as daggers pierce my chest, I wordlessly watch her cower and submit to my whims. Any resistance she has shown in the beginning was snuffed out at the mention of her mother and brother. My enchanting pet is starting to understand her place. So why didn’t I?
Why does the fear in her eyes cause my instincts to war with my mind? My want to protect her from everything, including me, only grows despite my best efforts. Every command I give pushes me to the brink of insanity. She is a slave, not a bride, yet the sight of watching her submit to me, subjecting herself to the bite of the cold hard stone floors of the dining hall, without question, ignites my disappointment.
There is shrewd surrealism to her obedience. The ease with which she holds her fire, a sacrifice, for whom? Her Mother? Her brother? The very people whose weakness causes her to subject herself to the whims of Elves! She owes them nothing. Why? The thought crawls through my mind. There is nothing left for her after my release, only a line of elves who will scavenge what's left of her.
Disgust clouds my vision, her weakness threatening to expose my own. The virginal minx disappears underneath the table. I can feel the brush of her arm against my leg as she reaches in-between them to grab the fork. Heat erupts at the contact, traveling through my limbs and causing my shaft to swell. An image of her creamy unmarked skin floods my thoughts, making my fingers ache to leave their imprint on her calling figure.
