Chapter 28: A Fortress of Flesh
The Eastern Garrison’s Great Hall smelled of spilled wine, roasting meat, and human sweat. But beneath it, like a foul undercurrent, was the sharp, musky tang of sex.
Teresa paused on the threshold, her polished boots silent on the stone. The scene before her was a grotesque parody of a feast. The long trestle tables, usually lined with stern-faced soldiers, were now stages for debauchery. A woman in a ripped silk gown, her breasts bare and glistening with oil, rode a garrison officer sprawled across the salt cellar and trenchers. Her hips pistoned, his hands gripped her thighs, and a chorus of drunken cheers rose from the onlookers. Wine sloshed from overturned goblets, dripping between her heaving breasts onto his flushed face below.
Against the far wall, where pikes and halberds should have stood in disciplined racks, a naked soldier had a servant girl bent over, her hands braced on a crossbeam. His slap against her buttocks echoed like a drumbeat in between the lute player’s stumbling melodies. Another noblewoman, her skirts hiked around her waist, knelt between the legs of a man still mostly in his uniform, her head bobbing in his lap as he threw back his head and groaned.
And in the center of it all, like a depraved monarch holding court, was Lucien.
He was shirtless, his blonde hair damp with sweat, leaning against the high table where the garrison captain should have sat. A woman—older, with the elaborate hair of a married lieutenant’s wife—was on her knees before him, his cock buried to the hilt in her mouth. Lucien’s hand was fisted in her intricate braids, guiding her pace. His honey-brown eyes scanned the room, a lazy, satiated smile on his face until they landed on Teresa.
“Ah! The royal inspection arrives!” he called out, his voice cutting through the din. He didn’t stop his movements. “A moment, Your Highness, I’m just…concluding a report.”
His hips gave a final, sharp thrust. The woman gagged, her eyes watering, but he held her firm. A guttural sound ripped from his throat as he came, his body tensing. He pulled her head back by her hair, forcing her to take every last pulse, painting the back of her throat before finally releasing her. She collapsed forward, coughing, strands of saliva and semen webbing her chin.
Lucien sighed, tucking himself carelessly back into his trousers. He patted the woman’s head absently, then strode towards Teresa, Nate, and Callum. Maeve, who had been trailing behind them, let out a low whistle. “Subtle, brother.”
“Subtlety is for politicians and poets,” Lucien said, his grin widening. He bowed with an exaggerated flourish. “Captain Garvin is…indisposed. I believe he’s currently being ridden into next week by a rather enthusiastic duchess in the west turret. The garrison, as you can see, is in…high spirits.”
Nate’s face was a mask of cold fury. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword. “This is a military outpost, not a brothel.”
“Tonight, it’s whatever I say it is,” Lucien replied, his eyes glinting. “Distraction achieved, as requested. No one is thinking about guard rotations or ledger books. They’re thinking about whose bed they’ll stumble into next.” He leaned closer to Teresa, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried. “The records room is on the second floor, east wing. Stairs at the back. The guard there is probably fucking the scullery maid in the alcove, but I’d be quick.”
Teresa gave a single, sharp nod. The spectacle was revolting, but it was also a perfect smoke screen. The air was thick with the sounds of grunting, slick flesh, and abandoned laughter. No one would notice a princess slipping away.
She turned to Nate and Callum. “Keep to the plan. Entertain whoever is sober enough to stand. I’ll be back within the hour.”
Nate’s jaw worked. “Teresa—”
“That’s an order, Captain,” she said, her voice allowing no argument. She saw the conflict in his eyes—duty warring with the memory of his body pressed against the armoire, the feel of him inside her just hours before. He gave a stiff nod.
She didn’t look back.
The stone staircase was cooler, quieter, the sounds of the hall fading to a muffled roar below. The promised alcove was empty, but a discarded maid’s cap and a damp patch on the flagstones confirmed Lucien’s intelligence. The door to the records room was heavy oak, banded with iron. It was unlocked.
Inside, it was a tomb of paper and dust. Slanted light from a high, narrow window fell on rows of cluttered shelves, stuffed with scrolls, ledgers, and bound reports. The smell of old parchment and mildew replaced the hall’s carnal stink. Teresa closed the door softly behind her, the sudden silence a physical relief.
She worked methodically, her fingers tracing labels. Supply inventories. Disciplinary reports. Patrol logs. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic counterpoint to her calm movements. She was looking for the sick leave ledger, but also for anything else—requisition forms, pay records, private correspondence.
She found the sick ledger on a middle shelf, thick and bound in cracked leather. She pulled it down, blowing dust from its pages, and carried it to a battered desk under the window.
The entries were neat, bureaucratic. Private Eliasson, ague. Sergeant Moreau, lame foot. Then, about six months back, the pattern shifted. The handwriting became different—looser, less formal. The reasons became vague: “convalescence,” “private affliction,” “recuperative leave.” The names were familiar; men from influential families, minor nobles serving their mandatory commissions. The leave durations were suspiciously long.
And the approving signature was the same, each time: a sprawling, florid R. Brayton.
Her uncle’s steward. Her blood ran cold even as triumph flared. This was it. Proof he was selling exemptions, padding the rolls with ghosts, likely skimming the pay.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
She turned, the ledger clutched to her chest.
Amberley stood in the doorway, having slipped away unseen. Her emerald eyes were wide in the dim light. She closed the door and leaned against it. “I couldn’t stay down there,” she breathed. “It was…too much.”
Teresa relaxed a fraction. “It’s a charnel house.”
“Did you find it?”
Teresa nodded towards the open ledger on the desk. Amberley approached, her gaze scanning the damning signatures. A slow smile touched her lips. “Clever girl.”
But then Amberley’s focus shifted from the page to Teresa. The adrenaline, the danger, the oppressive atmosphere of the hall below—it had charged the space between them with a desperate current. Amberley reached out, not for the ledger, but to trace a line along Teresa’s jaw.
“You’re trembling,” Amberley whispered.
“It’s cold in here.”
“It’s not the cold.” Amberley stepped closer. The scholarly silence of the records room was suddenly fragile. “Down there…all that flesh…it made me think of you. Of us. In your chamber.”
Teresa’s breath hitched. The memory of Amberley’s hands on her, her whispered filth, crashed over her. The logical part of her mind screamed that this was a risk, an idiocy. But another part, wound tight from the morning’s tension and the night’s political games, roared to life.
Amberley saw the conflict. She leaned in, her lips a hair’s breadth from Teresa’s ear. “No one is coming. They’re all…occupied.” Her hand slid down from Teresa’s jaw, over the wool of her riding habit, to cup her between the legs.
Teresa jerked, a bolt of raw sensation shooting through her. Amberley’s touch was firm, knowing, even through the layers of fabric. “We don’t have time,” Teresa protested weakly, her body already arching into the touch.
“We have exactly the time we take,” Amberley murmured, and she kissed her.
It was nothing like Callum’s conquest or Nate’s desperate claim. This was pure, seductive hunger. Amberley’s tongue slipped into Teresa’s mouth, exploring, claiming. Her fingers worked at the fastenings of the riding habit, clumsy with urgency until the jacket fell open. She pushed the waistcoat and blouse aside, her mouth leaving Teresa’s to travel down her neck, to the swell of her breasts above her chemise.
Teresa’s head fell back against the edge of the desk, the ledger forgotten on the floor. “Amberley…”
“Say my name again,” Amberley demanded, her hand finally slipping beneath the skirt, finding the slit in the drawers Nate had torn earlier. Her fingers brushed through the slickness already gathered there. “Gods, you’re wet. Is this for the ledger? Or for me?”
Teresa didn’t answer. She reached for Amberley, pulling her face up for another searing kiss. Her own hands fumbled with the laces of Amberley’s gown, dragging them down until she could push the fabric from her shoulders, exposing her breasts. She took a taut nipple into her mouth, sucking hard, and Amberley cried out, the sound echoing off the stone walls.
They were a tangle of desperate limbs and hushed gasps. Amberley guided Teresa’s hand into her own underthings, forcing two of Teresa’s fingers into her hot, tight cunt. “Feel what you do to me,” she panted.
Teresa fucked her with her fingers, her rhythm matching the frantic beat of her own heart. Amberley moaned, her head thrown back, as she shoved Teresa’s skirt up around her waist and pressed her own thigh hard against Teresa’s core.
It was rough, awkward, frantic. The desk dug into Teresa’s back. Dust motes danced in the slanted light, witness to their sin. Amberley rode Teresa’s thigh, grinding down, her wetness soaking through the wool. Teresa pushed her fingers deeper, curling them, searching for the spot that made Amberley’s eyes roll back.
“There…fuck, right there!” Amberley choked out, her body beginning to shudder. Her own movements against Teresa’s leg grew erratic, stuttering. With a broken cry, she came, her inner muscles fluttering around Teresa’s fingers, her body convulsing in silent, intense waves.
Spent, she slumped forward, her forehead against Teresa’s shoulder. But only for a second. Then she was sliding down Teresa’s body, her knees hitting the cold stone floor. She pushed Teresa back against the desk, shoved her thighs apart, and buried her face between them.
Her tongue was a hot, demanding stripe, lapping up Teresa’s arousal before zeroing in on her clit. She sucked the sensitive bud into her mouth, her tongue flicking relentlessly. Teresa’s hands flew to Amberley’s hair, gripping the dark waves. The pleasure was immediate and overwhelming, a white-hot coil tightening in her gut. She bit her own lip to keep from screaming, the taste of blood mixing with the taste of Amberley’s kiss still on her lips.
“Come for me,” Amberley mumbled against her, her voice vibrating through Teresa’s core. “Come all over my fucking face.”
The crude words, the illicit act in this place of secrets, tipped Teresa over the edge. Her climax ripped through her, violent and silent, her body bowing off the desk. Amberley drank her in, not stopping until the last tremor subsided.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing. The distant roar of the debauched hall felt a world away.
Amberley rose, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She looked debauched and beautiful, her lips swollen, her gown hanging open. Teresa, leaning against the desk for support, felt similarly undone.
Wordlessly, Amberley helped her re-dress, her fingers tender now as she fastened the jacket. Teresa bent to pick up the fallen ledger, clutching it to her chest once more. The evidence was secure. The mission was accomplished.
They left the records room, slipping back into the shadowed staircase. The sounds from the Great Hall seemed louder, more frenzied than before. As they descended, Teresa saw Nate and Callum by the fireplace, pretending to drink with a red-faced, thoroughly distracted captain. Nate’s eyes flicked to her immediately, scanning her, noting the flush on her skin, the slightly unsteady way she held the ledger. His gaze hardened, but he said nothing.
Maeve was now perched on Lucien’s lap, feeding him grapes while a half-dressed soldier massaged her feet. Lucien caught Teresa’s eye over his sister’s shoulder. He raised a goblet in a silent, mocking salute.
Distraction achieved.
Teresa held the ledger tighter. In its dry, bureaucratic pages was the weapon she needed. But as she looked at Nate’s stormy expression, at Callum’s raised eyebrow, at Amberley straightening her gown beside her, she knew the cost of this victory was still being tallied. The corruption in the hall was a spectacle. The corruption in her own heart, and in the hearts of those around her, was a far more dangerous and intimate ledger.