Alyse is a faun mutt that gets picked up by a cruel elven lord named Valerius. He takes her as his pet and finds himself, inexplicably, favoring the lamb.
Refs: Alyse and Valerius, Alyse Picrew
Cw: Intimate Whump, sadistic whumper, carewhumper, slavery, blood, torture, general mind fuckery, possible noncon, Assume The Worst.
1. Mutt
A cruel elven master finds himself a new little pet
2. Silk Nightgown
Alyse figuring out that she needs to learn to wait
3. The Hands Of Her Master
Cont. Silk Nightgown - Alyse apologies
4. The Pain Of Acknowledgement
Alyse just wants a little attention
5. To Share One's Pain
Valerius being a sadist (tw: knife play)
6. Thirst Of Greed
Alyse drinking something she shouldn't
7. A Lamb's Nightmare
Alyse had a nightmare :(
8. A Man And A Woman
Valerius takes a bath and Alyse is very curious
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.
Alyse (little lamb whumpee) doesn't know how to wait, or how to dress herself. So Valerius (big scary elf whumper) helps her out. (How kind of him)
CW: Non-sexual nudity. Assume The Worst
Part 2 - Silk Nightgown
The next morning came without ceremony.
Alyse wondered if she’d be woken in the morning, called upon by a ringing bell, like she had always imagined. She thought she’d jump out of bed, dress herself in modest garb, and hurry down the hallway like a good little servant.
Although when she woke, it was to the sliver of sunlight that crept down from the floor up along her bed and then shone into her eyes. Frost stubbornly coated the window’s edge. There were no bells, no bows, and no whistles.
The room – her room – was much too big for such a small creature.
Be grateful, be humble, be thankful.
Oh, but it was so hard to be when it was all far too much.
Alyse had grown up as long as she could remember, surrounded by four solid walls of steel, kept locked in the back corners of a cage. It hadn’t been beautiful, it hadn’t had any luxury, but it was all that she knew. And to be in such an unfamiliar place was like a fawn venturing out into the wide open field as the sun peaked during hunting season.
The bed itself was so intimidating that it had taken her multiple minutes to gather the courage to even crawl onto the mammoth. It could have held at least four of her easily, which was so different than the tiny wool cot she had slept on before.
Silk linen covered the bed, matched with the deep midnight blue sheer overhang. To Alyse, it reminded her of a lake, blue cascading down and around the frame, shimmering to the floor, layers upon layers.
There was also a hearth, cold and untouched. A dresser, taller than Alyse and wider as well. A window, in fact, two that held little benches beneath them, decorated with finely stitched pillows. A bookshelf, even though Alyse herself couldn’t read. A rug that was made from the softest fur that Alyse had ever dared press her feet against. She was almost worried she’d ruin it just by settling her soles into the plushness.
Luxuries. So many luxuries that she could have never imagined. Not for a slave. Not for a pet. Not for a lamb. Was she not to be curled up on a cushion next to a fireplace like a dog? Was she not to sleep on a tiny bed tucked away in a forgotten corner? Or at the very least at the feet of her master?
It was hard for Alyse to dwell on such uncertainties when her toes explored the carpet and whisked away her worries. If she’d thought for a second longer, she’d realize she was staring down at the very thing that had made her undesirable. Human where lamb should be. Fur that started at the center of her feet and grew in curly bursts all the way up to her thigh. Lamb where human should be.
Seconds turned into minutes, which persisted on. She didn’t know if she was supposed to leave or stay, wait or find. Valerius hadn’t given her instructions. She’d simply been led to her room and left to rest.
Oh, couldn’t he understand how much comfort it would have brought her to have orders? Instructions? What was she to do now? Guess? Guessing wasn’t exactly what a pet should be doing. A pet should know. Should she know? Was that it? Was this a test?
The questions bubbled up in her little head like boiling milk, popping and spilling over the edge, burning anything it touched.
Finally, after much deliberation, she decided to step out of the room, a lacy nightgown hanging midthigh, her hair uncombed and spun like untamed wool. What a sight she must have been, though Alyse didn’t particularly concern herself with such things.
“Little lamb.” The hair on the back of her neck sprang up as she had managed to make it to the end of the hallway.
Candles flickered on, one by one, illuminating a path towards Valerius. The air was thick and heavy with power as his presence swelled and took up nearly every single inch of space. Alyse had felt it when she woke, that creeping fullness in the air, but hadn’t realized that it was her master who caused it.
“You are–” Valerius’s amber eyes swept down and then back up the length of the creature. “ –indecent.”
The stone beneath her feet suddenly felt icy, the air still holding so much weight yet felt so crisp, like the edges of the air were freezing before it hit her tongue. “I didn’t– I didn’t know–”
“That much is clear.”
Alyse’s feet froze mid-step, the plush rug beneath her toes suddenly feeling more like ice.
Her hands instinctively clasped the hem of her nightgown, as if she could will the gauzy fabric to lengthen.
His tone wasn’t raised, but the weight in it pressed against her chest. He strode forward, the slow, deliberate rhythm of his steps echoing down the hall. Each flicker of the candles caught the sharp lines of his face, and for a moment, Alyse felt as if the air itself bowed out of his way.
By the time he reached her, she had already tucked her chin and lowered her ears, a meek attempt at making herself smaller.
“I did not give you leave to wander,” he said, stopping close enough that his shadow fell over her entirely. “And I certainly did not give you leave to parade yourself like this.” His hand came up—not to strike, but to curl one long finger beneath her chin, lifting her face until those wide, mousy eyes met his.
Her breath trembled. “I just… didn’t know if I was supposed to stay in the room or…”
“You were supposed to wait.” His thumb grazed the corner of her mouth, not tenderly, but in that assessing way of his, as though he were determining what needed mending. “Patience is a skill you clearly lack. That, too, will be corrected.”
She nodded, the movement small but quick, the way a deer twitches when it hears a branch snap in the forest.
“I would so love to see you walk around in this all day long, my pet,” Valerius continued, his eyes dipping down over her collarbone, further and further, studying every inch of her, memorizing it in a way he’d memorize a piece of particularly beautiful artwork. “But alas, there are so many wolves around that would love to devour a little lamb like you.”
The lord slipped his hand down, along the curve of her shoulder, and came to rest on the space between her sharp shoulder blades. She tried not to flinch, not to run. She wished– no, she prayed that her instincts wouldn’t take over someday and cause her to flee with her nonexistent tail between her legs.
Her ears remained tucked as the duo began to walk back towards her room. Her teeth drew down hard onto her lower lip as they approached, the candles flickering. She let a tiny little puff of air leave her lips. “Master?”
“Yes?” He did not halt his steady, practiced steps, making sure she kept close and up to speed.
“Are you…” Hesitation was forced upon her as her tongue suddenly felt dry, like the ice in the air had frozen every ounce of moisture and then broken it apart to stone. “Are you mad at me…?”
What a delicious question, so sweet from her little lips. Mad? It almost made Valerius chuckle at the idea. This is what his pet thought his anger looked like? A slight tweak? A hint of criticism? Oh, pray the poor darling never truly finds out what forms his anger truly takes.
But at the same time, it was so innocent, so meek. She was afraid; he could smell it on her, a beautiful scent. So very scared, so very small, so very eager to please, yet simultaneously not knowing how. Was there anything more perfect in this world? A pet that desired praise as much as Alyse did, yet stumbled her way farther and farther away from that line.
“No, I’m not mad.” Foolish to even have to say such a thing when he hadn’t so much laid a hand upon her. Though he couldn’t help but reassure her as she trembled. “Did the shopkeeper get mad about such small inconveniences?”
Alyse inched herself closer, leaning against his touch, though she probably wasn’t aware of this action. The tiny sentence had been enough to quell most of the storm raging between her ears. The side of her body brushed against his, her bare arm making contact with his perfectly ironed vest. “Sometimes.”
“What a fool.”
Her eyes widened, thick eyelashes nearly grazing her upper lid. Then, despite herself, she laughed. It wasn’t a shrill laugh, not one that came from a full set of lungs, but a tiny giggle that bubbled out.
Valerius’s eyebrows perked. “Was that funny, little lamb?”
Laughter hadn’t been heard in these halls in generations, and yet it sounded as though it belonged.
Brash. Audacious. Stupid.
Innocent.
The honey pools of her irises latched onto his as she fully swung against him, tangling her fingers in the fabric at his side, pulling it from its precisely tucked position in his trousers. Giddiness filled her, quick to vanquish any fear or uncertainty. It was funny, wasn’t it? How could it have not been funny? Such a direct insult to the man who had controlled her life for years. Something that she had thought, but never dared to say.
Valerius halted his steps, watching with a dull expression as his new pet struggled to compose herself. Never in his life had a creature taken such liberties as to fall against him, grab his clothing, or even so much as breathe a hair out of place.
Alyse slunk into his side, nodding her head as her giggles died down and slid back her throat. She wasn’t aware of the danger she faced. She didn’t know that her laugh was a mating call for the most dangerous of creatures.
“You are bold, my dear.” Valerius drew his mouth into a firm line.
“Well, I just- I didn’t–” Alyse’s smile faded, but she didn’t draw back, keeping her hands clung against his clothing. “ –I thought it was funny… He was, wasn’t he?”
“Was what?”
Her lips pinched shut. Last time she’d said a single word that could have even been considered an insult towards the shopkeeper, he’d threatened to sew her treacherous mouth shut. “Sorry…”
Valerius glanced towards one of the doors lining the hallway, hers. They had been so close and yet now stuck, glued in place. “For what?”
“For laughing, sir.”
“And why would you have to apologize for that?”
Alyse blinked, once, then twice. “I… I dunno…”
She hadn’t been taught it was a crime to laugh. Her happiness was not a punishable offense, was it? She hadn’t known. How was she supposed to know? He hadn’t told her– not a word. If she had known she wasn’t supposed to laugh, then not even God could draw that sound from her lips, but– but– he hadn’t told her. That wasn’t fair.
“Alyse.” Her pupils contracted, her hold suddenly not out of joy but out of fear, frozen, clenched, desperately wanting his next words to be soft. “Darling, focus. What have I said about apologizing? This was not even a day ago. I’ll be rather displeased if you don’t remember.”
She was nothing but a lamb, staring into the barrel of a gun, not knowing the dangers that awaited. Did she think his patience was infinite?
“You said uhm…” Alyse’s ears flopped back once again, lying against her mane of hair. What was it? Her head was so full and yet so small. How could she remember– Oh! Just like that, her entire body perked up as the memory came forward. “You said not to apologize unless you told me to, master.”
She expected praise or perhaps even a softening of his gaze. She had done the right thing, hadn’t she? She remembered so her lord did not have to be displeased with her. It was simple logic.
Valerius clicked his tongue. “Do not look so proud of yourself. You believe you are warranted praise, little one? After already being defiant? After forgetting the words your master said not even a day ago? Do the things I say mean that little to you?”
“No!” Her fingers curled, harder, desperate, pulling out his undershirt fully as her knees began to tremble. “No, master. No, sir. I listened– I remembered. I didn’t mean to forget– I won’t again. I promise I won’t forget. Don’t be mad– please don’t be mad.”
“This–” Valerius pressed a single digit below her shaking chin, forcing her head up as she tried to smother her sorrow against his side. ‘ –is not what anger looks like. But perhaps you’ll see if you do not start listening.”
It looked like anger to Alyse. But even a sharpened leaf looked like a knife to her.
“I’m listening, I’m listening.”
“Yes, you are.” The elf lord took her hands in his, slowly prying each one of her tiny fingers off his clothing. She didn’t fight back, but also did not go slack as he had expected. Instead, she stayed perfectly still as if her bones had turned to iron. Perhaps she could only concentrate on one thing at a time. “Go into your room and take off your nightgown. Wait for me as you should have in the beginning.”
Alyse stood frozen, her breath hitching at the command. The words hung in the air like a thick fog, wrapping around her limbs, making it difficult to move—yet somehow, she found her feet shuffling toward the door, heart thudding in her chest. Each step felt heavy, as if the weight of Valerius’s gaze clung to her like a damp cloak.
Inside her room, the silence was deafening. The once comforting space now felt overwhelming, the walls closing in with shadows that danced in the corners, reminding her of the cage she had known. She glanced back, half-expecting Valerius to follow, to loom over her even here. But he stayed outside, and for a fleeting moment, she was alone.
Fingers trembling, she turned her attention to the nightgown, its fabric soft but foreign against her skin. It slid off easily, pooling at her feet, a silken shadow on the plush rug.
Others had seen Alyse naked before, of course. Slaves had no right to privacy. If someone had come into the pet store and asked to see Alyse stripped nude, then she was expected to do so without hesitation.
And yet— her face was flushed a dangerous cherry red. Her hands cupped over her breasts, or what the shopkeeper had described as ‘lack of’.
Fear covered her like a shawl, thick and heavy, pressing down her shoulders. She wished it were visible, wished for a giant woven shawl to press her down into the ground so she wouldn’t have to stand in anticipation with her bare skin open to the cool air.
The latch of her door clicked, rippling goosebumps up her skin. Alyse turned, tucking her legs together, embarrassed by her figure. Too human. Too Faun. Not enough. Never enough.
“I think I prefer you like this.” Alyse's head dipped down as Valerius entered, closing the door behind him, keeping the lustful eyes away. “I suppose it doesn’t matter to you either way, does it? You were perfectly willing to parade yourself around in nothing but a thin nightgown of silk.”
Run. Run.
Her instincts screamed it: run and hide and don’t make a single sound. Hope he doesn’t find you. Hope he forgets about your miserable existence. Pray he grows bored and doesn’t devour you whole.
“And what if I were to take you out like this?” His boots stamped down the fur rug, smashing it flat. “Let every animal out there have a bite of you. What would you think of that?”
Alyse’s heart raced as Valerius stepped closer, his presence swallowing her whole. The looming walls of the room seemed to shift, closing in, and she felt as if she could barely breathe. Each thud of her heart echoed in her ears, a frantic rhythm that drowned out her thoughts. She wanted to shrink away, to disappear into the shadows cast by those sharp angles of his frame, yet her legs refused to move.
He stood there, imposing, surveying her with that inscrutable gaze that felt like ice and fire all at once. “You have a terrible habit of hesitating when I ask questions. Dare I have to teach you how unfortunate it would be to not have a tongue?”
That loosened the wedge of anxiety pressed between her jaw. “No, master. I-I don’t have any thoughts on-on if you wanted me to walk nude.”
Slaves don’t have thoughts. Pets even less so.
Valerius was a man who loved to toy with his food before eating it. And this lamb’s blood was pumping so fast he could hear the pleasant hum in the air.
“What a beautiful sight you’d be.” A finger, armed with razor-sharp nails, drew down the side of her jaw, along her throat, her shoulder, pausing just above her breasts. “It’s too bad for you. I hate sharing.”
Alyse closed her eyes, pathetic tears threatening to leak out.
“Perfect. Keep your pretty little eyes closed for me, okay?”
A nod was the only response she gave, even though she desperately wanted to crumble to the ground and spout apologies. She had been given just one rule so far, and that was to not apologize unless instructed. Just one simple rule. And even that she couldn’t seem to follow.
Valerius stalked around her, the click of his boots muffled by the carpet. Her pale skin nearly shimmered against the sunlight, her silver hair all the same. Her bones peeked out through every inch of her small stature, her collar bones, her shoulder blades, her ribs.
He’d fix that in due time, of course.
Faun was usually covered in freckles, but not this one. There was not a speck of imperfection on her, not a mole, a spot, or a scar. She was far too afraid for a being that hadn’t been struck hard enough to form a scar.
It was good that Valerius had already eaten breakfast, or he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop himself from devouring the poor thing whole.
After all, her fear was intoxicating. Her eyes crinkled shut, tense, her shoulders shaking, her knees clacking together like hollow wind chimes. She tried too hard to stay still, but her body betrayed her. He even noticed the lower line of her eyelashes dampening with each passing second.
He wanted her desperately. He wanted to run his nails along her untouched skin, hear her tiny little whimper, feel the horror as her body thrashed against his. He’d drink her pain like a wine aged wine.
But not yet.
Control was something the elf lord prided himself on, and he was not about to lose it on a stray he’d dragged in merely hours ago.
Valerius ran his fingers over the many silks and laces that decorated Alyse’s wardrobe. A dark crimson dress was one he hesitated to pass by. His tongue ran against his teeth as he pictured her drenched in red, trembling, begging at his feet.
Not yet.
“Take a step forward.” Alyse shakily obeyed, stepping into the dainty pearl pink dress he’d picked out. It was enough to not make her look drowned out without being overly flashy. His finger tips teased the edge of her bare skin as he pulled it up over her frame, and severe lack of curves.
One arm at a time, then he began to lace the ribbon corset in the back. His movements were precise, practiced, like he had done this a million times before. Once she was dressed, he stepped to her front.
“Do you feel better now?”
Alyse didn’t answer. “Can I open my eyes?”
“I suppose you may.”
Alyse obeyed, glancing up at her master, then down at her dress. Her face flushed, the skirt going down to her knees, laced with elegant designs, sinched around the waist, something more beautiful than she deserved. “Thank you, sir.”
The lord didn’t acknowledge her gratitude; instead continued to nibble on the thin threads of her composure. “And now what am I to do with you, hmm? A pet that has been so disobedient in the short time I’ve had her. I can’t let that go unpunished, can I?”
He wasn’t looking for an answer, but Alyse gave one anyway. “No, master.”
“Oh, but the dress has covered so many places that I could have used.” A shiver, colder than ice, ran down Alyse’s back. His eyes were undressing her, begging the question of why he had even bothered to begin with. “All I can see now is your legs, hands, and face. I wouldn’t want to bruise your pretty face, though, would I?”
Again, she answered, a knee-jerk reaction. “No, master.”
“So maybe your hands then. That would work well, wouldn’t it? Next time you think to disobey, you’ll feel the pain in these little fingers and think better of it.” His hand enveloped hers, each digit trembling, pale, and so thin as he examined them. One wrong move and he could have every single one broken. “What do you think?”
Think? She didn’t think. That’s what got her into trouble to begin with.
“Y-yes, master.”
A scripted answer that had been shoved down her throat for years. Valerius’s lips quirked to the side almost imperceptibly so. That’s not the answer he wanted. He did not want some regurgitated remains. He wanted her, all of her, raw and fresh.
She was such a delicate being, though, he had to be careful. He didn’t want to break her. What was the point of broken things anyway? Valerius never understood that concept. Break something into nothing, and then what? What entertainment did that provide? He hated fake tears, fake whimpers. What was the point if it was all forged?
“Well, if you had any disagreements, I would have listened, but since you’re so eager.” Valerius gave her a delicate yet firm shove towards a walnut desk perched in the corner, surrounded by the bookshelves she had been admiring earlier. “Put your pretty little hands on the table for me.”
Fear finally engulfed her entirely. “Master– please-”
Valerius cocked his head to the side, a brow perched, yet not a word leaving his lips. And that was enough to frighten the lamb back into her skin as she frantically obeyed, planting her quivering hands against the table, fingers splayed, untouched, unharmed, no mark of the life she had lived.
“It’s a shame to have to do this on your second day, but lambs aren’t the fastest learners.” Alyse flinched, nearly jumping a foot off the floor when a loud, sharp thudding sound echoed through the room. The perpetrator was a thin, flexible piece of hickory stick, waiting in the elf’s hands. “Stay still for me, darling. We have a lesson we need to learn, don’t we?”
