Lamb To The Slaughter
Bath time :) NSFW (?)
CW: Nudity, Mild Sexual References (Not Explicit), Assume The Worst
Part 8: A Man And A Woman
Alyse had been given a simple instruction, as simple as they come. “Wait, I will not be long.”
Simple as they come. Wait. Do nothing. Just sit and wait. There was no task, no action. Truly, there was nothing easier than just waiting. Alyse knew this, knew this was something she should be able to do with ease and yet–
It seemed so incredibly difficult.
Alyse had nodded, as she always did to show she was listening and settled herself down onto the low stone bench. It sat just outside her master’s bathing chambers, carved of limestone and cold. Even through her dress, Alyse could feel the chill seeping up against the bottom of her thighs.
Valerius hadn’t asked this of her before. His bathing was a private ritual, an event with no onlookers. It happened deep in the shadows of night and seemed a task that, of course, happened but left no mark. Valerius never had damp hair, never walked from his chambers as if even a drop of water had touched him. He bathed and cleaned and dried all within his time there, a long, long– grueling long time.
The door had closed behind him with a soft, definitive click. She had heard the latch engage, heard his footsteps retreating across the stone floor, heard the distant sound of water beginning to run.
Or so, she could have sworn.
She sat. She waited. She counted the cracks in the opposite wall. She traced the pattern of the floor tiles with her eyes. She listened to the water, the soft splash of movement, the occasional clink of glass against stone.
She had never understood how anyone could spend so long simply getting clean, but she had never asked. Asking was not her place. Wondering, however—wondering was something her simple mind did whether she willed it or not.
The corridor was dark, lit only by the faint glow of a single candle in a sconce at the far end. The flames of the few others had burned down to pools of wax, their light long since faded into smoke. Shadows pooled in the corners, thick and patient, and the only sound was the distant crackle of a fire in some room she could not name. The manor was sleeping. Or as close to sleeping as it ever got. And she was here, on this cold bench, waiting for a master who had said he would not be long but who was, by any measure, being very long indeed.
She did not know how much time passed. Minutes, certainly. Perhaps an hour. The candle at the end of the corridor guttered, its flame shrinking to a small, desperate blue. She watched it, focusing on its dance, trying to lose herself in the movement of light and shadow. It did not work. Her mind, that simple, restless thing, kept drifting back to the door behind her. To the sound within. To the question she could not ask and should not ask and yet could not stop asking herself: what was he doing in there? What did it look like, the bathing of a lord? Was it like hers—a quick splash of water, a rough scrubbing with harsh soap, a hurried drying before the chill could set in? Or was it something else? Something slower. Something stranger. Something she could not imagine because she had never been allowed to imagine it.
The door was not closed.
She noticed it slowly, the way one notices the first drops of rain on a cloudy day. A sliver of light, thin as a blade, where the dark of the corridor met the dark of the door. It was not much—barely a crack, barely a gap—but it was there. The door had not latched. Perhaps it had never latched. Perhaps he had left it that way on purpose. Perhaps he was testing her, watching from within to see what she would do, whether she would obey the simple instruction or whether her curiosity would get the better of her.
She should not look. She knew she should not look. The instruction was to wait. Not to watch. Not to peer through the crack in the door and see what her master did in the privacy of his own chambers. Waiting was passive. Waiting was still. Waiting was something even the simplest lamb could do. She had been given one task, only one, and that task was to sit on this cold bench and do nothing until he emerged, clean and dry and impossibly composed, and told her that her vigil was over.
And yet.
Her hands twisted in her lap, the silk fabric of her dress bunching between her fingers. Her ears, usually so still and demure, twitched toward the sound of water—a soft splash, a gentle ripple, the kind of sound that spoke of slow, deliberate movement rather than hurried washing. She could smell him now, or rather, she could smell the soap he used, something sandalwood and sharp, something that cut through the damp stone scent of the corridor and wrapped itself around her like a thread pulling her toward the crack of light. The steam that seeped through the gap was warm on her cold cheeks, a whisper of heat that made her shiver even as she leaned toward it.
She rose from the bench.
She did not mean to. Her body moved before her mind could catch up, drawn by the crack of light, the whisper of sound, the unbearable curiosity of knowing there was something on the other side she was not supposed to see. Her feet were silent on the stone, bare as always, and she crossed the short distance to the door in what felt like both an instant and an eternity.
She stood before the door. The gap was wider now—or perhaps she was simply closer. She could see the edge of the tub, a curve of dark marble, and the flicker of candlelight on water. The candles were many, their flames reflected in the surface of the bath, turning the water into a pool of liquid gold. The steam rose in lazy curls, obscuring and revealing by turns, and through it all, she could hear his breathing—slow, even, unhurried.
Her hand, trembling, reached for the wood.
She did not push. She did not open. She simply pressed her eye to the crack and let her gaze wander into the steam-bright room beyond, her breath held in her chest as if the slightest exhalation might give her away.
He was there.
Valerius sat with his back to her, the water lapping at his chest, his shoulders broad and pale in the candlelight. She had seen his shoulders before—through the thin fabric of his shirts, the tailored cut of his coats—but never like this. Never bare, never wet, never with the soft gleam of water tracing the lines of muscle and bone. His hair, usually bound or combed into sleek submission, hung loose and dark with moisture, clinging to his neck and shoulders in heavy, silver strands. The ends of it trailed in the water, fanning out like the roots of some pale, underwater tree.
His eyes were closed. His head was tilted back against the rim of the tub, his throat exposed, his lips slightly parted. He looked peaceful in a way she had never seen him—peaceful and unguarded, the sharp edges of his authority softened by the warmth and the steam and the simple act of being alone. His chest rose and fell with each slow breath, the movement so steady it almost seemed like sleep.
She had never seen him like this. Not once. Not in all the months she had lived under his roof, in his shadow, at his feet. The lord was always composed, always controlled, always watching—his eyes cool and assessing, his posture perfect, his voice a blade wrapped in silk. But here, in the candlelit dark, he was simply a man. A man with wet hair and tired eyes and a body that, for all its power and elegance, was still made of flesh and bone. She could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight furrow of his brow, the small, unconscious parting of his lips. She could see the way the water beaded on his skin, catching the light like tiny jewels, and the way his fingers, resting on the edge of the tub, curled slightly inward as if reaching for something that was not there.
She should look away.
She did not.
She could not. Her eye was fixed to the crack, her body frozen in place, her mind blank and full all at once. She was seeing something she was not meant to see, something private and intimate and entirely not for her, and yet he had left the door cracked. He had left it cracked on purpose, she was certain of it now. He had left it cracked because he wanted to know what she would do, because he was always testing her, always watching, always waiting to see if she would prove herself worthy of the strange, suffocating, terrible privilege of being his.
“Are you watching me, little lamb?”
The muscles in her legs melted to liquid in an instant. She was a fool, a fool who had been caught and was now simply… dissolving. Yes, that was it. She would dissolve, right there. Out of fear or– rather embarrassment. She would melt and leak into the cracks of the floor and never, ever, ever return.
Through the crack, she heard him laugh. Not his usual cold, cutting laugh, but something softer. Something almost fond.
"The door is cracked for a reason," he said, and she could hear him shifting in the water, could imagine him turning to face the door, though she did not dare look again to confirm. "I did not think you would take so long to notice."
She could not speak. Her throat was too tight, her face too hot. She had been caught. She had been bad. She had broken the simplest instruction—wait, do nothing, just wait—and now he would be angry, and he would punish her, and she deserved it, she deserved all of it, every stroke of the switch, every cold word, every reminder that she was nothing but a stupid, disobedient lamb who could not even manage to sit on a bench without—
"Alyse."
His voice cut through the spiral, calm and steady, and the sound of her name on his lips was like a hand reaching into the dark to pull her back from the edge.
It would not let her melt, dissolve, or whatever pitiful thing she was trying to do. It would gather her up, mold her back into the trembling, disobedient, curious, audacious little lamb. It would not let her hide or slink away or do anything at all besides what it demanded, what it wanted. Her master’s whim.
To which she was to obey, to which she was to whisper and pray to as if it were god’s word. To which she was not supposed to test or sneak or peep. Bad lamb. Bad Alyse. Wait. That was all she had to do. Wait and be still.
"Come here."
She stared at the door. At the crack. At the light spilling through.
"Now."
Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, drawn by the weight of his command, by the impossibility of doing anything else. She pushed the door open—just enough to slip through, just enough to feel the full force of the steam and warmth and candlelight wash over her like a wave—and stepped into the room beyond.
The bathing chamber was larger than she had imagined, though she was not sure what she had imagined. The ceiling was high, lost in shadow, and the walls were lined with dark marble veined with gold. Candles stood on every surface—on the wide rim of the sunken tub, on the marble ledges, on the small table near the fire—their flames multiplying in the mirrors that hung between the windows, doubling and redoubling until the room seemed to hold more light than should have been possible. The air was thick with steam and the sharp, clean scent of sandalwood, and the heat pressed against her skin like a living thing, chasing away the chill of the corridor and the cold of the stone bench.
She did not look at him.
She could not. Her gaze was fixed on the floor, on the wet stones, on the small puddles of water that reflected the candlelight like scattered coins. Her bare feet were dark against the pale marble, and she watched them carry her forward, step by step, until she could will herself no further.
There was a silence between them, one that seemed longer than the duration of all of Alyse’s waiting ten fold. The steam clung to her, seeping into her silk, sticking to her skin. The sandalwood, which had been so pleasant from afar now turned and turned in her head, sickening her to her core.
“You were told to wait, were you not?”
He spoke, at last. But Alyse wished he hadn’t.
“Yes, master.”
“You looked though, did you not?” It was not a question, not truly. It was delivered in the same cold tone that he spoke when he said the night was dark or the fire hot.
Alyse shifted, the dampness of the stone beneath her making her toes feel far too warm. As if they were burning, about to burn straight off, crinkle up and turn to ash. She had no defense. No excuse. The curiosity had been a living thing, a creature in her chest that had clawed its way up her throat and pressed her eye to the crack before she could stop it. She could not explain it, could not justify it, could not offer any reason that would not sound like the bleating of a stupid, simple lamb who could not even manage to sit on a bench and do nothing.
“Yes, master.”
Valerius clicked his tongue, loud as a gun shot. Alyse flinched, the water squeaking beneath her feet as she nearly scuttled to the opposite end of the bathing chamber. Though, graciously, she managed to contain herself.
“It was just one word. Wait. A word you know. It was not a difficult task.” He paused, but Alyse did not speak. “Can you not follow one word commands, my darling?”
“I can, master.” She whispered, a tiny pip from her trembling lips.
“Then I shall give you another, see if you can handle that.” The water splashed, sloping up along the edge of the tub but Alyse’s gaze could not, and would not, rise. “Strip.”
The word landed between them like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the steam-thick air. Alyse's breath caught in her throat, her lungs seizing as if the heat had suddenly become too thick to breathe. The sandalwood scent, which had been making her head spin, now seemed to press against her from all sides, heavy and cloying, and she could feel her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged thing desperate to escape.
Strip.
One word. Another simple command, another test she was already failing simply by hesitating, by standing there with her eyes fixed on the wet stones and her hands clenched in the silk of her dress. Her fingers had gone white at the knuckles, the delicate fabric bunched and twisted between them, and she could not make them let go. Could not make them move to the ties at her shoulders, the laces at her back, the small, simple fastenings that held her clothing in place.
She could hear him shifting in the water, the soft ripple of movement, the faint splash as he perhaps turned to face her or perhaps simply settled more deeply into the warmth. She could not look. She would not look. Her gaze was nailed to the floor.
"Alyse."
Her name, spoken in that low, patient tone, was worse than any shout. It reminded her that he was waiting, that he was watching, that every second of her hesitation was a wordless answer to his command.
"I am waiting," he said, and she could hear the faint edge of amusement in his voice now, the same almost fond tone he had used when he caught her at the crack in the door. "You wanted to see. Now I am giving you the opportunity to be seen. Or do you only want to look when you are not the one being looked at?"
The words were a barb, sharp and precise, and they pierced through the fog of her fear. She wanted to say that it was different, that he was different, that looking at him while he was unguarded and unawares was not the same as standing here, in the full light of a hundred candles, and letting him watch as she—
She could not finish the thought. Her mind shied away from it like a skittish horse, refusing to name what he was asking, what he was demanding, what he had every right to demand because she was his, because he was her master, because the word wait had been too difficult and now she was paying the price for her curiosity.
Her hands unclenched.
It was not a decision. Her fingers simply uncurled, the silk of her dress slipping free, and she reached up to the ties at her left shoulder. The knot was small, tight, and her fingers were trembling so badly that it took three tries to loosen it. She moved to the right shoulder, then to the laces at her back, her arms twisting awkwardly to reach them, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
The silk pooled at her waist, then at her hips, then fell to the wet stone in a soft, whispering heap. The steam curled around her, warm and damp, and she could feel his gaze on her skin like a physical thing, tracing the curve of her spine, the sharp lines of her shoulder blades, the soft swell of her hips.
A sound purred in the base of her master’s throat, a pleased noise of a predator who’s prey was baring her throat. Alyse heard the water splash again, but this time it painted her skin as her master curled around her. Her feet slipped and if he was not as precise as he was, her head would have cracked against the marble.
Yet, for all his cruelness, he was gentle as he captured the lamb, taking her off her feet. Her skin pressed up against his, the water seeping between them, hands gathered around her tiny waist until she was dispensed with ease into the tub alongside him.
The water was a shock, not of cold, but of heat so profound it stole the breath from her lungs. It was a different heat than the air, a liquid heat that seeped into her very marrow, a warmth that felt both like a comfort and a brand. Alyse sank for a moment, her body limp and unresisting, until his arm, strong and sure, hooked around her waist and drew her back against his chest. Her back was flush against him, skin to slick skin, and she could feel the steady, solid beat of his heart through her own spine. The silver strands of his hair, now wet and heavy, brushed against her shoulder, and the scent of sandalwood was no longer in the air but was on her, in her, a part of her own breath.
She was in the bath with him. She was naked in the bath with her master. The thought was so immense, so terrifying, that her mind refused to hold it. It slipped away, leaving only the raw, immediate sensations: the heat of the water, the hardness of his chest against her back, the weight of his arm holding her in place, the soft lapping of the water against her breasts as he settled her more firmly against him.
“What are you thinking?” Valerius breathed, the air tickling her ear and making it twitch.
“I am scared, master.” She whispered back, afraid to speak too loud, as if the water around them was made of glass and if she dared to raise her voice it would shatter and splinter into her vulnerable skin.
But her master would not allow such a thing. No, of course not. Valerius wouldn’t allow a single hair on that lamb’s head to be touched by anything but him. And in that moment, he wanted to touch her. Desperately.
Her tiny body was pressed so tight against his, so warm, she kept shifting if she knew it or not. Her knees knocked against his, the curves of her body fit just perfectly into his. Did she not know? She must not. Or she would not be squirming so much.
Innocent little thing. Prime for the picking. Nude and helpless and entirely his.
“It is not often you see me like this, is it?” He cooed, easing a hand so that it splayed flat over her stomach. “Did I look like your master then? When you were spying on me? Or did I look like someone else?”
Alyse willed her body to relax, willed it to still as she knew she was meant to. “Someone else, sir.”
“And who did I look like to you, lamb?”
“Like a man.” She tilted her head up, catching a glimpse of his expression.
It was amused, heavily, a smile played across his lips. But there was something else in it, a hungry thing. A thing that would ravage her if just given the chance. A single word and it would take her, all of her, right, then, splashing in the water, in the heat and the sandal wood and her cries would echo like an angel’s melody off those hollow walls…
Not tonight, if he could help it. Though with each passing second, Valerius for the first time was not so sure of his own control.
“Am I not a man to you?”
The question hung in the steam-thick air, heavy and strange, and Alyse felt it settle into her chest like a stone dropped into deep water. She could feel his hand on her stomach, warm and solid, the weight of it both a comfort and a brand. His fingers were still, not moving, not tracing patterns—just resting there, as if he were cataloging the feel of her, the softness of her skin, the way her breath came in short, shallow gasps beneath his palm.
"Am I not a man to you?"
She did not know how to answer. The question was too large, too complex, too full of meanings she could not untangle. He was her master. He was a lord. He was the figure who loomed over her in her nightmares and held her through her tears and punished her when she was bad and praised her when she was good. He was all of those things, and none of them, and something else besides—something she did not have words for, something she had only glimpsed in the crack of the door, in the quiet moments when his mask slipped and she saw the tiredness in his eyes, the softness in his mouth, the small, private smile that was not meant for anyone.
"You are my master," she said, because it was the only truth she knew for certain.
His hand on her stomach tightened, just slightly, just enough for her to feel the strength in his fingers. "That is not what I asked."
She swallowed, her throat dry despite the steam. The water lapped at her collarbone, warm and gentle, and she could feel his breath on her ear, soft and steady. He was so close—closer than he had ever been, closer than she had ever imagined anyone could be. She could feel the thrum of his pulse through his chest, the rise and fall of his breathing, the heat of his skin where it pressed against her back.
“I do not–” Alyse hesitated again, ears folded back against her hair that frizzed in the humidity. “-I do not understand, master…”
A chuckle, one that raised an army of goosebumps along her skin. “That much is very clear, my lamb. You do not understand that I am both. Your master and a man. A man with a woman on his lap, a naked squirming woman who cannot–” His lips pressed against the curve of her throat. “ –seem to sit still.”
A soft whimper escaped her lips, a sound swallowed by the steam and the gentle lapping of water. His words were a revelation, each one a stone turning over to reveal something she had never dared to imagine. A man with a woman on his lap. The phrase echoed in her mind, strange and electrifying. She was not a servant being punished. She was not a lamb being tested. She was a woman.
And he was a man.
The distinction was terrifying. A master could be obeyed, a lord could be served, their motives were clear, their expectations a known landscape. But a man… a man was a wilderness. A man had wants that had nothing to do with obedience or service, wants that were primal and unpredictable. And a woman was the object of those wants. She was no longer a creature of tasks and duties, but of flesh and feeling, and she was utterly, terrifyingly out of her depth.
"I am sorry, master," she stammered, the apology an automatic reflex, a shield against the unknown. "I will be still. I will."
"No," he murmured against her throat, his voice a low, intimate vibration that made her tremble. "You will not." His lips moved from her throat to the sensitive skin just below her ear, his tongue tracing a slow, deliberate circle that made her gasp and arch against him. "You will not be still. You will not be silent. I do not want a statue on my lap, Alyse. I want the woman who was curious enough to put her eye to a crack in the door. I want the creature who cannot seem to stop squirming."
His hand, the one that had been resting so heavily on her stomach, began to move. It was not a demanding touch, but an exploratory one. His fingers splayed wide, his thumb stroking the soft skin just above her navel, tracing the delicate line of her ribs. Each movement was a question, and her body's response—a shiver, a hitched breath, the tightening of her muscles—was an answer she could not control.
"Do you feel that?" he asked, his voice a husky whisper. "That is not the touch of a master correcting his property. That is the touch of a man learning the shape of his woman."
His woman. The words struck her with the force of a physical blow. She had been his servant, his lamb, his charge. But his woman was something else entirely. It was a claim, a possession of a different kind. It was a claim not on her service, but on her very being.
His hand drifted lower, bypassing the place where her fear coiled, a tight, hot knot, and moving to her thigh. His fingers curled around it, his grip firm but not painful, and he gently pulled, parting her legs until her knee was hooked over his, opening her to him in the warm, water-laden air. A fresh wave of heat washed over her, a blush so deep it felt like a fever. She was exposed, vulnerable, laid bare in a way that had nothing to do with her nakedness.
"Look at me," he commanded again, his voice leaving no room for disobedience.
With a supreme effort of will, she forced her gaze to meet his. The amusement was still there, but it was banked, hidden behind a fire so intense it made her want to look away. His eyes were dark pools of want, of hunger, of a need so profound it seemed to pull at her very soul.
“Get out of my tub, lamb. Before I forget that you are my pet and not my woman.”
She should move. She knew she should move. Her body was screaming at her to obey, to scramble out of the water, to wrap herself in a towel and flee to the safety of her cold, lonely room. But her limbs would not cooperate. They had turned to water, to steam, to something insubstantial that could not hold her weight.
"Master—" she began, but the word died on her lips.
He shook his head, a small, almost imperceptible motion. "Do not. Do not say that word right now."
His hands were still on her—one on her thigh, still gripping, still holding her open to him; the other on her waist, his fingers splayed wide, as if he were measuring her, memorizing the curve of her hip, the softness of her skin. But he was not moving. He was holding himself still, holding himself back, and she could see the effort it cost him in the tight line of his jaw, the flare of his nostrils, the way his chest rose and fell with each controlled breath.
"You are my master," she whispered, because it was the only anchor she had, the only truth she could hold onto in the shifting, uncertain landscape of this moment.
He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the fire was still there, but it was banked, contained, hidden behind a wall of will that she could almost see, almost touch.
"I am," he said. "And you are my lamb. My pet. My charge. But you are also a woman. And I am a man. And men and women do things that masters and pets should not."
She felt a shiver run through her—not of cold, not of fear, but of something else. Something that made her want to stay, to press closer, to see what those things were.
"Alyse." His voice was strained now, the control slipping, just a little. "Get out of the tub. Please."
The word please was what did it. Not the command, not the warning, but the plea—the acknowledgment that he was asking, not demanding, that something in his was straining. Something she did not understand and something she did not want to test if it would bring even her master to his knees.
She moved.
It was clumsy, ungraceful—a fumbling scramble of limbs and water and the desperate need to obey. Her knee slipped on the wet marble, and his hand shot out, steadying her, helping her rise without falling. He did not look at her as she climbed out of the tub. His gaze was fixed on the candle flames, on the dancing shadows, on anything but her naked, dripping body.
She grabbed a towel—the first one she could reach—and wrapped it around herself, clutching it closed with fingers that would not stop shaking. The stone floor was cold beneath her bare feet, a shock after the warmth of the water, and she stood there, shivering, waiting, not knowing what came next.
He did not move. He stayed in the water, his back to her now, his head bowed, his hands resting on the rim of the tub. The muscles in his shoulders were taut, corded, as if he were holding himself together by sheer force of will.
“Go, lamb. Quickly now, your master only has so much strength.” His eyes flickered over his own shoulder, taking her in just a second longer.
Someday, he would ruin her. Someday their flesh would meet, someday she would be his woman and not just his pet. Someday. But not today.
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