09:45 Apr 17 2026
Times Read: 94
The first thing she noticed wasn't the weight of the gold embroidery on her sleeves, or even the hush that fell over the hall as she entered- it was the tremor in her own fingers, pressed against the stem of her wineglass, betraying the hunger she’d sworn to keep hidden. The banquet sprawled before her like a taunt: platters of figs split open like eager mouths, pheasant glazed in honey so thick it dripped onto the tablecloth in slow, indulgent streaks. But the real feast was the man kneeling by the hearth, his livery crisp, his gaze lowered—except for that one flicker, that half-second when his eyes had traced the curve of her ankle beneath her gown before snapping back to the floor.
He moved differently from the others—no obsequious shuffling, just a deliberate shift of his weight as he offered the tray of spiced wine, his knuckles brushing the inside of her wrist. The contact was brief enough to be accidental, but the heat of it lingered, seeping through her skin like ink through parchment. She could smell the cedar oil in his hair, the musk of exertion beneath his stiff collar, and something else—something metallic, like the edge of a blade pressed flat against the tongue.
The goblet trembled in her grip again, but this time it wasn’t nerves. The wine tasted suddenly too sweet, cloying, and she set it down with a click that echoed louder than she’d intended. Around them, conversations ebbed and flowed, oblivious. His breath hitched when her slippered foot grazed his thigh, the fabric of his trousers rough against her arch.
His fingers, still curled around the tray, whitened. A bead of sweat traced the tendon of his neck, vanishing beneath his collar. She wanted to lick the salt from his skin, to bite the place where his pulse jumped like a trapped hare. Instead, she dragged her toe higher, slow.
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A servant wasn’t supposed to tremble. A servant wasn’t supposed to let his breath hitch when his master’s wife tilted her head and murmured, "You’ve been very attentive tonight."
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