Page 71 of The Kingdom of Flames

Tristien knew the facet of her soul that sought to be enslaved, to be instructed. He didn’t move against this newfound nature. He found the submerged part of it, picked it up, and polished it with his whip, his bindings.

Until it shone, wet and pleading, above him.

His paddle was a kiss. His flog was a tongue. His whip was the rending of her soul apart. After each tender session she found beautiful care in his arms. He was putting her back together.

Celestine worked the fields more and more, and when she did, lost in her labor among the bonded and attendants, among some lords and ladies playing at servitude, the world became hypnotic. The feel of the sun on her skin. The sound of the scythe upon the wheat.

There was a spell in his realm. A trance, and the more she noticed it, the more powerless she was to escape it. She was drowning and he hands never even reached towards the surface for air.

She turned to the sky, feeling the sun all over her, knowing this was her place in the world.

That evening, she finished her chores and duties with morbidly placid resignation. There was nothing in the future, and the past didn’t matter.

Tristien watched her intently, sipping wine, eyes dancing over her exposed flesh in the short gown. The manor became her universe. His eyes, his small smirk and praise were the sun and stars she lived by. Nothing else existed.

Celestine turned to him. Everything felt slow now.

“What are you doing to me?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer. The Lord of Summer stared at his project. After a few moments, her body betrayed her and yearned for his touch again. In the corner of the room, she saw Captain Aidric appear. His mirrored face stared at her blankly. If he said anything to her, she did not hear.

That night, Tristien lashed her against the wall, stripped her gown from her body, and whipped her. The lash danced once, arcing up her back in searing agony. She arrived instantly, straining against her shackles.

My flesh is a runaway steed, and my mind cannot pull it back.

“Now, you are mine.” Tristien coiled his lash.

Celestine glanced back over her shoulder, lost in the lust of this subjugation. When she tried to think of home, her father, Lord Encarmine… they were dreams. Dreams that were dreamt by someone else.

Tristien stepped forward and undid her bindings. Her back was bleeding, but he reached out, touching her, and her flesh knitted, the cooling touch burning away her wound with the essence of summer.

He turned her from the wall. She was unsteady, drunk on his sacred abuse.

“I’m so proud of you.”

Celestine nodded. “I felt you in the field. On my skin.”

“Yes.”

“And then I heard you among the scythes as they fell.”

“Yes.” He smiled.

Celestine stared at him. He was so beautiful. So agonizingly fair. She wasn’t worthy to be here. To sleep at the foot of his bed.

“Come,” Tristien looped a yellow ribbon through her collar and pulled her towards the bed. “You may sleep in the bed this evening.”

Celestine shut her eyes, tears coming to her face. Everywhere she looked, she saw him. Especially when he wasn’t there. Each task she completed was for him. Each hour in the fields, she walked upon his very body. He rewarded her so greatly now. It felt unworthy.

She crawled on top of the covers to him. The vast featherbed of canary yellow, the windows showing the failing sun outside, falling, like her loss of self.

Tristien pulled her leash closer and closer.

He stopped when her head came to his lap.

“Take it out, Final Bride.”

It was a trick. It had to be. Celestine glanced for the door, not to escape but because she should leave. She shouldn’t touch him. Dirty him.

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