Chapter Eight
Ayala
A SENSE OF MOVEMENT wakes me, but when I manage to open my eyes, the light is dim.
“His Majesty must have fucked you good, plaissance. It’s nearly supper.” The old doe wrinkles her nose. “Shower first, food after. Quick, quick! We must prepare you for the king.”
I understand shower, food, drink... and the fact that a portly doe leans over me to unlock my cuffs with a key.
“Who are you?”
She straightens, and though her looks are jolly and kind, her expression isn’t. “I’m Mrs. Longthorn, head housekeeper to King Cian. I’ve been with him since he was just a young buck at Malvernon Keep.”
Right. King Cian is the son of the great warrior knight, Rodrick Malvernon, and his wife, Solange de Graal, the daughter of Duke de Graal.
If she means to cow me by reminding me of his impressive lineage, she fails. The king’s bloodline is the least impressive thing about him. “I’d appreciate the shower.” I struggle to sit upright, yanking the guard’s undershift down my thighs as I do.
The housekeeper gives me a once-over. “Not much to look at. No power coming off you, either. And yet you dare to raise your hand against our good king?” She clicks her tongue against her teeth.
“Stags may have their incomprehensible lusts, but don’t you get too comfortable, plaissance.
Once the boy tires of you, I’ll be there to assure you get the ending you deserve. ”
“I didn’t try to kill him.” But I don’t know why I’m arguing with her. She won’t believe me.
No one will. I knew it before. I know it for certain after her contempt. The entirety of the palace loves their king. They now hate me in equal measure. Once he tires of my body, I’m dead.
The dreams of an under-baker may be simple, but they don’t include death.
One step at a time, Ayala. One blade of grass at a time. Perform the next requirement, and we’ll see.
After ascertaining that my limbs work, I follow the housekeeper to an adjoining chamber. Inside, I’m greeted by a shower dressed in ebony and green onyx sheets. The housekeeper demonstrates how the gold pipes on the ceiling and wall control the flow of water before walking off.
I don’t know whether to follow or bathe.
“Are you coming, plaissance?”
I scurry towards her voice, ashamed of my delay. Regretting feeling shame.
What a mess. I’m a jumble of emotions that won’t sit together.
She points to a closet, and when I peek inside, I find rows of sheathes in pretty spring colors and luxurious fabrics: silk, linen, velvet, gossamer, lace.
There are an equal number of robes, like the ones the king and the earl wore last night.
To shift, one simply unties the belt and shrugs off the clothing.
Since I’ve never shifted on my own, I’ve never owned a robe.
Ooh. A length of transparent pink and gold weave calls my attention. I reach out to touch it, but draw my hand back. “Whose clothes are these?” I ask in a hushed voice.
“Yours, plaissance. For the moment.”
Mine. Unbelievable. I’ve owned two identical shifts for the past five years.
For the first time, the status the king has given me becomes real. The wealth inside the closet is the wealth of royalty. And not just the clothing, either. Beneath the hanging garments lie lines of slippers, some soft and some of leather for outside, all of them easy to discard.
Won’t be needing those. My boots will work just fine since I won’t shift.
I’m suddenly dizzy again, either from a lack of food or the fury with which my life’s changing by the moment.
Plus, another reality of my situation comes crashing in on me when I finally reach out and stroke the unbelievable pink and gold weave transparent robe: I’m about to get royally fucked.
I’m about to become the newest plaything for the king, and though it’s supposed to be an honor, I’m suddenly feeling very, very small.
Over in a minute, my mother used to say of a doe’s first rutting with a stag.
But now my stomach creases with fear. Or lust. Or both. What will it be like to accept the strongest of our species into my body? I’ve seen him. He’s large everywhere. He’s going to rip into me, tearing me... oh, goddess, I’m going to bleed.
By the time the housekeeper flees, my limbs are trembling so hard, I can’t stand any longer. Right there in the closet, I sink to my knees. My forehead falls to the floor. It’s too heavy to keep upright anymore.
All I wanted was to add a little interest to my baked goods and, maybe, improve my circumstances once Roffey ran off with Fawn. And now, I’m caught on a rack of my own devising.
Icy fear trembles through me. A stag like the king—what will he demand of his plaissance?
I don’t know anything about fucking. Because I’m so weak, because the only stag who could ever be expected to fuck me, let alone mate me, would be weak as well, I always assumed that sex would be infrequent.
He wouldn’t want to lose what little power he held by engaging in a physical act that would take his energy.
That’s what I’ve believed since I came of age.
But a stag like the king is bound to have knowledge of which I can’t even dream. He’s known to be prolific in his attentions. And highborn does fuck with just as much abandon. The ones he’s taken must know all there is to know about what goes on in bed.
I’m not going to be able to hold him for even a single fuck. He’s going to be so bored, he’ll quit before he starts.
“What are you doing? Are you praying to the clothing?”
From behind me, the king’s deep, amused tones wash over me.
“Dizzy,” I explain, clenching my eyes shut as mortification rolls over me. Again. “I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry I’m so weak. I’m sorry I was born to a hunter and a gatherer and managed to end up twice as weak as they were.
I’m sorry they were killed by the Phange, that dread disease that eradicated a third of the population of Cerf-Biche five years earlier.
I’m sorry I’m so stupid, I couldn’t even reach for my lowly dream without poisoning the ruler of the land.
I’m sorry I’m a whiny-ass doe who’s terrified right down to her tail, if only she could shift to have one.
He clicks his tongue against his teeth. In the next instant, I’m scooped off the floor like a small bag of air and held tight against his chest in those muscular arms. I open my eyes to see his dark irises staring at me with warmth.
“Why aren’t you disgusted by my weakness?” The words escape me, running on their own volition.
His brows furrow as he considers the question.
“I’m not certain. Maybe because you’re still my citizen.
When I took the vow to Cernunnos before the Sacred Fir at Mayhaven, I promised the Great God to support my people, from least to greatest. Maybe I feel tenderness for you because you’re so obviously the least? ”
But he doesn’t sound certain, as if he doesn’t quite know why he hasn’t sent me away, if not killed me.
Something else he said catches my attention. “You feel tenderness for me?”
But instead of answering, he shakes his head, and his gaze slips forward as he walks me to the bathing room.
Fine. The silence allows me to curl my head against his chest. The scent of fir and fire meets my nose. And in that moment, whatever resistance I thought I held falls. Whatever he wishes of me, whatever I can give him, is his.
It’s only biology.
Without putting me down, he maneuvers to turn on the taps. Icy water splashes over us both, soaking our clothing. When I gasp and further try to hide my face in his chest, he laughs.
“You won’t melt like the fearsome ice-doe of legend, little one. It’s just a little water.” Even as he speaks, he adjusts the temperature by turning the other knob. Soon, we’re standing under a flow of temperate spray.
Revived by the feel of the water punching along my skin, I manage to remain on my legs when he puts me down. A twist of unhappiness to be out of his arms spirals through me, but I ignore it.
Until I look up and up and up—and find his dark eyes boring down upon me.
Heat and fire are banked in his gaze. I’m captured—until I feel his fingers clutch the neckline of my soaked undershift, feel the fabric tear as if it consists of nothing but spun sugar, feel the water on my flesh as he rips my clothing from neckline to hem, leaving me naked to his gaze.
His eyes drop, drinking in my form. A sort of guttural growl leaves his lips. “Perfect, like fresh cream and roses.”
Instinct tells me to cover myself, but he’s the king. He can look at me naked if he wants. My goose-bumped flesh argues, or wants to give in... I don’t even know anymore. He’s so overwhelming. I’m so not.
“I was supposed to journey outward today. I dismissed my guards and stayed within the palace instead, waiting for you to wake. I’m putting off duty for you, little one. I wonder what that says about your weakness and your strength.”
His fingers work the wet fabric from my shoulders until the shift drops to the stone floor with a plop. He kicks it away before moving to unlatch the tie around his robe’s waist. He stops and drops his arms to his side.
“Disrobe me, plaissance.”
Disrobe him? Is he nuts? I can’t touch him. He’s the king. I shake my head and try to back away, but he reaches out and grabs me, holding me still.
“I said, disrobe me. I expect my orders to be obeyed without question, even from you.”
But the earlier primal fear wells up within me again. It grounds me from the soles of my feet to the tip of my head. I can’t. I just can’t. Instead, I look up at him, pleading silently that he understand what I don’t.
His head tilts. “Are you a virgin, plaissance?”
And there I go, mortified once again. The heat on my face steams the hot water falling upon me. “I—I just...” But he waits, and so I capture whatever courage I can, which isn’t much. “Yes.”
Because even the whorehouses stock does with at least shifting-level magickal ability. Anything else would be an insult to the paying stags.