the bitter blade verseXnyix

[Verse]

They'd told him he was born of violence.

It certainly rung true in the vibrating arias of his silver blades after they'd struck bone. Coaltan Deviere, last son of the Deviere house, believed in the things they said about Duelists who had done their due diligence, honing their craft. Of blood, through blood, with blood. But now, when he was cutting through the Winnie family men because one of them had slighted him in a forgotten bar at the end of a forgotten London street, he wasn't looking for the furious rewards of violence, even if it was violence with which he chased it. No. As he opened these brothers and cousins and even a father up with rapiers and sabers, Coaltan searched for the softness his mother had given him before blacklung had taken her. It was the promise of security that his father had loomed over him as the trained. It was family rather than power that he stabbed and cut for.

The latest, and the last of the able-bodied Winnies, was supposedly the best of them. But Winnies, while adept in killing, were no Duelists. They sold murder, and moved drugs to poison anglo-saxon veins, and stole from people with things to steal. They had not perfected their posture or located where the critical point in an arc was. Duelists, when the crown had built the Duelist Economy, must not be less then any noble in the pursuit of their art. And even though the Deviere son had strayed from immaculate form in favor of his own wayward brutality, he was nothing less than efficient in bringing men down. This Winnie, large and strong with a good sword in his hand, was tripped and almost butchered alive and humiliated before Coaltan finally skewered his esophagus against a stone wall. If you knew to look for it, the side sword had actually gone through a vertebrae before sticking to the brick.

Coal still held the handle firmly as the musical note in the metal died down. He stared at the surprised and sad, still open eyes and mouth of his dispatched adversary. The imagery mingled with the alcohol in Coal's blood and made him feel a perverse sense of accomplishment, even though it was tainted with the bad conscience of having killed another man. It was a sting he'd learned to displace, and even appreciate. Another note shook his blade when he pulled it back, letting the Winnie son kneel and topple. From above, Coal drew the bloodied tip of his weapon through the fallen opponent's hair once. A last tenderness, maybe?

And then Coaltan turned. He sheathed in the same motion, but it was a sloppy action. He had spent his focus on the fight and now indulged the stupor as he swayed out, relying on the wall thrice before leaving the mouth of the alley. He had a small line of borrowed blood on his risen cheekbone, beside his straight nose. Eyes so brown they were red in the gaslight. His coat had once been a brighter blue, but at least the body it clung to was still athletic and tall. He would not let his physicality decay. With the rate he was challenged for the former glory of his family name, it was almost impossible, anyway. Dark hair tied back but coming loose because of his recent activity. He was his usual nightly mess as he staggered into a brothel who knew his name. He had a rubied pin from the Winnie in the alley, and the silver setting might still have a streak of blood on it when he dropped it in the greeters hand. Should be enough for even two nights of drinking and warm bodies.

"Welcome back, Coal." the woman said and put the treasure between her corseted breasts and turned to offer her silhouette at a flattering angle. Coal touched her cheek and chin on his way past her. He might talk to her earnestly when he sobered up, but right now he needed someone who he didn't know to lose himself in.

"Whiskey and wine and women, Tiff." he muttered, intentionally dismissive. He wasn't looking for familiar friends.

 

[nyix]

They told her she was born of greatness.

A vague destiny. Greatness could mean many things. In her parents’ eyes she was born of beauty, wrapped neatly in the lustrous bow of elegance. She was bred to court royalty and charm dukes. Taught, from a young age, her place in this cruel world was solely dependent on how successful she would be in such affairs. Aim high to climb higher. Be gentle, but brutal. Claw your way to the top under the guise of flawless perfection. Fail to do so, and the family might fall. A stain on your name was as good as a death sentence. After the death of her brother, the heir to the family crime syndicate, the pressure only grew. It wrapped its bony fingers around her throat in a vice: “Obey or die. The weight of the world as you know it rests on your delicate shoulders”.

There was no room for desire. What she wanted didn’t matter anymore. There was a love lost to a lowly boy born of violence. She left him, reluctantly but willingly. She had been young and stupid, anyway. The grief of her father after the loss of his only son carved her fate in stone. If the family was to thrive, to live, it was her responsibility to climb ever higher. Be selfless, be diligent, be cruel. And cruel she was, leaving the boy without a word, perhaps leaving hope in her wake that would never amount to anything. It left a bitter taste on her tongue, not because she was cruel, but because he didn’t seem to care.

That’s when she learned the world was unkind. It wasn’t the death of her mother or her brother nor the neglect of her father afterwards that taught her that, it was learning she meant nothing to that lowly boy. She had to be selfish yet selfless. She had to sacrifice her own desire for that of the family without seeming too eager to do so.

When her father’s neglect turned to passive ignorance, she had to learn to be both a perfect vision of high society while a commanding presence within the organization. If she let them fall, what would become of her? Everything she sacrificed and worked for would mean nothing. She had to be her brother and herself all at once.

And that’s how she wound up here, in the vile bowels of the city, forced to clean up her father’s mess. He’d become too complacent. One by one their men fell: cousins, brothers, fathers; all Winnies. Their vaults may overflow with the profits of her family’s notorious greed but there was no one to defend it. Gold attracted dragons, and they breathed hot down her neck, ready to pounce and tear them apart with their sharp fangs and daggered claws. Rival families whispered threats and even more greedy men vied for a chance to steal her away, erasing the Bennetts in one foul move.

Amelia Bennet would die before she let them take her family name, reducing them to nothing but memories.

“Miss Bennett,” Francine, her handmaid, whispered softly from beside her, “I don’t think we should linger here long,” her words were hesitant, and for good reason. She wasn’t the one that made decisions, Amelia was.

The heiress peered out of the carriage’s small window into the foggy streets. The scrap of metal against stone rang in her ears and twisted her stomach into a tight knot. Coaltan Deviere had taken another one.

Their last Duelist.

For how stoic she had taught herself to be, the sight of that much violence always unsettled her. Bile rose into her throat and she brought a gloved hand up to her pink lips to hold it at bay as she turned away. For a moment, her emerald eyes peered off into the shadows of the carriage’s cabin as she both grieved for their loss and let the implications of their dire situation sink in.

Word traveled fast in this town. It wouldn’t take long for the Umbridge Gang and the Fifty Theives to hear the Bennetts were utterly defenseless. Her hand fell to her lap, along with her gaze. Every possible future passed through her mind like the cart of a runaway train, chaotic but precise.

Amelia knew what she had to do. Unfortunately, she had exhausted all other options.

“Tell James to follow him,” she commanded, lifting her delicate chin to look out the window once more at the man stumbling away from the scene of the duel. In that moment, she could hear fate laughing bitterly as a ghost of her past faded out of view and the carriage jerked forward.

Eventually, they found themselves staring out the window across the street at a . . . brothel. Amelia’s face seemed to be permanently twisted into a look of disgust while Francine peered around her at the tavern’s entrance, “You don’t need to-”

“Yes. I do,” Amelia cut the handmaid off sharply, cast a warning look over her shoulder behind an auburn curl before she could say anything else, “Retrieve Patrick’s body and-” she was going to say return him to his family but . . . there were no Winnies left, “And take him home.”

Though she and James vehemently objected to the idea, Francine didn’t argue it, she simply nodded her head, “Yes miss. Please be careful.”

With a silent nod, Amelia departed the carriage and entered the brothel.

Thankfully, she dressed more modestly today. Her green and white corseted dress was flawless but not too gaudy. It hugged her comely figure in just the right way; narrow at the waist, forcing her breasts into gentle mounds and her dress to flair at her hips. Her perfect posture and graceful movements hinted to years of high class elegance education. Obviously, she’d stick out like a sore thumb in such a wretched place, but she didn’t plan on staying visible too long.

Gold sparkled between her fingers and she wooed the hostess with a coy smile. Leaning close, she whispered into her ear.

“Send him to me.”

Everyone had a price. Amelia was quite good at deducing what that price may be. Coaltan offered silver, but Amelia offered gold. She gently tucked it into the woman’s bosom herself before pulling away to see if her bribe was accepted. Tiff’s toothy grin told her it was.

“Upstairs. Room 3 should be open. I’ll send ‘im your way.”

Before she could attract too much attention she moved towards the stairs. Tiff stopped her with a quick snatch of her elbow.

“What should I tell him?” she looked cautiously in his direction, worried.

Amelia frowned down at the hostess from the second step. It seemed Coaltan had a reputation that reached past his merciless nature as a Duelist. She needed to coax him away from the booze and women with something more intriguing. Or perhaps, something more irresistible. Men like him responded to more carnal emotions, so she had to poke the metaphorical bear.

“Tell him Mel is waiting,” a simple, unmistakable nickname that may provoke a more visceral reaction from a shared past.

Tiff nodded and released Amelia’s elbow. The heiress’ smile faded and she climbed the stairs to Room 3, where she would wait patiently for a lowly boy born of violence.

He’d find her standing in the center of the room, of course, unwilling to dirty herself in such an uncomely establishment.

 

[Verse]

Lately he'd been thinking of delicate, sick magnolia, who'd been bred for their scent and kept alive when they shouldn't be. They'd been haunting his sense of smell while he traveled the rot and candle wax notes of these wretched parts of London. He knew what that meant, those ill-fated flowers that grew in the artificial gardens under glass roof for the Bennet family. He thought the imagery and perfume had been conjured by his killing of her men. He told himself it was spirits from a naïve corner of his brain, even if his nose had been faithful and helpful before. In childhood father had even told him to trust it, that the middle son of the Devieres had a superior such sense. But Coaltan had thought it was superstition rather than true things, rushing at him. He was just killing these lads because their lives didn't matter, because they'd given themselves to criminal acts, and therefor given him the right to cut them down. Right?

He thought about it now, when he tried not to remember the scent here. There was certainly other smells to compete. But he could sample just a little of it all of a sudden, even as he was pulled along by a olive-skinned beauty, younger than her tattering could keep up with, but a woman still, bouncing up the stairs with her riches, offered to him for his own. He followed and smiled widely, but he wasn't affected by the merry, just the release from his other activities. Loving falsely is better than killing sincerely. She locked the door behind him, and spun in her burgundy dress. Quite dramatic. Tiff had been generous in her choice of entertainer for him. He let her play her role of homekeeper, when she hurried over to a drinking table and poured him a heaping glass of middle quality whiskey, and looked over her shoulder at him, up and down, only to then take the glass herself and come over to him with the bottle. She had assessed him right, he thought, when he took the vial and drank hard, once.

She said something about the long day he must have had, as she got down on her knees. He answered with short wit as he lifted the bottle again and readied himself for some mindless fun in pretty company. Her fingers were on his buckle, inside his coat, when the door opened behind him. He twisted around and toppled the girl. His hand was on the handle of his silver weapon but his lips were on the bottle still. Even if someone had come for him, he was sure they wouldn't warrant his full skill. It was Tiff, and she looked coy, like she'd make some more money off him. He lowered the bottle but kept his hand on the handle. She had a cloud of suffering magnolia around her. This felt like a small betrayal. She was a bit unsettled when she told him, because his eyes flared with knowledge. Such a small name and it burnt all his painful hope alive again.

Tiff almost took it back when she saw him like that, even though he thought he was being stoic. Suppose he hadn't shown much of any emotions lately. This much was like a spill of blood on snow. He passed Tiff for a second time this night, and she was not so jovial about it.

The door had an italic, roman number 3 on it. He touched it with his thumb and wondered how this could possibly end. He owed her nothing. Dad had said it was all the more reason to become better, to fulfill his training, but with all the insight of being broken down and built up in all the sword arts and martial arts he thought he should know, he'd realized Amelia Bennet, and the life she represented, could only be his through his violence, and that's not what he wanted. At least not back then. She had money in her blood. He could only have money by spilling the blood of others. Brave, last son of Deviere house, hesitating at a brothel door. He twisted the nob and shouldered the barrier open. And the billowing, sweet scent of childhood before it was crushed by cobblestone struggles and the sting of sweat in his eyes, drowned him.

His shoulders were set in a fighting stance before he stepped in and closed the door. He still had the bottle in hand and looked her over twice as he drank another mouthful. Coaltan Deviere did not look impressed, even if she was as beautiful as when he'd glimpsed her when he had Duelists errands in the better parts of London. Once, she'd been in a pale dress coming out of a carriage when he'd been bleeding at a street corner, from one of many duels in the barrage of them that had eventually claimed all other males with his last name. She looked better up close. He saw the little girl he'd been infatuated with, and how this woman had tried to stifle her. In these gaudy and cheap surroundings, Mel was like a polished porcelain figure in a rotted music box.

He swallowed the raking liquid and let the bottle hang by his side. What did she think of his war-ridden attire, once good tailoring? He longed to dismiss her like she'd quietly thrown him away, before he even knew. But he was deathly curious, through his disdainful frown. He leaned back on the door and wondered if anyone would heed her scream if he thought to be a bastard with her, right then. Would indulging her errand be worth the satisfaction of just leaving? He licked his upper teeth and came closer. Such delicate things his childhood friend was made of. Maybe she hadn't thought of him at all. Maybe she just didn't remember and had only come to talk to a Duelist about his next job? No. She wouldn't have slipped their nickname for her, then. What was this?

"Alright, belle. Out with it. I've got prettier girls to visit, and they're friendlier than you." he said, towering over her.

She smelled so out of place here.

 

[nyix]

Everything about Amelia’s life was dangerous. It came with the territory, quite literally. The more land and gold and people you acquired, the more desirable you became to those that wanted it. Jealousy could drive a man mad, and a mad man was a dangerous man. The only thing people in power, like Amelia, feared was losing that power. She’d been living in fear for months now, watching the people she owned fall into unmarked graves like dominos. She had always been taught that people were replaceable. It was a lesson her father once instilled in them with the hidden meaning that one needed to become irreplaceable to survive. She made herself so, but she was a fool to believe she could keep replacing those she lost. Now, there was no one to fill the void left empty after the last Winnie’s death. The Bennetts were bleeding, and the sharks could smell it. They’d swarm, and the family would be eaten alive.

So here she was, a sacrificial lamb. She was physically as delicate as one too. She was molded for elegance, not violence. Her shoulders narrow and slender, her waist small, her hips plump and rounded. She was groomed well, ripe with the sweet scent of sick magnolia and lavender. Her auburn curls were done up in a perfect twist with two intentionally bouncy strands framing her powdered face. She licked her painted lips, tasting the foul air she suffocated in. This was no place for a woman of her social class.

His shadow fell over the threshold, heavy boots planted outside the closed door. Every fiber in her being tensed. Her belly burned in anticipation and bile scurried up her throat. The moment before he burst through felt like a lifetime. She stood there, on weak knees, closing her eyes to banish the memories that accompanied a thought of him. They were good, bad, and bitter. Regardless of their undertone, none of them helped settle the pounding heart in her chest. It was too late to turn back now. Even if she did, who would she turn to? She could likely arrange a smart marriage to a man of a house that could protect her fortune but then what? Lose the Bennett name? Lose what they’ve built and shit all over the sacrifices she has made?

No. Absolutely not.

She repeated the mantra in her head, what she told herself when fear threatened to ruin everything.

I’ll die before I lose the Bennett name.

And if she was to die it would be on her own terms, not by the foul play of a rival house or one of their babes in her belly.

Masking fear was second nature at this point. She grit her teeth and swallowed it down along with the bile. Her eyes peeled open, and her bright green gaze fixed on the door before he violently pushed through.

Everything he did seemed violent; The way he carried himself, the way he stared, the way he shamelessly guzzled the booze. She remembered him as a boy, smiling, never gentle but gentle with her. That boy was dead and she barely recognized the beast that stood before her. What few memories were left had been replaced with the passing glances she had stolen over the years. She had seen him duel. She had seen his blind determination and rage, his skin painted with the blood of her men. She’d heard bones break and men scream for the last time, then she would see Coaltan walk away as if nothing had happened.

Had she made a mistake? In her desperation for protection had she unwillingly sacrificed herself to the cruelest of them all? In the silence her pink lips curled in disgust and nose wrinkled at his scent as it wafted across the room. He followed it, staggering closer and looming over her like a wolf teasing its prey.

A huff brushed past her lips accompanied by a very dramatic roll of her emerald eyes, “Well, it’s good to see you too, Coal.”

Her voice was purposefully melodic, like a song you could listen to all night and never tire of it. She did shift backwards slightly to escape the stench of sex and stale, cheap booze. Her gaze traveled up and down him much like his did earlier. She judged him hard, and didn’t care to hide it.

“Oh how the mighty have fallen,” said the desperate woman standing in a brothel. The irony didn’t escape her, she just didn’t give him enough credit to have a witty enough remark in return. Besides, was she talking about him or herself? “Is this what you do with all your winnings? Drink cheap booze and bed whores? What a waste.” She tsked, shaking her head.

Her fingers raised to pluck off the white gloves that still stretched up to her elbows. They slid off her delicate hands in a smooth motion then rested in her right palm, “I’ve seen the women here, Coal, and they’re certainly not prettier than me. Friendlier, perhaps, but that’s only because you pay them.”

Amelia would never be so friendly in exchange for bloody silver.

Whatever she did seemed to capture his attention. He was here, in this room, not dipping his dick in some loose whore. Did she dare play with him a little longer? Risk losing his attention? The part of her that craved the danger dared her to do so, but the logical piece of her mind urged her to carry on.

“I come in peace, Coaltan Deviere,” she smiled slightly, surrendering any further witty remarks. She tilted her head up to really meet his dark eyes for the first time. His eyes were the same dark, dark brown, almost red in the right light. Something else she didn’t recognize lingered in them now.

I need your help is what she wanted to say, but that sounded too desperate. Instead she opted for something more cold and professional - a business transaction and nothing more.

“I have come to inquire about hiring your services. Thanks to you I am . . . without a Duelist,” she shifted back another step so she didn’t have to crane her neck so severely, “I can pay you very handsomely,” she added. Her hands rose to vaguely gesture around the room, “You can have all the cheap booze and escorts your heart desires.”

 

[Verse]

And there she stood, a queen of airs, without the blades and guns that would enforce her rule. She didn't look as weak as she ought, not as weak as he'd made her. Out of place and out of time, his friend from before this life that he lived now. He thought her hair was beautiful, much better kept than the other girls in this building could afford to keep theirs, but it was also fanciful. The face it framed was lovely, but it had ugly expressions. He wondered what it expressed when she learned of his whittling of her Winnie army. He had wished to be there when she was told.

She had her aristocratic theatrics. All of them relied on the same kind of restraint from him that wolfs have for humans. A belief that there were more powers at work here than could fit in this room. Retaliation. But by merit of his own swords, her retaliation was low. Her house without its hidden knights. Yes, he must have thought of it, when he challenged the Winnies, and insulted their honor, so they had to come to him, especially when they haunted the same drinking holes. It had been good to free the street of their ill work, but that wouldn't make London better. There were many waiting to take their place. His crusade had only been for him.

His head tilted slightly when she started talking. She had sharp words for him, and anger poisoned him under her judgement. It was because of her kind that he was this deplorable creature, once bound for glory. The king had opened the country and the societal echelon up for men who didn't have riches, but rather the skill of their body. After Loyals had protected the crown during a civil war, and a group of swordsmen had been pivotal in that, the Duelist Economy had been established, a promise on the king's word. But old houses didn't like sharing, and there had been a campaign when the scrutiny from the castle had dwindled down. Endless challenges had weakened the Duelist houses that didn't bow to the houses that had enough money to buy them. Father had said it would undermine the Duelists to bind themselves to other names. Father being right hadn't helped them.

She looked like the very avatar of the underhanded games that had felled Coal's family. Because how could she be here, something bright and clean, if not by relentless lies and impure tactics? Her gloves were white, for crying out loud - his own were orange leather once, but now they were mottled in human oil and fluids. They hung on his belt, on the opposite side of his sword and knife. So those gloves didn't protect his hands when he compressed them into dense fists. The neck of the bottle all but complained, like he might wring it into shards, or hit her with it when she insulted him. Her life had sharpened her. But it isn't always the finest edge that wins. He scoffed at her vanity. She was right. She was the most beautiful person in here. But he still frowned like he didn't agree. She was beyond his approval, but that didn't meant he'd give it willingly. Some women of her caste relished in charming men they deemed lower.

He knew she found him repulsive. She didn't try to mislead him on that. He'd worked with enough people like her to know. His skills were familiar to her kindred, so they still paid him for the odd duel, but since he had no house anymore, they couldn't insult their other underlings with keeping him on retainer. Her offer was painful, and he filled his chest and exhaled about it. It would make things easier. He didn't have to worry about money anymore, and he could feed the staff at his city home. But accepting like this meant he'd submit to her wording, and her feelings on him. From anyone else he wanted money. From Amelia Bennett he wanted his pride. Or hers.

His hair was tied back sloppily, but some black strands fell to frame the right side of his face when he made his decision. He moved closer when she moved away, and would continue if she thought to retreat. She was in his shadow now. "Are you afraid of the others, Mel?" he asked like her words hadn't mattered. It was his turn to dismiss her like she was nothing now. He wouldn't be another feeble mind off the street that blindly worshipped her because she had shiny shoes and shinier sentences. He looked down at her. So small he could crush her. He wondered briefly what her well-worded lips would feel like around his cock. He knew the Calloways were interested in toppling the Bennets. And their enforcers, the Smiths, were strong. He had opened her up for their takeover, and left her with few other enforcer houses for the big task of protecting her. "You must be to visit me here." he also gestured around. This close, the motion might hint at violence toward her. Not yet.

His back straightened more as he held the bottle out to her, what little distance there was. It turned out it was a rather large glass object with its belly full of amber liquid, compared to the woman it was offered to. "But here in the gutters we drink with each other." he'd let her have it if she decided to take it. "And when women ask men for something in this house, they ask on their knees." He wanted her humility. He craved it. It scared him a bit, but he realized he may beat it out of her if she denied him it now. And perhaps the emotion in his red eyes expressed that to her.

Maybe he'd always been the animal she saw him as now.

 

[nyix]

Sweet lies. That’s what her life was made of. So sickeningly sweet, so desirable to those ignorant of what those sweet lies cost. The sacrifices she’s made lie dead and buried in her wake. She’s betrayed and has been betrayed, she’s concocted stories so lavish and bold it made others weep. These sweet lies have blunted the person she once was. Once you go too deep, there’s no finding your way out. You’re lost in them forever. If you dare try to leave they’ll drown you like sirens in the dead of night. She learned their song though, but that hadn’t helped her escape. Any modicum of desire for who she once was had been lost to the depths of the aristocracy. They had rewritten the manuscript, replacing her wants with those of their own. She was made a slave to it, and now she’s convinced herself she’s a master.

Ha!

She’s nothing but a fool in a violent game she’s yet to fully understand. She lives the sweet lie they fed her.

But she thought she had. She’s young and naive, brought up in a world where she got what she’s been told she wanted. There’s a false sense of security in a title and perceived power. She had wealth, land, and opportunity. She mistook that for things everyone wanted. Who wouldn’t want it? One could be unstoppable with it. And that was her grave error here today. She mistook the scorned man before her as someone who's violence was centered on a desire for power. She failed to entertain the idea that he had ulterior motives, that there could somehow be emotions tied to such heinous acts. Money never measured up to pride, did it? Her pride had never been challenged, so why would she think any differently?

She took a step back, and then another. He matched them until she bumped into the small wooden table in the corner of the room. When she had stolen glances, he seemed so small, so far away. Up close he was a rather impressive specimen beneath the grimy blood and untailored clothes. Broad, strong, dominating. No wonder he found such success in his craft. He loomed over her, someone so small, so helpless. His dark shadow blotted out the flickering lights of the room until it seemed like the whole room was just him.

Amelia hadn’t given him enough credit. He called her bluff before she had a chance to retaliate. He could see she was afraid which made her feel vulnerable. It wasn’t the threat of him in this room that made her feel that way, but the fact that he could see through her and recognize the fear. It teased her pride, which flared in retaliation, doubling down despite the looming danger.

The danger was certainly there. The alarms in her head screamed at her to run and her mind’s sensitivity to it made her flinch when he raised his arms to gesture like she had. But if she ran, where would she go? Home? The Calloways would be there tomorrow with a Smith on each side and a proposition they wouldn’t be able to refuse.

I’ll die before I lose the Bennett name.

And she just might. Here and now in this disgusting room under the oppressive rage of this bitter man.

Ah, there was the light that made his eyes burn red. Once deep pools she could lose herself in now just shallow ghosts with violence seeded in them. Her hands raised to take the bottle - one less weapon he could use despite having a sword and dagger and his bare hands. She sniffed it, recoiling at the sharp scent. So cheap. She may as well drink motor oil - it’d be a quicker death than this garbage.

Perhaps it was a peace offering, an acceptance to her offer?

Amelia brought it to her lips and took the smallest sip, squeezing her eyes shut to resist the urge to twist her face into another one of those ugly expressions. She failed, of course, the stuff was awful.

She craned her arm behind her to place the bottle on the table while she gently dabbed her lips with the other. The foul taste had been for naught. It wasn’t an acceptance. He wasn’t done with her yet. She scowled, glaring up at him before turning her chin up. That silly pride suppressed any logical sense of self preservation.

“Bennetts don’t beg,” she hissed, gripping the gloves in her hand tighter, “State your terms if you find mine unacceptable,” she suggested, straightening her own shoulders. She found her foolish courage somewhere in the fear.

I’ll die before I lose the Bennett name.

But what would she be willing to sacrifice to keep it? What did she have left to give besides her pride and her dignity?

She glanced down at the grimy floor, entertaining the idea for only a moment because she knew she needed him. He seemed to know it too. Amelia didn’t enjoy being in this position: powerless.

“State your terms,” she repeated, this time less of a demand and more of an open invitation, “What do you want?”

 

[Verse]

She carried it around her, her entire story; some of it secrets that he couldn't possibly decipher, but he could sense all of its weight. She had bet everything, and there was a point in a person's life when your destiny grew, not to build you, but to make sure you had more to lose, and to make you realize it. Her kind were particularly susceptible to this; hubris in the eye of a fall. Mel had too many romantic notions to survive that, and maybe she hadn't. There was this creature with a cloud of uncertain and dampened destiny around her. She was hopeful because she had to be; it was all she had. No. She had fortified it into something else, something surer. He would have hurt for her if he hadn't seen it all before - it only stun more on Amelia because it made him wonder if they could have both been beyond this toil if they'd...

She knew to move away from him, but he didn't let her. It was so easy, cornering her. This hadn't been a hunt. She had come here herself, but Amelia Bennett wasn't in control, even if she would have him believe it. Something in his bones quaked to try her the way men tried women in this house. She was a nightmare, sure, but she had all the pleasant parts, too; clean and inviting, even though her expression were made out of spikes. A satisfied inhale and a ragged breath out when she found herself trapped. He wondered if it was worth all this restraint when all he needed was underneath that dress and corset. Not just for his manhood, but for a long lost revenge. She could be the sineater of her entire caste. Didn't they owe him? Didn't he owe it to himself?

When she flinched he couldn't stop a growl that bubbled like a purr in him. She had a think and he could wait while he entertained himself with this close view of her body. She did not take to her knees but she did take the bottle. It looked vulgar in her small hands. How exciting. He didn't give her any space to comply. He liked this intimacy. This was the kind of game he'd play with the dolls here who took his coins. "It's not poisoned, princess." he said at her suspicion but was amused by how she interacted with the vial. She was so easy to look at, as she found herself in this absurd situation.

He outright laughed when she drank it and suffered. He might have wanted to prolong this bullying, but while he was merry now, there was still a seething in him that wanted other things out of her than this teasing dance. She thought the same and he gave her a pandering smile as she settled into it, and pushed back. She was getting the right idea. He leaned closer to her for these terms, and at this null distance, that meant almost touching his face to hers. Underneath the flowers she smelled like Mel again. It was jarring. It pulled him back to something he'd stomped and buried. It was more frightening than cuts brushing by him in battle.

When the kiss was almost the fulfillment of a promise they'd both partaken in but never singed, he grabbed the bottle behind her and stood straight again. "I told you what I want. You rich always come to me and expect to use my life a shield for your interest, but barter like its an oiling of your carriage." He spoke through his teeth and twisted the cork off. He drank hard. It had been a hard day.

With his hand around the glass neck, he pushed the bottom against her collarbone, and did take that step back to give her room to kneel. If she persisted she'd earn a bruise at the very least. "Down. And look up at me. And offer me riches and your body. And then maybe I'll stand between you and all the musket fire and blades that are coming for name." He realized then, when he looked down at Amelia, that it was what he wanted. Her, but all of her, all the things she kept for herself. Now that he could fight for. That, he could die for.

 

[nyix]

Desperation comes in many forms and will make the most intelligent men do the most ridiculous things. Amelia was desperate to keep a power she didn’t fully understand with consequences she may not be prepared to face. The first step was coming here, to this god awful brothel, to face one of her life’s greatest regrets. She did regret it, leaving him. Her life could be so different if she hadn’t, so much simpler, perhaps. But she wouldn’t have her fancy dresses and her perfect skin. She wouldn’t have an estate meticulously managed by staff. She’d be what? A commoner? Living in a flat she had to clean herself on a dirty street? The Bennett name would be gone, and her family would have already fallen. Everything happens for a reason, but fate has a cruel way of turning the tides and laughing at one’s misfortune.

When she left him, it wasn’t out of selfish desire. It was quite the opposite. It was selfless to abandon what she wanted for the good of her family. In contrast to the why, the way she left him was selfish. She acted as an impulsive child when she did. Perhaps, if she had been more thoughtful and talked to him instead of simply abandoning him entirely this would be a very different situation. She wouldn’t have to hide her fear because she wouldn’t be afraid and he may not be so desperate to right the wrong she gutted him with.

Here in this room she discovered a new fear. It wasn’t a fear of physical harm, though that threat seemed very real, but of losing her pride. The more he toyed with her the more clear it became he knew he had the upper hand, not just physically. She needed him so he could ask for whatever he wanted and she would have to comply.

He purred in delight at making her squirm. She cursed herself for flinching, for showing weakness. The growl rattled in her own chest, making her breath hitch in surprise. Despite the adrenaline in her veins, her hands were steady, calm, unshaken when they gripped the thick shaft of the bottle. His smile was unsettling, the way his eyes roamed unashamed. She felt so vulnerable in that moment - body and mind. He was enjoying the twisted game too much.

So much so he leaned closer. Her pelvis tilted forward as she hinged at the hips. Her upper body leaned back, but there was only so far she could go. The soft tufts of her dress brushed against the thick leather of his pants. Her hands both raised, palms open in an attempt to draw a line in the sand, a barrier he shouldn’t cross. He did so anyway, and her palms pressed into his chest.

Coaltan’s hot breath tickled her lips and brushed past her cheeks. For moment, she found herself fighting off memories that were suddenly resurfaced. Beneath the foul stench of cheap liquor, blood, and sweat she smelled him. Her green eyes danced across his familiar face. It may be stained with blood and mud, but the same chiseled jaw and rough lips she remember were there, just a centimeter away. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to melt into it, into him.

But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. This wasn’t the Coaltan she once loved. This barbarian was something different and dangerous. He pulled back with the bottle in hand, drowning his inhibition in big gulps of vile booze. Her hands fell back down to her side, turning to grip the edge of the table she was still forced to lean on.

The cool glass of the bottle flared against her hot skin. He applied pressure to guide her down, but she continued to resist. She was stunned for a moment at his counter offer, taking an extra breath to process his demands.

The question presented itself again to Amelia Bennett: what are you willing to sacrifice to keep your name? Your title? Your power?

Her body. She was not so naive to not know what that meant. They were standing in a brothel, for heaven’s sake. Her body was arguably the most valuable thing she owned. Once sullied her prospects for a strategic marriage plummeted.

Amelia scoffed, tossing her head up to look away towards some random shadow. Her chin tilted up and away from the bottle, exposing her long, slender neck that seamlessly faded into the collarbone he assaulted. Below the pressure of the bottle, her chest rose and fell, two round mounds pushed up and together by the corset to create a deep crevice between her breasts.

“You ask for too much, Coaltan,” her tone wasn’t as confident, as if she was still unsure about it.

Something she was almost certain about was that he would take it anyway. She could see it in his eyes. In this room he could take it and she would be powerless to stop him. So, that left her with more to consider. Should she save her dignity and deny him, but lose it to his monstrous lust and still be without a duelist and protection? Or should she agree, losing her dignity and pride to just him but saving face for the rest of the world? The Bennett name would be protected, and the silly little girl that still lived somewhere inside her still saw Coaltan as she once knew him, and that little girl was anxiously excited at the prospect of having him back in her life. Foolish, of course, so she buried her deep.

Her collarbone ached beneath the bottle, and with a reluctant sigh, she gave way to the pressure. Without looking at him again she slowly, so so slowly, began to dip down. One hand brushed down the side of his legs to guide her in this small space, while the other pulled her dress up slightly to avoid making a mess of it. She smoothed out the bodice once her knees hit the wooden floor. She straightened and her shoulders drew back. She delicately folded her hands in front of her, making her look as composed as possible in this degrading position.

“Coaltan Deviere,” she began, her gaze moving up from his stained boots to the scabbard at his hip. She couldn’t bring herself to look him in the eyes, not yet, “In exchange for your protection and services I offer you a handsome sum paid on a weekly basis and . . .” something caught in her throat, her mouth hanging open like at a loss for words. She swallowed the bile that crawled up her throat and the bitter taste of humiliation caught there. She couldn’t help it though. She had to add stipulations of her own that protected her investment. Amelia couldn’t rely on maybe.

“And myself,” she reluctantly turned her gaze up to find his so high above her. There was a conviction in her green eyes that indicated she wasn’t done with a counter offer, “Which would be redeemable after your first successful duel. Maybe isn’t worth such a steep price. Any payment involving me will be done in secrecy and will remain between you and I and you will not soil me with any filth you contract from a place like this,” she had to attempt to save her dignity outside of their arrangement to some degree. ​

 

[Verse]

There more he let a monster slip, the better she responded to it. Even when she gave it reluctantly, or because, it was lovely. It was dangerously indicative to all the things he'd learned to indulge in since they'd been friends. There were these parts of her that weren't beastly from societal fencing, but rather delectably delicate; no cunning or acting, just her perfectly inviting self, beckoning him to apply the violence he'd stored up for her. That she owed him. It made him want to hunt her, so he chased her closer, despite her being cornered already. She fled the last few inches she had by bending her back, which only made her look more inviting to him. He pressed against her perfectly secret anatomy. It made him wild in his stomach. He could have her if he wanted, before she even gave anything to him. In this place, women may scream all they wanted. Even the guards would not come to help if they knew Coaltan was in the room too. He was a valued enough patron of these houses, but more than that, his lasting legacy, the one she could not have without his permission, was the exact reason why no one should intervene when he set his mind to any private matter.

It was a proof of how well he was imposing himself upon her when her hands touched him. Other women had been this familiar with him before. It was a bad way to put your hands on a man if you didn't want his attention and continued, tainted affections. Even the sentiment she expressed, a very eloquent No, didn't sounds so unwelcoming, when her fingers were so soft and loud in the rhetorical conversation their bodies were sharing. There was a clever beastliness on his smirk when he first noticed her useless, warm palms. She got his amusement, but not his mercy. She was still subjugated by the bottle, and she gave. She had no choice. It was very engaging with her feminine build sinking and rising underneath the blunt vessel. As though her physical self recognized his claim, but her heart wouldn't. He didn't mind her trepidation, because he would force her decision. He had won duels far more complicated than this. With prizes far lower. He asked for too much? It was his blood for her body. It was fair.

He was some form-given abyss in front of her, looking down with ghastly triumph, when she shrunk. His heart moved his life faster along his veins to see this veritable queen of his vengeance give finally. She avoided his eyes, but his eyes loved her all the way down. Didn't she present better, when she didn't stare directly into his pupils, defiant. He grunted quietly when she finally settled. The scene they struck together was its own payment, of sorts. In another time he could have lived long off just this. A kneeling Bennett. His Bennett. He didn't want this to end. A roaring, unspoken validation at last, set on fire by her touch over his leg, which stayed steady for her. She didn't kneel for anyone. It wasn't anything outside of Duelist circuits anyway, but they both knew what it meant. Filthy floor and unkempt master, when her clothes were clean and her collarbone was sore. There couldn't be much of a going back for Amelia now, could it. He was inflated with pride and plans to take more when she looked up at him like that, crumpled legs and steady torso. Good posture while sitting like that only emphasized her breasts to him. She thought so hard on what to do and say next. But she wouldn't be here if she wasn't already at her wits end.

He snickered meanly when she gathered herself. Sure, her posture was fine, but shaped like a swan beneath him, it only served to stress her distress. The first of her speech, because of what he could only describe as shyness, had her eyes at level with his very focal male part. She didn't mean to, she fixated on his weapons, when she should worry about that very limb instead. And maybe she was. Finally she looked up. Her eyes were gorgeous; like anything else on her it was of perfect quality. He remembered those eyes; the living color of the sun-stricken pools in the stone by the ancient, rocky bay they shared, during the summers when his family still had money and more men. Now, it was evening in those rich greens, because of the gloomy room, and its little fires. Her fate was so bad, all of a sudden, and here he stood, ready to be the villain she relied on. He was honored, and he would dishonor her for her dependency. She was a business woman still, with those terms. He must prove himself. Like being the bane of her former men wasn't enough.

He didn't know what she expected, but he already had an answer on the tip of his tongue. And the tip of his long knife. The way she was, the reason her position was thought of as one of vulnerability, she wouldn't get away even if she saw him draw. She'd just know his hand moved and then the mercury shard of his knife was on her chin. He looked down as he convinced her jaw to tilt further upward. "Those terms are steep, but I'll accept." No maybe. No coyness in the contract. But perhaps... in the writing of it. He would force her to stand with the triangular end of his secondary cutter. She was a little thing, so she would be made to stand on her toes if she followed the rise, lest he cleave her face. "So, I'd like to sign the deed." Steady voice of a swordsman. "Ready the parchment." he ordered and took his weapon back a bit, and stepped back even more. He'd had her on her knees, he would have her naked even if he may note get carnal satisfaction. At least he'd draw blood. His hand came out to the side and it hovered near a candle set on a petite shelf on the wall, there because of that singular purpose. A flip would present his seal on the pommel to the heat, or her could hold the knife as he did, with its sharp end usable, lit by the burning wick. He never looked away from her.

"Would you like a branding or blood signature, Mel?"

 

[nyix]

When she first entered this establishment and laid eyes on the broken and filthy form of Coaltan Deviere, she pitied him. She could remember him as his equal once, someone she cared for deeply and would have moved oceans for. Well, she thought she would have. It turned out family dignity was the price for her to forsake her heart. Now, she loathed him. This dark, monstrous man that had her on her knees in a filthy brothel. No kindness, no decency. It was as if any spark of humanity had been beaten out of his once so warm and welcoming dark eyes. What happened to make him fall so far?

Now, she was the one that had fallen. Any shred of her dignity that she clung to burned under the prideful and salacious glare he cast down on her. That’s why she couldn’t meet his eyes. She had made the decision to sell herself, the ultimate price. Her body wasn’t hers anymore. One day he’d take it, if he didn’t decide to do so earlier. As long as she needed him she’d be nothing better than one of the whores in this very whorehouse. The thought made bile slip back up her throat. Now who was it that had fallen so far?

Once she spoke it into fruition, she couldn’t take it back. A Bennett was good on their word and the verbal acknowledgement was a spoken contract. As soon it slipped past the plump, pink lips, she could feel the metaphorical shackles tighten around her wrists. For a moment, she wanted to cry. The cruelty he seemed to exude did not bode well for her future. Only the imagination could conjure what twisted plans he would come up with for her.

Being the noble woman she is, she didn’t cry. She learned a long time ago to stifle the urge. No one was pretty when they cried and she was taught to constantly be a beacon of serenity and composure. Even in this obscene and humiliating state, she clung to those principles like a lifeline, as if they would save her from this fate.

The cool metal of his steel was shocking. She gasped at the weapon’s touch even though it gradually warmed against her skin. If she wasn’t frightened before, she was now. Her whole body froze, worried that even the slightest move might nick her perfectly smooth skin. Her eyes fixated on what she could see of the pummel and his strong hand that clutched it. She nearly missed him accepting the terms, far too concerned about the sharp edge of the blade. Naturally, she had never been threatened like this - so close to death she could taste it.

Amelia gravitated to the only steady thing she knew to help her follow the pressure up. Her hand reached out again, clawing at his legs to help her rise to her feet. But he kept going, a harder pressure that forced her to lean onto the balls of her feet and find balance as she pressed onto her toes. Despite the vulnerability she was in, the rise to her feet seemed to reignite some defiance that battled the fear. She is, after all, a silly woman. Smart in many ways, but it’s her unchecked ego that would be the death of her. Amelia’s deep green eyes snapped up from the pummel of the blade and to his piercing gaze. She held it there, unwavering, especially when she stepped back and withdrew the weapon. She smothered the urge to sigh in relief. Instead, she made a show of slowly pulling her shoulders back while she curiously followed the pummel of the knife to the flames. The red and orange fire flickered, heating the seal of Deviere etched onto the end a hot white. It didn’t make sense until he posed the question.

If anything, fear fueled her defiance. Almost like denial that it was even happening. Her mouth gaped at the proposition of branding her. It flared an anger that boiled over. The silly girl furrowed her brows and scoffed in disbelief.

“You will not touch me with that, Coal. I’m not some mare that needs branding. My word is good, our verbal contract is binding,” she tried her best to assuage his intentions, but deep down, doubt laughed at her petty attempt.

 

[Verse]

He was happy with her there, below him. He would want to see her full expression, but it was a gift that she didn't dare look at him. When they'd passed each other before, her inability to see him was just that, because he was of no consequence, even if they did glimpses one another truly, some times. That haughty girl had been reduced to this, a floor ornament, beautiful and expensive, with just as many rights to her own opinion. He liked just watching her for a while, when her thoughts grew and distorted about her situation. What did she think in her pretty little head now? It wasn't pride that wracked her brains anymore, he was sure. So desperate for him that she'd be like this - just her presence here was the sign that he could have whatever he wanted from the Bennett woman. Not unlike the other friends he'd made in this brothel.

She fretted over the knife. Her chest hitched and her chin followed when the metal came and lifted her head. He wasn't going to leave this up to the clever of his tongue when they both knew where his strength lie. How light Mel became when she trembled and grew with the rise of the blade, held flat to her as it drew up, up. This was not the kind of negotiation she had expected. He was glad to surprise her. It was a rare pleasure to quiet his rich childhood friend. Even back then, it wasn't easy to stop her talking. This meeting was full of new experiences for her. He liked touching her again, even if it was with a knife as proxy. There was a lot of intimacy to be had through sharpened steel, even when it wasn't used as it was meant to. Beautiful women make beautiful corpses.

He felt something other than revenge stir when her hand clawed at him on her way up. Her fingers coiled close to his manhood. She was so transfixed on the weapon in his grip that he almost found the attention fetching. Not that Amelia hadn't proven to be a woman of focus. Despite that, her world was crumbling around her because there was only so much she could do for herself and family, given that she had ran out of men to get between her and other men. Coaltan had her up on her toes for a moment. With her precariously perched on her little tips like that, she was the embodiment of someone at the end of their rope. With her training in poise and posture, he was sure she could hold this stance longer than most. Her breath made a ghost film on the blade that may decide her fate. But he wouldn't kill her. That would be indulgent and rash. For now.

She wasn't ready to let the knife be even when he let her down. The flame confused her, but his request brought clarity. He was eternally grateful to get to play with her like this. She had already given her promise, and stated the limitless nature of her reward for him. It was wretched that he'd take something like that from someone he'd loved. But he was wretched now. Nobody would doubt it. Dueling was already dirty work, but the crown had sanctified it once, and his lot believed it. What was adding assault upon a woman's honor to it, particularly one who'd been instrumental in his undoing? She already deemed him a savage. He was relishing in her fear. And her refusal when she realized what the fire was for seemed almost adorable. She had played all her cards, and he was not so charmed with her words that he would let them mean anything in this exchange.

"Your word is only as good as you make it here." he reminded her with a stern tone. He had set his mind to get satisfaction about her humiliation and some small titillation for himself. His voice was that of someone who'd laid men in the grave. She would talk and play her games until she knew they were useless. He would have to apply pressure. The hand that held the knife pulled back so quickly the air rushing in blew the candle out. His backhand arched against her face with the kind of impossible swiftness that other fencers didn't have the might to avoid even when their life depended on it. The smack to her cheek would take place, he was sure. How long had Coaltan waited to slap Amelia Bennett? Well, she needed to feel her new circumstances, that he'd created by killing her inferior battalion of protectors. Yes. He was sure part of it had been to punish her, all along. It would not change his mind about this. There was no kindness in duels, and she had issued the challenge when she thought she could have all of him for just a few scraps of metal and paper.

"Correct yourself." he stated as he looked down on her, whether she be sitting, laid out, or bent from his little violence. Having exacted some, he was inspired to do more. Wouldn't she be lovely, thrown around like a doll, at the whims of his hands? He could have whatever he wanted of Amelia in here. She wouldn't dare say it aloud after, anyway, and even if she sought retribution, they both knew she hadn't enough swords to make it viable. Not to him. She had sought him out because he was too good for that. "Off with your clothes and let me see my prize, and mark it." He held the knife in a white-knuckeled hand, with the tip still pulsating from where the fire had held it.

He wouldn't let her procrastinate or buy time. If he saw any sign of rebellion in her that she didn't immediately thwart herself, he would slap her again, open handed palm this time. If she had come here for a deal that ended with her surviving the Calloways and their Smiths, she would have to give more of herself than beautiful memories and white-toothed promises. Duelists sold themselves too cheap, too often. He wouldn't be doing his childhood friend any favors until he felt amicable toward her again.

"If you didn't want me to see you like that, perhaps you shouldn't have met me in a whorehouse, Mel." he jested darkly.

 

[nyix]

Amelia was playing a dangerous game. The worst part was, she knew it too. The heiress thought herself too clever to get caught up in it. Privilege bred unchecked ego and false fantasies about the cruel world she had inherited. She was foolish to expect this to go any other way. She knew he was a dangerous man, and she knew this was a dangerous proposition. Why hadn’t she planned better? Why hadn’t she waited for a better opportunity? A whorehouse, really? What did she expect to find in a room in this establishment with a man whose fearsome reputation far preceded him? She wouldn’t find pity, or mercy, or love. Just the same cruelty as outside these walls - though not in the same way.

Desperation can drive one to make foolish choices. The way she clung to her pride was another terrible one. She had seen all the rage and hunger for hostility in his eyes, and she chose to ignore it in favor of holding on to something she’d already given up. Her dignity was gone the moment she agreed to his terms. Still, she defied the monster, and was punished for such actions.

The hit came surprisingly quick. The crack echoed in her throbbing ear and the world seemed to slow for a moment. The floor rushed up at her, but she still had enough sense about her to break her fall with her arms, “Coal!” she gasped, mostly out of shock. Her wide eyes fixated on the floor, mind hazy while trapped in a brief dizzy spell. One hand reached up to her cheek, her fingertips gently brushing the tingling skin that was already warm to the touch. She’d never been struck in her life. She pulled her fingertips away, half expecting there to be blood but there was none.

There she was again, on her knees. This time, she didn’t sit tall and proper, she sat back on her heels, small and defeated.

Deep down, she wanted it all: her name, her pride, the money, the power, the respect. She wanted to rise higher and bring all of that with her. Looking back now, it was an unrealistic and lofty goal, one crafted by a naive child. She can’t have it all, not in the world they live in. Trading one to keep the others was quite the good deal, in the grand scheme of things.

Amelia didn’t quite know how to handle such violence. She’d never had to fear it from anyone. When her mind cleared and she finally peeled her gaze off of the floor and up to him, he’d finally see the fear settle in her wide green eyes. In that breath of silence, it screamed.

Correct yourself. He didn’t ask it of her, he commanded it. It took the stunned Bennet a moment to realize what he meant. This time, she leaned back to use the chair beside the small table to help herself up. When she finally made it to her feet, she clung to the chair like a lifeline, as if the object itself could defend her from another strike. Obviously, it couldn’t. The only thing that could was compliance. Right now, that was her only option. If it had to be done, a Bennet would do it with some sort of dignity, even if it was just a sliver. There’s no reason she shouldn’t. There’s a twisted sense of pride in recognizing that you are the prize.

“Alright, alright,” she raised her hands in defeat, fending off another strike he would undoubtedly deliver if she denied him again. Instead of shying away she chose to face him. Mel held a steady gaze through the entirety of the process. Getting undressed as a woman of status was no easy task - that’s why they had handmaidens. She reached back to start unclasping the back of her dress. The pale green and white laced outwear was easy to remove. Eventually, it gave, and she slid it forward off of her shoulders and stepped out of it. She gently folded it over the chair, assuming that was probably the cleanest place to set it. The corset would give her the most trouble. She’d have to wiggle it loose until it was wide enough to pass over her hips. It released her breasts, letting them fall from the lofted position. The sudden chill of the room seeped under the single layer of the undergarment. Her nipples peaked against the thin white fabric of the short slip. She discarded her shoes, then each thigh high stocking held in place by a garter. Finally, she took the hem of the slip in her fingers and pulled it up and over her head.

She regretted comparing herself to a mare because that’s exactly how she felt right now. She sold her body to be bedded and bred just like one. She was being inspected and branded like property. Would he find her appealing enough? Or a disappointment?

Amelia stood still for a moment, a silhouette of flawless olive skin. She was the definition of the hourglass figure the woman of this century aspired for with her voluptuous hips, narrow waist, and ample bosom. The only stain on this prize was the one he put there on her cheek.

A draft tickled her bare skin so she fought the shiver with movement forward, slow deliberate steps closer to Coaltan. The earlier strike had already jostled some of her auburn curls loose so she reached up and released the rest. The remaining curls tumbled down over her shoulders, ending just shy of her nipples and mid-back.

Amelia swallowed down any shakiness that might linger in her voice, “Here I am. Are you satisfied?”​

 

[Verse]

Her face was beautiful. It had all the history of carrying the pride of her family. In some rich bloodlines, the hubris was no short of royal. She was lovely not just because she was bred to be, but because she didn't know anything but loveliness. It was no wonder other perceived them to be other creatures, because they themselves believed it. The gilding madness that surrounded the higher echelons of society was built so strong and thick. He believed it too, sometimes. But he changed it all with the slap. Oh, it felt good to have her cheek violently kissing his palm. It was delicious to manhandle a woman like her. Like her cheek was made of damp silk. It was absolutely addictive. Not only because of the physical sensation, but also because of hos abruptly she switched. From her standing form he felled her with that strike. He toppled one who would dub herself a goddess. That was his power. He looked at her where she'd crumpled. How little she was in the real world without her title and airs to keep her up. He dug his heels in, looking down. So pretty in her pressed state. He licked his upper lip as it all came crashing down on her.

Because how could she be a goddess if she could be swatted down like that?

A rush of blood pooled in his cock when she trembled, sat down there where he'd put her. He followed her train of thought from her fantasies of having power all the way to the conclusion that if she didn't do as he said, she'd be in real danger. Amelia Bennett was learning something. He swallowed back saliva and glee when she looked over her own fingers to see if he'd drawn blood. If he had, it wouldn't be because the skin on her rosy cheek had broken, but because her lip had opened either from the force of being pulled to the side of his strike, or her teeth digging in too hard and cutting her. She looked up at him and he was erupting with quiet, vibrating pride. He fell in love with her for the emotion in her eyes. This was what he'd dreamed of for so long. This would last him a lifetime. But he wouldn't let her know that she'd already paid the price. He wanted more. No. He wanted everything from her. And the way she was now, he thought she'd give it. Her fear and defeat was scrumptious.

"Look at you, down in the dirt finally. I think this is the most beautiful you have ever been to anyone." a compliment, but spoken like a judgement.

And she did stand when he commanded it. How delectable it was to have her obedience now. He tilted his head, predatory, when she moved. That chair was her only friend in here. She was still so small when standing. He didn't move back for her. He wanted to be as close as he could for her fall from grace, as he'd designed it. She had gotten wiser from being beaten. He was honored to be her first. He'd teach her things no other man would impart on her. Maybe that's all he ever wanted. When she gathered courage in front of him he certainly thought so. When she agreed verbally and raised her hands, something animalistic in him recognized the submissive gesture. He wondered, somewhere inside his mind on fire, if he'd be able to control himself enough to honor her wish to pay fully after his first delivery of protection. Did it matter? She couldn't tell anyone anyway. Whoever got to her if not him would do the same. Worse. Her lot was as bad as any woman's in this brothel now. It made him feel a tinge of sympathy, but that little suffering in his heart only made for spice for his actions as a whole.

He knew much more skilled dancers than this. But theirs were an art, even the ones who were paid to act as though they were forced. Amelia, his Mel, was stripping off layers of her power now. The dancing girls who also sold their bodies to those who paid more, never wore this much. The reality of her peeling was a new, exclusive feeling. He stood there as her unforgiving owner, ready to inspect and reject her. She looked so vulnerable once it was all done. He sighed because he couldn't help himself. She was beautiful. She had plenty of flesh, well-fed, where she'd been hiding it before. There were still lines on her skin where the corset had squeezed her. How unfair to other women who didn't have her riches, to lose to her when it came to bounties of the skin, too. But it was her posture and silent desire to please him that moved him most.

Mel was asking for his approval now. It was a staggering turn of events. She'd see in his trousers, a monster there on its own, coiled and inflamed, ready to try the seams of the tailoring, that he indeed was pleased. "I will be soon." he finally answered. Satisfied. Yes. Tonight more than other nights.

The hand not holding the knife reached out for her. She thought she could keep her womanly secrets but he had decided he was hungry. He pulled her to him, and in so finally did step back. Putting her at a distance from her dear chair, her clothes, and the table, so he could start circling her. "Hm. So this is the best of the Bennett family." he teased with a dark voice. "Legs slightly apart, Mel." he ordered when he was behind her. Even her hair was beautiful like this, free and lush. And then, when he was infront of her again, his free hand cupped her cunt, eager to feel and his eyes eager to see just what kind of hair she kept there. He wanted to make their first intimate touch that wasn't violent into a transgression still. Their first physical contact would be between his fingers and her high-born, prideful, virgin pussy.

"What if I don't think your body's worth it?" he asked cruelly in her ear. "What if your inherent beauty and breedable features, and wealth of lovely flesh doesn't sway me?" These belles lost all their power with their clothes. The belly of one of his fingers would rise to push against the slit of her cunt. He couldn't believe he was getting to take this from her. Moments ago they hadn't seen each other for so long, and now she was his whore, in this filthy room. "What would you have left to barter?" He wanted more of her so badly. He just wanted to take and take. He wouldn't let her know that he'd already seen enough to offer up his life. But her suffering made it better.