Chapter 6: Payment in Kind
The charcoal stick snapped in Alaric’s hand, the sound as sharp as a gunshot in the quiet room. Black dust coated his fingers. He didn’t seem to notice, his gaze fixed on the paper, his hand moving in a frantic, jerky rhythm that was nothing like his usual controlled strokes.
Elara focused on the feeling of the worn leather armrests under her soles. She had to. If she thought about what she was doing, about the solid, heated shape of him beneath the thin silk of her stockings, she would lose her nerve completely. Her toes, painted a shocking, rosy red at his command, curled and flexed, tracing the length of him through the fine fabric of his trousers.
His breath hitched, a ragged intake she felt more than heard.
She kept her eyes on his hand, on the furious dark lines taking shape on the page. It wasn't her form he was capturing now. It was something else. A chaos of shadows and desperate angles.
"Slower," he ground out, the word strained.
She stilled her foot, the arch of it resting fully against him. He was rigid, unyielding. The heat was immense. She could feel a faint tremor in his thighs.
His hand stilled on the paper. He finally looked up, and his eyes were a storm. The cool, detached duke was gone, replaced by a man riding the edge of his control. The sight sent a dangerous thrill straight through her core.
"Is this part of the focus, Your Grace?" she asked, her voice steadier than she felt. "Drawing… that?"
He dropped the broken charcoal onto the table with a definitive click. "It's a record."
"Of what?"
"Of my failure." He stood up so suddenly she wobbled, grabbing the back of the chair to steady herself. He loomed over her, his presence sucking all the air from the room. The scent of him, of sandalwood and pure, male frustration, was overwhelming. "You think this is a game you're winning. You with your secret scribbling and your negotiations."
"I'm holding up my end," she shot back, her chin lifting. "You got your drawing. You're getting your… record."
"A record of how you unravel me." He said it not with anger, but with a cold, startling self-loathing. "With your country accent and your too-knowing eyes. With every hesitant touch you pretend is a chore."
He reached out, his fingers not touching her skin, but closing around the silk-covered arch of her foot. His grip was firm, possessive. A shiver wracked her entire body.
"You don't pretend very well, Elara." His thumb stroked the sensitive hollow beneath her ankle bone. "The blush on your skin isn't from the fire. The catch in your breath isn't from fear."
She tried to pull her foot back, but he held fast. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know the shape of you better than I know my own lands," he said, his voice low and relentless. "I know the exact curve of your hip, the shadow between your breasts. I know that when you are trying not to feel, you bite the inside of your lip. Just like you are doing now."
Her jaw went slack. She hadn't even realized.
He used his hold on her foot to step closer, forcing her to bend her knee, opening her to him. The thin nightgown did nothing to hide her. "This transaction of yours… it was a door. And you opened it. Don't complain about what walks through."
"What do you want?" The question was a whisper.
"For once," he said, his grey eyes holding hers, "to stop drawing from memory."
He released her foot. The sudden lack of his touch was a shock. He turned and walked to his desk, pulling a small, iron key from his waistcoat pocket. He unlocked a drawer and withdrew a ledger. He tossed it onto the chair she had just vacated.
"Your first quarter's earnings from The Lady's Secret," he said, all business again, the moment of raw exposure sealed shut. "Count it. Ensure the tally matches your… expectations."
He walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He didn't look back.
"The next session is Wednesday. Think carefully about your terms. The price for a live model is always higher."
Then he was gone, leaving her standing alone in the vast, fire-lit room, the feel of his hand on her foot seared into her skin, and a ledger full of money that suddenly felt like a very poor consolation.