TW - coercion, retaliation, emotional trauma

  Damn. I'd pyed the honeytrap angle to get my foot in his door, but I'd thought I had cooled things off enough not to be summoned like this.

  Yet here I was, waiting in Ramón's bedchamber. I sighed and triple-checked the contents of my satchel, the ticking of the mantel clock growing ever louder.

  Finally, he arrived in a bathrobe—broad, hairy, and self-assured, still smelling faintly of soap. A tuft of golden fur spilled from the open colr, damp from his bath.

  "Good evening, Master." I bowed.

  His mane was still wet. Annoying. I'd pnned to get this over with quickly, but now I'd have to waste thirty minutes toweling off that ridiculous thing.

  Still, I'd learned from the Thieves' Guild affair; I was better prepared this time. The conditions for clearing the encounter were simir—I just had to make it through the night without jeopardizing my overarching goal.

  Since he was idle for the time being, I seized the opening.

  "Master, I've prepared a draught to help get you in the mood. Would you like to try it?"

  I produced a pink bottle, turning it so he could see the seal. Then I uncorked it and took a small, harmless sip.

  "How thoughtful of you, Maid Cire."

  He drank deeply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. I smirked at his indiscretion; aphrodisiacs were not included in his resistance training—and he just took a dose enough for ten.

  By the time his mane finished drying, his face was flushed, his breath ragged—and his member stood at attention, obscene and ridged. I gred at the barbs, a cold nausea twisting in my gut. How many women had he hurt with it?

  "Here," Ramón said, handing the bottle back. "You finish the rest."

  He was determined to get me in the same state. Nice try.

  I brushed a lock of hair behind my ear and looked up at him through my shes—just long enough to make his throat bob. Then I raised the vial to my lips.

  But I didn't swallow. I only swished it in my mouth, before letting the potion dribble from my tongue onto his tip.

  His eyes widened.

  For a beat, he just stared, frozen between shock and arousal. Then his body seized. He stumbled backward onto the bed and finished onto his own stomach.

  Silence.

  His eyes darted away, mortified. "...This usually doesn't happen."

  I smiled politely. "I understand, Master."

  I grabbed a tissue to help him clean up, but he raised a hand, avoiding my gaze.

  "That's enough. Thank you, Maid Cire. You may retire."

  His voice was hoarse, stripped of its usual swagger.

  I bowed and slipped out, holding my breath until the door shut behind me. The whole ordeal had sted less than five minutes—drying his hair had taken longer.

  Plenty of time to make it back to the castle before bed. I tucked the empty vial into my apron, smoothing my face into composure. I only hoped the performance was convincing enough.

  By morning, the manor's atmosphere had already curdled.

  An absurd rumor was making the rounds: that he'd brought me to climax eight times our first night. Well, I expected no less—he was a braggart and a liar. That didn't matter to me.

  What mattered was whether he continued taking his medicine.

  With bated breath, I lifted his breakfast tray from his bedside table—and froze.

  The food was picked clean, but the pills were still there, untouched.

  My pulse lurched.

  I carried it back to his desk, quiet as a mouse. He didn't look up.

  "Sir Ramón," I said softly, "you forgot to take your medicine."

  A curt nod. "I didn't forget. I'm feeling better."

  "That quickly?" I tried to keep my voice light. "You've been diligent with the doses—"

  "I don't need it anymore." Ft. Dismissive. As if the very idea irritated him.

  He waved a hand vaguely in my direction, still refusing to meet my eye. "Take it back to the kitchen. You're dismissed."

  There it was. The door smming shut.

  He had only ever taken what I offered because he believed I was… his. His maid. His prize.

  Everything I'd built—every careful dose, every slip of powder, every false reassurance—crumbled in an instant. Not because he'd grown wiser, or suspected me. But because he could no longer stand to see me close.

  I lowered the tray, murmured a hollow "Yes, Master," and left before he could see my hands trembling.

  "Good morning, Miss Hattie. Good morning, Miss Nealie."

  "..."

  The silence was practiced, polite, and absolute.

  The bread still baked. The kettles still hissed. But no one looked up when I entered. The same kitchen that once rang with chatter felt empty, the air thick and cold. Even the warmth from the ovens seemed to stop short of me.

  I stood there a moment too long, unsure where to go.

  "Shall I help with preparing lunch?" I asked softly.

  Nealie's spoon cttered once against the pot before she muttered, "It's already been handled."

  I nodded, forcing a smile, and reached for a rag to wipe a spotless counter. My hands wouldn't stop trembling, so I focused on the rhythm—wipe, fold, repeat. Anything to look busy.

  Behind me, a whisper, a stifled snicker.

  When I turned, every face was conveniently busy again, eyes downcast as if nothing had happened.

  I smoothed my apron and slipped out quietly. The isotion dredged up old memories of my past life—ones I'd tried to bury deep. It left my heart raw.

  Each evening I returned to the castle, walking the Royal Road beneath ntern light. The guards greeted me as if nothing had changed.

  I bathed, scrubbed until the day's scent was gone, then y awake listening to the silence where Lumiere's prayers used to be.

  There had to be another pn, another angle of attack. But the constraints were too narrow, the parameters too rigid.

  It was pure luck finding even the one weakness. Curse that damn perception of his.

  If only I weren't a sham priestess. If only I were special like the rest of them.

  My nights were restless. Morning always came too soon.

  When Rocher finally brought word of a mission on the western border, I was almost relieved. He handed me a leave slip bearing the royal insignia.

  Ramón took one look and signed it without protest, almost eager to be rid of me.

  Evelyn was busy with after-sales service on the Mask job, so it was just three of us this time, traveling by royal carriage.

  I should have been thrilled—it was my first time riding one, a small dream I'd nursed since childhood. Instead, I just stared at my knees, hollow.

  My sour mood seemed to infect the others. The ride with Seraphine and Rocher dragged on in uncomfortable silence. From time to time, Seraphine gnced at me, her lips twitching like she wanted to speak.

  At st, she leaned forward with forced cheer.

  "You know, Cire, I thought you'd be more excited. Did you lose your mouth somewhere on the road?"

  Normally, I'd have snapped back—or at least rolled my eyes. This time, I only managed a thin smile, brittle at the edges.

  "…No. I'm fine, Miss Seraphine."

  Her smirk faltered. She studied me, then lowered her gaze, folding her hands in her p. The teasing spark in her eyes flickered out.

  Rocher caught the exchange. He leaned closer, his voice gentle.

  "Cire… are you okay?"

  No. The word cwed at my throat. I wanted to cry.

  Before I knew it, the accumuted scars on my heart split open, the wounds red and raw.

  It'd all fallen apart as soon as Ramón pulled away. One boundary—one moment of choosing myself—and every channel I relied on closed.

  He didn't need my attention, my care, or my presence anymore, and without that, I had nothing left to work with.

  In an instant, everything I'd constructed unraveled. And in the wreckage, a terrible thought surfaced: maybe I should have just let him have me.

  The maids too had abandoned me without hesitation. One awkward night. One awful rumor. That's all it took.

  If they could turn so quickly, I shuddered to imagine what the hero party might do if they ever learned the truth.

  Our time apart had stripped me bare.

  I hadn't realized how much I'd come to rely on them. On Lumiere's smile. On Seraphine's scolding. On Evelyn's teasing. Even on Rocher's quiet steadiness.

  If they knew the horrible things going through my mind, would they turn away too? The fear sucked the air from my lungs.

  "...I'm fine, Mister Rocher," I repeated.

  The words came out thinner this time, my crooked smile twisting into something close to pain.

  Seraphine looked stricken. For once, she had no quip, no lecture—just silence. She bit her lip and turned helplessly to Rocher.

  He didn't hesitate. He sat beside me and pulled me in, wordless and warm.

  "You're not fine," he murmured. "And that's okay. You don't have to expin. Just know—we're here for you. Always."

  I tried to protest, but the words broke apart. I buried my face against his shirt and let the sobs come, muffled and hot, soaking through the fabric.

  His hand stayed on my shoulder, steady as a rock, until the tremors began to ease.

  Later that night, after Cire was finally asleep, Rocher sat by the campfire. He fed a few twigs into the fmes, listening to her soft breathing behind him. Every little sigh made his chest tighten.

  Of course he'd heard the rumor. He knew that Ramón was a boastful idiot, but rumors never formed from nothing. Something had happened between them.

  He didn't need the details. In fact, he dreaded knowing them.

  What mattered was that Cire had been hurt, and now she carried that weight alone. He could see it in her hollow eyes, hear it in her voice when she forced a smile.

  That was why he'd moved quickly. He'd pressed His Majesty for a deployment order, spinning some flimsy excuse about "patrolling the western border". Anything, as long as it pulled Cire away, bought her time and distance.

  He clenched a twig until it snapped, then tossed it into the fire, wishing he could burn Ramón's smug grin along with it.

  But his jaw set—he had to keep his composure. Last time he'd acted too rashly, and almost ruined her pns. He had been fortunate that Evelyn was there to smooth things over, and she never let him forget it.

  Rocher exhaled, the turmoil in his chest heavy and uneven.

  "Just a few more days, Cire," he murmured. "We'll get you home."

  His words drifted into the night, swallowed by the crackle of the fire.