7. Chapter 7

Chapter seven

Lucien

W hy do all doctors' offices smell the same? Sterile and cold. Ominous.

This waiting room has posters of anatomy on the wall. Plastic plants glisten dully in the strip lighting. Healer Henderson really has this whole masking as a mundane doctor thing down to perfection.

The chairs are comfortable. Classical music is playing softly through a speaker hidden somewhere amongst the plastic leaves. Henderson clearly aims to serve wealthy patients. Which I suppose I am. But I should still be grateful he could see me at such short notice.

"The doctor will see you now," says the receptionist brightly.

Her blond hair is perfect. Her skin flawless. I wonder if Henderson hires on looks alone.

She leads me, heels clacking on the floor, to a white door and opens it to reveal a typical exam room. Henderson looks up from his computer screen. His brown eyes are a little cold behind his glasses. Lines of age run across his skin, and his hair is peppered with gray.

"Ah, the new Count Consort. It is a pleasure to meet you."

He gestures for me to take a seat. The receptionist leaves and the door clicks shut behind her. This room smells of antiseptic and a faint whiff of tobacco. The lighting is dimmer in here. More soothing .

"I never see any Colvilles despite them just being up the road," says the healer merrily. "Delightfully healthy."

Ouch. Okay. I get the barbed insult. No need to rub it in. I've married in to the local noble family and I'm clearly already not good enough.

"How can I help?" he says.

His smile looks false to me. Vaguely threatening. But he was recommended, and it is not like there are any other healers nearby. I don't know if he moves in my parents' circles. But that's fine. My sacred task has nothing to do with this visit.

I take a deep breath. "I am not enjoying my husband's attentions as I should."

His eyes widen. He nods encouragingly. Oh gods, he wants me to say more.

"It hurts to take my husband," I all but stutter.

"Have you been preparing yourself correctly?" he asks.

"Yes!" I protest before blushing. "I mean, I think so. To the best of my ability, at least."

His lips purse. "Who was your trainer?"

"Mr. Richards," I supply dutifully.

A dark gleam ignites in his eyes. A smile stretches across his lips. One that shows too many teeth.

"Oh, I know him well. Excellent chap. I'm glad your parents didn't listen to that nonsense about him abusing boys."

I nod because I don't know what else to say.

"He is a very experienced trainer. I doubt lack of proper preparation is the issue here."

I nod again. Henderson trusts my trainer more than me, but that is understandable.

The healer stands up. "Step behind the curtain. Undress from the waist down and get settled on the exam table with your feet in the stirrups, please."

My throat tightens, and my stomach flips over. My legs are shaky as I get to my feet to do as I am bid. The curtain is thin, and duck egg blue. It doesn't seem like it hides much of anything as I strip, but I don't suppose it matters. The healer is going to be joining me shortly and he will be seeing everything. In close up.

I try to swallow and try to get comfortable on the exam table. I grab the thin blanket and place it over my groin as if it can protect me. I'm being ridiculous. I was expecting this. One can't exactly go to a healer and say they are sore down there and not expect to be examined.

The curtain pulls back and the healer seats himself on a wheeled stool between my raised and spread legs. I close my eyes and try to think happy thoughts.

The sound of disposable gloves snapping on is far too loud. The squelch of lubricant is abhorrent.

"Breathe out," says the healer.

I follow his instructions, and I send my mind far, far away.

F rigid.

The healer's diagnosis is echoing around and around my mind. I'm staring blankly out of the car window. Frigid. Every vessel's worst nightmare.

That moment of hope, when the healer's massage of my prostate had made me spill, had been so false and so cruel. The healer said that merely proved that it is not a physical problem. The ailment is all in my mind. Part of me does not wish to serve my husband.

This prescription of various teas he wrote for me might help a little, but truly the fault is mine. I need to adjust my attitude.

I'm letting everyone down. My parents. My trainer. My husband.

I have to do better. Be better. But I don't even know where to start. My eyes water and I blink away my tears furiously. I will not cry. Definitely not in the car. Maybe once I'm back at the house and have safely navigated my way back to my rooms. But not now. The staff cannot see me crying.

A shiver wracks my body and I wrap my arms around myself. Gods, I can be such a baby. I went to the healer's and was examined. I was not violated. There is absolutely no need for me to feel traumatized. It is no worse than going to the dentist.

The implications of my diagnosis are far worse than any unpleasant exam. I'm frigid, and that's a terrible thing for a vessel to be. If the teas don't work, the healer is going to have to commence regular house calls, as frequent prostate massages should help. They will remind my body of what it is supposed to do. Hopefully, in a strong enough manner that it overrules my stubborn and spiteful mind.

But I don't want that. I really don't want that. And doesn't that just prove how frigid I am? A healer is willing to help me, and all I can do is recoil in disgust. As if I think I'm too good for that. Too good to submit to my husband.

Why am I like this? What is wrong with me? It took me far too long to learn how to spill when my trainer was using a phallus on me. I thought I had overcome that hurdle. Clearly not.

How on earth am I going to keep all of this from Felford? He already resents and despises me. He cannot discover that I am defective. Though, he has to at least suspect. Our physical relations have not been…easy.

The car stops and I startle in surprise. I'm here. Back at the house. That was mercifully quick.

The driver opens my door and I scurry out. I need to get to my rooms as soon as possible. My feet hurry through the main door and along the hallway. A pair of neatly polished shoes appear in front of me and I skid to a stop just before I run into Felford. Can this day get any worse?

I look up into his dark eyes. He does do the tall, dark and handsome thing exceedingly well.

He frowns down at me. "Where have you been? "

Guilt flows through me. It's a reasonable question. I should have told him that I had booked an appointment. Traditionally, neither of us are supposed to leave the house during our honeymoon because I could become ripe at any time. But visits to healers are allowed, and I was only a couple of miles away.

I need to tell him as much of the truth as I dare. My husband knowing about a medical visit, will not lead to him knowing about anything else. I hope. I open my mouth to speak, but his eyes widen in horror.

"Your magic!" he exclaims.

Oh gods. My cheeks feel as if they are burning. The healer is a fairly strong magic wielder. Some tendrils of my magic escaped and seeped into him during my exam. I'm not as full of magic as I was this morning. I was so distraught about my diagnosis that I barely paid it any heed at all. And it is subtle enough that it did not occur to me that my husband would notice.

Outrage flows across Felford's strikingly handsome face.

"We've not even been married a week and you are having an affair?"

My lungs seize up completely. My heart thrashes against my ribcage. I stare up at him dumbly. How can he think that of me? I have always behaved impeccably. I'm from a good, upstanding family.

"You don't even have the decency to be discreet about it?" he scowls.

My mouth is open, but no words are coming out. My mind is blank. There is nothing but horror and darkness swirling around me. If this is what he truly believes, my punishment is going to be severe. If he has made his mind up, he will not listen to anything I have to say. Explanations about healers are going to fall on deaf ears. And if they do not, I'm going to have to confess to being frigid.

Which is worse for a vessel to be? Slutty or frigid? I truly have no idea .

"Go to your rooms before any of the staff notice the state you are in!" snarls Felford.

My feet move and I flee. I'm sure Felford bellowing in the hallway is far more noticeable than any staff with magic noticing my very slight depletion. But I'm glad to be sent to my room like a naughty child.

There is a measure of privacy in my rooms. An illusion of safety.

In my rooms I can cry.

And brace myself for whatever punishment my husband is going to mete out.