Chapter 1: The Master's Right
The library was a tomb of forgotten thoughts, and Colton Hayes was suffocating in it.
Ledgers and estate reports spread across the mahogany desk before him bled into a single, incomprehensible stain of numbers. A quarterly tax statement for the northern orchards was missing. The roofing estimate for the old stables was twice what he’d budgeted. The words swam, lines merging and separating, until he pushed back from the desk with a sound of disgust.
He needed air. A drink. Something.
His gaze swept the room, past the towering shelves groaning under the weight of centuries, past the dust motes dancing in the slanted, golden light from the high stained-glass window. It landed on the figure by the philosophy section.
Ember.
She was running a feather duster along the spines of a set of leather-bound volumes, her movements fluid and quiet. The late afternoon sun caught the rich, reddish-brown of her hair, matching the soft fur of the fox ears that currently twitched, alert to his movement. Her tail, a brush of the same burnt auburn, swayed slightly behind her in a rhythm of simple concentration.
A tight coil in his chest, wound by the damned paperwork, began to loosen. Here was a problem he understood. A tension he could release.
“Ember.”
Her name wasn’t a call, but a command. She went still, her ears rotating toward him before the rest of her did. She turned, her green eyes meeting his across the room. No words. She never spoke first.
“Come here.”
She set the duster down on a small trolley and walked toward him, her steps silent on the worn Persian rug. She stopped a few feet from the desk, hands folded in front of her simple gray dress, waiting. Her expression was carefully neutral, but her tail had gone completely still.
Colton didn’t get up. He just looked at her, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of his gaze do the work. He saw the subtle flush that began to creep up her neck, the slight, involuntary flare of her nostrils. She knew why she’d been summoned.
“The east wing accounts are a mess,” he said, his voice flat. “Vendor disputes. Overruns.”
She simply nodded, a tiny dip of her chin. She had nothing to do with the accounts.
He stood then, slowly, circling the desk. The library was so quiet he could hear the soft shush of his trousers, the faint pop of a floorboard under his weight. He stopped in front of her, close enough to catch the faint scent of her—clean skin, hint of soap, and something uniquely sweet, like sun-warmed fur.
He reached out and took a strand of her hair between his fingers. It was soft. “You’re a distraction I can’t afford today.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. It was always ‘sir’.
“No, you’re not.” His fingers trailed from her hair to the line of her jaw, tipping her face up. Her breath hitched, a tiny, caught sound. He saw the conflict then, the one he enjoyed the most. The tightening of her brow, the way her eyes tried to hold his but then flicked down. The shame. And beneath it, the quickening pulse in her throat. The truth.
His hand slid behind her neck, not gentle. He turned her, guiding her toward the desk. She didn’t resist. She never did. That was the agreement. Free Use. A clause in her family’s indenture contract, standard for creature-persons on estates like his. A condition of their tenancy.
Her palms flattened on the cool mahogany as he positioned her, bending her forward. He heard her exhale, a shaky release of air. Her ears pressed back, lying flat against her scalp in a portrait of submission. Her tail, however, lifted, the fur fluffing out slightly.
Colton undid his belt buckle. The clink of it was loud in the silent room. He didn’t bother with preamble, didn’t waste time on pretenses of affection. This wasn’t about that. This was a valve release. The ledger’s frustration, the roof’s cost, the sheer, grinding weight of it all—it needed a direction. An outlet.
He pushed her dress up around her waist. She shivered.
He entered her in one firm, unceremonious thrust. A sharp gasp tore from her lips, her knuckles whitening where they gripped the desk’s edge. He held still for a second, letting her adjust, feeling the fierce, clenching heat of her. Then he began to move.
His rhythm was punishing, a driven piston of frustration. Each thrust slammed the desk a fraction of an inch across the floor with a soft, persistent thud. The only other sounds were their breathing—his becoming ragged with effort, hers a series of stifled, ragged whimpers.
He gripped her hips, fingers digging into the softness there, holding her in place. Her head dropped between her shoulders, her hair a curtain hiding her face. But her body told the story she’d never speak aloud. The way she pushed back against him, meeting his drive. The way her inner muscles fluttered and gripped him tighter with every deep stroke. The way her tail had gone from stiff to a languid, sinuous sweep that now curled around his thigh, the fur soft and ticklish against his skin.
He watched it, that betraying tail, and a dark, victorious smile touched his lips. She could press her ears flat. She could bite her lip to silence herself. But she couldn’t control this. This honest, animal part of her.
“See?” he grunted, his voice thick. “You’re not sorry at all.”
She moaned then, a low, choked sound of pure acquiescence. It was the final thread of his control snapping. He drove into her harder, faster, the desk now creaking in protest. The forgotten tax forms fluttered to the floor. A crystal inkwell rattled.
His release crashed over him like a wave, pulling a guttural sound from his chest. He sagged against her back for a moment, spent, the metallic rage of the day drained to a dull hum.
For a few heartbeats, there was only the sound of their rough breathing mixing with the ancient silence of the library. Then, he pulled away, fastening his trousers with brisk, efficient movements.
Ember didn’t move. She remained bent over the desk, her dress still rucked up, her tail now drooping, limp. A few reddish hairs clung to the dark wood. She was trembling.
Colton straightened his shirt, ran a hand through his hair. The coil inside him was gone. The numbers would wait. They’d make sense later.
He walked toward the library door without looking back. “Straighten up the desk,” he said, his voice returning to its normal, detached tone. “And for God’s sake, air the room out. It smells like fox in here.”
The heavy oak door closed behind him with a solid, final thud.
Ember slowly pushed herself upright. Her legs felt unsteady. She tugged her dress down, the fabric whispering over her sensitive skin. She didn’t turn to look at the door. Instead, her eyes went to the fallen papers scattered on the floor. Then, to the smudge on the polished mahogany where her sweat had mingled with the old wood.
Her hands still shook. She pressed them flat against the desk again, this time to steady herself. A deep, shuddering breath filled her lungs—the scent of old books, of dust, of him.
Her tail gave one last, involuntary twitch. Then, she bent, knees protesting, and began to gather the scattered papers from the floor, her movements automatic, precise. The only sign of anything amiss was the single, hot tear that tracked silently through the dust on her cheek, followed by another, falling onto a spreadsheet forecasting the yield of the apple orchards. She blinked them away, her expression settling back into its practiced, careful blankness.
The library was silent once more, holding its breath. Waiting for the next time the storm would walk through the door.
Waiting for the next time the storm would walk through the door. The storm, it turned out, had a schedule.
The next evening, the library’s quiet was replaced by the low rumble of male voices and the sharp, sweet scent of cigar smoke. Colton’s study, adjacent to the grand library, was where he entertained partners. Tonight, it was four men from the regional consortium, all of them estate holders like him, their wealth worn in the cut of their suits and the cold appraisal in their eyes.
Ember stood by the sideboard, a crystal decanter of amber liquor heavy in her gloved hands. The lace fingerless gloves were black, a ridiculous web against her skin. The outfit was a costume of degradation she’d found laid out on her narrow bed that afternoon. Platform boots that clicked on the hardwood, fishnet leggings that snagged on every callus of her thumb, tight straps biting into her thighs. The tank top was cruelly small, the hem riding high, the neckline plunging so that the curves of her breasts were half-exposed, the copper fur of her chest on stark display. She felt flayed. Every glance from the men was a physical touch.
The other servants were there, too. A tall, slender woman with calico cat ears and a languid tail was curled in the lap of a man with a silver beard, her mouth working slowly at his neck. Another, a muscular man with the thick jowls and rounded ears of a bulldog, knelt between his master’s spread legs, his head bobbing in a steady rhythm. A petite raccoon-girl chittered softly as she rode another man facing away, her striped tail twitching with each of his upward thrusts. The air was thick with the smell of sex, sweat, and privilege.
“The freight contract is non-negotiable,” Colton said, swirling his drink. He was sprawled in the largest leather chair, the patriarch of this den. He didn’t look at Ember, just gave a slight jerk of his chin.Her face burned. This was the instruction. She moved to him, the click of her boots obscenely loud. She set the decanter down and, with practiced numbness, lowered herself to her knees between his legs. The leather of his trousers was smooth under her gloves. She unbuttoned him, freed him, and bent her head. The taste of him was familiar, salt and starch. She focused on a scratch in the boot leather of the man across from her, a man with a rabbit-eared girl in his lap who was pressing her small breasts against his face.
“Hayes has a point,” the silver-bearded man said, his voice slightly strained as the cat-girl ground against him. “But the security premiums are bleeding us dry.”
Colton’s hand came down and settled on Ember’s head, not guiding, just possessing. His fingers tangled in her hair near the base of her fox ears.A silent claim. He took a drag of his cigar, the smoke curling above her.
“That’s the cost of doing business in a contested zone. You pay for safety, or you pay in lost shipments.”
Ember closed her eyes. The sounds enveloped her—wet friction, low groans, the slick pop of a mouth disengaging, the crass slap of skin. Her own body, traitorous and conditioned, began to respond to the rhythm of her task, a low heat building in her core that had nothing to do with want and everything to do with helpless biology. Shame was a acidic tide in her throat, worse than the act in his silent library. Here, she was a spectacle.A function.
The bulldog-man finished with a grunt, pushing his servant’s head away. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyeing Ember.
“That one’s got a pretty mouth, Hayes. Lively tail, too. You ever loan her out?”
The hand in Ember’s hair stilled. The room’s ambient noise seemed to dip. Colton took his cigar from his lips.
“No,” he said. The word was flat, final, like a judge’s gavel. He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t need to.
The man shrugged, reaching for his drink.“Just asking. Looks efficient.”
Efficient. The word buzzed in Ember’s skull. But beneath the fresh layer of humiliation, something else flickered. A dark, warm spark. Mine, he’d said without saying it. The most powerful man in the room, the one whose word was law here, had drawn a line around her. She was not for common trade. A stupid, primal pride tightened her chest. It was immediately followed by a wave of nausea. She was proud of being declared exclusive property? Her tail, which had been tucked tightly, gave an involuntary, trembling lift.
Colton’s grip tightened. He pushed her head down further, taking her deeper, a physical reinforcement of his verbal claim. The business discussion droned on, numbers and percentages floating in the smoky air alongside the moans.
After a while, he shifted. With a nudge of his knee, he directed her up. Her knees ached. He turned her roughly, pulling her down onto his lap, her back to his chest. He yanked the scant fabric of the tank top down, exposing her breasts fully to the room. One hand closed over her, possessive and rough. The other worked at the fastening of his trousers again.
“Hold still,” he breathed against her ear, a private command in a very public space.
He entered her in one smooth, deep stroke. A choked sound escaped her lips. Her hands flew to the arms of the chair, gripping the cold leather. She was facing the room, facing the other men and their writhing, servicing companions. The rabbit-girl looked back at her, eyes glazed and empty. Ember squeezed her own eyes shut.
Colton moved in her, a slow, dominant rhythm that spoke of leisure and control. The conversation never halted. They were discussing timber rights now.
“The yield from the northern pine is down fifteen percent,” someone said.
Colton’s thrusts were deliberate, rocking her body. His hand on her breast kneaded, pinched. “Plague in the root system,” he replied, his voice even, only the faintest rasp betraying him. “Need to clear-burn and replant with a hybrid stock.”
He hit a spot inside her that made her toes curl in the stupid boots. A tremor ran through her, a burst of unwanted pleasure. Her tail, entirely beyond her control, wrapped around his thigh, the fur bristling. She felt his chuckle, a vibration in his chest against her back.
“See?” he muttered, lips against her ear, his voice too low for the others. “Even here. You can’t help it.”
Tears of frustration and raw exposure leaked from her squeezed-shut eyes. He was right. Her body was a hive of conflicting signals—the deep, igniting arousal coiling in her belly, the cold terror of being watched, the heat of his claim, the ice of her own revulsion.
His pace increased, becoming harder, less about the business and more about the finish. The arm around her waist locked like an iron bar. He buried his face in the junction of her neck and shoulder, his breath hot and ragged. The other men’s voices became a distant buzz. For a moment, it was just the two of them in the crowded, lurid room, connected in this brutal, intimate transaction.
He came with a sharp, stifled groan, his hips jerking up into her. He held her there, locked together, for a long moment. Then he released her, pushing her off his lap like she was an empty glass.
Ember stumbled, catching herself on the edge of the sideboard. She fumbled with her clothes, pulling the fabric up, her entire body trembling. She couldn’t look at anyone.
Colton adjusted himself, taking a long, slow pull from his cigar. He blew the smoke out in a steady stream, watching the other men. His face was a mask of calm satisfaction.
“As I said,” he continued, as if there had been no interruption, “the hybrid stock is more resilient. The initial cost is higher, but the long-term yield justifies it.”
The man with the silver beard nodded, stroking the cat-girl’s ears. “Send your man to see mine with the figures. We’ll discuss it further.”
Ember stood rooted to the spot, the taste of him and salt of her own tears in her mouth, the ache between her legs, the stares of the room pressing on her skin. She was his. He had stated it plainly. And the terrifying part, the part that sank into her bones colder than any humiliation, was the part of her that, in the deepest, most secret place, was glad.