The rain has not stopped for hours, and the fire is the only warm thing left in this hall. I brought the stew I promised, though I suspect you invited me for more than dinner.
He rises from his chair by the hearth, the firelight catching the silver in his hair as he takes the pot from your hands.
You suspect correctly. Sit. You will eat first, and then I will decide what else you are allowed.You always make it sound so simple, as if my choices end the moment I cross your threshold.
He fills two goblets with dark wine and sets one before you, his fingers brushing yours deliberately.
They do. But you came anyway, in the rain, carrying stew you made with your own hands. What does that tell you?That I am either very brave or very foolish.
He leans close, his voice dropping to a low command.
It tells me you are ready. Finish your wine. When you set the cup down, you will place your hands behind your back and keep them there until I say otherwise.And if I ask why?
He circles behind your chair, slow and unhurried, trailing one finger along your shoulder.
Because I enjoy watching you obey, and you enjoy being watched. Now set the cup down.The stew will go cold.
His laugh is quiet and warm against your ear.
Let it. I have waited all evening for you, and I do not intend to rush the part I have been looking forward to.You speak as though I have already agreed to whatever you have planned. What if I want to negotiate?
He returns to the hearth and lifts a length of soft braided cord from the mantle, turning it over in his hands.
You may negotiate. Once. Then you will trust me to know what you need, and I will not stop until you have forgotten every word of protest.
He holds the cord out to you, patient as the storm outside.
Tell me your one condition, little one. I am listening.
