2. Severin
Severin
The bedchamber is warm when I come in. It has been three hours since I got married.
Strange, how I thought that word would mean more to me.
Yet, when Fiona stood in my study, so young, so afraid, yet so courageous, I knew I couldn’t let her go.
I hear her breathing as soon as I am inside, my fingers reaching to lock the door behind me.
I have only nine servants in this manor, most of them employed here for a long time, and they know not to disturb me.
My new bride sits on my bed, her lush, warm body covered in a long, white nightgown.
It belonged to a previous viscountess, my grandmother or mother, who is long gone now.
It feels strange to have someone in my space when I have been here alone for so long.
She looks small against the massive frame of my bed, the canopy stretching high above her, the posts thick enough to bear the weight of my coils.
The firelight catches the copper in her hair, turning it molten, and I watch the way it spills over her shoulders in heavy waves.
Her skin is flushed pink from the heat of the room, or perhaps from nerves, and the thin silk of that old nightgown does nothing to hide the shape of her.
I can see everything. The heavy swell of her breasts pushing against the fabric, the narrow pinch of her waist, the generous flare of her hips.
Her thighs press together beneath the silk, thick and soft, and I feel my hemipenes stir beneath my cloacal slit, the first warning throb of what is coming.
She is beautiful. Not in the polished, aristocratic way the village girls pretend to be. She is beautiful the way earth is beautiful. Fertile. Warm. Alive. Everything my cold blood has craved for centuries.
“My lord.” She glances in my direction, leaning forward.
My throat goes dry when her nightgown’s neck slides, revealing her generous, rounded mounds, the deep cleavage between them so tempting.
Ever since I laid eyes on her body in my library, ever since I kissed her at the altar, I have been wanting her with a primal intensity.
For so long, I’ve been alone, deprived of a woman’s warmth, but looking at my new bride, I feel hot from the inside.
She is stunning, her innocence, her lushness, her courage so seductive.
I move to her side, my tail slithering behind me, as I come to sit beside her on the bed. She stirs, but when I gently put a hand on hers, she startles.
“Do not be afraid,” I say. “Have you eaten?”
“Yes. Your maid, Becky, she gave me dinner.” Her dark auburn curls are unbound, making her round, pale face appear luminous.
“Good.” I keep my voice low, measured, though my pulse is hammering beneath my skin.
I need to be careful with her. She is so young, so untouched, and I am not what any human woman would call gentle.
She is so much smaller than my monster frame.
My tail shifts behind me, coils settling against the mattress, and I feel the heat building at the base of my spine, that deep, primal throb that has been growing stronger with each passing day.
My heat is coming. I can feel it in the way my scales grow warmer, in the way my hemipenes stir and thicken beneath my slit, heavy with the slick that will soon flood from me.
It has been decades since my last true heat, and this one will be the strongest. Perhaps the last. My kind do not have forever.
The curse that twisted my ancestors into this half-serpent form also shortened our breeding cycles, and each generation produces fewer viable young.
My father had one son. Me. My grandfather had one son.
The line narrows with every century, and I am the thinnest point.
If I do not impregnate Fiona during this heat, there may not be another. The thought makes my tail tighten against the mattress, scales clicking.
I raise my hand to hers, gently closing over her pale one. When she looks at me, I say, “Was the journey to the manor long?”
“No. I hired a carriage.” She averts her gaze, shyly.
“Fiona, we are married now. No matter what you tell me, I will not abandon you.” Her head snaps up. I raise her hand to my lips, gently brushing it against my mouth. I watch her breath hitch. “Why did you want to marry me, little one?”
Her hazel-green eyes fill with something raw, something that makes my chest ache. She looks down at our joined hands, and when she speaks, her voice is so quiet I have to lean closer to hear her.
“I have never had a home, my lord. Not a real one.” Her fingers tremble beneath mine.
“I was born in a parish workhouse. My mother died birthing me, and my father was never named. I was raised by matrons who told me I ate too much, that my body took up too much space, that I was a burden no one wanted to carry.”
I say nothing. I let her speak. My thumb traces slow circles over her knuckles, and I feel the heat of her skin bleeding into my cool palm.
“I was shuffled between three different workhouses before I turned twelve. Each one colder than the last. Each bed harder. Each meal smaller.” She swallows, and I watch the delicate movement of her throat.
“And then there was the rector. Reverend Harlow. He had a ledger full of names, and mine was at the top of a new page.”
Her voice cracks on the last word, and something inside me fractures with it. I know what she is about to say. I have lived long enough to know exactly what happens to orphaned girls with no money and no family.
“He was going to sell me,” she whispers. “Indentured servitude to a textile mill owner in the north for seven years. I heard the whispers in the village square. Two girls have already been worked to death under that man. Two.”
The fire crackles in the hearth. My tail twitches, coming to wrap around Fiona’s lush body as I hold her close. Her story is raw and real, and I am glad she told me the truth.
“You have a home here, Fiona,” I say, holding her hand up and brushing my lips against it. “You will never have to worry about being cast out of Penridge Manor. You’re the mistress here and may do whatever you want, or eat as much as you like.”
“Thank you. Coming to you was my last resort.” Her green eyes meet mine, watery and full or emotion, and my hemipenes stir inside my tail, longing to make love to my new, innocent wife.
“Tonight is all about your pleasure,” I say, raising my hand and cupping her jaw.
My thumb traces the curve of her cheekbone, and I feel her skin flush hotter beneath my cool touch.
“Don’t be afraid. I will be as gentle with you as I can.
” My blood is already aroused at the sight of Fiona’s warm, lush body but those trusting hazel-green eyes give me pause.
She is so small beneath my palm. So fragile.
I lean closer, my lips brushing her neck, making her moan softly as my fingers gently reach for her hem.
“I’m going to take your gown off now, Fiona. ”
“Yes,” she whispers, giving me permission as I undo the little buttons at the back of her gown. When the fabric parts, I run my finger down her spine, watching her shiver. Her nipples bead into little pebbles that are outlined by her silk gown.
“So soft. I like how vibrant your hair is.” I caress her auburn-brown hair gently, watching her breasts rise and fall. I feel the first bead of slick gather at the base of my hemipenes. My tail coils around to support my weight as I settle onto the mattress.
Then, I push the gown off. The fire is blazing in the hearth, and the room is warm, but the sight of my wife naked makes my cold-blooded body so hot.
“God,” I breathe, mesmerized by the sight of her naked body as the white gown pools on the wooden floor.
Fiona sits in our bed shyly, her creamy skin visible to me.
Her breasts spill over her narrow waist, full and round and heavy, swaying as she moves.
I can see two dusky pink nipples puckered like diamonds, begging for my mouth.
Her hips flare out, folds of creamy skin and soft belly making her look so gorgeous and fertile.
Her fiery auburn hair is unbound, clinging to her back as she pushes her thighs together, her thick, creamy legs delectable, hiding the patch of fiery red hair protecting her intimate folds.
“You are stunning, little one.” I reach out, brushing her shoulder, and feel goosebumps erupt all over her skin. “Lie down, wife.”
She looks up at me and blinks, shyly lying down on the large, upholstered bed that’s meant for my size.
She looks tiny like a doll in it, my bare, muscular frame so much larger than hers.
I take off my cravat, my shirt, my rings, laying them all next to the bed until my bare chest gleams in the firelight, her big eyes watching me carefully.
I slither to her, covering over her as my tail foists me up, coiling around the bed and my bride.
“Do not be afraid, Fiona. I am only going to touch her, and I promise my touch will bring you pleasure.” She lets go of her hands, letting them fall to her side as my lips find hers.
“Mmmm….” With a quiet, muffled sound, she surrenders, her eyes closing as my mouth explores her soft lips, losing myself in her sweet taste.
I re-familiarize myself with her, my hands slowly travelling down her naked body, touching her soft skin, making her react with every brush.
She lets me drink her in, her hair scattered on the pillows, her body bared to me as my hands trace her curves, molding to her hips before coming up to cup her fat breasts.
When I gently squeeze them, she moans, arousal spiking through me at the erotic sound.
I gently knead her breasts, rolling her two nipples around between my fingers and bringing her greater pleasure.
“Oh my god.” She breaks the kiss, breathless with need as my fingers pluck her sensitive tips, feeling how rubbery and aroused they are. She looks up at me, flushing. “I’m sorry—”