Chapter Eight Elara

Chapter Eight

Elara

The knot tightens in my stomach as we approach the entrance to Lord Fleck’s country estate. The mansion before us is a sprawling masterpiece with tall marble columns that support a grand portico inlaid with intricate carvings of mythical creatures. The double doors are massive, made of dark oak and bound with wrought iron, each handle shaped like a roaring lion’s head. Manicured gardens flank the wide stone steps, blooming with roses and guarded by statues of stoic knights.

“Ronan, is this really necessary?” I whisper, stepping close enough that only he can hear me as we approach the entrance to the opulent mansion.

He pauses, turning to face me. His storm-gray eyes lock on to mine with an intensity that makes me pause. “Entirely,” he replies, his voice low and firm. “While I find your spirited nature amusing, no one else will. If you so much as roll your eyes or balk at a command given to you—at the trial or at the festival—you risk not only the mission but also your safety. Remember,” he continues, leaning in, his warm breath grazing my cheek. “Once we enter through those doors, we are performing for an audience. You are mine, and you must obey, immediately and humbly.”

“You haven’t even told me what we’ll be doing in there,” I protest, frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“That is part of the lesson.” A hint of a smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. “At the festival, a noble might tell you to shine their boot if they notice a scuff, and they will expect you to comply without question or hesitation. You must learn subservience, Elara. This is how we do it. With practice. Now, come.”

He arches a brow in warning, and I force myself to mask my anger with an expression of willing acceptance. His gaze lingers on me for a moment before he offers a curt nod of approval.

We ascend the marble steps leading to the grand entrance, and the butler opens the door. “Lord Tathame.” He greets Ronan with the alias he’s been using around the kingdom.

I wait until he’s five paces ahead of me before following, keeping my gaze lowered like a proper pawn. And it works. The butler doesn’t even acknowledge my existence as I slip inside.

The foyer is breathtaking. A vaulted ceiling stretches above us, and golden candlelight spills from crystal chandeliers. Marble floors gleam underfoot, their polished surfaces reflecting the flames like fireflies in amber. Sweeping staircases curve upward on either side, their banisters carved with intricate patterns of leaves and scrolls.

We pass through a set of heavy double doors into the men’s sitting room. The decor shifts from soft whites and golds to rich mahogany paneling and forest greens. Clusters of overstuffed leather chairs are arranged around low tables. The air is thick with the scents of aged whiskey and cigars. Velvet drapes are drawn, blocking out the sunlight from the tall windows, and a fire crackles in a massive stone hearth at the far end of the room, casting flickering shadows across the faces of the assembled nobles, each accompanied by their pawns, who stand silently behind them. The room hums with quiet conversations.

Ronan strides confidently toward an empty chair near the fireplace, and I follow dutifully. He settles into the chair, crossing one leg over the other. Without bothering to look at me, he says, “Elara, fetch me a drink. You know what I like.”

I want to tell him to go fuck himself, but I can’t. Instead, I nod and curtsy gracefully. “Yes, my lord.”

I move toward a side table where crystal decanters and glasses are artfully arranged next to a collection of golden cigar cases. The weight of his gaze follows me. It’s a tangible heat that trails over my skin. I pour the amber liquid and return to his side, offering him the glass with both hands, eyes respectfully lowered.

His fingers brush mine as he takes the glass—a fleeting touch that sends a spark coursing up my arm. “Thank you, naughty nymph,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

I suppress the involuntary flutter in my chest, stepping back into my designated place. Moments later, he gestures subtly, and I lean in to catch his quiet command.

“I would like to join these gentlemen in a cigar,” he says, motioning to the wrinkly old white men sitting in chairs across from him.

I comply with another flawless curtsy and select a cigar from the table. Holding it delicately between my fingers, I bring it to his lips. He leans forward, gray eyes locked on mine as I strike a match and hold the flame steady.

The warm glow illuminates his features—the sharp angles of his jaw, the intense focus in his eyes, the way his lips curve around the cigar. He inhales slowly, the end burning bright before he exhales a plume of fragrant smoke.

“Very good,” he says, his gaze never wavering.

The old me would have told him to go to hell, would have met his commanding stare with defiance and a sharp retort. But as I stand here now, the words catch in my throat. There’s an undeniable tension simmering between us, a magnetic pull that wasn’t there before—or that I refused to acknowledge. His eyes hold mine, a storm of intensity and something darker, more alluring. Heat blossoms beneath my skin, spreading like wildfire, igniting sensations I’ve kept buried.

Every inch of space between us feels charged. My heart pounds against my rib cage, each beat echoing the conflicting thoughts in my mind. Logic urges me to resist. Yet a whisper inside me—seductive and persistent—tempts me to yield, to explore. I can’t ignore the thrill that flares within my core when he issues his orders or the way my body responds despite my better judgment.

There’s something in me that desires to comply.

“At your service, my lord.”

Throughout the afternoon, Ronan continues to issue commands—fetching a book, adjusting the drape of his cloak, refilling his glass. The tension between us continues as well. His touch lingers when our hands meet. He watches me from the corner of his eye. He brushes his thigh against mine as I lean in to listen to his direction.

The conversations ebb and flow among Ronan and the nobles, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clink of glasses. I remain poised and attentive, acutely aware of his every move.

He shifts in his seat, and I notice a smudge on his otherwise impeccably polished boot—a line of dirt from our walk through the city. His eyes meet mine, a knowing glint reflecting in their depths. The air between us thickens with an unspoken challenge.

Without a word, he lifts his foot, the command clear.

Equal parts defiance and anticipation make my heart race and flood me with a warmth that has nothing to do with the fireplace.

“Come, pawn. Kneel at my feet.”

Heat colors my cheeks, and a molten sensation pools deep within me. I should yell at him and leave, defy him and his arrogant commands. But he’s awakened a darker, more primal part of me that yearns to submit, so I will kneel. However, the naughty nymph side of me has decided she not only wants to play his game, she wants to beat him at it.

Slowly, I lower myself before him, the rich carpet soft beneath my knees. The fabric of my dress brushes against my skin, making me shiver. My breaths come shallow and quick, and I wonder if he can see the rise and fall of my chest betraying my composure. This isn’t who I thought I was, yet here I am, kneeling before him, both loathing and craving the power he holds over me.

“There’s a scuff here,” he indicates with a slight tilt of his foot. “Use your skirts to clean it.”

I grasp the hem of my skirt, the cottony material rough between my fingertips. As I lean forward, the neckline of my dress dips, and I feel his gaze roam over me. Meeting his eyes through my lashes, I slowly bring my thumb to my lips, the pad of it brushing against them before I slip it into my mouth. I let my lips close around it, drawing it out deliberately, leaving it glistening.

My thumb moves in slow, measured circles, and a hush seems to settle over the room, the distant murmurs fading as I focus on the task. His eyes darken, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he watches me lower my hand to his boot and use the moisture to gently clean the scuff. My gaze trails up to his lap, to the way his breeches have tightened over the swell of his cock.

His stare burns into me, tracing the curve of my neck down to my breasts. I inhale deeply, and my chest rises more noticeably. His gaze intensifies, and a flush of satisfaction only enhances my boldness. I glance up at him and wink, and he narrows his eyes in silent warning. But I don’t relent. I know as well as he does there’s nothing he can do without drawing unwanted attention.

He shifts, stretching out his other leg and sliding his boot beneath the hem of my skirt. The leather grazes the sensitive skin of my inner thigh, inching higher until it presses intimately against me. My body betrays me, warmth spreading between my thighs. A sharp gasp escapes my lips, and heat floods my cheeks. He pushes harder, and my hips instinctively roll toward him.

Ronan leans forward, his smirk triumphant. The tables have turned, and he knows it. My pulse races, a rush of anger and desire humming withing me. I’ve played with fire, and now I’m feeling the burn.

I finish my task and linger a heartbeat longer than I should. My lips part, a soft exhale escaping as I try to steady my racing pulse. I rise slowly, my skirt sliding back into place. “Is there anything else you require, my lord?”

He leans back in his chair and takes a long drink of whiskey. “No, pawn, you’ve served me well.”

I return to my designated place behind him, my hands clasped tightly to hide their slight tremble. The noise of the room rushes back, but everything feels distant, muted.

I should hate him for this—for reducing me to a pawn in his game, for awakening desires I didn’t know I possessed. But beneath the anger lies a dangerous curiosity, a yearning that both frightens and excites me.

Ronan may think he holds all the power, but he underestimates me. For now, I’ll be silent, a good little pawn, but he calls me a naughty nymph for a reason.