Born for Silk (The Cradled Common)

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Rome

Cairo’s message from the Half-tower burns a hole in my mind: ‘The Silk Girl is known. Protect the heir.’

It is an entire lecture.

My Silk Girl is pregnant and known. This has not happened in hundreds of years, but we move forward and take hard measures. Aster won’t always like what that means, no more privacy, eyes glued to her, eyes watching the babe grow in her womb… I don’t like it.

Up ahead, the Redwind enters through a gap in The Estate fort, a strategic vent to deter Common.

She walks a step before me along the stone path, her hood pulled up, a mask covering her fragile face, even though she is hidden by my larger body from the aggressive wind and the sly gaze of Trade personnel.

We head toward my wing.

I have a wing where I used to fuck the House Girls—though it has been inactive since the night of the carnival when a little five-foot-two Silk Girl climbed into my lap.

I have a wing for business.

And this wing.

As we approach the five-storey stone structure untouched by modern reformations, she slows her step, and I practically stop to accommodate her sweet hesitation.

Her violet eyes sweep upward, gaping at the sheer walls as she enters the dark shadow it casts with thick stone and sturdy piers. I have always liked the Romanesque architecture that characterises the majority of The Estate’s older buildings —fortress-like, domineering, defensive, a style for survival.

She removes her mask and sets it on the hallway table. From her shoulders, she slinks her hood, exposing her personalised Silk Girl dress with straight elegant lines down her lithe body. Across her upper chest, I can make out the faint rows of tiny bones beneath her skin while at her breast, the shadow of each nipple teases me. She is delicate and fine. I crack my neck from side to side, releasing some tension.

As we walk through the wing, she observes the space, the servers setting the table for three—her, Tuscany, and myself—the absurd amount of flowers, a floor-to-ceiling synthetic fire that spans the length of a soaring stone wall.

She stares at my personal space, and I…

I stare at her.

She has clawed her way into my mind, completely consuming it.

Aster … flower. A little flower that I plucked from the dirt and refuse to replant.

Nothing can be done now the heir is known, so the Silk Girl must stay by my side for her safety. That is all. Under this condition, she is most secure.

I do not trust her with any man or woman; I do not trust her with her Collective. And I will execute every being that interferes with… this . This thing between us which has no title nor law attached.

I will kill the creatures that have hurt her in the past and those who plot to do so in the future, those that glance her way with lust, bother her, force her to move, change her smile?—

I growl. The rampage of thoughts thunder within me, but then she catches my eye again…

“Wow.” She reaches her tiny hands out to feel the flame hearth, humming when it radiates but doesn’t burn.

I sigh, her sweet cadence giving me breath. Her awe forces me to smile, a rarity, and one I’ll only allow to exist for her, with her.

I realise that while I relish the crimson slashes of death on my calloused hands, the Redwind carving through the skin of Common—war—sharing quiet moments with her might be equally as pleasurable.

“Your wing, my king.” She spins to face me, and I try not to let her see the effect she has, flattening my smile. “It looks just like you. If you were a building.”

“What an odd thing to say.”

A coy smile bunches her cheeks. “I know.”

“I want to hear more.”

She blinks. “More of what?”

“Of your mind.”

I stride to her and cup her face, holding her tiny Common head in my hands, lifting her chin so her eyes peer through fluttering, black lashes to meet my gaze.

“You will stay here. You will not argue appropriate interactions or draw lines between us in the name of The Trade. Do you understand that everything is different now? Say yes, my king, and I will take you to my room.”

She swallows, and my cock stiffens.

“Say it.”

“What of my shots?”

“Your question implies you do not trust me to take care of you.” I frown, but answer, “Your Watcher will take you to the Medi-deck each first-light for your scan and vitamins.”

“Paisley,” she informs, as though I should use her name. Insolent little creature. “What of my Collective?”

This fucking girl.

Just say, ‘Yes, my king.’

I talk through grit teeth. “What of them?”

“I wish to see them—often.”

Sighing roughly, I sweep my thumb over her smooth cheek. Why the fuck do I want to give her everything? “You may see them when you wish, but Odio will accompany you outside this wing.”

“He scares people.”

“That is by design.”

She chews on her bottom lip and shows her acceptance in two slow nods. “Yes, my king.”

Better.

I walk her down the corridor toward my chamber, allowing her time to study each taxidermized eagle head mounted along the walls. The magnificent beasts increase in size until the skulls are larger than her own.

Odio’s lineage.

She muses. “Does this not make you sad?”

My boots rap on the tiles while her feet glide, weightless.

“If my heirs wish to cut off my head and hang it once I am dead,” I say, “they are more than welcome to.”

I expect a gasp, but she simply hums. “I don’t think you’ll have that opportunity. No one could rest with you staring at them, my king.”

A chuckle breaks from me.

“Was that a laugh that I heard?” Tuscany’s voice sails down the corridor, the melodic flow drawing Aster’s attention.

“My queen.” Aster curtsies.

My sweet sister stops a few feet away from us. I’m surprised she is here… nosy, perhaps. Though, that is not in her nature. Disappearing is.

She enjoys her space and very rarely touches anyone. When she does, it’s a fucking butterfly on skin, terrified a small twitch will turn it to dust on broken wings.

She rests her small hands in front of her waist, her hair as straight as her posture. “It has been many years since I heard a laugh in these halls.”

My smile thins, her presence reminding me of my failings. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I came to say a few words.” She squares her narrow shoulders, pretending to have confidence that does not exist. “I approve, but please do not keep her locked in this wing, Sire . She is far too bright.”

Not Rome.

Sire.

Her words land a blow to my chest, embedding with the bullets and shrapnel I have claimed over years of war. I don’t answer, and she doesn’t elaborate. I hear her.

She reaches out to touch me but retracts her hand and slowly turns to leave. Tuscany does not walk as though the floor is a shell she might crack beneath each heel—my sister walks as though she is the shell.

I watch her disappear around a corner, my chest pounding with anger, not at her, not at all. At my own fucking helplessness.

Tearing my eyes away, I am met with the enquiring violet gaze that slows my heart to a steady, powerful beat. My little creature, now mine, somehow levels me.

“You do bring me peace,” I declare, staring down at her; though, she is tiny, a power greater than my darkness resides within her.

“Tell me,” I ask, guiding her into my room and shutting the door behind us. “Why did you pick gold for your sheet?"

Her brows weave. “My king asks an odd question.”

“I learned from the best.”

My little creature looks at the floor. Blushes. Her eyes glisten with something akin to what I feel but cannot put into words. “It was a little fever dream, but I didn't pick gold. I picked yellow. Like the missing sun.” She spins to take in my room, as elaborate, yet traditional as the rest of my wing.

My eyes track her as she moves around the space, looking like a baby bird in the cage of a monstrous eagle.

"Paisley noted down gold,” I state.

"Maybe they are the same colour to her."

That I had not considered. "Perhaps."

"What is your favourite colour, my king?"

"I'm not a child. I do not have a favourite colour."

"You’re a being of decisions and actions. What about a favourite number? I am sure you have a favourite number.” She looks at the bed. “No steps?”

“No Common.”

She beams at that admission. Yes, sweet creature, you’re the only one. Tuscany is right, she is bright. “Let me guess your favourite number.”

“I don't have one.”

My little creature strolls to me, her steps far sultrier, like a dance, than my sister’s. Craning her neck, she stares into my eyes, diving in deep, intent on finding a silent answer.

She stares until it hurts. "One."

The corner of my mouth lifts, smirking. I want her. Her eyes widen when I pick her up at her waist. Her legs dangle, shoes two feet off the floor, not knowing what to do now.

“Wrap your legs around my waist.”

She does, and her warm core presses to my abdomen. With a little hesitance, her hands rest on my shoulders, her gentle fingers feed into my hair, and I fucking groan when she strokes me.

“Purring for me again, my king.”

I should hate this?—

I do hate this.

I roll my head further against her caress, closing my eyes. Not sure of anything in this moment. My reality has been changed since I met you, little creature. I don't even recognise myself, but instead, see what I am through you.

"Am I right? Is that your favourite number?"

I open my eyes to hers inches away and answer—a lie and truth. "Yes.” But I don't have a favourite number because I'm not that man, not a man at all, but— Now I have a favourite number.

And it's one.

Her eyes suddenly well up, and I frown. “What is it.” She peers down and squirms to get free, but I don’t release her. “No.”

“Please, put me down so I can discuss something of great importance with you, my king.”

A deep, rough sigh leaves me. I don’t want to discuss anything of ‘great importance.’ I want to fuck her on my bed until the sheets smell like her pussy.

“Please.”

Well, fuck .

I walk us to the sunken circular rest area in the centre of the room and sit down with her on my lap.

Her legs stretch wide to accommodate the breadth of my hips, and my cock fills with blood, creating a long thick bulge right at her warm apex.

Her eyes widen.

I thrust my hips upward to show her how hard I am, what I want, what I will have. Growling, I imagine every way I will taste her, places that will feed my depravities.

My eyes home-in on her throat. The fluttering pulse in her thin neck calls to me. I lean in and kiss it. Her sweet nerves feel like a frantic little butterfly beneath my tongue as I lick her.

She moans and tilts her head.

That’s a good girl.

“Please, my king,” she says to the ceiling, her words contorted with moans and whimpers. I massage both hands up her back, leaving no inch uncovered, from her hips to her neck and back, arching and curving her, consuming her with my attention and pressure.

“Oh, my king. Please. I cannot think.”

That is the point.

“Tell me how you feel” —I run my nose along the thin column of her throat before leaning back to watch her expression— “inside your pussy right now?”

She chews on her lip and blinks her thoughts. So revealing. So innocent. “I feel like I’m pulsing from the inside.” She takes a big breath in. “Like my heart is there.”

I control my impulses—barely.

“ Where ?” I rasp. “Show your king exactly where your pulse is?”

Uncertain, she lifts her hips to sit on her hand, cradling her core. I clench my teeth on another groan.

“I will indulge all of your questions as soon you come on my cock,” I say, bucking my hips, spurring her forward.

She removes her hand.

Slowly, with nervous energy, she begins to hump me like a good girl, already trembling as she dances on my lap. My cock throbs for more pressure.

Fuck.

I catch her wrist when her shaky hands drop between us and try to undo my belt. I stare. Hard. “You can take me out, little creature, and use me on the outside, grind your wet folds along the full length of me, but you cannot put me inside you in this position. I will puncture you. Do you understand?”

She blinks; my blinky, uncertain girl.

“I take you,” she states, then adds, “don’t I?”

A slow grin spreads across my lips. “No, sweet thing. You can take about half of my length inside this tight body, but that is all.” She looks at her hands, disappointed. I hate it. I brush her long, blackberry-swirled hair off her shoulders, exposing her neck and torso. “Take off your little dress and sit back on your king’s lap.”

She pouts. “Are Xin De girls deeper?”

Adorable. I try not to grin at her jealous tone. “It's proportionate... So, yes, sometimes.” Her folded lips only thicken my cock further. “Don't sulk, little creature.”

“Well, will you”—she mimics my tone—"‘indulge my questions soon,’ my king?”

I glare. “ Careful .”

She swallows.

Taking my narrowed eyes as seriously as they are intended, she climbs to her feet and slowly lifts her dress over her head, exposing slim white legs, white knickers with a clear wet core, a smooth, supple belly that nurtures my heir, and naked sweet, pert tits.

“No brassieres? Why?”

Blush rushes up her neck under my scrutiny, her arms wrapping around her chest, covering the perky mounds. “I know. They are small. I don’t always wear one. They will get bigger, my king. In the coming months.”

“Are you apologising for something?” I suffocate another growl that lurks in my chest; it will only intimidate her further. Dammit, I am in physical pain over how hard I am, yet she’s trembling with insecurities.

Glaring at her, unable to mask the disapproval, I unbutton my pants and drag my cock out, fisting it, squeezing it until the head swells and reddens. “Climb onto your king’s lap. Now. And slide along my cock. Let me feel your heartbeat between your thighs.”

I wrench my shirt over my head, push my pants down and widen my legs, my cock jutting out, bouncing and leaking.

Her mouth parts, her eyes roaming my chest and abdomen. “You’re so hard, my king. And… so many scars.”

A whisper of sorrow glosses her eyes as if she wants to kiss each one and take the pain away.

You can’t, sweet creature.

With her legs wide, she climbs over my thighs and hovers, unsure what to do with me.

I chuckle deep.

Pressing my weight into the backrest, it declines slightly. She is too fucking nervous, so I reach out, possess her throat with a growl and drag her lips to meet mine. I devour her mouth. Eat it. Holding her neck with one hand, I position her backside with the other. Setting her on my long, throbbing cock, I pin it between my abdominals and her delta. I work her along the shaft, feel her pussy lips open and show her what she needs to do all by herself when I let go.

“That’s my good girl.”

I loosen my hold but leave my palm resting on her fragile spine and my other as a collar around her neck.

Her lips fumble in confusion on mine—whimpers, moans, and cries all mingle together while she tries to return my hard kiss.

Her heart pulses in her heat as she rides me, rocking her hips backward, her pussy lips hugging the root before sliding up to the swelling crown.

I rest my head, stare, and feel her.

Let her play on me. Perfect. Her. Vulnerable, sweet, and unknowingly seductive; her tits jiggle, nipples flushing; her mouth hangs open, lips red and pouty, draining the thick air; her hands flex on my chest for control.

But she has none.

None at all.

Watching this tiny naked human working the pleasure from her core, bringing it to the surface, is my new preferred activity.

My balls tighten, ready to explode, but I withhold my insatiable need to come. Instead, I enjoy this. I watch her pussy glazing my shaft. Hear her moans building, pitching higher.

When my cock throbs under her, pounding for more weight, her body loses rhythm. She is so close to crumbling, so close I can almost taste it.

She shakes her head over and over. “I can’t—” Her chest heaves. “Cannot do it on my own.”

I smirk and lean forward to capture her nipple between my teeth. Roll the bead. Suck hard enough to revel in the metallic essence of her bruising skin.

Then I fully band her hips with my hands and get myself off using her body to lather along the entire length of my cock, unrelentingly even as violent whimpers sound from her pouty lips and convulsions whip through her body.

I draw her orgasm out, long, hard, unyielding, keeping the pace she is unable to master herself. Feeling her orgasm, tasting blood from her plush nipple, I growl from the dark chasm in my chest in unison with her pitched cries, painting cum across my abdomen and hers.

Breathing hard, I praise her.

“That was beautiful.”

I feed my hands between her hair and her neck, holding her up as she fights her fatigue. “You can let go now,” I say, standing with her and taking her to my bed.

“But what about my questions?” She yawns. “I had questions. Important ones about…” Her lashes flutter as she thinks. “It is only just last-light. I can stay”—yawn— “up.”

Fuck me , she is pretty. Her voice, her scent, her sweet body in my arms, so lax, so mine. “I will be here with you in the first-light for all your interrogations,” I offer.

She giggles. “ Interrogations .”

I frown at the jumpy soft cadence of her childlike laugh, hating how much I love it. It is one thing to accept humanity and another to welcome castration… I like my balls.

“You’ll stay?” It finally dawns on her. “We sleep together all night? Every night?”

“Always.”

I hold her to my chest, and she curls her knees to the side. Safe. Safe with me.

Like I promised her sister decades ago.

With a hand covering the back of her head, fingers laced in silky black strands, and another scooped around her hips, I rock my new Purpose to sleep.