Chapter 18: Restless nights.
The peace of the Chantry was a thin veneer. Kerr sat on the cold stone steps before the silent altar, head bowed, not in prayer but in exhaustion. The confrontation with his parents lay on him like a coat of mail, heavy and constricting. The frantic, wordless release with Landra had only been a temporary distraction; now, in the quiet dark, the reality of it all settled back in, colder and sharper.
The door behind him sighed open on well-oiled hinges, a slice of torchlight from the hallway stretching across the flagstones before shrinking away. Soft footsteps approached, the whisper of robes on stone. He didn’t need to look.
“You keep hours like a rogue, young master,” Mother Mallol said, her voice a low, familiar melody in the cavernous space. She settled on the step beside him, not too close, but firmly present. The scent of lavender and clean linen brushed against the incense.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, his own voice rough.
“I know.” She let the silence sit for a moment, a comfortable, old silence. She had known him since he was a boy chasing Fergus through these very aisles. “Your parents are good people. They carry the weight of a nation on their shoulders. Sometimes, that weight gets handed down in ways that feel… clumsy.”
He let out a short, hard breath. “Clumsy. That’s one word for it.”
“They see a political piece. You see your life.” She folded her hands in her lap. “The Maker writes a different story for each of us, Kerr. A different purpose. Your father’s is to rule and protect. Fergus’s is to lead and inspire. Yours…” She tilted her head, studying his profile in the dim light. “Yours has always been written on a different scale.”
He finally looked at her. In the gloom, her face was all gentle lines and understanding eyes. There was no judgment there, only a deep, abiding familiarity.
She smiled, a little sadly. “I was never meant to know the pleasures of the flesh. The Chantry asks us to renounce such things. But the Maker, in His infinite curiosity, lays paths before us.” Her gaze grew distant, pragmatic. “When you were fifteen, struggling with that new body of yours, all limbs and anger and confusion… I saw you once, after training at the well. You were washing, thought you were alone. The water on your skin, the shape of you… even then.”
Kerr went very still. This wasn’t the platitude he expected.
“I had a taste,” she said plainly, no shame, just fact. “A long look. And I have reconciled with that decision because it gave me a profound and private pleasure. It was my secret. A testament to the physical fact of you.” Her eyes met his again, clear and direct. “The sheer physical sensation you represent, Kerr. Even as a gangling teen, the promise of it. The girth. The latent power. It is a tool, a gift. Like a master swordsman’s blade. It has a purpose.”
Her words, so shockingly specific and devoid of poetry, didn’t arouse him. They anchored him. They were a validation in a language he understood. “I know what I’m for,” he said, the conviction from the gallery returning, colder and harder. “I feel it. Marrying Delilah Howe… marrying any simpering noble girl they pick out… that isn’t living. That’s burying the gift you just described. It’s denying the story the Maker wrote for me.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
He reached out, his large hand surprisingly gentle, and brushed a stray strand of dark hair from her temple, tucking it behind her ear. His fingertips grazed her skin. Her breath hitched, the calm priestess vanishing for a heartbeat, replaced by the woman beneath.
They leaned in simultaneously. The kiss was not sudden, but inevitable. Passionate and slow, a deep, searching convergence. They were quiet, the only sound the soft meeting of lips, the faint shift of fabric. Their tongues danced, a lazy, intimate exploration.
Her hand slid to his thigh, then up, palming him through his breeches. He was already hard, a thick, heavy line of heat under her touch. A low hum vibrated in his chest.
Breaking the kiss, he trailed his lips down her neck as his other hand found the hem of her simple robe. He pushed it up, his touch firm and knowing. He didn’t hesitate. He pressed a single, thick finger against her, not where she might expect, but lower, at the tight, forbidden pucker of her ass. He pushed inside, just to the first knuckle, as he sucked lightly on the pulse point of her neck.
She gasped, her head falling back, her body arching into his touch. He worked the finger slowly, the intrusion shocking and utterly consuming. He leaned down, his own movements fluid, and with his free hand undid the laces of his breeches, freeing himself. He took his own length in hand, guiding it to her lips.
She understood. She took him into her mouth, deep, her tongue swirling around the broad head, then down the imposing shaft. He choked back a groan, the sound strangled in the holy silence, his finger still moving steadily in her ass. The dual sensations—the tight, clutching heat of her mouth and the secret, clenching pressure around his finger—drove a sweat across his temples.
After a moment, he withdrew his finger, glistening. He brought it forward, painting slow, wet circles over her clit. She shuddered, a moan trapped against his skin. She was soaked, her saliva and her own arousal coating him thoroughly. She sucked him harder, with a desperate, focused rhythm.
He pulled her mouth away gently. Wordlessly, he guided her to stand, then turned her to face the altar. He helped her hitch her robe up around her waist. She braced her hands on the cold stone of the altar step, her back to him. He positioned himself behind her, the head of his cock nudging against her entrance, and then he sheathed himself inside her in one deep, filling stroke.
She came instantly. A sharp, silent scream shook her frame, her internal muscles fluttering around him in a rapid, punishing series of contractions. He held still, letting the waves crash over her. Before they fully subsided, he began to move, a slow, grinding roll of his hips that stimulated her clit with every inward push.
Another orgasm ripped through her, then another, seconds apart. Her legs trembled. She reached a hand back, clutching at his hip, holding him close as she came over and over again, a continuous, rolling climax that left her breathless and weeping softly. He moved with a relentless, patient rhythm, each stroke dragging another peak from her yielding body.
He could feel his own end approaching, a tight, gathering storm. She felt the change in him, the subtle quickening. Just as he was about to tip over the edge, she pushed back against him, forcing him to slip out.
She turned, knelt before him, and took him back into her mouth with a spectacular, hungry urgency. Her head bobbed, her hand working the base, her throat opening to take him deep. The sight, the sensation—it was too much.
His release erupted, a hot, pulsing flood against the back of her throat. She swallowed diligently, drinking him down, warmth spreading through her belly with each thick, sweet wave until he was spent, trembling, and empty.
She rested her forehead against his thigh for a long moment, both of them breathing heavily in the sacred dark. Then she slowly, tenderly, cleaned him with her tongue before tucking him away and fastening his breeches. She stood, smoothing her robe down, her face serene but her eyes blazing with a quiet, triumphant light.
She cupped his cheek, her thumb stroking his jaw. “Go,” she said, her voice husky but firm. “Live the story.”
The heavy Chantry door closed behind him with a soft thud, sealing Mother Mallol’s blessing and her secrets inside. The corridor was a cold, empty throat of stone. He walked, his footsteps echoing, a ghost in his own home. The confrontation with his parents and the frantic, grounding release with Landra and then the priestess had left him scraped raw, but strangely clear. He knew where he needed to go.
He found himself outside Nan’s door, down in the warm, lived-in warren of the castle’s servant quarters. A sliver of lantern light bled beneath it. He knocked, soft.
The door opened almost immediately. Nan stood there, her hair in a single braid over her shoulder, her face softening from mild curiosity to deep concern the moment she saw him. She wore a simple, sturdy sleeping shift. “Kerr,” she said, no title, just his name. She stepped back without another word, ushering him in.
Her room was small, cozy, smelling of rosemary soap and the faint, sweet trace of baking from the day. Drying herbs hung from the rafters. He filled the space, his frame seeming to absorb the lamplight. She closed the door and leaned against it, studying him.
“You look like a man who just told the King to piss up a rope,” she observed, her voice gentle.
“Close enough,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. He sat heavily on the edge of her narrow bed, the frame groaning under his weight. “I told my mother and father I wouldn’t marry Delilah Howe. That I’d leave if they forced it.”
Nan let out a long, slow breath, her expression turning inward. She moved to the small stool by her washstand, sitting facing him. “Oh, my boy.”
“They see a political piece,” he said, echoing Mother Mallol’s words but with more bitterness.
“Of course they do,” Nan said, not unkindly. She reached out and took one of his large hands in both of hers. Her skin was warm, roughened from work. “They weren’t raised like you, Kerr. Not really. They were raised to believe every child is a brick. A brick with which they build their legacy. The wall must be strong. The wall must stand.”
He looked at their joined hands. “I’m not a brick.”
“I know,” she squeezed his fingers. “And in their hearts, they know it too. But their own marriage was forced on them, a political thing when they were barely more than bairns themselves.” She sighed. “And it worked out, didn’t it? Love grew. Respect grew. They think it will be the same for you. They think duty first, happiness follows.”
He shook his head, a stubborn, frustrated gesture. “It’s not the same.”
“No,” she agreed softly. “It’s not. Because you’re…” She gestured at his entire being with her free hand. “Look at you. The gods built you into a fighting fucking machine and had the cruel humor to drop you into a noble cradle. It’s a tragedy waiting for a stage.”
A faint, weary smile touched his lips for the first time that night. “Being born into that noble cradle led me to your bed as an awkward teen,” he said, his voice dropping, the memory a tangible warmth in the cool room. “That wasn’t a tragedy.”
She gave a low, hungry ‘mmmm’ from deep in her throat, her eyes darkening. She released his hand and stood, moving to stand between his knees. “No,” she whispered, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. “It was a gift. I’m grateful for it every damn day.” One hand slid down his chest, over the hard planes of his stomach. “I’ve never felt anything before, or since, that has filled me up the way you do.”
Her fingers found the laces of his breeches, working them open with practiced ease. She freed him, her touch firm and familiar. He was already stirring, responding to her voice, her proximity, the sheer history in her touch.
“You were so eager,” she murmured, her hand beginning a slow, slick stroke. “A fast learner, too. Desperate to get under my skirts from the first time you looked at me and saw a woman, not just the cook.” Her thumb swept over the head, spreading the bead of moisture that had gathered there. “That first summer. Maker. You had me cumming so much I had to take a spoonful of salt every morning just to keep from dehydrating.”
He groaned, leaning back on his elbows, his head falling back. The images flooded him—the stifling heat of the pantry, the daring, fumbling touches, the shock of her pleasure and his own power to elicit it.
“You were all hunger,” she continued, her rhythm increasing, her other hand braced on his thigh. “Wanted to learn everything. What made me sigh, what made me scream, how to use that magnificent tongue.” She leaned down, her breath warm against his ear. “How to find that spot inside that made my legs go numb. You learned that very quickly.”
Her words wove a spell, pulling him from the present tensions into a past of pure, illicit sensation. He was swelling in her grip, thick and heavy, his breath coming quicker.
“Remember the time in the larder?” she whispered, her strokes becoming tighter, more urgent. “With the jar of honey? Or up in the hayloft, when you made me ride you until I couldn’t see straight?”
He did remember. The memories crashed over him, sweet and sharp. The build in his gut was coiling, tightening, an inexorable pull. She felt it, the subtle throb, the tightening of his skin.
“That’s it,” she purred, her voice thick with want. “Give it to me.”
Just as he was about to crest, she dropped to her knees before him. In one smooth motion, she wrapped her lips around him and took him deep, her throat opening in a perfect, swallowing welcome.
The climax was ripped from him, a raw, shuddering release. She drank him down, swallowing every pulse, her hands holding his hips steady until he was spent, soft, and empty. She cleaned him meticulously with her tongue, leaving no trace, before tucking him away and lacing his breeches back up.
She rose, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a look of profound, satisfied ownership on her face. She cupped his cheek. “You brought out the absolute whore in me,” she said, her voice husky and full of affection. “And I loved every second of it.”
He pulled her to him, burying his face in the soft curve of her neck, breathing in the scent of herbs and warmth and home. For a long moment, he just held on.
“What do I do, Nan?” he mumbled into her skin.
She stroked his hair. “You live your story,” she whispered, echoing the priestess but with a kitchen’s wisdom. “You just have to decide if your story is inside these walls… or out there.” She kissed his temple and released him. “Now go. Dawn doesn’t wait for a man’s troubles.”