Chapter 18: The Queen's Punishment
The scent of Ruby—turpentine, spearmint, sweat—clung to Jaune’s skin like a accusation. He stood on his own porch, key in hand, the metal cold and unfamiliar. The intimacy of Ruby’s sofa, the wet velvet against his knees, the taste of her, felt like a fever dream under the harsh, moth-swarmed porch light. He inhaled deeply, trying to graft Cinder’s expected lavender-and-power scent onto his lungs, to overwrite the memory.It didn’t take.
He turned the key.The lock clicked with a sound like a closing trap.
The foyer was dark, but a low, amber light spilled from the living room. Not the overhead chandelier Cinder preferred for its imperial glare, but the softer glow of the glass-shaded lamps. A record was playing, something with a slow, thrumming bassline and a breathy, forgotten singer. It was wrong.Cinder only played music when she was in a very specific mood.
He stepped into the living room doorway and the world stopped.
Ruby’s mural swam in the dim light, the twisted, vibrant shapes now mocking specters. On the velvet sofa—the twin to Ruby’s, but pristine, bought for show—Cinder was arranged like an offering. Her black skirt was a rumpled pool around her hips, pushed up to expose the pale expanse of her thighs. Her legs were spread, one high heel planted on the floor, the other draped over the sofa’s back.Her head was thrown back against the cushions, her raven hair a dark spill. Her eyes were closed, but her mouth was a taut, open line.
Between her thighs, a head of bright orange hair moved with a slow, rhythmic intensity.Carmine Esclados.
Jaune’s brain refused to synthesize the data.The tennis player’s powerful shoulders were hunched in concentration. One of her hands, the uninjured one, was braced on Cinder’s inner thigh, the fingers splayed possessively. The other wrist, still lightly braced, rested on Cinder’s stomach. The only sounds were the thrum of the music, the wet, soft noise of Carmine’s mouth, and Cinder’s low, controlled breaths.
Then Cinder’s eyes opened.They found Jaune instantly, as if she’d known he was there all along. No surprise.No shame. Just a sharp, amber awareness that cut through the haze of the room.Carmine, sensing a shift, began to pull away.
“Don’t stop,” Cinder said, her voice a liquid command.Her gaze never left Jaune.
Carmine hesitated, then, with a small shrug of her shoulders, resumed her work, her tongue tracing a long, deliberate path that made Cinder’s breath catch. But her eyes stayed open, locked on her husband.“You’re late,” Cinder said. Her tone was conversational, almost pleasant, if you ignored the strain underneath. “The nine o’clock city council adjournment was a formality.I was home by nine-twenty.”
Jaune couldn’t speak. His body was a statue of guilt and a bizarre, unwelcome arousal. The sight of Carmine’s head bobbing, the intimate sound, the blatant display—it was a violation of every unspoken rule.And yet, his traitorous blood pulsed hotter. He was still raw from Ruby.This felt like a grotesque reflection.
“I… the roses,” he stammered, the lie ash in his mouth.“The roses,” Cinder repeated, drawing the word out. A shiver ran through her as Carmine’s tongue pressed deeper. Cinder’s knuckles whitened where she gripped the sofa cushion.“I saw them. Or rather, I saw what you didn’t do to them.The shears are lying in the grass, Jaune. Like you just… dropped everything and wandered off.”
Carmine moaned softly against Cinder, the vibration pulling a sharper gasp from the mayor. Cinder’s hips lifted off the sofa, seeking more pressure.“What,” she panted, “could possibly have been more important than your responsibilities? Than my garden?”
Jaune’s mind flashed to Ruby’s hands in his hair, her whispered “Just like that.” He felt exposed, certain the truth was written in neon on his skin. “I… lost track of time.”
“You lost track.” Cinder’s laughter was a short, cruel sound. “You, who runs on a schedule more precise than the town clock.You expect me to believe that?” Her body tensed, her back arching. “Don’t you dare slow down, Carmine.” The command was guttural.
Carmine’s pace increased, her fingers digging into Cinder’s thigh. Cinder’s face contorted, a mask of straining pleasure. She spoke through gritted teeth, each word a projectile aimed at Jaune’s frozen form.“You are a steward.Of this house. Of my name.Of the image I cultivate.” A groan interrupted her, but she forced the words out. “That garden is the first thing people see.And you left it… unfinished.Sloppy. You left tools lying about. Like a common laborer.”
She was nearing her peak; Jaune could see it in the corded tension of her neck, the way her abdomen clenched. Her speech became more fragmented, sharper.“So you will stand there.You will watch. You will see what happens when I take my pleasure.When I decide the schedule. You will remember your place.”
Her hand shot out and tangled in Carmine’s orange ponytail, not guiding, but claiming, holding her in place. Cinder’s eyes burned into Jaune’s, a final, searing indictment.
“You are not allowed to be sloppy.”
With that, her body convulsed. A raw, tearing sound was ripped from her throat, utterly devoid of prettiness.Her back arched violently, her free hand clawing at the velvet. Carmine worked her through it, relentless, until Cinder collapsed back, boneless, breathing in ragged gulps.
The room was silent except for Cinder’s heaving breaths and the scratch of the record needle, which had reached the end of the groove and was now stuck, repeating a dull thump-thump-thump in the quiet.Carmine finally lifted her head. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a practical, athletic gesture. She looked at Cinder with a satisfied, hazy smile, then her gaze followed Cinder’s to the doorway. She saw Jaune. Her eyes—bright, confident, utterly unashamed—widened for a second in surprise.Then a slow, knowing smile spread across her face. She didn’t cover herself or Cinder.She just watched him watch them, enjoying his paralysis.
Cinder slowly, languidly, pulled her skirt down. She swung her legs off the sofa, sitting up with a regal weariness.She looked at Carmine, then at the expensive bottle of wine on the side table.
“Be a darling and pour us a glass, would you?” Her voice was hoarse, but the authority was absolute.Carmine stood, stretching her powerful frame. She walked, naked from the waist down, past Jaune as if he were a piece of furniture. He caught the scent of her—sporty deodorant, sex, Cinder’s perfume.
Cinder finally addressed him directly.“The shears are still outside.The east bed is a disgrace.You will finish. Now. Every thorned stem will be perfect before you sleep.”
She accepted a glass of deep red wine from Carmine, took a sip, and leaned back.The punishment was delivered. The scene was set.His role was clear.Jaune turned mechanically, his limbs moving through syrup. The sticky scent of sex and wine followed him into the foyer. As he opened the front door, the cool night air hit him, and he heard Cinder’s voice, low and amused, say to Carmine, “Now, where were we?”
The door shut behind him, sealing him into the dark.The shears gleamed dully on the lawn. The thorns of the roses waited, hungry in the moonlight. He picked up the cold metal, the handle still gritty from his earlier, abandoned work.From inside, faintly, the music started again.
He knelt in the dirt, the dampness immediately soaking through his trousers. He reached for a rose stem, his fingers closing around it.A thorn pierced his thumb, a bright, clean pain. He squeezed the stem tighter, welcoming the bite, and began to cut.