Page 28 of Sereis
"Had you fallen," he continued, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper that somehow carried more threat than shouting, "I would have followed you. Did you know that? The bond would have demanded it. Three thousand years of winter, ended because my Little one couldn't obey a simple command to stay safe."
Tears pricked at my eyes, but he wasn't finished. His face lowered until his breath ghosted across my lips, until I could taste winter on my tongue without him actually kissing me.
"There are consequences for endangering what is mine," he said, and the possessive made my knees buckle slightly. His other hand came up to steady me, gripping my hip with enough force to leave marks. "Consequences for risking yourself. Consequences for making me feel that terror."
The word 'consequences' sent liquid heat pooling in my belly. My body knew what that meant, craved it even as my mind tried to maintain some shred of dignity. But dignity was hard to come by when standing naked in a nursery, held in place by nothing more than his grip on my chin and hip, wetness literally dripping down my thighs from how much his controlled fury aroused me.
"Daddy," I whispered, the word escaping without conscious thought.
Something flared in his eyes—satisfaction, possession, and still that underlying current of anger that promised I wouldn't escape this unscathed.
"Yes," he said simply. "That's what I am. And you're about to learn exactly what that means."
I was trembling—I couldn’t help it.
"We will address this transgression now," Sereis stated, and those five words carried enough authority to make my insides liquify. He moved across the Nursery Nook with that devastating grace, every step deliberate, calculated to make me watch the flex of muscle beneath his perfectly tailored clothes. The warm-ice rocking chair—that impossible piece of furniture where he'd first explained the rules—waited like a throne.
He sat with the kind of deliberate precision that made my mouth go dry. The chair accommodated him perfectly, carved to his specifications, existing in that space between ice and warmth that defined everything about him. His posture radiated authority—spine straight, shoulders back. But underneath that formal positioning, I could feel through the bond his very personal investment in what was about to happen.
"Remove what’s left of that dress."
There was barely any point. It was a few strands of fabric, held in place by a couple of pearl buttons.
I undid them, and the scraps fell to the floor. I stood naked before him. This time, the silver frost patterns on my skin glowed with unmistakable arousal, broadcasting my body's betrayal of how much his dominance affected me. My nipples were already hard peaks, my thighs pressed together in a futile attempt to hide the wetness gathering there.
"Over my knee, little one. Now."
The command brooked no argument, no hesitation. But walking those few steps across the room felt like crossing an ocean. Each footfall on the soft carpet made me more aware of my nakedness, of how my breasts swayed with movement, of the way his eyes tracked every inch of exposed skin with possessive satisfaction.
When I reached him, standing between his spread knees, the scent of him overwhelmed me entirely. My knees went weak, and I swayed slightly, caught between the urge to run and the deeper need to submit.
His hands came up to grip my waist, steadying me, and that simple touch sent cascades of sensation through my oversensitized skin. The frost patterns flared brighter where he touched, as if my very magic recognized his authority over it.
"Down," he commanded, and used his grip to guide me.
The position was more vulnerable than I could have imagined. He arranged me with careful precision across his thighs, making sure my weight was supported but also ensuring I felt the solid strength of him beneath me. My upper body angled down, palms flat against the carpet, while my bottom curved up over his right thigh. The position left me completely exposed—not just my backside but everything, my wet core visible and accessible should he choose.
His left hand came to rest on the small of my back, heavy and inescapable. That single point of contact anchored me in place more effectively than any restraint. Through our bond, I felt his satisfaction at having me positioned exactly as he wanted, vulnerable and waiting and already trembling with anticipation.
"You are precious to me, Mira." His voice rumbled through his chest, and I felt the vibration everywhere we touched. "The most valuable thing in my existence."
His right hand came to rest on my upturned bottom, not striking yet, just resting there with a weight that promised whatwas coming. The touch was almost gentle, tracing the curve of flesh with a possessiveness that made me squirm despite my best efforts to stay still.
"Do you understand what that means?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It means that harming yourself, risking yourself, endangering what is mine—these are the gravest transgressions you can commit against me."
His hand lifted, and I tensed, expecting the first strike. But it didn't come. Instead, he continued speaking, letting the anticipation build until my entire body thrummed with nervous energy.
"My rules are not arbitrary." The words carried the weight of centuries, of hard-won wisdom paid for in ways I couldn't imagine. "They exist to protect you. Not just from external threats, but from your own reckless courage."
His hand smoothed over my skin again, and this time I felt the temperature drop where he touched. Not painful, not yet, just enough to make me hyperaware of every nerve ending.
"When you defy me," he continued, his voice dropping to that register that bypassed my ears entirely, "you risk yourself. You risk what belongs to me. You risk forcing me to experience loss after three thousand years of emptiness."
The hand on my lower back pressed harder, holding me firmly in place as I began to squirm. The position left me with no leverage, no way to escape what was coming. But more than that, the bond itself held me—not with compulsion but with recognition. My body knew this was right, knew I needed this, knew that his discipline was just another form of care.
"And that," he emphasized, his hand finally lifting from my bottom in preparation for what we both knew was coming, "is something I will not tolerate."
The silence that followed was deafening. I could hear my own heartbeat, rapid and desperate. Could hear his breathing,controlled but with an edge that suggested his own arousal at having me positioned like this. Could hear the faint creaking of the chair as he shifted slightly, adjusting his angle.
