Chapter 2: The Illusioned Feast
The air in the Great Hall was thick with the smell of charred meat and woodsmoke, ale and sweat. Tapers flickered in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows over the antler-mounted skulls that leered from the walls. Adam’s trophies. Jim had insisted on the full display for the feast, to honor the boar’s provider.
Adam sat halfway down the long oak table, picking at a trencher of roast boar. The meat was succulent, but it tasted like ashes. Every laugh from the head of the table was a nail in his conscience.
Jim was holding court, his face flushed with wine and joy. “—and the magic she wove to mend the bridge on the Green Road! She sang to the stones, and they listened!” He slung an arm around the woman beside him, beaming with pride.
The woman was Lucy.
She was perfect. She smiled up at Jim, her green eyes sparkling, her auburn hair piled artfully atop her head. She nodded at the right moments, laughed at his jokes, her hand resting demurely on his arm. She wore a deep emerald gown that matched her eyes, the picture of a devoted lady.
It was an illusion. A flawless, shimmering weave of light and perception that sat in Lucy’s chair, interacted with the world, while the real Lucy was six feet away, under the table.
Adam felt her hand on his thigh first, a bold, sliding touch. He choked on his ale. He glanced down the table. The illusion-Lucy was sipping wine, chatting with a baker. No one saw. The servants moved like ghosts, their eyes carefully blank. They knew. Of course they knew.
Her fingers found the laces of his breeches. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The roar of the hall seemed to recede, compressed into the space beneath the heavy linen tablecloth.
“Don’t,” he breathed, a useless plea.
He felt her shift on the bench next to him. Then she was sliding under the table, a rustle of silk, and her warm weight was on his lap, straddling him. The tablecloth fell around them like a tent, enclosing them in a pocket of heat and secret, musky darkness. She had hiked her skirts up around her waist. She was naked underneath. The emerald gown was part of the illusion; the real Lucy wore only a thin chemise.
“Lucy,” he growled, his hands finding her hips. He was already hard, painfully so.
She guided him into her, sinking down slowly, taking him in an inch at a time until he was fully sheathed. She was soaked. Prepared. She bit his shoulder through his tunic to stifle her moan. Then she began to move.
Above them, the feast roared on. Jim’s voice boomed. “Another toast! To my brilliant wife!”
Goblets clinked. Adam’s own hands gripped the bench beneath him, knuckles white, as Lucy rode him with slow, deep, relentless strokes. Each rise and fall was a study in silent, devastating pleasure. He could see her face in the dim light filtering through the linen, her eyes closed, her lips parted, a sheen of sweat already on her brow. Her breasts pressed against his chest with each downward plunge.
“Fuck,” he whispered into her hair.
“Quiet,” she breathed, nipping at his ear. “You’ll miss the story about the spoon.”
Mira moved along the table with a heavy clay pitcher of wine. Her hands were steady, but her stomach was a knot of coiled snakes. She refilled a merchant’s cup, her eyes darting to the head of the table.
Lady Lucy laughed, a bright, false sound, and patted Lord Jim’s hand. Mira’s gaze slid past the illusion. It was like looking through a heat haze. To everyone else, the lady was there, solid and real. To Mira, who had seen the true Lucy slip from her seat, the illusion was a translucent ghost. And behind it, if she focused, she could see the truth.
At the shadowed end of the bench, Adam Blackthorn sat rigid, his face a mask of strained control. And in his lap, mostly hidden by the tablecloth but visible in the gap between the bench and the table’s edge, were Lucy’s bare thighs. They flexed and shifted with a rhythmic motion. Mira could see the tension in Adam’s shoulders, the way his fists were clenched. She could see a glimpse of Lucy’s chemise, rucked up, and the dark thatch of hair at the joining of her thighs where she was impaled on him.
A hot, shameful pulse throbbed between Mira’s own legs. She had seen them in the bathhouse. She had heard the raw, animal sounds. The image was seared into her mind. Now, serving spiced wine while they fucked openly in a hall of fifty people, the audacity of it, the terrifying intimacy, made her head light.
She moved down the table, her steps measured. She stopped behind Adam’s bench to refill the cup of a guardsman who was too drunk to notice anything. From here, the angle was clearer. She could see the slick shine where their bodies joined, the way Lucy’s inner muscles fluttered with each slow, deep rise. Adam’s breathing was harsh, controlled. Lucy’s head was thrown back, her throat working soundlessly.
The shameful heat in Mira’s cunt became a demanding ache. Her hand, holding the pitcher, trembled. She set it down quietly on the table. Under the cover of her long apron, her other hand crept between her own legs. The rough fabric of her dress pressed against her clit. She applied pressure, a subtle, circular motion, as she stared, transfixed, at the secret act playing out before her.
Lucy’s pace was increasing. Mira could see the muscles in her ass clenching with effort. Adam’s hands were now on her hips, fingers digging in, guiding her, fucking up into her from below. It was raw. Primal. Mira’s own fingers worked faster, hidden by the apron. The rhythm of her rubbing matched the rhythm of Lucy’s hips. She imagined it was her in Lucy’s place, taking that hard, thick cock, being filled so completely in this den of vice and shadows. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from making a sound, her breath coming in short, silent gasps.
Jim’s voice cut through her haze. “Mira! Wine here, lass!”
She snatched her hand away as if burned. Her face flushed crimson. She grabbed the pitcher, her heart hammering against her ribs, and walked on unsteady legs to the head of the table. She poured for Jim, her eyes fixed on the lip of the pitcher.
“You alright, girl?” Jim asked, his tone kindly. “You look feverish.”
“The heat, my lord,” she mumbled, not daring to look at the illusion-Lucy beside him.
“It is a bit close,” Jim agreed, then launched back into his tale. “So there I was, the spoon bent nearly double…”
Mira retreated to the shadows by the servants’ door. She leaned against the cold stone, her body humming. She could still see them. Lucy was moving faster now, her silent cries visible in the shudder of her shoulders. Adam’s head was bowed, his forehead pressed against her collarbone, his entire body taut as a bowstring. Mira’s hand slipped under her apron again, her fingers slipping beneath her smallclothes this time, finding the wet, aching flesh. She rubbed her clit in frantic, desperate circles, her eyes locked on the couple. She was close. So were they.
Lucy’s body seized. Mira saw the glorious, violent tremor rock through her, saw her mouth open in a silent scream, saw Adam crush her against him as his own release took him, his hips jerking up in sharp, final thrusts.
Mira came a heartbeat later, a sharp, shocking climax that ripped through her in a wave of blinding heat and profound shame. She stifled a whimper against her own arm, her legs trembling.
Under the table, Lucy went limp against Adam, her breathing ragged. Slowly, carefully, she disentangled herself and slid back onto the bench beside him, smoothing down her chemise. The illusion-Lucy at the head of the table gave a delicate yawn.
“I am quite weary, my love,” the illusion said, its voice perfectly mimicking Lucy’s melodic tones.
“Of course, of course!” Jim said, patting the illusion’s hand. “A big day! Rest well.”
Adam sat frozen, his spend cooling on his thigh beneath his breeches. He watched as the illusion-Lucy stood, kissed Jim’s cheek, and glided from the hall. The real Lucy, flushed and disheveled, leaned into him, her voice a hot whisper in his ear.
“My chambers. An hour. The door will be unlocked.”
She slipped away into the darkness of a side passage, leaving him alone in the roaring hall, the taste of betrayal like burnt boar on his tongue. Mira, from her shadow, watched him go, her body still throbbing with a secret, shared knowledge.
Mira, from her shadow, watched him go, her body still throbbing with a secret, shared knowledge. The hall’s noise felt like wool stuffed in her ears, distant and muffled. She pushed off the wall, her knees soft, and began clearing the lord’s table with mechanical hands.
The hour that followed was a blur of steaming dishwater and greasy trenchers. Her mind replayed the sight: Lucy’s bare thighs, the rhythmic glide, Adam’s clenched jaw. The memory coiled in her belly, a low heat that refused to dissipate. She scrubbed a pot until her fingers wrinkled.
Later, carrying a basket of fresh linens to the lady’s chamber, her pulse was a frantic bird in her throat. The corridor was silent, save for the groan of old stones settling. Lucy’s door was ahead, ajar by the smallest sliver, a band of candlelight spilling onto the flagstones.
She stopped. Listened. From within came Lucy’s voice, low and teasing. “You’re late. I thought you’d lost your nerve.”
“My nerve is the only thing I haven’t lost,” Adam’s voice replied, rough and tired.
Mira’s breath hitched. She set the basket down without a sound. The door was open a crack, just wide enough. She peered through.
Lucy stood by the hearth, her chemise already pooled at her feet. The firelight danced over her skin, painting her curves in gold and shadow. Adam was still by the door, his back to it, wrestling with his own laces. He pushed the door closed, but it didn’t catch, settling back on its hinges to the exact same narrow gap.
“Hurry up,” Lucy said, walking toward the large canopied bed. She climbed onto it, kneeling on the furs, her back arched provocatively. “I’ve been empty since the hall. I need you to fill me again.”
Adam finished undressing, his clothes dropping to the floor. His body was a map of old violence, scars silver in the low light. He was fully erect, his cock thick and flushed. He didn’t speak. He moved to the bed, his hands gripping Lucy’s hips, turning her roughly onto her hands and knees.
“Like this,” he growled. “I want you like this.”
Mira’s hand flew to her own mouth, stifling any sound. She could see everything. Lucy’s back dipped, presenting herself, the slick folds of her cunt glistening openly. Adam positioned himself behind her, one hand on her hip, the other guiding his cock. He rubbed the broad head through her wetness, teasing, but Lucy pushed back impatiently.
“Stop playing,” she hissed. “Fuck me, Adam. Do it.”
He drove into her, a single, deep, punishing thrust that made Lucy cry out, a raw, satisfying sound. He set a brutal pace immediately, each slam of his hips jolting her forward, the bedframe creaking in protest. The sound of skin on skin, wet and rhythmic, filled the chamber.
“Is this what you wanted?” Adam grunted, his movements becoming jagged, desperate. “Your husband’s wine still on your tongue while I split you open?”
“Yes,” Lucy gasped, pushing back against him. “God, yes. Deeper.”
Mira’s other hand slipped beneath her apron, under the waist of her skirt. Her fingers found her clit, already swollen and aching. She touched herself, mimicking the rhythm from the room. She watched Adam’s balls slap against Lucy, watched the way Lucy’s tits swayed with each thrust, watched the sweat trace the line of Adam’s spine.
Lucy reached a hand between her own legs, rubbing her clit in frantic circles. “I’m close,” she panted. “Don’t stop. Please.”
Adam’s pace became erratic, animalistic. He leaned over her, biting her shoulder, his hips pistoning. “Come on my cock, you greedy slut,” he rasped. “Do it.”
Lucy’s body tightened, her back arching sharply, a silent scream on her lips as her orgasm took her. Her cunt clenched visibly around him, milking him. Adam groaned, a deep, torn sound, and shoved into her one last time, his own release pumping into her with sharp, jerking motions.
Mira came then, her own climax sharp and silent, her teeth biting into her palm as waves of pleasure and shame washed through her. She leaned against the cold wall, trembling, her fingers wet.
Inside the room, the only sounds were ragged breathing. Adam pulled out slowly, collapsing beside Lucy on the furs. They lay in silence for a long moment, the fire crackling.
Lucy finally spoke, her voice husky. “You left the door open.”
Adam didn’t turn his head. “I know.”
Mira froze, her blood turning to ice in her veins. She saw Adam’s eyes, sharp and hunter-calm, glance directly toward the crack in the door. He had known. He had always known.
She stumbled back from the door, her heart hammering against her ribs, and fled down the dark corridor, the echo of their sin clinging to her like a second skin.
She stumbled back from the door, her heart hammering against her ribs, and fled down the dark corridor, the echo of their sin clinging to her like a second skin. Back in the chamber, the fire popped. Adam stared at the closed door, then at the ceiling.
“You scared her half to death,” Lucy said, rolling onto her side. Her tone was airy, amused. “The poor girl probably won’t sleep for a week. You’re a menace.”
“I’m a menace?” Adam’s voice was flat. “You’re the one who conjured a phantom to dine while you rode me in a room full of people. I just left a door ajar.”
“There’s a scale of transgression, brother dear.” She poked his ribs. “Illusion magic is art. Leaving a witness is just carelessness. Mira’s a sweet thing. She doesn’t deserve your particular brand of psychological warfare.”
“She’s been watching us for weeks.” He turned his head to look at her. “She watched in the bathhouse. She watched at the feast. She chose to stop and look tonight. I gave her a clear view. Consider it a reward for her dedicated attendance.”
Lucy laughed, a genuine, startled sound. “A reward? You think watching your sweaty, feral grimace as you pump come into me is a reward?”
“You’d know better than I would.” He ran a hand over his face. “It seems to be your preferred entertainment.”
“My preferred entertainment is participating,” she corrected, sitting up. The furs slipped to her waist. “Not lurking in drafts. You could have given her a show. A proper one. Something with flair.”
“Flair.” He snorted. “What, should I have waved?”
“A little theatricality never hurt.” She traced the old scar across his ribs. “You’re always so brutally efficient. In and out. Job done. It’s like watching a carpenter hammer a nail.”
He caught her wrist, his grip firm but not painful. “You came, didn’t you? Twice in the hall, once just now. My efficiency seems to suffice.”
“It suffices.” She pulled her wrist free, a mock pout on her lips. “What a glowing review. ‘It suffices.’ I’ll have that embroidered on a banner. Maybe Jim can hang it in the solar.”
“Don’t.” The word was sharp, a flick of a lash. The mention of Jim’s name in this space, in this context, always killed the mood, turning passion into something sick and corrosive.
Lucy saw his face close up. She softened, leaning into him. “Alright. No banners. But you have to admit, for a man who spends half his life brooding over technique, your bedroom technique is… utilitarian.”
“Utilitarian.” He raised an eyebrow. “You were screaming into my tunic an hour ago.”
“That was the atmosphere! The risk! The sheer audacity!” She kissed his shoulder. “The actual mechanics were… functional.”
He flipped her onto her back suddenly, looming over her. “Functional.”
“Efficient,” she breathed, a challenge in her eyes.
“Suffices,” he growled, lowering his mouth to her neck.
“See? You have no poetry in you.” She arched against him, her hands sliding down his back to grip his ass. “All brawn, no artistry.”
“You want artistry?” His hand slid between her legs, fingers slipping through her wetness, still slick from their earlier fucking. He found her asshole, a tight, forbidden pucker, and rubbed a slow, firm circle around it with his thumb.
Lucy’s breath hitched. Her teasing smile faded, replaced by raw hunger. “Yes.”
“This kind of artistry?” He pressed the pad of his thumb against her, applying gradual, insistent pressure. She gasped, her hips lifting off the bed.
“That’s the kind,” she managed, her voice thin.
He reached for the small jar of salve on the bedside table, the one she kept for sore muscles after spellwork. He coated two fingers thickly. “You’re sure.”
“I’ll light the room on fire if you stop.”
He slid one slick finger into her ass, slowly, watching her face contort. Her mouth opened in a silent ‘O’. He worked it in and out, careful, methodical, stretching her. When she relaxed, he added a second. She hissed, her nails digging into his biceps. “Fuck, Adam.”
“Utilitarian,” he reminded her, crooking his fingers.
A broken moan was her only reply. Her cunt was dripping, her juices wetting the tops of her thighs. He scissored his fingers, preparing her, the obscene, wet sounds loud in the room. When he was satisfied, he wiped his hand on the furs and positioned himself.
He guided the broad head of his cock to her other entrance, the one still glistening and used. He rubbed it through her slick folds, coating himself thoroughly. Then he shifted back, lining up with the tight, clenching ring of muscle he’d just stretched.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice rough.
She opened her eyes, glazed with want. He pushed forward, an inexorable, burning inch. Lucy cried out, a sharp, pained sound that quickly morphed into a deep groan of pleasure. He stopped, letting her adjust, sweat beading on his forehead.
“More,” she demanded, rolling her hips.
He obeyed, sinking deeper into the incredible, scorching tightness. It was a different kind of fullness, a shocking, possessive invasion. When he was fully sheathed, he paused, both of them trembling with the intensity of it.
“Still… functional?” he gritted out.
“Shut up and move.”
He withdrew almost completely, then slammed back in. Lucy shouted, her back arching. He set a relentless, driving rhythm, each thrust a searing conquest. The feel of her ass gripping him was unbelievable, tighter than anything he’d ever known, a velvet fist.
She reached between them again, her fingers finding her clit, rubbing in frantic circles. “I’m already close, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop!”
Her first orgasm took her quickly, a violent, clamping spasm around his cock that made him see stars. She screamed into the crook of his arm, her body bucking beneath him. He kept fucking her through it, the pace brutal and unwavering.
“Again,” he commanded, pounding into her. “Do it again.”
Sobbing, overstimulated, her hand kept working. The combined sensation of the deep, full penetration and the furious attention to her clit pushed her over another edge moments later. This climax was longer, a drawn-out series of convulsions that milked his length, her body surrendering completely.
It shattered his control. With a final, deep drive, he buried himself to the hilt and came, his release pumping into her ass in hot, pulsing jets. He collapsed on top of her, both of them slick and heaving.
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire and their ragged breathing. He softened inside her, but didn’t move. The weight of what they’d just done, another layer of filth, settled on him.
A knock at the chamber door, firm and official, shattered the stillness.
They froze. It was not a servant’s timid rap. It was the solid knock of the keep’s steward.
“Lady Lucy? Lord Jim requests your presence in the library. He says it’s urgent.” The steward’s voice was muffled but clear through the oak.
Adam was out of her in an instant, a silent, fluid movement. He snatched his breeches from the floor. Lucy stared at the door, her eyes wide, post-coital haze vanishing into cold shock. The stew was not in on their secret. He was Jim’s man.
“A moment!” she called, her voice surprisingly steady. She pushed Adam toward the screen in the corner that hid the washbasin. “Go!”
He moved behind it. Lucy scrambled from the bed, grabbing her discarded chemise. She winced as she pulled it on, feeling the evidence of Adam’s spend begin to leak from her. She glanced at the bed, at the obvious disarray, the salve jar on the table.
She waved a hand, a quick, complex gesture. The air shimmered. The bed made itself, furs smoothing. The jar vanished from sight. The room snapped into an illusion of perfect, ladylike order. Only the scent of sex and sweat remained, lingering, undeniable.
She took a deep breath, walked to the door, and opened it just enough to show her face. “What is the matter, Gerren?”
“His lordship didn’t say, my lady. Only that it was urgent, concerning a messenger from the north.” The steward’s eyes remained respectfully downcast, fixed on the corridor stones.
“Tell him I’ll be there directly.”
She closed the door and leaned against it, her legs trembling. Adam emerged from behind the screen, fully dressed, his sword belt in his hand. Their eyes met across the room. The library was Jim’s domain. It was on the other side of the keep.
They had maybe three minutes before she had to be there, before Jim would wonder at the delay.
“The north,” Adam said, his voice low. The two words hung between them, a cold splinter of the outside world piercing their fever-dream. It was a callback to his lie in the yard, the excuse he’d given for his distraction. Now it was real.
“Go out the servant’s passage,” Lucy whispered, already moving to her wardrobe for a robe. “And Adam?”
He paused at the hidden door in the paneling.
She didn’t look at him, pulling a heavy velvet robe over her chemise. “Wash up. You smell like me.”