"I see that our last lesson in propriety was ineffective as usual, Miss Barlowe," Lord Byron said from somewhere behind me. I flinched, dropping my hand from where I’d reached up to feel close to the magic that called to my curiosity.
Spinning, I turned to face the owner of the smooth voice that haunted my nightmares. “Lord Byron, I can explain—”
“My Lord,” he corrected, sauntering through the copse of trees that I’d thought would provide me cover. A legion of Mist Guard followed at his heels, having none of the natural grace he did and moving only with brute force as they'd been trained. They were a reminder of everything I didn’t want to consider, of the ticking clock he held over my head now.
“My Lord,” I said, tilting my head down until my eyes landed on the yellowing grass at his feet. I preferred that to the false kindness in his blue eyes and the attractive features that undoubtedly fooled many girls into aiming for his bed.
To be a consort to the Lord of Mistfell was no small feat—even if he did have a wife.
“I am fairly certain that this is not my library, Estrella,” he said when he stopped in front of me, sliding two smooth fingers under my chin and tipping my face until he captured my stare with his.
“It isn't the library,” I confirmed, the urge to spit in his face sneaking through me.
“Mumbling is beneath a woman of your grace.” He slid his fingers down the column of my throat, pressing them to my collarbone and pushing me back until I stood straight, noble, as if my dress wasn’t stained and torn, and my boots didn’t have holes in them from too many harvests.
He looked at me and saw something to polish and own, when all I wanted was to be free.
“It won’t happen again, my Lord,” I said, resisting the urge to mumble all over again.
"Be certain it doesn't," he said, removing his hand from my body and taking a step back. "I meant it when I told you there are things we need to discuss."
"We're both here now," I said, glancing over his shoulder. Even if the presence of the Mist Guard was a false comfort, it helped when I didn't feel alone with him. The worst of his punishments came where there were no prying eyes.
He studied me, stepping back and grasping his chin in the same fingers that had touched me. "Loris, would you be so kind as to help Miss Barlowe find her way to the library? We wouldn't want her to get lost again." Lord Byron turned to Loris with a stare, where he’d tried to hide behind other Mist Guard soldiers. Loris's throat worked as he swallowed, meeting Lord Byron's eyes and knowing the older man knew what he'd done, and he stepped forward with a brisk nod of his head.
"Yes, my Lord," he said, his voice carrying through the otherwise quiet space as his fellow guards, some of them friends, watched. He moved toward me, his face blank of all apology or care as he took my elbow in a tight grip and tugged me toward the manor.
I attempted to yank it away. "I can walk myself," I snapped, glaring at him. He didn't bother to turn his attention toward me or release me, instead setting a steady pace as he practically dragged me toward the manor in the distance.
"Perhaps this will serve as the reminder you needed that I am in charge, Estrella. Whatever happens in Mistfell is because I allow it. Because I own this village and everyone in it," Lord Byron said, taking up pace behind Loris and I as he left the meaning of his words to hang between us. I turned to look at him over my shoulder, watching him straighten his cloak and brush the rich red velvet over his shoulder as he met my gaze. "Just as I own you."
The light stone of Mistfell Manor gleamed in the moonlight as Loris led me along the path until we approached the servants' entrance at the side. The same entrance I used every time Lord Byron requested my presence in his library and I had to sneak into the house without alerting one of the High Priest’s spies. The Ladies of the Night entered through the front door, their presence anything but hidden, while he snuck me in through the side as if I was the dirty secret no one could ever know about.
One of the manor guards hurried to open the door for us as Loris guided me inside, taking me through the halls quickly until he placed a hand on the gilded handle of one of the enormous library doors and shoved it open for us to enter.
As soon as we'd stepped over the threshold onto the polished stone, veined with gold, Loris released me and turned his face downward toward the floor as I stumbled to catch my footing. I lifted my hand to rub at my elbow, the skin blooming with a bruise. Loris watched from the corner of his eye, his face pinching as he witnessed the show of vulnerability for a moment.
The betrayal lingered between us, even knowing what he would choose if forced to decide between his affection for me and his duty to Mistfell. I’d only deceived myself when I tried to convince myself I didn’t care. The hurt made my throat tight, leaving me to swallow against it as I tore my eyes from his and looked around the room I was too familiar with.
"Leave us," Lord Byron barked as he stepped into the room, dismissing the Mist Guard from our presence for what came next. For the punishment that had to follow.
“What do you propose I should do with you for your continued disobedience, Miss Barlowe?” he asked the moment the doors to the library closed behind the retreating guards, sealing me into the room that I’d come to dread more than anything. I’d come to hate this place for the association it bore with my own pain and the depravity of Lord Byron’s actions within those four walls.
Books lined the ornate, wooden shelves. Stacked to the ceiling with generations worth of knowledge that required ladders to access. Knowledge that Lord Byron himself could very rarely be bothered to read; his focus on the present and growing his own power within the Kingdom demanded too much of his time.
His desk sat at the back edge of the room, parchment laid out on top next to his bottle of ink and quill. I’d spent far too many nights bent over the surface, my nails gripping the edge of the smooth, polished wood as I listened to the whistle of his switch cutting through the air, waited for the fire of his strike.
How many nights had I spent reading the texts he assigned to me, filling my head with the chastity of The Mother and the consequences for sin, while he wrote letters to the King in Ineburn City? I’d lost count long ago, and something like desolation made my chest throb.
He moved to the decanter on his desk, calmly pouring himself a glass of red wine. With his back to me, he reached up and unclasped his cloak, draping it over the chair beside his desk. “I would never assume myself worthy of determining my own punishment, my Lord,” I said, biting my tongue to keep from worsening whatever might be coming.