Chapter 6 Aratus
ARATUS
She stops bathing to punish me.
I notice on day eleven when her scent shifts from roses and female warmth to something sharp and unwashed.
Sweat and smoke and the accumulated grime of someone who's been cooking over open flames without proper cleaning.
The delicate fragrance that marked her as pampered nobility is disappearing beneath layers of human filth.
Clever little brat. She thinks her deteriorating state will disgust me into helping. Force me to either give up on her or break down and order her to bathe, which would prove she has power over me.
She doesn't understand yet. I've waited six centuries for her. A little dirt doesn't bother me—I've seen far worse in my long existence. But watching her make herself miserable for my attention? That's fascinating.
It tells me everything I need to know about how her mind works. She's learned that direct defiance brings punishment, so now she's trying indirect manipulation. Testing whether revulsion will succeed where rage failed.
I say nothing. Just wait and watch as she grows progressively filthier.
The change is gradual but unmistakable. Her auburn hair, once lustrous and carefully maintained, becomes lank with grease.
The strands stick together in unnatural clumps, losing the fire-caught gleam that first drew my attention.
Ash smudges her face and hands from tending fires she barely knows how to manage.
Her clothes start to reek of old cooking fires and unwashed skin.
By day twelve, she's clearly uncomfortable with her own state.
I catch her touching her greasy hair with expressions of disgust, trying to work oil through the tangles with her fingers.
She avoids the ice-covered windows that might show her reflection, and when she's forced to see herself, she turns away quickly.
But pride keeps her from the bathing chamber she knows exactly how to use. Pride and the stubborn belief that this discomfort will somehow give her leverage over me.
The palace notices her deterioration and responds accordingly.
Frost-flowers that used to bloom in her presence are wilting, their crystalline petals falling to shatter on the floor.
The ornate ice sculptures in the courtyard have turned away from her chambers, their beautiful faces directed elsewhere as if they find her offensive.
Even the magic itself seems to find her wanting now.
The palace has opinions about cleanliness. Ancient magic developed preferences over centuries of inhabitation, and it prefers its occupants to maintain certain standards. Her deliberate neglect of basic hygiene offends the very stones.
Perfect. Let her see that even the palace judges her choices.
By day thirteen, she's clearly miserable but still clinging to her strategy.
She fidgets constantly, scratching at skin made itchy by accumulated grime.
Her sleep is restless—I can hear her tossing and turning in the chambers below mine.
She's hungry more often because her appetite diminishes when she can smell her own unwashed state.
But she persists. Stubborn as winter itself, convinced that her suffering will somehow move me to action.
Day fourteen, I decide it's time to escalate the lesson.
That evening, she appears in the great hall for dinner. I've been eating there regularly, knowing she'll eventually join me rather than continue taking solitary meals in the kitchen. She hovers at the edge of the room, reeking and filthy, waiting for an invitation that isn't coming.
I don't look up from my meal. Don't acknowledge her presence. Just continue eating the roasted fowl and winter vegetables that smell divine in comparison to her current state.
She shuffles closer, the stench preceding her like an unwashed herald. When she's close enough to my table to reach for the chair across from me, I finally speak.
"Clean people eat at tables."
The words are calm, conversational. I still don't look at her.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice carries the first hint of uncertainty I've heard in days.
"It means exactly what it sounds like." I take another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Clean people eat at tables. Dirty people eat on the floor."
The silence that follows is deafening. I can feel her shock radiating through the bond, followed quickly by outrage. This isn't what she expected. She thought her filth would move me to pity or disgust, not to treating her like the animal she's chosen to resemble.
"You can't be serious."
"I'm always serious about my standards." I gesture toward the floor beside my chair without looking at her. "Your meal is waiting."
I had the servants—if you can call the palace's magical manifestations servants—prepare a plate and set it on the floor. Simple fare: bread, cheese, water. Food appropriate for someone who's chosen to abandon civilization.
"I won't eat on the floor like a dog."
"Then you won't eat." I continue my meal, making soft sounds of satisfaction. The meat is perfectly seasoned, the vegetables crisp, the bread warm from the oven. Everything she could be enjoying if she'd made different choices.
She stands there for long minutes, pride warring with hunger. I can hear her stomach growling from here—she's been too nauseated by her own smell to eat much lately. The aroma of my dinner is probably torture.
Finally, necessity wins. She sinks to her knees beside my chair, anger radiating from every line of her body. But she reaches for the plate.
"Good girl," I say softly. "Eat."
The praise makes her flinch, but she doesn't refuse the food. She tears into the bread with desperate hands, trying to maintain some dignity while eating from the floor like the animal she's choosing to be.
I continue my own meal while she eats beside me, acutely aware of her presence at my feet. There's something primal about the scene—the alpha dining properly while his omega feeds from scraps on the floor. It shouldn't arouse me, but it does. The power dynamic is intoxicating.
When she's finished, she remains kneeling beside my chair, uncertain what's expected now.
"Where's the bath?" The question comes out broken, barely above a whisper.
There it is. The surrender I've been waiting for.
"Now you want to know?" I set down my fork and finally look at her. She's a mess—hair greasy and tangled, face smudged with ash and grease, clothes reeking of accumulated filth. But her eyes hold the desperate need I've been cultivating. "Why the sudden interest in cleanliness?"
"Please." The word tastes like defeat on her tongue. "I can't... I need to be clean."
"You've known where the bathing chamber is since you arrived. Nothing stopped you from using it."
"I know. I was being..." She struggles for words. "I was being stupid."
"You were being manipulative. Thinking your filth would disgust me into coddling you." I stand, looking down at her kneeling form. "Did it work?"
She shakes her head miserably.
"No. It didn't. Because I don't reward poor choices, princess. I let you live with the consequences until you decide to make better ones." I move toward the door. "Follow me."
She scrambles to her feet, unsteady from kneeling so long. I lead her through corridors that grow warmer as we walk—the palace already responding to her decision to abandon her filthy rebellion.
The bathing chamber is one of the palace's more impressive features. The walls are crystalline, cut from living ice that's been shaped and polished until it's perfectly transparent. They reflect light and images like the finest mirrors, multiplying reflections infinitely in all directions.
In the center sits a basin carved from a single piece of ice—but ice that's been magically treated to radiate warmth instead of cold. Steam rises from water that's maintained at the perfect temperature through magic older than human civilization.
She stops in the doorway, staring at the impossible luxury she's been denying herself for days.
"It's beautiful," she breathes.
"It's functional. Beauty is secondary." I settle into a chair positioned to overlook the bath. "Undress."
She jerks back like I've slapped her. "What?"
"You heard me. Undress. You wanted to bathe—bathe."
"Not with you watching!"
"Property has no privacy." The words are matter-of-fact, carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "I own you, Elise. Every inch of skin you're about to reveal belongs to me. Why would I look away from my own possessions?"
"I'm not property—"
"You ate off the floor beside my chair five minutes ago. What would you call that?" I lean back in my chair, making it clear I'm settling in for the duration. "Now undress, or go back to being filthy. Your choice."
She stands there trembling—with rage, embarrassment, need. The internal war plays out across her features as she weighs her options. But we both know she has no real choice. The discomfort of being watched is nothing compared to the torment of staying in her current state.
Slowly, her shaking hands move to the laces of her dress.
"Good girl," I say softly, and watch her shiver at the praise.
She strips with agonizing slowness, clearly hoping I'll change my mind and look away.
Each piece of filthy clothing reveals skin that's pale and soft beneath the grime, curves that are more delicate than I expected.
She's lost weight during her time here—not dangerously so, but enough to make her appear more fragile.
When she's finally naked, she tries to cover herself with her hands, but there's no hiding from the crystalline walls that reflect her from every angle. She can see herself just as clearly as I can see her—multiple reflections of her nudity stretching into infinity.
"Into the water," I command.
She moves quickly, desperate to sink into the concealing steam. The moment she settles into the magically heated water, her expression changes. Relief floods her features as the perfect temperature soothes skin made raw by accumulated grime.