The voice is soft, but insistent. I open my eyes. It is the dark, quiet hours of the night and Katy is standing by my bed.

“His Lordship has called for a bottle of wine, and you have the keys to the wine cellar.”

I’ve just woken up, and already my face is starting to heat with embarrassment. I’m glad it is dark. I don’t know why Katy seemed so offended when I took custody of the keys. It is standard practice for the consort of the house to have them. At least, that is what I’ve always been taught.

I sit up to fetch the keys, but then I’m struck by inspiration. Felford is alone. It’s late. He is drinking. Now could be the perfect time to make amends. To show I am willing to be a good consort. A chance to see if the healer’s prescription is working and I’m less frigid than I was.

If I can give my husband some pleasure, he will soften towards me. My heart races at my plan, but it is a good one.

“I’ll serve him,” I tell Katy in the dark. “Which wine did he request?”

“The Chateau Mouton Rothschild,” she says with only a hint of reproach in her voice. She doesn’t like my plan. “My lord, you are not well.”

“I’m fine now that I have eaten,” I say with false cheer.

Her fake concern is grating. I feel her eyes on me, but she says nothing further, and simply leaves quietly.

Taking a deep breath, I hurry out of bed and change my nightgown to one that is far more sheer. I muss up my hair and bite my lips to make them all puffy and swollen. With any luck, my husband will order me to my knees. My trainer was very pleased with my fellatio skills. I’m sure Felford will be too.

Wasting no more time. I hurry out of my rooms. The wine cellar is a little spooky but thankfully everything is stored correctly, so it doesn’t take me long to find the right bottle. As soon as it is in my hand, I scarper out as quickly as I can.

The house feels strange in the middle of the night. I’m walking through the dark hallways as unobtrusively as I can, but I still feel like an intruder. It’s just my imagination, but it feels as if the ghosts of all of Felford’s ancestors are peering disdainfully at me. I’m a newcomer, an outsider. I don’t belong here. Even though I’d like to earn that accord one day.

My bloodline will not mingle with Felford’s, but I will be raising his children. The future generation that will one day be wandering these halls and claiming them as their own.

Descendants who will be claiming far more than these halls if I am able to succeed in my sacred task.

I reach Felford’s rooms and let myself in quietly. It is dark in here too. Mostly illuminated by the fire. My husband is sitting in a wingback chair by the flames. His eyes rake over me. Shadows are dancing over the angles of his face. He is incredibly handsome. And judging by the look in his eyes, he likes what he sees too. My crazy plan might just work after all.

As I approach, someone in the other chair twists around to look at me. My heart skips several beats. With this chair facing away from the door, I hadn’t realized that my husband had company.

“Mallory!” booms the guest. “Always knew you’d look better with fewer clothes on!”

Dread claws at my stomach. One of my least favorite people in the world. Always cornering me at functions with roving eyes and wandering hands. And here I am, standing here in a practically see through nightgown. Oh well, it can’t be helped now.

“Good evening, Lord Westercombe,” I manage to say politely.

He guffaws as I place the wine bottle on the small table between him and my husband .

“Call me Gregory, we are all good friends here.”

I nod vaguely as I head for the drinks cabinet in search of a corkscrew. The dashing of my plans tastes bitter in my mouth. Galling and vexing. I’ll just open the wine and flee. As disappointing as that is. But there will be other nights to try to win Felford over.

As I return to my husband and his guest, brandishing a corkscrew, Westercombe’s hand shoots out and grabs my wrist tightly. His fingers are sweaty. He lears up at me drunkenly.

“Since your vessel doesn’t keep his ass for you, can I have a go?” he says to Felford while his eyes bore into me.

My lungs stutter to a halt. My heart freezes, and every drop of blood turns to ice. Only my eyes can move, and they turn to my husband.

I can see him better, now that I’m closer. Felford’s face is slack. His dark eyes hazy in the firelight. One hand is cupping a nearly empty wineglass. He looks extremely drunk.

Oh gods. This is terrible. I know he doesn’t think much of me, but surely he is not going to share me?

His free hand waves clumsily in the air. “Sure, why not?”

The room tilts as my mind spins and spins without purchase. Felford is my husband. My mage. My lord and master. My body belongs to him to do with as he pleases and if it pleases him to give me to his friends, it is well within his rights. I was stupid to think that Felford was above such things and better than this.

“I was not expecting…” I stammer. “I have not prepared.”

If they let me go, I can hide. They are drunk enough that they may well forget all about their intentions.

Westercombe grins. “I don’t mind sticking my fingers up pretty boys to open them up for me.”

His blond, permanently disarrayed hair is flopping into his blue eyes. Eyes that are showing not one hint of mercy. His grip on my wrist does not lessen one tiny bit.

“I don’t have my brace,” I try.

“I don’t mind hearing pretty boys squeal on my cock,” Westercombe smirks.

My throat is so tight I can’t breathe. “How about fellatio?” I wheeze.

“Nice try!” barks Westercombe.

And then he is moving. Frightfully fast for a drunk man of his size and build. I am moving too. He is manhandling me. My fingers tighten around the corkscrew, but then I come to my senses. I know my place.

The corkscrew drops to the floor with a dull thud as I’m bent over a chaise lounge. Oh gods, this is going to hurt. My trainer had me practice taking a dildo with no prep and no oil. In case my husband wanted me unexpectedly. I know what’s coming, and it is the worst.

I don’t want this. Any of this. My husband already hates me, and watching me with someone else is only going to make it worse. He’ll lose all interest. He’ll share me again and again. And far more immediate than that horror, is the fact that I really, really don’t want to submit to Westercombe. If that makes me prideful and arrogant, then so be it. I can’t change the way I feel. I can’t change a thing. I’m powerless. Pathetic. A failure of a vessel. The one and only thing I’ve ever tried to be.

A misery and fear laden sob echoes around the room. Oh gods. It’s me. I’m the one making awful noises. Agonized wails that sound like an animal being murdered. Tears are flowing down my face. I can’t stop them either.

But I can stay still. I can be obedient. I know I can. As much as I hate this, punishment for not obeying will be far, far worse. And far more importantly, I want to be good. I want it more than anything else in the world. My burning desire is to earn approval. I want people to be pleased with me. I want them to like me. Anyone. Someone.

“What did you do to him?” snarls Felford.

“Nothing yet,” gloats Westercombe.

And it is true. He has bent me over and lifted my nightgown over my hips. But nothing else.

“Get your hands off him!” Felford says.

Westercombe nudges my legs further apart with his knee. I scrunch my eyes up tight. I’m crying so hard it sounds like I have the hiccups.

Violent movement behind me makes me flinch. My head turns and my eyes open of their own accord. Westercombe is holding his cheek. His blue eyes are blazing furiously at Felford. Then with a roar, he charges.

Sheer and utter terror consumes me. They are fighting. Rolling around on the floor swinging drunken punches at one another. Rage and fury are clouding the air.

It’s too much. Everything is too much. I just want it all to stop. I need to be somewhere dark and quiet and safe.