The throne room of Valorheim reeked of decay masked by incense.
Ethan Lokart stood three paces behind King Aldric III, hands clasped behind his back, eyes downcast in the perfect imitation of a loyal servant. Around him, nobles postured and preened, their silks and velvets a riot of color against the gray stone walls. They didn't see him. They never did.
That was exactly how he wanted it.
"Your Majesty," Lord Percival droned, his jowls quivering with each word, "the grain tax from the eastern provinces continues to fall short. I propose we increase the levy by—"
Ethan tuned out the old fool's voice. He'd heard this speech a dozen times. Instead, his gaze drifted across the assembled court, cataloging, calculating, hunting.
Lady Margot, the Duke's wife—too old, too shrewd. She'd be a challenge he didn't need yet.
The Countess of Silverbrook—pretty enough, but her husband was away at war. Low-hanging fruit. Possibly useful.
Then his eyes found her.
Dame Celine Ashford stood near the tall windows, sunlight catching the auburn of her hair. Thirty-five, maybe thirty-six. Wife to Lord Viktor Ashford, a man twenty years her senior who spent more time with his hounds than his bride. Ethan had watched her for months now, noting the tightness around her mouth, the way her eyes lingered on the younger knights, the flush that crept up her neck when conversation turned to matters of the bedchamber.
Frustrated. Neglected. Ripe.
Their eyes met for half a heartbeat. She looked away quickly, but not before Ethan caught the slight parting of her lips, the quickening of her breath.
Yes. You see me, don't you?
"Ethan."
The king's raspy voice snapped him back to attention. Aldric had turned in his throne, his rheumy eyes fixed on his servant.
"Yes, Your Majesty?" Ethan bowed, the picture of deference.
"Wine. My throat is parched with all this tedious talk."
"At once, sire."
Ethan moved with practiced efficiency, fetching the silver pitcher from the sideboard. As he poured, he leaned close enough to murmur, "Shall I prepare your evening draught as well, Your Majesty? You seemed... restless last night."
The king's fingers tightened on the armrest. Restless. A kind word for an old man who could no longer perform his husbandly duties, who lay awake knowing his young queen slept cold and untouched in her chambers.
"Yes," Aldric muttered. "The strong mixture. I need to sleep."
"Of course, sire. I live to serve."
The king waved him away, already forgetting him. They all did. Ethan was furniture. Wallpaper. A pair of hands that appeared when needed and vanished when not.
Perfect.
The court session dragged on for another two hours. Ethan remained in position, silent and still, but his mind was already three moves ahead.
Dame Celine had glanced at him four more times. Each time, her gaze lingered a fraction longer. She was curious now, perhaps wondering why a mere servant had met her eyes with such... confidence.
When the session finally ended and the nobles began filing out, Ethan made his move.
He intercepted Lord Viktor in the corridor outside. "My lord Ashford, a moment?"
The older man turned, annoyance flickering across his weathered face. "What is it? I have matters to attend to."
"Of course, my lord. I only wished to return this." Ethan produced a small leather glove from his pocket. "I believe Lady Celine dropped it in the throne room. I thought you might return it to her, save her the embarrassment of realizing her loss."
Viktor snatched the glove without thanks. "Fine, fine. Is that all?"
"One more thing, if I may be so bold." Ethan lowered his voice, stepped closer. "His Majesty mentioned he may have need of your expertise regarding the new hunting grounds. He speaks most highly of your knowledge of hounds and game."
The lord's expression shifted immediately. Royal favor was currency, even a hint of it. "Did he now?"
"Indeed. He specifically asked if you might visit the kennels this evening to inspect the new stock. Around the eighth bell, I believe he said."
It was a complete fabrication. The king had said no such thing. But Viktor wouldn't verify it—to question would suggest doubt in his own worthiness for the king's attention.
"The eighth bell," Viktor repeated, straightening his doublet. "Yes, I shall be there. Thank you for relaying the message, boy."
He strode off, already mentally preparing for an audience that would never come.
Ethan allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
The eighth bell was two hours after sunset. Lord Viktor would spend at least an hour at the kennels waiting for a king who wouldn't arrive, too proud to leave early and admit he'd been mistaken.
That gave Ethan a window.
He found Dame Celine in the solar, a small reading room adjacent to the ladies' parlor. She was alone, as he'd known she would be—the other ladies had gone to the gardens, but Celine preferred solitude.
She looked up as he entered, surprise flickering across her delicate features. "Ethan? What are you doing here?"
"My lady." He bowed, just deeply enough to show respect without servility. "Forgive the intrusion. I found this earlier and wanted to return it personally."
He held out the matching glove to the one he'd given Viktor.
Celine's brow furrowed. "I... I wasn't aware I'd lost it."
"You hadn't. I lied to your husband."
The blunt admission made her blink. Color rose in her cheeks—shock, yes, but also something else. Intrigue.
"You... you lied to Lord Ashford? Why would you—"
"Because I wanted an excuse to see you alone." Ethan stepped closer, watching her pupils dilate. "Because I've watched you for months, my lady. I've seen how you look at the young knights. How you bite your lip when the conversation turns to pleasure. How you touch yourself through your skirts when you think no one is watching."
"How dare—" She stood abruptly, but Ethan was already there, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
"I dare because you want me to," he said softly. "Because you're starving, Celine. Your husband hasn't touched you properly in years. You go to bed aching and wake up empty. Don't you?"
"You... you don't know anything about—"
"I know everything." His hand came up, fingers brushing her jaw. She didn't pull away. "I know you pleasure yourself three, sometimes four times a week. I know you imagine younger men, rougher men. Men who would take what they want instead of falling asleep snoring beside you."
Her breathing had gone shallow. "This is... this is inappropriate. I should call for—"
"For who? Your husband? He's at the kennels, waiting for a summons that won't come. The other ladies? They're in the gardens. We're alone, Celine. Finally, blessedly alone."
"I'm a married woman. I won't—"
"Won't what?" Ethan's thumb traced her lower lip. "Won't let yourself have what you've been craving? Won't let yourself feel what you deserve to feel? Your marriage is a cage, and you know it."
"Stop." But it came out as a whisper, not a command.
"Make me." His other hand settled on her hip, pulling her closer. "Tell me to leave, Celine. Say it like you mean it, and I'll go. You'll never see me this way again. I'll be the invisible servant, and you can go back to your cold bed and your lonely fingers."
She should have slapped him. Should have screamed. Should have done anything except what she did.
Dame Celine Ashford closed her eyes and leaned into his touch.
"That's what I thought," Ethan murmured, and kissed her.
She tasted like honeyed wine and desperation.
The kiss started soft, testing, but when she moaned against his mouth, Ethan let the leash slip. His hand fisted in her hair, angling her head back as he deepened the kiss, his tongue claiming her mouth with the same certainty he'd use to claim the rest of her.
Celine whimpered, her hands clutching at his shoulders—not to push away, but to pull him closer.
"Please," she gasped when he broke the kiss to trail his lips down her throat. "We can't... someone might..."
"Let them." He bit down on the junction of her neck and shoulder, hard enough to make her cry out. "Let them see what a real man does to you."
His hands were already working at the laces of her gown. She should have stopped him. Should have fled. But she was too far gone, too starved for touch, for desire, for someone to want her with this raw, animal intensity.
The gown loosened. Ethan pulled it down, baring her shoulders, her collarbone, the swell of her breasts above her corset.
"Beautiful," he growled, and meant it. She wasn't young, wasn't perfect, but she was real and willing and his for the taking.
"Ethan, I—"
"Quiet." He spun her around, pressing her against the wall beside the bookshelf. "You talk too much. Right now, you're going to be silent and let me show you what you've been missing."
She nodded frantically, already lost.
Ethan hiked up her skirts, his hand sliding up her thigh. She wasn't wearing anything beneath—another sign of her frustration, her secret rebellion. His fingers found her wet and ready.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're soaked. How long have you been like this?"
"Since... since the throne room," she admitted, shame and arousal warring in her voice. "When you looked at me, I..."
"You wanted this." He slid two fingers inside her, making her gasp. "Wanted me to take you, fuck you, make you feel alive again."
"Yes. God, yes."
"Then hold on."
He freed himself with his other hand, positioning himself. She was tight—Viktor clearly hadn't been doing his duty—but wet enough that Ethan slid in with one firm thrust.
Celine's cry was muffled by her own hand clamped over her mouth. Ethan pulled it away.
"I said let them hear. Let everyone know what's happening to the neglected Lady Ashford."
He set a brutal pace, each thrust driving her against the wall. Books rattled on their shelves. Celine's moans filled the small room, shameless now, all pretense of propriety shattered.
"Look at you," Ethan growled in her ear. "Noble lady, respected wife, reduced to getting fucked against a wall by a servant. Does it feel as good as you imagined?"
"Better," she sobbed. "God, it's better. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
"I won't. Not until you're dripping with my cum. Not until you know who you belong to now."
He reached around, finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs. The combination of his cock and his fingers was too much.
Celine came with a scream that anyone in the corridor would have heard. Ethan didn't care. He kept fucking her through it, chasing his own release, feeling her clench and pulse around him.
"That's it," he panted. "Come for me. Show me what a good girl you are."
When his own climax hit, he buried himself deep, marking her from the inside, claiming her in the most primal way possible.
They stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard. Ethan finally pulled out, watching his seed drip down her thigh with satisfaction.
Celine slumped against the wall, trembling. "What... what have we done?"
"We?" Ethan tucked himself away, straightened his clothes. "You didn't do anything, my lady. I did this to you. And I'm going to do it again. And again. Whenever I want."
She turned to face him, eyes wide. "I can't... this was a mistake. We can't—"
He grabbed her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Listen carefully, Celine. You're mine now. Your body knows it even if your mind is still catching up. Tomorrow night, you'll meet me in the old chapel. Ninth bell. Tell your husband you're praying."
"He'll never believe—"
"He'll believe whatever you tell him because he doesn't care enough to question it." Ethan released her, stepping back. "You'll be there. Because if you're not, I'll have to come find you. Maybe in front of your husband next time."
Terror and arousal flickered across her face in equal measure.
"You wouldn't."
"Try me."
He left her there, disheveled and dripping, and didn't look back.
That night, Ethan prepared the king's sleeping draught as promised, adding just a touch more poppy milk than usual. Aldric would sleep like the dead until morning.
Which meant Queen Isadora would spend another night alone in the royal chambers, untouched and wanting.
Ethan smiled to himself as he walked the dark corridors of the palace.
Dame Celine had been the appetizer.
The queen would be the first real course.
But that could wait. He had time. He had patience.
And soon, he would have them all.
End of Chapter 1
Next: Chapter 2 - The Queen's Desperation