Delilah
Present Day
“Nature intended women to be our slaves. They are our property… Women are nothing but machines for producing children.” — NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
The marble floor bites into my knees, a persistent, stabbing sensation that gets worse the longer my joints are subjected to the unforgiving surface.
I swallow my discomfort and continue scrubbing the stain left by the glass of red wine I dropped on my way to the drawing room.
The bristles of the toothbrush—now stained a dark maroon—swish rhythmically as I swirl the tool in tiny circular motions to try and lift the spot.
Abandoning the toothbrush, I use a microfiber cloth to sop up the red, soapy water, holding my breath as I soak up the last of the cleaner.
“Dammit,” I whisper, noticing the slight discoloration still tainting the white stone.
I retrieve the toothbrush from the bucket and start scrubbing more vigorously, knowing the punishment for my folly will be far worse than the short-term discomfort of a sore back and bruised knees.
These floors—along with everything else in this home—cost more than I could imagine.
While I’m not privy to the exact amount, I have enough sense to understand an unsightly stain in the main foyer is unacceptable.
“What are you doing?”
I freeze mid-swipe. I’m not sure what’s worse—the fact that I spilled in the first place, or the fact that he found out before I could finish cleaning. I slowly loosen my grip on the toothbrush and crane my neck behind me, taking in the sight of the man in the doorway.
He’s handsome by all accounts: taller than most, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and a clean-shaven jaw.
Add those striking blue eyes into the equation, and many women would swoon at the sight of him.
In his three-piece suit, he looks like the well-groomed men on the covers of the romance novels my mother used to read.
I push the inappropriate thoughts of before out of my mind and clear my throat, standing slowly and keeping my eyes down. “I’m sorry, sir. I hoped I would be able to finish before you came home.”
The click-clack of his leather dress shoes echoes on the stone in the otherwise unoccupied space as he approaches me, and my heart beats faster in my chest. Directly in front of me now, I can smell the familiar, woodsy notes of his cologne, and I clasp my hands together to stop them from shaking.
He lifts his hand to my face, placing two fingers under my chin and applying pressure, forcing me to lift my head. “Delilah,” he says. “Look at me.”
I swallow, forcing my gaze up to his. I expect to see anger in his eyes, but there’s only amusement.
That’s when I smell it, the spicy remnants of scotch lingering on his breath.
If I had to guess, he’s had at least two, but no more than four—that’s the sweet spot.
Any less, and he’s still unyieldingly rigid.
Any more, and he’s angry at the drop of a hat.
I paste what I hope is a convincing smile on my face, relaxing ever-so-slightly. “Yes, sir?”
“We have maids for that.” He nods at the cleaning supplies on the floor.
“It was my fault,” I say, hoping he doesn’t catch the slight wobble in my voice. I’ve been punished for much less than a spilled glass of wine, after all.
“Maid!” I wince as the deep timbre of his voice carries down the hall.
Hurried steps draw closer before the housekeeper rounds the corner, approaching him and dropping into a slight curtsy once she’s about five feet away. “Yes, my lord?”
He snaps his fingers and points at the mess I left, keeping his attention on me. “Finish cleaning this up.”
“Right away, my lord.” The seasoned maid immediately drops to the floor and continues the work I started.
She’s at least three decades older than me, but she voices no complaint.
As a woman past child-bearing age, options for service are limited.
She’s probably grateful for the opportunity to work in a house such as this.
The lord of the house runs his gaze up and down my body.
Per usual, I’m wearing a dress and stockings as women aren’t permitted to wear pants.
I resist the urge to smooth my frizzy, chestnut hair, a habit that was beaten out of me at the Institute.
I stay stock-still as he takes in my bronze skin, dull brown eyes, and the curves I wish weren’t there.
I’ve never considered myself particularly eye-catching, but the way he’s looking at me would suggest otherwise.
He always looks at me like this: hungry, with that underlying predatory gleam.
But, while other men might look, they wouldn’t dare touch another man’s wife.
The grandfather clock chimes from the parlor, and his gaze reluctantly finds its way back to mine. “You should get changed. The other lords will be arriving soon.”
I dip my chin, dropping my eyes once again.
Before I can turn away, he grabs my wrist and pulls me into his body, burying his nose in the crevice of my neck.
His large hand finds the round globe of my backside and he palms the flesh there, unabashedly rubbing his erection against my hip.
I laugh, trying to keep the mood light. “Sir, we have an audience.”
“When has that ever stopped me?” He forces my hand down so I can feel the hardened flesh through his pants.
“My lord.” I try to lean away, glancing at the maid still scrubbing the stain on the ground. Maybe he had more scotch than I previously thought.
His grip on my hand tightens as his hot breath fans over my neck. “You are my wife.” He bites my exposed collarbone—hard—and I stifle a yelp as he unbuttons his pants.
It’s the only explanation given, the only reminder I need. I silently turn around and slide the fabric of my dress up my legs before shimmying my stockings down my thighs. I bend myself over the entryway table, and the cool stone feels blessedly refreshing against my flushed cheek.
I hear the zipper of his pants and the rustling of clothing before the head of his penis presses against my entrance. “Spread your legs.”
The rigid material of my tights is already stretched taut between my thighs, but I do as I’m told, until the bunched fabric digs painfully into my soft flesh.
Normally, this is where he would lather himself in lubricant, but his impatience wins out this time.
He spits in his palm, coating himself and then my entrance with the sticky saliva, before he pushes into me with a grunt.
The sound of slapping skin mixes with the swish-swish-swish of the maid’s toothbrush, while I think of what to wear to the party tonight.
???
I can feel his seed leaking out of me. The silky residue of his pleasure slides between my thighs, the fresh pair of underwear I changed into already soiled.
I catch his eye from across the room and offer a small smile, which goes unreturned.
I should know better. In the presence of other men—other powerful men, especially—I might as well not exist.
Here in the Northwest region of New Athens, Gabriel is among the top lords of the Brotherhood, and I couldn’t be prouder to stand at his side.
Tonight is a celebration, a commemoration of his achievements as he’s solidified trade agreements with several countries that were previously unwilling to tie themselves to the Brotherhood.
Technically, I’m not supposed to know anything about it, or what Gabriel does for work in general, but maids talk, and I’ve never been able to kick the eavesdropping habit I picked up as a child.
Armed guards—the lesser, unmarried brothers—are stationed around the room in their typical black uniforms. Masks cover all but their eyes as they scan the room for threats—not that there are any. One notices me staring and I immediately drop my eyes. They may not be lords, but they’re still men.
“Sister, are you even listening to me?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry, what?”
Sister Thomas—my good friend and the wife of Lord Thomas—sighs wistfully, cradling her heavily pregnant belly. “I said,” she drops her voice. “Any luck on the baby front?”
My mood is immediately soured. Gabriel and I have been trying for a baby since the day we were married.
We’ve seen every doctor and fertility specialist within a two-hundred-mile radius, and none of them have been able to find any scientific reason as to why we can’t conceive.
I turn to Sister Thomas and paste a smile on my face. “We’re still trying.”
It’s a rehearsed answer, one she’s heard countless times now, and the disappointment on her face is a fraction of my own. She grasps my hand and squeezes tightly. “Someday.”
I nod and smile, even though the heartbreak I feel is suffocating.
Like any woman, I desperately want to give my husband children, and every time my period arrives—even irregular as it is—I feel a crushing sense of failure.
Most women in my immediate proximity have at least one child, leaving me—and Gabriel—in the minority among my friends and his peers.
Before my thoughts can spiral into a darker place, a male voice rings out in the crowded room, immediately drawing everyone’s attention as side conversations abate.
“Gentlemen!” The voice belongs to High Lord Gentry, the Northwest’s top-ranking member.
“On behalf of Lord Gabriel, I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight to celebrate this momentous occasion. ”
The side of the room with all the men erupts into whoops and cheers as several of the lords clap Gabriel on the back, and the smile on my husband’s face fills me with pride.
He’s worked tirelessly over the past several months to ensure the success of these agreements, and I’m thrilled he’s being recognized for it.