Chapter 10: Feast of Frustration
The first light of dawn had not yet pierced the depths of Erebor, but Thorin was already awake, his body thrumming with a restless energy that the night’s exertions had done little to quell. Vanja slept beside him, her autumn-leaf hair fanned across the pillows, the scent of their coupling still clinging to her skin. He watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, the graceful line of her throat, and felt that familiar, possessive pull deep in his gut. Last night in the feast hall, her little game of leaning over the table, that deliberate flash of cleavage as she poured his wine, then pulling away with a infuriating smirk—it had been a challenge. One he had answered with brutal efficiency later in this very chamber.
He shifted, the rough wool of the blankets scraping against his bare legs. The memory of her bent over the bed, his hands on her hips, her cries echoing off the stone walls, was a fresh brand on his mind. She had met his fury with her own, her nails scoring his back, her curses a mix of Common Tongue and elvish syllables that had only driven him harder.
Vanja stirred, her eyes fluttering open. Those eyes, the color of a forest in fall, fixed on him, and she offered a slow, sleepy smile that didn’t quite reach them. “You’re staring,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep.
“Aye,” he grunted, not moving. “You’re a sight to see after a thorough fucking.”
She stretched, a languid, unselfconscious movement that made the sheet pool around her waist. The marks from his beard were faint red trails on the pale skin of her inner thighs. “Thorough is one word for it. I feel like I’ve been trampled by a pack of wild rams.”
“You begged for it,” he reminded her, his voice low. “You taunt me in front of my entire court, then wonder why I remind you who you belong to.”
Her smile tightened at the edges. “I belong to no one, Thorin. Not even a king.” She sat up, the sheet falling away, and reached for a robe. “Though you do make a compelling argument.”
He watched her stand, the elegant shift of muscle under skin, the way the dim light caught the gold in her hair. She was half-elven, all grace and sharp edges, and she fit this stone kingdom like a bird in a cage. A very beautiful, very defiant bird. He swung his legs out of bed, the cold stone of the floor a shock against his bare feet. “Get dressed. We have a long day. The trade delegates from the Iron Hills arrive before noon.”
She pulled the robe around herself, not bothering to tie it. “More dwarves to bow and scrape. How thrilling.”
“Your enthusiasm is noted.” He grabbed his own tunic, pulling it over his head. “Just try not to cause another incident like yesterday. Dís is still laughing about it.”
“Your sister has a crude sense of humor,” Vanja said, moving to the wash basin. “I was merely serving my betrothed. It’s not my fault if his mind is permanently in the gutter.”
Thorin crossed the room in three strides, catching her arm before she could lift the pitcher. He turned her to face him, his grip firm. “You gaped that dress on purpose, and you know it. You wanted every dwarf in that hall to see what’s mine, and you wanted me to see them looking.” His voice was a gravelly whisper. “That’s a dangerous game, princess.”
She didn’t pull away. Her eyes sparked with defiance. “Is it? Or is it just that you can’t stand the thought that I might have a will of my own? That I might enjoy watching you unravel?”
He leaned in close, his beard brushing her cheek. “I’ll unravel you until you forget your own name.” He released her with a slight shove. “Now get ready.”
The royal dining hall was, if possible, even more boisterous than the night before. The arrival of the Iron Hills delegates had swollen the numbers, and the air was thick with the smell of roasting boar, spilled ale, and dwarf tobacco. The rhythmic clang of hammered gold plate underscored the deep-throated laughter and heated debates echoing under the vaulted stone ceiling.
Vanja sat beside Thorin at the high table, her back straight, wearing a deep blue gown that was modest by dwarf standards but still clung to her figure in a way that drew eyes. She could feel the weight of their gazes—curious, appreciative, sometimes hostile. She kept her expression neutral, a slight, polite smile fixed on her face as she listened to Lord Barr, a broad-shouldered dwarf from the Hills, drone on about ore yields.
Thorin’s attention was ostensibly on the delegate, but his left hand was under the table, his fingers splayed possessively on her thigh, his thumb rubbing slow, rough circles high up near her hip. It was a silent claim, a reminder. She shifted slightly, the fabric of her dress whispering against her skin.
“...and the silver vein in the southern mine is proving richer than we anticipated,” Barr was saying, gesturing with a turkey leg. “We could triple our output by next spring, if the mountain clans honor their timber agreements.”
“The clans will honor them,” Thorin said, his voice even, but his fingers pressed harder into Vanja’s leg. “I’ll see to it.”
Vanja picked up her goblet of wine, taking a slow sip. She let her eyes drift across the hall, meeting the gaze of a young, red-bearded dwarf who had been staring at her since she sat down. She held his look for a heartbeat too long, then let her lips curve into a faint, knowing smile before turning back to the table.
Thorin’s hand stilled. The air around him seemed to grow colder.
“Something amusing, my lady?” he asked, his tone deceptively mild.
“Not at all, my king,” she said, setting the goblet down. “I was just admiring the... craftsmanship of the tapestries.”
From Thorin’s other side, Dís let out a short, sharp laugh, quickly disguised as a cough into her ale mug. Thorin’s jaw tightened.
The meal dragged on. Course after course was brought out, and with each one, Vanja could feel the tension coiling tighter in Thorin’s frame. His conversations became clipped, his responses shorter. His hand never left her leg, a hot, heavy brand through the fabric of her dress.
When the sweetened nuts and honeyed mead were served, Vanja leaned forward, reaching for a bunch of grapes from the central platter. She made sure to bend from the waist, allowing the neckline of her gown to gap open, offering a clear, deliberate view of her cleavage to Thorin and anyone else seated opposite. She moved slowly, plucking a single grape and bringing it to her lips.
Thorin’s reaction was instantaneous. His hand clamped down on her thigh like a vise. “Enough,” he growled, the word so low it was almost inaudible beneath the hall’s din.
She popped the grape into her mouth, chewing slowly, and leaned back, meeting his furious gaze with wide, innocent eyes. “Is something wrong?”
He stood so abruptly his heavy oak chair scraped loudly against the stone floor. The conversations around them faltered for a moment. “A word,” he said to her, his voice leaving no room for argument. He nodded to the delegates. “Please, continue. I must attend to a private matter.”
He didn’t wait for her reply, his grip shifting from her leg to her elbow, pulling her to her feet. He guided her, not gently, away from the high table and through a small, arched doorway hidden behind a vast tapestry depicting the forging of the first crown.
The door swung shut, muffling the noise of the feast. They were in a narrow passageway, used by servants, lined with stacked barrels and smelling of damp stone and dust. The only light came from a single flickering torch in a sconce further down.
Thorin pushed her back against the cold, rough wall, his body caging her in. “What in the seven hells do you think you’re doing?” he snarled, his face inches from hers.
“I was eating grapes,” she said, her heart hammering against her ribs, a thrill of fear and excitement coursing through her.
“You were flaunting yourself. Again. You think I didn’t see you smiling at that whelp from the Stonefoot clan?” His breath was hot on her face, smelling of ale and anger.
“I can smile at whomever I please,” she shot back, her own temper rising. “I am not your property to be locked away.”
“You are my betrothed!” he roared, the sound echoing in the confined space. “You will act with the dignity that position demands!”
“Or what?” she challenged, shoving against his chest. He didn’t budge. “You’ll drag me into another closet and fuck me like an animal? Is that your solution for everything?”
A brutal smile touched his lips. “It’s a solution you seem to enjoy, princess.” His hands went to the fastenings of his trousers. “You want to act like a tavern wench? I’ll treat you like one.”
He didn’t bother with preliminaries. He hiked her skirts up around her waist, his rough hands tearing at her smallclothes. The linen ripped easily in his grasp. She gasped as the cold air hit her bare skin, but the sound was cut off when his mouth crashed down on hers, a punishing, possessive kiss that tasted of fury and mead.
He freed his cock, already thick and hard, and she felt the blunt, insistent pressure of it against her thigh. He spat into his palm, a crude, wet sound, and slicked himself roughly before positioning himself at her entrance.
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he growled against her ear, his voice raw with need and rage. “This is why you play your little games. To feel this.”
He drove into her in one brutal, unforgiving thrust. She cried out, a sharp, choked sound, as he filled her, stretching her, the friction almost painful in its intensity. She was wet—her body had betrayed her, responding to the raw aggression—but he was huge, and the force of it stole her breath.
“Thorin—” she gasped, her fingers scrabbling against the stone wall for purchase.
He didn’t answer. He set a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming into her, the sound of their bodies meeting a wet, rhythmic slap that echoed in the narrow passage. Each thrust jarred her against the unyielding stone, but a dark, shameful heat was already coiling deep within her. This was raw, base, stripped of all pretense. This was the core of whatever burned between them.
He leaned his forehead against the wall beside her head, his breath coming in ragged grunts. “You see?” he panted, his voice thick with exertion. “This is where you belong. Taking my cock. Coming on it. Isn’t that right, you elvish bitch?”
The filthy words, the sheer vulgarity of it, sent a jolt straight to her core. Her nails dug into his shoulders as her body began to tighten, the pleasure building into a sharp, inevitable peak. “Yes,” she hissed, the admission torn from her. “Gods, yes.”
He fucked her harder, deeper, his pace becoming erratic. “I can feel you,” he grunted. “I can feel your cunt clenching around me. You’re going to come for me, aren’t you? Come all over your king’s cock.”
It was a command. Her orgasm ripped through her, violent and consuming. She bit down on her lip to st