My mind keeps wandering, though. What he must feel like pressed up against me. What he must feel like if he pushes my legs apart and takes me. If he was able to release himself in me rather than to empty air.
I could do it. All I need is to reach over, and tell him I'll help with that. We were close before, until that interruption dragged us to the feast. I saw the lust in his eyes, felt the lust in my own heart. I could grip him gently, massaging until whimpers escaped his throat. I could whisper in his ear how badly I want him, that I need to be fucked, to be consumed in bliss, and I know that'll electrify him. We could play one another to perfection, and claim our title as husband and wife.
Yet something else locks my limbs in place, and prevents me from doing what I visualize and yearn. He lets out a sigh as he finishes, his body shivering in the process. My name escaping his lips as a whispered prayer.
Oh. I shiver, wanting to touch myself as well. Something about him hissing out my name has such an overwhelming thrill in it, that I'm surprised I don't have a tiny orgasm on the spot. I remain still until his breathing slackens, a part of me wishing he'd faced me while doing that. What fear and excitement he might have felt if he saw me watching him.
But then I remember that we're not exactly on good terms with each other right now. Maybe there was something before, a promise of better times, but his behavior, his father and brother – everything just serves to make it so much more complicated.
I fall asleep once more, fuming my way into the morning.
Waking up reveals an empty bed, and a scribbled note explaining he had “important things to do.” Fine and dandy. My mood darkens further. He's probably avoiding me and using this as an excuse. But whatever.
As I pass through the corridor to head to Jay's room, Paul's walking in the opposite direction. He stops and smiles, waving at me.
“Hey! Good to see you. If you're looking for Desmond, he's visiting Tielman lands today.”
Tielman lands? How does the servant know more than I do? I feel ill at ease. “How long might that take?”
“It depends. The average trip lasts about two days. But it also may be a formality meeting by the border.”
Two days. That's one hell of an avoidance my husband is doing.
I just wish he'd told me. Woke me up, explained what was happening. That we would talk later. Not this. Not the whisper of my name in the night, and then nothing. Paul sees most likely that I'm upset, because he says, “Oh, I'm sorry. Come with me. Maybe you want to see Jay? She's in the servant's lounge. I'm sure she'd love to see you.”
I decide not to mention that Jay was my original destination. “Thanks,” I mutter, allowing Paul to lead me forward. He's still keeping up his friendly act, and now I'm not sure if it is an act. Maybe he really does want to make an effort for me. Compared to the other scowling servants, or the ones who look away rather than at me. It would be nice to manage a walk through this place without getting a single glare. I might faint when the day comes.
Paul leads me into a small, run-down looking living room, where Jay is slumped over a pack of playing cards, trying to stack them together in a precarious paper tower. “I found her. Now you can play to your heart's content!”
Jay's face lights up in happiness, and I suddenly wonder if something's going on between her and Paul. I then feel bad for assuming that, just because he's being nice. My mind has clearly been tainted by doubt. Wonderful, really.
“Paul found me some cards,” Jay says, now shuffling. “I was wondering if you wanted to play?”
“I'd be delighted to,” I tell her. We soon have ourselves embroiled in the simplest card games I've seen servants play in the household, and Paul wants to join in. We have to teach him the rules, of matching cards of the same suite or same number, of three being the minimal number for a complete set, and of being the first to complete a seven card hand.
Though I enjoy the company, some of the conversation goes to areas I'd rather it didn't.
“I heard what happened at the feast last night,” Jay says, staring curiously at me. “I wasn't allowed to be there as a low ranked servant, but I heard it went super wrong.”
“You could say that,” I reply, glancing up to see Ethel passing by, delivering her trademark hostile glare. “It was mortifying, to be honest.”
“I saw most of it,” Paul says with a sigh. “But already there's back whispers about it, and we all know how exaggerated things get there.”
“Back whispers?” I say, feeling a sense of foreboding. They can't be anything good. Just another way to humiliate me, I'm sure.
“A lot of them are wondering if we're going to have a duel between the brothers. Rayse and Desmond are clearly at each other's throats right now. Others are wondering... if the only reason you two are lasting in a relationship together is well, because you know a few tricks in bed. Since they can't believe a Claymore would marry a Hartson otherwise.”
I flush at this. It's about what I expect, but it still sucks majorly to hear it. “For fuck's sake,” I say, and both servants flinch from someone so high up using a curse. “I wish people would just leave me alone.”
“Not sure if that will ever happen, unfortunately,” Paul says. “A pretty girl like you who also is a Hartson will always invoke some kind of jealousy.”
Though I nod, I feel slight unease from Paul complimenting me. I try to take it as a compliment and nothing else. But a part of me is wondering if there's some ulterior motive to it. Something to be cautious of. “That's kind of you to say.”
“No problem. It's only the truth.” Paul then grimaces slightly. “It's always a little worrying. The brothers did grow up very much hating Hartsons. We all do. I have heard of some of the things they say. What they want to happen to them. It's a miracle that we can all get on now, of course. A beautiful miracle.”
The unease digs deeper, but I don't comment.
“So when something like the feast happens, it does confirm a lot of people's expectations. That they haven't really changed their stances, even in spite of recent developments.”
I can barely focus on my game at this point. Desmond's not here. He ran away, so it's easy to see things differently. To know he doesn't like me, but maybe he doesn't mind fucking me. A hole's a hole, right? And of course. They must have boasted of going on raids against my people. Celebrated their deaths in style, while others weep and wail. They must have – I clench my teeth, trying to halt the spiral of my thoughts. I can't let them get to me.
I can't let reality get to me.
Desmond doesn't come back all day. I walk through the house, feeling like a bird stuck in a cage. A younger servant, probably a preteen boy, yells “Slut!” at me before running off, giggling with his friends. Great. They're really going out of their way like this, aren't they?
It's worse when I accidentally eavesdrop on a conversation as I'm passing back to my quarters, where I hear Ethel quite cleanly state, “We'll be safe with what we do. The whore's not going to go running to the Graves just because her desk wasn't cleaned or someone said something suggestive. Just don't hurt her.”