George steps forward and begins clearing the table away. Soon it is just me and Lucien and a sea of white linen tablecloth. Lucien is staring down at his hands in his lap. All I can see is his glossy hair. It looks like he is trembling. And his shoulders are tense.

I frown. He cannot be ripe already. I only took his magic last night, and while vessels are unpredictable for the first month, I’ve never heard of one becoming full of magic again so quickly.

A quick check with my magic senses confirms it. My vessel is not ripe. So why is he acting so oddly? As if he thinks I’m about to leap up and bite him?

A dark thought slithers across my mind. No. Surely not? He is my consort as well as my vessel. No one would bat an eyelid if I wished to take him to bed. But he can’t be thinking that of me? And if he is, why on earth is this his reaction?

Talk about insulting. I am a kind and considerate lover. I pride myself on it. Did he not have fun on his wedding night? Was it yet another thing that did not meet his high expectations? Another facet of this marriage he is disappointed in?

I glug down my glass of wine. Damn it. And damn this dark desire that wants Lucien, even if he doesn’t want me. I’m still tempted. Sorely tempted. He won’t refuse me, he is far too traditional for that. Far too mindful of his perceived place. And part of me wants him to have to lie beneath me while I slowly take apart each and every one of his prim and proper walls.

How sick and twisted is that?

“Oh, my fucking god!” I bellow suddenly, causing Lucien to nearly jump right out of his chair. “I’m not going to take you to bed! I will only suffer that unpleasantness when it is absolutely necessary!”

Shit, why did I say that? The first part was mostly for my own benefit, I think. The second part? That was just cruel.

Lucien flows to his feet and gives me a sharp bow of his head. “In that case, my lord husband, please excuse me.”

He hurries past me and flees the dining room, and suddenly I’m all alone. I swear his eyes looked watery as he passed.

I lean back in my chair and sigh heavily. Okay, that was super shitty. I’m acting like an extreme asshole. I know I am. That was an awful thing to say. Lucien is an infuriating little weasel, but he is a human being. And young. And he has had to leave his home to come live with me.

There was no call for me to be rude. There never is. But Lucien always seems to bring out the very worst in me. What is it about the little vessel that gets right under my skin?

And how do I make it stop?

Chapter six

Lucien

Colors spin above my head. This cannot be happening. I cannot be ripe already, it has only been two days. It is far too soon. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.

Felford doesn’t want this. He thinks bedding me is disgusting. I am a complete failure of a vessel. My one and only purpose in life. The one thing I have been extensively trained for, and I’m hopeless at it.

If I cannot get this simple part right, how on earth am I going to enact my secret duty? The sacred task my parents have entrusted me with. Everything is crumbling down around me.

I bite back my wail and punch my pillow instead. Now I know it’s not a headache, I should get up. Retiring in the middle of the day is lazy. I have a household to run. Duties to perform. And if I’m already too far gone for that, then I need to prepare myself for my husband.

It’s time to take a deep breath and calm down. I can do this. I have to do this. There is no other choice. I don’t want to be driven mad by my magic. Or explode. There are very good reasons why vessels are paired with mages.

One problem at a time. Right now I need to prepare myself to be emptied. Worrying about my sacred task is going to have to wait.

As my shaking limbs heave myself out of bed, the world tilts and my vision swims. Oh gods. I never knew being ripe would feel so goddamn awful. I hate it. It feels as if my skin is too tight and I’m going to burst. My magic feels like a thousand angry snakes slithering along my veins and through my guts, desperately seeking a way out and devouring my mind in furious frustration.

If I had known it felt like this, I would have run away and never allowed myself to be tapped. My magic could have slept peacefully within me forever. But it is too late now. My magic has been unleashed. It has tasted freedom, and it demands more. Arousal and lust are flaring within me. I will burn and burn until my husband empties me. And then I will feel like this again in seven days, or a month, or whatever rhythm my cycle settles into.

This is my future. Forever and ever, and there is not one single thing I can do to escape it.

Tears fall down my cheeks and I scrub them away angrily. There is no need to be a baby about things. I’ve always known this was my destiny. I’ve been training for it my whole life.

Somehow, I manage to undress and make it to the shower. The hot water hits me. Scalding along my skin. Reminding me of what is real and what is imagined. I’m not literally bursting at the seams. My skin is not about to split open.

I can focus now and form coherent thoughts. It’s fine. Everything is going to be fine. The first time being ripe is bound to be a little overwhelming.

I breathe through some relaxation exercises while I automatically and methodically go through the process of preparing my body to receive my husband.

As I step out of the shower, the world spins again and I have to grab onto the towel rail to stay upright. It’s fine. I probably stayed in the shower for too long with the temperature too high and got a little lightheaded.

It’s a struggle to put a clean receiving gown on, but I manage it. I stagger back into the bedchamber and retrieve my brace from the bedside cabinet. My fingers run over the deep indentations my teeth created on my wedding night. However ugly it might look, it worked. I bore being taken silently, as I am supposed to.

Another deep breath and I slip the thin chain of my brace over my neck. I’m done. I’m ready for my husband.

I pull the servant bell and someone appears almost immediately. My thoughts must have drifted away for a moment. I blink in disorientation at the servant. Then my body remembers what it is supposed to be doing, and I open the drawer in my bedside cabinet again, this time to fetch a green silk ribbon.

I hand it to the servant, who takes it with a quick curtsy. Please, please tell me that Felford’s staff are trained well enough for this. But I suppose it is a moot point. My magic is burning like a beacon. Anyone with the slightest bit of magic within a hundred miles can tell I’m ripe. My husband doesn’t need a ribbon to tell him that.

My bed rises up to meet me as I flop down onto it gratefully. It is done. I got through the preparations. All I have to do now is wait for my husband.

The world is spinning. I can hear colors and see sounds. Time has no meaning. I have been lying on this bed for all eternity and no time at all.

The bedchamber door opens. Footsteps swirl in blue across the canopy of the bed. My magic twists in glee at the presence of a mage.

“I thought you were supposed to come to me?” says Felford.

I should get up. I should kneel before my husband and master. But I can’t remember how legs work. Or arms, for that matter. I cannot even lift my head to look at him.

“If we were not married, then yes,” I say as some part of my mind helpfully pulls up the facts.

I’m glad I’m highborn enough to be worthy of marriage. Vessels who are not also consorts get a very shitty deal.

“Oh, sorry,” mumbles Felford.

A waft of pungent scent attacks my nose. I know that smell. It’s the tree bark Yohimbe. A potent aphrodisiac.

“You drank Husband’s Tea?” I ask and my distress is clear in my voice.

Damn it. I know better than that. Husbands should not be burdened with their consort’s emotions.

Felford coughs awkwardly. “I…er…know you don’t want me. But you need to be emptied, so I…er need to perform.”

Shame washes over me. Thick, cloying waves of it. And it smells like Yohimbe.

Am I really so hideous that my husband needs to drug himself in order to be able to take me? My magic alone should be enough of a siren call. This is a humiliating catastrophe.

“How may I please you, my lord husband?”

The words echo around the room. That sounded like my voice. Did some part of me remember my training?