Don’t Teach an Eagle to Fly – 9. chapter

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And yet, something in her shifted. Not terror, but a quiet, unacknowledged fissure. If someone like Kaelan planned to use them, someone who did not bother to threaten, who made no threats, who simply acted… Then what? She bit into her tongue to suppress that brief tremor of uncertainty.

When it was finished, the blacksmith bowed and left without asking any questions.

Kaelan did not look back. He only leaned closer to her.

“This time there will be nowhere to move,” he said quietly. Not as a threat. More as a statement of fact.

He stood up at once and took her by the elbow without a word. The blanket slipped from her shoulders, but she did not resist. She knew it was pointless. He set her firmly on her feet, carefully but unyieldingly. As if he had done it before.

He moved her slightly out into the room, lifted her arms above her head, and locked her wrists into the prepared metal cuffs hanging from the ceiling. Then he drew her spread ankles to two fixed points on the floor. So that she could not twist free.

When he was done, he took one step back and looked at her. She stood there, taut as a string, the restraints holding her in a precise position. Every movement of hers reduced to a fraction.

“This is exactly how I want you,” he said softly.

From somewhere, he pulled out a squat vessel with a dark stopper. He set it on the small table beside the basin, where she could see it, and she knew it held neither water nor wine. He opened it slowly. A delicate, unobtrusive scent spread through the air. Not sweet. Not spicy. Just clean. Smooth. Bodily.

Oil.

Without a word, Kaelan scooped up a small amount with his fingers and spread it between his palms. A slow, focused motion, as if he were preparing for something sacred. Then he took a few steps and stopped right behind her.

He touched her shoulder blades.

At first only with his fingertips. Gentle, almost testing. Then with his palms. The warm oil sank into her skin. Kaelan took his time. Every stroke was measured. He watched her taut body tremble slightly beneath his gentle touch, but otherwise she did not move.

He traced her shoulders, her lower back, the length of her spine, almost to her waist. He carefully avoided the places where his blows had bruised her skin. There, he only touched her, held his palm there for a moment, then continued elsewhere.

This body should be whimpering beneath me in pleasure, not pain.

He breathed evenly. He did not look at her as an enemy. More as something… complicated. Unknown. He needed to know what would happen if he drew close without pain.

“No one will hurt you today if you do not lie,” he said quietly, almost a whisper. “But silence is not an escape either.”

He slowly slid his palms back upward. Every touch was a pretext. Not for violence, but for study. For reading her reactions. Nirella stayed silent, but her breathing quickened. Not from arousal. From concentration. From fear. From uncertainty. Because she did not know what would come next.

And he continued. His palms glided slowly and gently over her side, her ribs. With a circular motion, he reached her shoulder, then moved down the inside of her arm to the wrist held in the cuff. Thoroughly, almost carefully. Every touch deliberate. As if he were examining where the body ended and defiance began.

With his other hand he traced her nape, the line of her jaw. Then he leaned in until his lips were close to her ear. She felt his breath and the scent of his skin. The tension in her rose. She stood like a drawn bow, ready to break.

He stepped back a single pace and took more oil. This time his hands glided slowly over her breasts. Each motion was slow, measured. Nirella did not sigh, but she breathed raggedly.

She likes this, he realized.

He stroked her belly, then lower. His fingers gently brushed her groin, just beside her pubic hair. She tried to pull away and let out a displeased murmur.

“You don’t want it here?” he asked quietly, almost gently.

“I don’t want any of this!” she shouted furiously.

He smiled with satisfaction.

“That much is clear. But you have already lost the right to decide what happens to this body.”

She glared at him. He went on.

“The moment you wanted to let me brutally defile it instead of saving it with a few sentences. I did not take it from you. You left it to me.”

Nirella closed her eyes. Her helplessness filled her with rage. And every touch burned her. Not with pain, but with embarrassment. With the humiliation of feeling. Of sensing. Of being unable to disconnect her mind from her skin. She did not move, but everything inside her screamed. Not because she feared Kaelan. She feared herself. She feared that she might stop hating him.

She wanted to push him away. She wanted to scream. But the cuffs held her wrists. And the desire not to let him win gripped her pride. He placed his warm, gentle palm directly on her pubic hair. He did not press. He brought his lips close to her ear.

“I’ll leave you alone for today, princess. But tomorrow I will return to this very place. More thoroughly.”

She could not hold back a sigh. And he wore a victorious smile. He released her hands and feet without any needless pity. Only just enough freedom for her to sink onto the mattress. Immediately afterward, he closed leather cuffs around her wrists and fastened them to the side hooks at the head of the bed. He spread her ankles only slightly. Enough for her to breathe, to lie, to think.

She remained there on her back, bound to the bed. No longer as a prisoner, but as something more valuable. A promise he wanted to save for tomorrow. He extinguished the candle, took the vessel of oil, and closed the door softly.

And the darkness remained.

Not as an end. As foreplay.