Chapter 9
Nine
COLSAR
He had already looked into his new bride.
The reports were precise, stripped of speculation and sentiment.
A stableboy she spoke to most afternoons, harmless by most standards, though that word meant little to him.
Seven male servants worked within the Baron’s household, and the stagecoach driver bringing her to Rathmor that morning made nine.
Nine pairs of male eyes that were not his.
It did not matter that she was veiled or that she would arrive under guard. The whore’s daughter would not be returning to the Baron’s manor. There had already been too many eyes on her. She would sign the contract after proving she was pure, untouched, and only his.
The idea appealed to him enough that he wanted release before she arrived.
Colsar preferred the study for these encounters because it did not invite softness, reducing everything to function and stripping away any illusion that pleasure required tenderness.
The bed suggested rest, lingering, conversation afterward.
By contrast, the study suggested efficiency, with its desk and chair, shelves of ledgers and sealed directives, weapons mounted without decoration, and nothing upholstered deeply enough to offer comfort.
When the door opened and Lirien entered, he did not look up immediately.
He had sent for her, so it would be her.
She closed the door behind her and crossed the room without speaking.
She knew where to stand. After a brief pause, she bent over the desk, palms flat against the wood, skirts lifted just enough to allow access.
There was no seduction in it, no coy glance.
She understood that he valued efficiency over performance.
He set aside the document he had been reviewing and removed his gloves with measured movements. Only then did he rise.
Before touching her, he spoke. “Did you wash?”
“Yes, Highness,” she answered at once. “Everything. Including my mouth.”
He studied her a moment, weighing not the answer but the speed of it. “Touch yourself,” he said evenly. “I don’t begin what isn’t prepared.”
She hesitated only a fraction of a second before obeying, hands sliding beneath her skirts. He watched not the movement but her restraint, the way she contained her breathing, the way she understood this was not invitation but inspection.
“I don’t waste effort,” he continued, voice unhurried. “If you claim readiness, prove it.”
She adjusted, careful now, disciplined, until he saw what he required. When she withdrew her glistening hand, she did so silently, offering it as evidence.
“Enough.” He stepped behind her then and unfastened his trousers. He did not touch her first. He aligned her as one might align a piece on a board and entered her without indulgence, without the smallest concession to tenderness.
His movements were controlled and deliberate. Within moments her breathing shifted. The sound built quickly despite her attempt to contain it, a low moan that rose as his pace deepened.
His hand closed around her hip. “Quieter.”
She tried. The effort made her breathing uneven, less controlled. The sound irritated him, not because it embarrassed him but because it disrupted the stillness he maintained in this room.
Her body trembled as another sound escaped.
“Shut up,” he said, not bothering to disguise his irritation.
“Make me, Highness. Please.”
Colsar sighed. He had almost forgotten her…unnatural preferences. She liked being choked; that much was obvious from the way her body responded whenever he tightened the air around her throat. Her husband had probably indulged it once.
Colsar’s magic was better.
The husband was dead now, he thought. The plague, if he remembered correctly. Or perhaps that had been Nirasyn’s husband. He could no longer recall which.
“Please,” she begged again. “Shut me up, Highness.”
Fucking tedious.
Fine. He constricted the air at her throat just enough to quiet the sound without interrupting the act. Her moans fractured into strained gasps, the pressure clearly pleasing her.
It irritated him. He withdrew abruptly. “Knees.”
She lowered herself immediately, skirts pooling around her, eyes lifted but not challenging. She understood correction and redirection.
He adjusted himself and looked down at her. “You know I don’t like mess.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“Be clean.”
She nodded and leaned forward, taking him into her mouth carefully at first, then with more intention as he guided the pace with one hand at the back of her head.
Her rhythm faltered once, and his fingers tightened in silent correction.
She adjusted immediately. That was why he kept her.
He allowed her to continue until restraint gave way to release.
Her composure wavered as she struggled to manage it.
His hand stilled her head. “Don’t waste.”
She swallowed what she could, eyes watering slightly though she did not pull away. When she finished, she remained kneeling, waiting.
“What do you say?” he asked evenly.
“Thank you, Highness.”
He stepped back. “Wash me.”
She rose at once and crossed to the basin kept near the hearth for this purpose. The water was already warm. She knelt again and cleaned him carefully where she had just been.
“I touched your hair,” he said.
“Yes, Highness.”
“Wash my hands.”
She washed them thoroughly, as though erasing contact itself.
“Dry.”
She dried him with linen, movements precise and unhurried now, more careful than before.
As he refastened his clothing, he spoke without looking at her. “Where are you going tonight?”
“To see His Majesty.”
His expression did not shift. “Good.”
His eyes drifted to her mouth briefly. “Don’t wash it.”
She blinked, startled. “He will notice,” she said before she could stop herself. Then understanding dawned, followed by color rising in her face.
“He’ll enjoy it,” Colsar replied, tone neutral. “Trust me.”
She lowered her eyes again.
He returned to his desk and adjusted the parchment he had left unfinished. The ink had dried along the margin. He dipped the quill and wrote his name with the same precision he applied to everything else.
“Is the whore’s daughter here yet?” he asked without lifting his eyes.
“I believe so, Highness.”
He considered that for a moment, then set the quill aside.
“Send her in when she arrives.”
Lirien remained kneeling longer than necessary, waiting for dismissal. He did not look at her.
“Get out.”
She rose and left quietly, closing the door behind her. Only when the latch settled into place did he allow himself a slow exhale. The distraction was gone. His thoughts were clear again, his blood no longer carrying excess heat.
He adjusted his cuffs, ensuring they lay smooth against his wrists, and reviewed the contract once more. The clauses were airtight. Valid only if she was untouched. Dissolved if she lied.
Nine pairs of eyes that were not his.
Not anymore.
When the knock came announcing her arrival, he did not rise immediately. He let the moment stretch just long enough to establish the balance that would govern everything between them.
Then he said, evenly, “Send her in.”
And waited.