She pulled her nightgown up with her right hand, down with her left, cool of the night on one bare shoulder, warmth of the fire on the other. She did not look in his eyes. She was not sure she would like what was in them. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when he had claimed to love her and, if she squinted, she had almost been able to convince herself that she loved him. But you have to make the best of it.

She took his hand, guided it, slid it up her chest. She took his face, kissing him, working her hips against his stomach. It was not like it had been. But what was? She reached behind her, found his prick, rubbed herself against it, looking for the right spot—

The cry echoed from the other room. Ardee, this time, hard and insistent. A moment later Harod joined her, higher, faster, weaker. She closed her eyes and sagged.

“Fuck.”

Taking and Keeping

She’d never thought so when it was happening, but Rikke had to admit that she quite liked being bullied. She’d heaps of practice, and it brought out the stubborn best in her. Plucky Rikke. Everyone loved that girl. Sharp thinking, sharp talking, with the odds against her but right on her side.

It was the opposite that landed her in trouble. Folk begging, wheedling, pleading, it made her all weak and nervy. Wriggly Rikke. That bitch was no use to anyone. The problem was, sitting in Skarling’s Chair, she was begged a lot more than she was bullied.

“Please!” The farmer went so far as to drop to his knees, the artful bastard, twisting his hat in his hands. “I’m at your mercy.”

That was the whole problem. She could’ve sent him home with a box full of silver. Or she could’ve sent his head home and kept the rest of him. All within her gift.

She narrowed the one eye that saw anything in the hope it might see through his skin to the truth. That he was a poor honest fool with a sick wife and twelve hungry children to feed. Or that he was a greedy liar with silk hidden under his stained shirt and pots of gold buried in his barn.

But the Long Eye refused to open, and the answer was more’n likely neither one anyway, but somewhere in between, as answers always are. Times were hard, and she could squeeze more out of him, but it’d hurt. It’d hurt him, and it’d hurt her. It’d hurt him more, of course, but he’d only get squeezed once today. There was a whole queue of hat-twisters outside Skarling’s Hall ready to fling themselves onto their knees at the least provocation. If she was soft on one, she’d have to be soft on ’em all. And soft might feel good for a day, but it can hurt in the long run. Hurt everyone.

“Hmmm,” she grunted. “Hmmm.”

All the while, from inside his cage, the watery eyes of that born bully Stour bloody Nightfall were on her, as if to say, You wouldn’t have caught me showing too much mercy.