Chapter 2: The Warrior's Lesson
The dawn air in the training yard was cold enough to steal the breath. It tasted of damp stone and old iron. Caius stood, knees trembling, a practice sword too heavy in his numb hands. He’d been at it for an hour already, driven from his bed by a silent, armored shadow in his doorway. Ragnar hadn’t spoken, just jerked his head toward the yard.
Now, the warrior circled him like a wolf around a sick calf. “Your grip is shit. You’re holding it like a quill. It’s not a fucking poem.”
Caius adjusted his hands, the leather grip slick with his sweat. He lunged, a clumsy, overextended thrust. Ragnar didn’t even parry. He simply sidestepped and slammed the padded pommel of his own blade into Caius’s kidney.
The prince went down with a choked cry, the breath hammered out of him. He curled on the gritty stone, retching.
“Get up.”
“I can’t.”
The toe of Ragnar’s boot connected with his ribs, not hard enough to break, but enough to flood his vision with white pain. “You can. You will. Enemies don’t grant you a respite because you’re winded.”
A new scent cut through the sweat and dust. Jasmine, and the dark, flinty edge of her. Caius rolled onto his side, blinking tears of agony from his eyes.
Seraphina stood at the edge of the yard, wrapped in a robe of deep crimson silk. She looked like spilled wine against the grey morning. Her hair was loose, her face still bearing the faint shadows of last night’s smudged makeup. She carried a low chaise longue as if it weighed nothing, setting it down in a patch of thin sunlight with a practicality that seemed absurd.
“Don’t stop on my account,” she said, her voice still a little hoarse. She untied the silk belt and let the robe fall open as she reclined. Beneath it, she was naked. The cold air pebbled her skin, her nipples tightening into dark peaks. She stretched, a languid, unselfconscious display, then let her knees fall apart.
Ragnar went utterly still. His eyes, like chips of slate, moved from the prone prince to the sprawled enchantress. A muscle in his scarred jaw ticked.
Caius pushed himself up, his aching body momentarily forgotten, a different heat pooling in his gut. He stared, transfixed, at the thatch of dark hair between her thighs, at the sleek folds already glistening with a dew that had nothing to do with the morning.
Seraphina’s gaze locked on Caius. She smiled, a slow, private curve of her lips. Then she brought her hand down, her fingers sliding through her own wetness with a soft, audible sigh. She circled her clit, her hips lifting gently off the chaise.
“Your sword arm is shaking, little prince,” she called, her voice sweetly mocking. “Is it the weight of the steel? Or the weight of staring at my cunt?”
Caius’s face burned. He looked at Ragnar, expecting fury, condemnation.
The warrior’s expression was unreadable. He didn’t look away from Seraphina. “Look at her,” he commanded Caius, his voice a low rumble. “Watch what she’s doing.”
“I… I can’t.”
“You will. This is the lesson. A king must see everything. Even the distractions. Especially the distractions.” Ragnar took a step toward the chaise, his movements predatory. “She thinks she’s the power here. Let’s see.”
Seraphina’s fingers worked faster, plunging in and out of herself now, two then three, the sound obscenely wet in the quiet yard. Her breath hitched. “He’s weak, warrior. All pretty manners and soft hands. Look at him. He wants to be here, between my legs, not holding that stupid stick.”
Ragnar stopped beside the chaise. He looked down at her, a massive, weathered monument of a man looming over her deliberate debauchery. “You’re right,” he said, almost casually. Then he moved.
He grabbed a fistful of Caius’s hair from behind, hauling him to his feet and dragging him stumbling to the chaise. Caius cried out, scrabbling at the iron grip. Ragnar forced him to his knees at Seraphina’s side, his face inches from her moving hand, from the scent of her arousal, thick and musky.
“Watch,” Ragnar growled into his ear.
Then the warrior’s own hand, broad and scarred, calloused from a lifetime of gripping weapons, covered Seraphina’s. He pushed her fingers aside and took over. He didn’t tease. He shoved two thick fingers inside her, deep, a brutal, claiming penetration.
Seraphina’s back arched off the chaise, a sharp cry ripped from her throat. Not a cry of pain, but of savage triumph. Her eyes flew open, locking on Ragnar’s with a challenge that was pure fire.
“Is this what you wanted, witch?” Ragnar’s voice was gravel. He curled his fingers, pumping them in and out of her with a rough, pistoning rhythm. “To be handled?
“To be handled?”
Ragnar’s words hung in the air, a challenge and a promise. He withdrew his soaking fingers from her with a wet pop. Seraphina moaned, a sound of protest that morphed into a gasp as he leaned over her, his face a carved mask of contempt.
He spat.
A glob of saliva landed on her lower belly, stark and viscous against her skin. Before it could drip, his heavy hand came down in a sharp crack against her bare pussy. The sound was startling, a percussive slap of calloused palm on wet flesh.
She jolted, a yelp escaping her. Then a ragged, “Oh, yes…”
“See that?” Ragnar barked at Caius, his eyes never leaving Seraphina’s flushed face. He smacked her again, the same spot, harder. Her thighs trembled. “A real man doesn’t ask. He doesn’t write sonnets to her cunt. He takes. He marks.”
His hand moved to her breasts, cupping the full weight of one roughly. He smacked it, the flesh jiggling under the impact, a pink bloom immediately flowering on her pale skin. Then the other. Smack. Smack. Each blow made her arch and gasp, her nipples pebbled into painful-looking points.
“You like that, don’t you?” he grunted, his breath coming harder now. “You filthy, ancient slut. You love being put in your place.”
Seraphina’s answer was a delirious stream of nods, her hair fanning out beneath her. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
Ragnar’s open palm swung sideways, not to her body, but to her face. The slap echoed off the stone walls of the yard, a sharp, shocking report. Her head snapped to the side. A line of blood appeared at the corner of her mouth. She slowly turned back, licking the copper taste from her lips, her emerald eyes glazed with a terrifying ecstasy.
“Your turn,” Ragnar said, his voice cold as he turned to Caius. “Hit her.”
Caius recoiled as if burned. “No.”
“Hit her.”
“I won’t! This is monstrous!”
Ragnar released Seraphina and in one fluid motion backhanded Caius across the mouth. The prince tasted blood, his own this time. “Monstrous? She’s a whore who fucks princes to feel powerful. She debased you on your own desk. She swallowed your seed and smiled. And you think she deserves your chivalry?” He grabbed Caius’s wrist, forcing his hand up. “She deserves nothing but what we give her. Now. Hit. Her.”
Caius looked past Ragnar, his vision swimming. He saw Seraphina on the chaise, her legs still splayed, her breast marked red, blood on her mouth. She looked at him, and through the haze of obedience, he saw it—a flicker of a challenge. The same one she’d given him last night. Prove you’re more.
Something brittle inside him snapped.
He wrenched his hand from Ragnar’s grip, not to pull away, but to swing. His fist, soft from a life of ledgers, connected with her cheekbone. It was awkward, lacking real force, but the intent was pure violence.
A soft, approving sound escaped Seraphina’s throat.
“Again,” Ragnar commanded, a dark satisfaction in his tone.
Caius hit her again, harder. The shock of the impact traveled up his arm. He did it a third time. Her skin was warm, resilient. Each strike felt less like a sin and more like a key turning in a lock deep within him.
“Good,” Ragnar rasped. “Now watch the rest of the lesson.”
He hauled Seraphina off the chaise by her arm. She stumbled, her composure finally shattered into raw, pliant obedience. He pushed her down onto the stone path, the grit sticking to her sweat-slicked skin. “On your stomach. This is how you use a hole. You don’t look at its face.”
She scrambled onto her hands and knees, then flattened herself, turning her head to the side, her cheek pressed against the cold ground. Ragnar knelt behind her, his hands kneading the pale globes of her ass. He spat again, this time directly onto her exposed entrance, the moisture mixing with her own slickness.
He looked at Caius, who stood transfixed, his knuckles throbbing. “Get in front of her. Make her look at you.”
Caius moved woodenly, circling to stand before Seraphina’s head. Her eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, her lips parted.
“Make her taste the air you breathe,” Ragnar said, working himself free of his trousers. His cock was thick, veined, and ruddy with need. “Grab her hair. Make her keep her tongue out.”
Caius’s hand, the one that had just struck her, twitched. He reached down and fisted his fingers in her black silk hair. He pulled, not gently. Her head came up, her neck straining. “Tongue out,” he heard himself say, his voice a stranger’s, low and coarse.
She obeyed, extending her tongue, a pink offering on her bloodied lips. She panted, drool beginning to gather at the tip.
Behind her, Ragnar aligned himself and drove forward. There was no tenderness, no preparation. He hilted himself inside her in one relentless, brutal thrust. Seraphina screamed, the sound muffled, her body shoved forward by the force.
He set a punishing, rhythmic pace, each powerful drive rocking her entire body. Her tits swayed and bounced against the stone beneath her, scraped by the rough surface. Her tongue lolled, spit dripping in a steady stream to the dirt. The sounds were animalistic—the slap of Ragnar’s flesh against hers, his grunts, her choked, rhythmic cries.
“Talk to her,” Ragnar ordered Caius, his voice strained with effort. “Tell her what she is.”
Caius stared down at the ruin of her face, at the absolute submission in her posture as she was fucked into the ground. The last vestige of the gentle prince crumbled to ash.
“You’re a drain,” Caius hissed, tightening his grip in her hair. “A warm, wet drain for a man’s cock. Isn’t that right?”
A garbled sound of assent came from her throat.
“You’re my fucking pet,” he snarled, his other hand coming down to pat her cheek, a grotesque parody of affection. “A drooling bitch. This is all you’re for. To be used.”
Each filthy word unlocked a darker chamber in his soul. He felt power, not the abstract power of a throne, but a visceral, thrumming dominance over this beautiful, terrible creature. He gloried in her degradation.
Ragnar’s pounding became frantic, his control slipping. “That’s it… take it… you glory hole…”
With a final, shuddering roar, Ragnar emptied himself into her, his body going rigid before collapsing over her back. He stayed there for a moment, breathing heavily, then pulled out. He stood, refastening his trousers, looking down at the spent enchantress with an expression that was almost like respect.
Caius finally released her hair. She slumped, her face in the dirt, her body a map of their violence.
Ragnar wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze settling on Caius. The prince’s chest was heaving, his eyes wide and dark, a beast staring out from behind them.
“Now,” Ragnar said quietly, nodding toward the practice sword lying in the dust. “Pick up your blade. Let’s see if you can finally hold it like you mean it.”