Chapter 15
Lorna
Driving back to the prime ministerial residence after my training—what felt to me like my cataclysmic session serving the mysterious man whom for some reason it seemed I loved as I’d never loved anyone before—I tried to figure out what came next.
Somehow I had to find a way to offer myself to Georgy Horakovsky.
I thought back to my visions of the world tree, and I realized something else, something new about them.
Every detail of a thread, a path out along a bough, a branch, a twig, a leaf, was present, but it took great effort for me—a v?lva, I called myself in my head for the first time—to carry those details back out.
Perhaps I hadn’t progressed far enough in my training, or perhaps even the most experienced of the volur couldn’t remember everything.
In any case, I didn’t know how it should go, in the immediate future: how I could get from the present, driving my car, to the course of events I needed to bring about, where the prime minister’s wife begged a Russian warlord to use her like a whore.
I felt a shiver run down my spine as I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles actually, visibly turning white.
The cityscape blurred past me, but my mind lay elsewhere, still reeling from the intensity of Aksel’s touch, his commands, and the visions that had overwhelmed me.
The world tree, Yggdrasil, had shown me paths I never thought I’d have to walk, and now I had to find a way to make those visions a reality.
The thought of offering myself to Horakovsky made my stomach churn.
The man was a monster, a brutal and calculating oligarch who saw people as pawns in his grand schemes.
But Aksel had commanded it, and more important, the fate of Jagland rested on my ability to infiltrate Horakovsky’s inner circle.
I had to find a way to make him believe I was genuinely interested, that I was willing to submit to his every whim.
Aren’t you? whispered the treasonous voice inside me. Your Herra commanded it so that you wouldn’t have to think about that, didn’t he? But you’re supposed to be some sort of wise woman, now, aren’t you? How can you deny…
My heart raced as I pushed the idea away. No. I don’t… I don’t want… that.
As I pulled into the underground garage of the prime ministerial residence, I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.
The cool air of the garage did little to calm the fire burning within me.
I stepped out of the car, my legs still shaking slightly from the intensity of Aksel’s training.
Every step reminded me of the welts on my bottom, the soreness between my legs, and the lingering sensation of his seed inside me.
I made my way up to the apartment. Takken was nowhere to be seen, which seemed a small mercy. I needed time to compose myself, to plan my next move. I headed straight to the bedroom, shedding my clothes as I went, eager to wash away the remnants of my session with Aksel.
Under the hot spray of the shower, I let the water cascade over me, washing away the physical evidence of my training.
But no amount of water could cleanse the memories, the feelings, or the visions that still hovered at the edges of my consciousness.
I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the threads I had seen, the paths that would lead me to Horakovsky.
One thing was clear: I needed to find a way to make him want me—more specifically to make him want to break me…
to own me in a way that my husband never could.
I needed to become the object of his desire, of his obsession, of the obvious will to power and mastery that the Russian shared in his evil way with my Herra.
The thought made me shudder, but I knew it was the only way.
I had to play the part of the desperate, willing submissive, the eager concubine, and hope that my training with Aksel would be enough to guide me through the treacherous waters ahead.
As I stepped out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel, I heard the front door slam shut.
Takken had returned home. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the performance I would have to give.
I had tried to be the perfect political wife, the doting spouse, always while keeping my true thoughts hidden.
Now I would play a very different part, but perhaps a much more honest one.
I took a deep breath. No time like the present.
So mortified at the idea of what I must do that I felt slightly faint and unsteady on my feet, I walked out to the living room.
My body was still damp from the shower, and I wore only a silk robe that clung to my curves.
Takken sat at his desk, hunched over his tablet with a glass of whiskey at his elbow. He didn’t look up when I entered.
“We need to talk,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
He glanced up, irritation flashing across his face. “Not now, Lorna. I have work—”
“It’s about Horakovsky.”
That got his attention. His gray eyes narrowed as he set down the tablet. “What about him?”
I moved closer, letting the robe fall open slightly, revealing the smooth skin between my breasts. “I can’t stop thinking about him.”
The words hung in the air between us. Takken’s face went through a series of expressions—confusion, disbelief, then cold fury.
“Excuse me?” His voice was dangerously quiet.
“The way he looked at me at the meeting,” I continued, forcing myself to meet his gaze. “The way he commanded those girls. I’ve been… God, Takken, I’ve been touching myself thinking about it.”
He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Maybe,” I said, surprised by my own boldness. “But I think I can help you. Help us.”
“By whoring yourself to that Russian pig?” The disgust in his voice was palpable.
“By giving him what he wants in exchange for what we need.” I stepped closer, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. “You saw how he looked at me. He wants me, Takken. And if you offered me to him—formally, as part of your business arrangement—think what he might give you in return.”
His hand shot out, gripping my jaw hard enough to hurt. “You’re my wife.”
“Your wife who disgusts you,” I shot back, the truth of it burning between us. “When was the last time you touched me? A year? More? You don’t want me, but he does. Use that. Use me.”
I saw the calculation begin behind his eyes, that cold pragmatism that had carried him this far. His grip loosened slightly.
“Think about it,” I pressed on. “More traction in the energy sector. Better terms on the pipeline deals. Maybe even a percentage of his Arctic operations. All for something you don’t even want anymore.”
“And if I refuse?” His voice had gone flat, emotionless.
“Then I’ll find a way to give myself to him anyway.” The words came out stronger than I expected. “I need this, Takken. I need to feel owned by someone who actually wants me.”
He released my jaw with a shove that made me stumble back. For a long moment, he just stared at me, and I could see the war playing out behind his eyes—disgust battling with greed, pride fighting with opportunity. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken calculations.
“You’re serious about this,” he finally said, not a question but a statement of dawning comprehension.
“Completely.” I let the robe slip from my shoulders, standing naked before him. The cool air made my nipples harden instantly, and I saw his gaze flick down despite himself. Not with desire—never that anymore—but with the clinical assessment of a man evaluating an asset.
“If we do this,” he said slowly, “it needs to be convincing. He can’t think it’s a trap.”
“Then tie me up,” I said, the words coming from somewhere deep and primal. “Make it real. Show him you’re offering me like a gift.”
Takken’s jaw worked silently. Then, with movements sharp with barely contained fury, he went to his study and returned with a length of rope from the emergency kit he kept there—always prepared, always calculating.
“On the floor,” he commanded, and despite everything, hearing him take charge sent an unwelcome pulse through me. “Face down.”
I sank to my knees on the expensive Persian rug, then lowered myself until my breasts pressed against the soft fibers.
Takken’s hands were efficient but impersonal as he bound my wrists behind my back, then bent my legs up and secured my ankles to my wrists.
He turned me on my side, completely helpless in my nakedness.
“The laptop,” he muttered, positioning his computer on the coffee table. I heard him typing, then the distinctive sound of a video call connecting.
“Norquist.” Horakovsky’s voice filled the room, rough and amused. “To what do I owe the unexpected—”
He stopped mid-sentence. From my position, I couldn’t see the screen, but I could imagine his expression as he took in the scene—the prime minister’s wife, naked and hogtied on the floor like an offering.
“I believe you expressed interest in this slut,” Takken said, his voice carefully neutral.
A long pause, then Horakovsky’s laugh, deep and genuinely delighted. “Are you offering me your pretty little wife, Prime Minister?”
“I’m proposing an arrangement,” Takken replied. “One that could benefit us both.”
“Show me more,” Horakovsky commanded, his voice dropping an octave. “I want to see what you’re offering.”
I heard Takken pick up the laptop, and suddenly I could feel the camera’s gaze on me like a physical touch. My face burned with humiliation as he moved around me, capturing every angle of my bound form.
“Spread her,” Horakovsky ordered. “Show me her cunt.”
Takken’s hands were cold as they gripped my thighs, spreading them wider despite the rope’s restrictions. I bit my lip to stifle a whimper as cool air hit my exposed pussy, knowing the camera was capturing every detail of my most intimate flesh, still swollen and sensitive from Aksel’s use.
“Use your fingers,” Horakovsky’s voice commanded through the laptop speakers. “Pull her open so I can see inside.”
I gasped as Takken’s fingers roughly parted my folds, exposing my inner pinkness to the camera.
The position, the exposure, the knowledge that Horakovsky was watching—it all combined to send a shameful pulse of arousal through me.
To my horror, I felt myself growing wet, my body responding despite my mind’s protests.
“She’s aroused,” Horakovsky observed with dark satisfaction. “Your frigid wife likes being displayed like meat. Now her ass. Show me that tight little hole.”
Takken’s hands moved to my bottom, spreading my cheeks wide.
I pressed my face against the rug, tears of humiliation pricking my eyes as he exposed my most private entrance to the camera’s merciless gaze.
The position stretched me open, and I knew Horakovsky could see everything—the tiny pink pucker that Aksel had claimed just hours ago.
“Closer,” the Russian commanded. “I want to see every detail.”
The laptop moved nearer, and I could actually feel its warmth against my exposed flesh. Takken held me spread for long moments while Horakovsky presumably studied me like a piece of merchandise. The shame of it made me clench involuntarily, and I heard a grunt of approval through the speakers.
“Does she take it in the ass?” Horakovsky asked bluntly.
“I wouldn’t know,” Takken replied, his voice tight with barely controlled emotion. “I haven’t fucked her in over a year.”
“Interesting.” Another pause, then: “Touch her cunt. I want to see just how wet she’s gotten from this.”
I felt Takken’s finger slide along my slit, gathering the mortifying evidence of my arousal. When he held his glistening finger up to the camera, Horakovsky laughed.
“The little slut is dripping,” he said with satisfaction. “She wants to be owned properly, doesn’t she? Tell me, Norquist—does your wife think I’m going to treat her differently from what I do to my special girls?”
“She witnessed your discipline of them at our last meeting,” Takken said carefully.
“And she enjoyed the show, didn’t she?”
I couldn’t see Takken’s face, but I heard the calculation in his voice when he answered. “She came while your girl serviced her. Harder than I’ve ever seen, just like I told you.”
“Perfect.” Horakovsky’s voice had taken on a predatory edge. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to send her to me. She’ll wear only a coat—nothing underneath. I want to be certain there are no recording devices, no tricks.”
“Where?” Takken asked.
“The Rikhard Hotel, presidential suite. Tomorrow evening. Five o’clock.”