Chapter 8
Benoit
Holding Belle-Belle, my Little Lord, felt as natural as the sun shining on my back. I had scarce known her a week, and only briefly in her womanly form, and already she was becoming the center of my world.
But then she had to ask about my past.
I grasped her tighter, though I took care not to exert too much of my inhuman strength in that moment. I had to trust that if she wanted me in her company, and she wanted me in her bed, she would not discard me as others had.
“Little one, you are eighteen years of age, yes?”
I felt the soft hairs on her head rustle against my shoulder as she nodded.
“I was two years older than you when Emperor Matapa came through my lands. And this, in turn, was four years ago.” I took some small solace in not being so much older than Milord that it was like some of the arranged marriages I had heard of, with a man marrying a girl young enough to be his daughter.
This, too, was passing out of fashion with the influence of the faeries, but who knew how long some stubborn people might cling to it, for status or other reasons.
“I lived in a village to the north of here. I was not a woodsman then, but rather, a carpenter. And all was well, until Emperor Matapa came. We had intended to fight, yes, but we were but artisans and farmers, with little knowledge of war.”
I clenched Belle-Belle to me, awash in difficult memories.
“I volunteered to go seek help, whether it was a militia or mercenaries that might help our cause. Unfortunately, it was the faeries I found first. They promised me strength unbounded, a guaranteed way to fight and win.”
Shame overcame me, and I dipped my head and averted my eyes from where Milord might see. To her credit, she did not pull away.
“I returned to my people as Strong Back. I thought to triumph over Matapa’s soldiers left stationed in our village.
And yet…” bitterness clenched my jaw, and I had no say in it, “when I demonstrated my new skills to them, they fractured and ran. All of them, not just the soldiers. They, my people, my family, those I would die to protect, or worse, bargained with the faeries…”
There was no escaping the conclusion. I was not wanted. I was unlovable.
“They rejected me,” it came out a whisper, almost a whimper, and I hated myself in that moment. Not simply for showing weakness, but for showing Milord all the reasons she would eventually desert me.
For a moment, I was selfishly glad that I had already achieved release. Dwelling on past memories was painful enough to make pleasure seem a distant dream. And certainly not something I deserved.
“So I left. I wandered to this part of the land, and employed my strength in the most solitary profession I could conceive of: as a woodcutter. I migrated before anyone who sold me supplies or purchased wood could learn of my freakish nature.” Speaking the words was difficult in any context; I had not spoken to a soul so honestly in years, but the difficulty burned my throat even more because I did not wish to burden Milord with my problems.
“Benoit,” she spoke, the word at once a command and a balm.
Before I could turn to look down at her, she disentangled herself from my embrace and climbed atop me, straddling my chest. I stilled, startled; I also did not wish to touch her, given that my hands were full of my own mess.
“You are not a freak. You are not unworthy,” she stated, her sky blue eyes drilling down into mine.
Her cheeks retained a flush from her recent release, but her eyes were wiped of pleasure, revealing intense determination.
She would be a fearsome foe to encounter on the battlefield, once her skills increased as I expected they would.
Milord was a quick study in all things, it seemed.
I opened my mouth to protest.
She stopped me by bending down and claiming a kiss. My body softened into hers. And the shame abated its hold on my heart, ever so slightly.
“You are not unworthy,” she repeated. “You are mine.” She claimed my lips again, and with that, my heart.
There was nothing I could do but yield to her kisses and caresses, though I had already decided to restrain myself from initiating further intimacies, as tempting as her weight atop me was.
As much as I yearned for more of her touch, I did not wish to overstay my welcome, nor burden her with more of my problems. And I could hope—and I did, fervently—that her desires would grow, if given the right combination of space and nurturing.
When she finally unwound from my ensuing embrace, I excused myself to return to the stable to sleep; there was no way I would fit on the bed with her, and I wished for Milord to be well-rested.
I had paused outside to briefly wash, though I loathed the thought of rinsing her scent from my skin.
I entered the stable, and saw that Lucas and Guillaume were still awake and talking.
Their eyes fixed on me immediately; well, Lucas’s did, but Guillaume’s were only partly visible beneath his blindfold.
“How is Milord?” Lucas asked.
Before I could answer, Guillaume sneered, “There is no use in asking him, he has already fallen for her and will give no unbiased answer.”
I settled myself in the hay. Addressing Lucas, I stated that Milord was well, and expressed my pleasure at guiding her to release. Then I addressed Guillaume.
“I will thank you to either correct your tone or hold your tongue where Milord is concerned.” I propped myself up on one elbow so that I could loom menacingly over the smaller man, gaunt as he was.
Guillaume raised his blindfold and stared at me with cold gray eyes. They were the eyes of a killer; I could tell that much. Their icy depths hid more secrets too, and I could not tell which fact about him worried me more on behalf of Milord.
Before we could continue to menace one another further, Lucas settled himself in the hay between us, breaking our ability to stare at each other.
“Peace, friends,” he said. “We have all sworn an oath to Milord and it is clear that none of us would wish her harm. Let us put aside personal differences.”
I grunted and rolled onto my side, facing away from them.
Let Guillaume be as sour as he liked; I would not waste my time on changing his mind about Milord, not when I had fresh memories to revel in as I sought the solace of sleep.
Part of me knew, however, that Guillaume was right: Milord would express curiosity about the others in our group eventually, and I could deny her nothing, not that it was my place to; I was her sworn servant, not her chaperone.
But I could ensure that if Guillaume ever hurt her, he would pay.
And I assumed that he had clearly interpreted my intentions from my stare.
Knowing that Milord had claimed me and let me be her first erotic guide was a warm spot in my heart, and I hoped that it would triumph over the darker thoughts, and the fear that Guillaume would force my hand.
It turned out that my fears had latched on to the wrong person, however.