Chapter 14
The day had been endless.
Varek rolled his shoulders as he climbed the stairs, feeling the tension knotted between them.
Manifests. Disputes over pack weight. A messenger from Targesh requiring a written response.
Two warriors who'd gotten into a scuffle over who'd claimed the better warhorse and needed their captain to settle it before blood was drawn.
He'd eaten standing up, twice, and couldn't remember what either meal had been.
But the work was done. The supplies were loaded. The route was planned. Tomorrow at first light they'd ride for Northwatch, and he'd have his woman on a horse in front of him for three days, her back against his chest, her scent in his nose, her soft weight settled between his thighs.
The thought had kept him moving through the afternoon. Every time his attention flagged, he'd let himself picture it: Mab wrapped in his cloak, her hair loose and tangled by the wind, her body warming his through the mountain cold.
He pushed open the door to the lady's chamber.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed. Not lying down, not undressing, not doing any of the things he'd been imagining for the last six hours. Just sitting. Hands folded in her lap. Spine straight. Wearing—
Varek stopped in the doorway.
Gray roughspun. A stained apron. Her hair bound up under a kerchief he'd never seen before.
"You're wearing entirely too many clothes," he said.
Mab's hands clenched in her lap. She didn't look at him.
Varek crossed the room and crouched in front of her, putting himself in her eyeline whether she wanted him there or not. "What is this?"
"My clothes." Her voice came out even, but her pulse was jumping in her throat. "My dress. My apron."
"I can see that." He caught her chin, tilted her face up. "Why are you looking at me like I'm about to throw you out a window?"
"I'm not—"
"You are." He studied her face. The freckles across her nose, the fullness of her mouth, the way she was holding herself like she expected a blow. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Mab."
She pulled her chin out of his grip. Looked away. "I went to the kitchen today. Got my things. My spare dress, my stockings." A breath. "This is what I look like. What I actually look like. Not borrowed silk that doesn't fit. Not nightgowns made for women half my size. This."
Varek sat back on his heels.
She thought—
She actually thought—
He wanted to laugh. Not at her, never at her, but at the absurdity of it. That she could look at him with those eyes and believe for one moment that a change of fabric would undo what the pull had carved into his bones.
"Stand up," he said.
Her gaze snapped to his face. Wary. Searching for the trap.
"Stand up, Mab."
She stood. Her hands stayed at her sides, but he could see the effort it cost her not to fold her arms across her stomach.
Varek rose to his full height and walked a slow circle around her.
The dress was rough. Practical. Made for work, gathered at the waist by a belt he recognized from the first night, cracked leather worn soft with years of use.
The apron covered most of the front, stained with grease marks that told the story of a thousand meals.
The kerchief hid her hair, pressed it flat against her skull like something that needed containing.
He reached out and tugged the kerchief off her head.
Her hair spilled down, red and wild, curling around her face and over her shoulders. She made a sound, a small protest, her hand coming up too late to stop him.
Varek dropped the kerchief on the floor.
"That's better." He moved behind her again. "Now the apron."
"Varek—"
"Take it off."
Her hands shook as she reached back to untie the strings. The apron fell away, and she caught it before it hit the floor, clutching it against her chest like armor.
He took it from her. Set it aside without looking where it landed.
"The belt," he said.
Mab's fingers fumbled at the cracked leather. When it slid free, she held it out to him without meeting his eyes.
Varek took it. Ran his thumb along the worn edge, feeling the years pressed into the leather.
"Now the dress."
She reached for the laces at her throat. Her fingers were clumsy, catching on the knots, and he watched her struggle without offering help. This wasn't about efficiency. This was about her choosing, step by step, to show him what she'd convinced herself would drive him away.
The laces came free. She pulled the dress over her head in one rough motion, like ripping off a bandage, and stood there in her chemise with her arms wrapped around her middle.
"Keep going."
"Varek—"
"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.
"I've been thinking about you all day." He watched her face. The flush spreading down her neck, the way her lips parted, the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "You think I was picturing you in silk?" He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "I was picturing you exactly like this."
His free hand came up to her breast. He cupped the weight of it, ran his thumb across the nipple, felt her whole body jerk against the restraint.
"I was picturing my mouth here." He pinched, and she made a sound that went straight to his cock. "And here." His hand slid to her other breast, rougher now, less patient. "I made you a promise, didn't I? That I was going to spend hours on these."
Her breath was coming fast now, shallow, her chest heaving against his hands. The belt creaked as she pulled against it, not to escape but because her body was moving without her permission, arching toward him.
"I keep my promises."
He lowered his head and took her nipple into his mouth.
She cried out. The sound echoed off the stone walls, raw and unguarded, and he felt it in his chest like a second heartbeat. He sucked hard, used his teeth, and her hips bucked forward against nothing.
"Varek—"
He switched to the other breast. Bit down just hard enough to make her yelp, then soothed the sting with his tongue.
Her hands twisted in the belt above her head. The leather creaked. She wasn't trying to get free. She was trying to find something to hold onto while he took her apart.
He pulled back just far enough to see what he'd done. Her nipples were swollen, red from his mouth, glistening. Her chest heaved with each breath.
"Beautiful," he said.
She shook her head. A denial, automatic, worn into her by years of being told otherwise.
Varek bit down on the curve of her breast. Not her nipple. The soft flesh beside it, hard enough to leave a mark.
"Don't." His voice was a growl against her skin. "Don't shake your head when I tell you what I see."