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F ilak had brought Daisy to a dungeon.

Daisy jolted, stared, and for a dizzying desperate moment, she wanted to shout at him, to cling to him, to run. To demand what the hell he was doing, what he was thinking, this room was — it was —

Her eyes swept over it again, as more shock and disbelief screeched through her skull, drowning out her thundering heartbeat. Because yes, it was a dungeon, illuminated only by a large crackling fireplace, with whips and cuffs and chains lining the stone walls, and dangling from the ceiling. And along the opposite wall, there even stood what appeared to be several cells , made of thick steel bars.

But. In this dungeon, there were also… people. Orcs . Multiple orcs, of various shapes and sizes, but mostly in states of undress. Gasping , groaning, striking, biting. Pinning each other to walls and platforms and benches. Kneeling and sucking and begging. Many of the orcs had kragas around their necks, too, some of them with chains that were clipped to the stone walls, or wrapped around their lovers’ hands…

Because yes, they were — lovers . Right ? That orc was willingly clinging to that other one, his face buried in his shoulder. Another orc was bent over and begging, while his partner stroked his bared arse. And another one — Daisy froze, stared at his vaguely familiar face — was that soft-spoken orc who worked in the sickroom. Eben . Kneeling before a tall, handsome orc with knives in his hair, who was fondly smiling and murmuring praises as Eben greedily kissed and sucked his huge, scarred cock.

Daisy’s flailing heart skipped a beat, while her eyes flicked down the wall, and caught on another familiar face. Gareth , the smith. Stripped to the waist, showing off his bulky chest and shoulders, as he bent a lean, sweaty orc over before him, and snapped a long, coiled whip through the air above his head. But the orc’s eyes didn’t betray even a trace of fear, only hunger, and need, and… pleasure.

And finally, Daisy’s whirling thoughts caught on something solid, something certain. Rosa had told her about this, hadn’t she? The Ka -esh pleasure-room. The dyflissa, she’d called it. A safe place to explore pleasure together. To learn.

The truth of it felt almost dizzying, a bright light blasting behind Daisy’s eyes. Strong enough to drown out the screaming in her head, even for a brief blessed instant. Because yes, if nothing else, she still wanted to learn. She needed to learn. It was the one goal she’d decided on, the one conviction that held true in all this mess. Something that was art, something that was safe, something that was hers.

So when Filak guided her forward, into the room, she didn’t hesitate, didn’t resist. Not even at the curious glances from the room’s occupants, and not even when Filak gently grasped her shoulders, and set her back against a cool stone wall. Not even when he boxed her close into it, his forearms settling to the stone on either side of her head, his face ducking into her throat.

“ Ach, sólin mín ?” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. “ Ríea ? Fuck ? In dyflissa ?”

A sharp shiver trembled up Daisy’s back — he was really asking if she wanted this, here. And it was ridiculous, preposterous, utterly unthinkable, but somehow she was… nodding. Clinging to him. Drawing him closer. Because yes, yes, it was still something, it was learning in the madness, it was how desperately she needed his touch, his command, his reassurance. She needed him to keep distracting her, directing her, dragging her away from the horror and the fear, even if it was this, especially if it was this…

“ Gott ,” Filak breathed, and oh, those were his hands again, stroking her, caressing her, smoothing over her sides, her arms, her shoulders. Sinking Daisy heavier and heavier against the wall, easing her breaths slower and deeper, even when he unhooked the fur cloak she’d still been wearing, and tossed it onto a nearby stone bench. Leaving her dressed in only her silk wrap and her boots and trousers, but he liked that, he was looking her up and down with hazy hooded eyes, as if she was a painting, a stunning work of art all his own.

And when his warm steady hands kept caressing, smoothing against her waist, her breasts, slipping beneath her wrap and her trousers, Daisy only gasped and arched into it, into the sweet steady reassurance of his touch. His certainty amidst the fear and danger, his light in the darkness, his silent promise that no matter what happened around them, he would keep her safe…

He meant it even when the silk slipped downwards, exposing Daisy’s bare breasts and peaked nipples to the room. He meant it when he eased down her trousers, showing his marks on her belly and groin, the skin of her thighs, the dark hair in between. And he even meant it when he knelt to pull off her boots and trousers entirely, his mouth skating over that hair at her groin, and then leaning in further to kiss at it. To lick and taste and tease her, to even lazily scrape her with his teeth, while his glittering eyes held hers, and spoke. You look at me, while I taste you, and bare you for me.

And though Daisy could again feel the room’s other occupants watching, their eyes prickling all over her bare skin — and especially over that vow on her belly — Filak’s eyes were stronger. Filak’s hands were warmer. Filak’s tongue was a hot slithering wonder, now kissing slowly up over her marked belly, tasting the black lines of his vow. And then he eased further up, and up, gently catching each peaked nipple, swirling it with his tongue — and then rising to her throat, her lips. Kissing her with such fervent, ardent care, even as his warm wandering hands found her arms, her wrists, and slowly raised them over her head. Pressing them against the stone wall, and then…

Circling something cold around them. A chain .

Daisy froze, her heartbeat suddenly screaming in her ears, her eyes catching wild on Filak’s face. On where he was already looking at her, searching her, his eyes burning, his breath shuddering out from between his parted lips.

“ Nei ?” he gasped, his voice ragged. “ Stoppa ?”

Stoppa meant stop , Daisy knew — but now that she was facing the question, facing him, she couldn’t seem to find the wherewithal to answer. To say, nei , because then he would take this away, and the rest of it would all rush back in again. Lew , Sybil , the belladonna, the regiment, the attack, the dungeon…

But this was the dungeon, this was danger, and it was all twisting and tangling together with Filak’s blazing eyes, with the hungry flex of his hand on her wrists. Shouting now, without him speaking at all, that he liked this, he wanted this. He truly wanted to chain Daisy up in a dungeon, and trap her, and keep her.

The fear should have spiked again, choked out all the rest. Screamed that he was still dangerous too, this was a horrible ridiculous mistake, she’d only given this two weeks, what the hell was she doing, what was she allowing…

But instead there was something… else. Something like… understanding. Or maybe even… appreciation. Because Filak wasn’t hiding it. He wasn’t lying or pretending, like Lew had done. No , he was shouting his truth straight into her face, showing it to her, and giving her the freedom to choose. To see. To learn.

So somehow, impossible, appalling , Daisy raised her chin, and nodded. Saying … yes. Yes , Filak . I see you. I want you.

And gods, the look in his eyes. Like art, like rapture, like bright sweeping ecstasy. Like Daisy was again the most stunningly beautiful painting he’d ever seen, and he even said it, or something like it, his voice raw and rasping as he circled that chain closer around her wrists, and bound them together against the wall. Holding her there, pinning her up for him, so he could again caress both hands down her naked exposed body, look at her and touch her and worship her, treat her like a jewel on display, polish her and break her with his clever stroking hands.

It was unlike anything Daisy had ever known, pleasure and danger and surrender pooling all at once, turning her to pliant quaking rubble beneath his hands, his claws, his mouth. And with her arms bound up over her head like this, she couldn’t even urge him on, couldn’t shove down his trousers, couldn’t drag his mouth to the one place that was now screaming for him, frantic for his tongue and his relief. No , she could only shudder and gasp and beg, her words an incomprehensible blur of common-tongue and Aelakesh , please and typpi and ríea and more , please .

But Filak wanted that too, wanted her undone and begging, laid bare for anyone to see. Though Daisy could feel him shuddering too now, could taste the effort in his heaving breaths against her skin, the hunger of his hands. The way his touch was rougher now, his claws leaving vivid red scrapes behind them, but that only whipped it higher and hotter, reducing her to gasping, pleading, almost weeping…

And it was that, finally, that brought Filak up again, kissing her mouth and comforting her with sharp stroking hands. And then he dropped a hand to shove down his own trousers, letting his thick leaking cock slap wet and heavy against Daisy’s belly, and even that made her shout and beg more, writhing against the wall, against the restraints, needing him, all of him, please.

“Please, Filak ,” she gasped, not caring who saw, who heard. “ Please . Ríea me. Please .”

Filak’s voice in her ear was a laugh, a groan, something raw and aggressive and powerful — and with a firm grip of his strong hands to her hips, he hoisted her up off the floor entirely, spreading her legs wide around him. So his hard, leaking cock could streak down her belly, and seek its way up beneath. Prodding itself into her crease, delving up into where Daisy was already so wet, so open and desperate, clutching at him, welcoming him inside…

“Please,” Daisy gasped again, as her body arched, grinding them together, oh. “ Please , sálufélagi minn. ”

My mate , it meant, and why had she said such a thing — but that was why, that answering flash across Filak’s eyes, raw and aggressive and victorious. And with a fierce snap of his hips, he plunged up swift and deep, encasing himself in her slick spasming heat. Pinning her trembling body tight against the wall, trussing her up in a dungeon — but this time Daisy wanted it, she needed every last breath of it, she would be destroyed if he stopped it, please…

“Please, Filak ,” she begged again, as he hoisted her higher, and gave an experimental little thrust, out and in. “ Please . More . Ach .”

Her voice was still badly wavering, perhaps hitching at the painful wonderful scrape of the stone wall against her bare back. But Filak swiped sideways for something — her fur cloak — and deftly maneuvered it back over her shoulders, between her and the wall. “ Róleg , sólin mín ,” he murmured, so soft, so soothing. “ Ríeum bráeum, ach? Róleg . Gott . ”

Daisy nodded and shivered all over, needing him to keep going, keep talking, yes, and his smile toward her was swift, approving, as he kept speaking. Murmuring that stream of soft reassuring words in Aelakesh , as his hips canted back toward her, and buried his spasming cock deeper inside her.

“ Almáttugur ,” he gasped, his lashes fluttering — and oh, yes, this was it, his body finally moving, plunging in and out of her with fast, urgent strokes. Jolting her back against the wall with every thudding thrust, pinioning her there, trapping her with his body, his chain, his eyes. Like a jailer with his hostage, a hunter with his prey, using her, consuming her, doing with her whatever he pleased…

But again, there was no fear. No resistance. Just the trammelling need for more of it, more of him, yes, gods, yes. And Daisy was even shouting it now, begging it, yanking against the beautiful bite of the chain on her wrists, wanting to feel it, to embody it, to be his quarry, his captive, his muse his mate his artist —

She screamed as the bliss thundered through her, striking her in reckless dizzying jerks. Her trapped body wrenching and thrashing against its bonds, clamping around Filak’s cock buried inside her. Milking him and pumping him, demanding more, more, more — and yes, now he was crumpling too, his body juddering against her and inside her, his head tipping back, his shout hot and reverent. Undone by her, conquered by her, even like this, with his chains and his cock, his claws and his eyes and his teeth.

And that was part of it too, Daisy’s distant thoughts pointed out, as she fought to find her breath again. The give and take of it. The way it always was with an artist and a subject, or the art and the viewer. The challenge, the learning, the trading back and forth. Just like they had earlier in the Skyli . Making a new experience, together. Seeing together.

And this — felt like that. Even when Filak’s hand curved against Daisy’s kraga , and then tilted her neck sideways. So his sharp teeth could scrape against her skin, hard enough to leave more marks — and then those teeth bit down, deep, as his softening cock slipped out of her still-spasming body, and released a shocking gushing stream of molten fluid from between her spread legs, spewing it down to the floor beneath them. And maybe it was foolish, flagrant, shameful… but it still felt like art, too. Like making something new.

Daisy couldn’t have said how long they stayed there, shivering, riding through it together. But at some point, Filak carefully released her hands, and set her feet down onto the floor again. Drawing that fur shawl closer around her, covering her again, before snatching up the rest of her clothes, and guiding her past all those watching eyes out into the corridor. And though Daisy’s feet slightly staggered, Filak’s arm was firm and safe around her, his voice still murmuring purrs and praises against her hair.

She only vaguely noticed the people they passed in the corridor, or the way Filak guided her into a darkened door. And when he lit the candle, the sight of her new little room felt hazy and distant too, the feel of the bed’s fur hot and strange against her tingling skin. But now Filak was here again, settling beside her on the bed, stroking her bare, trembling body with his warm steady hands.

“ Gott, sólin mín ,” he said, so husky and soft. “ Tú ert svo falleg. Svo s?t. Svo fullkominn sálufélagi .”

Daisy shivered and curled closer against him, breathing in the rich familiar scent of him, the certainty of his strong caress. “ You chained me up in a dungeon,” she managed, through her thick throat. “ Again .”

But Filak only kissed her hair, and gave a gentle tweak of his claw against her nipple. “ Ach ,” he murmured back. “ Daisy mín. Sálufélagi minn . Tú ert orugg hjá mér .”

It was the same thing he’d said back in the corridor, about Lew — and though the thought of Lew still shot ice up Daisy’s spine, it felt far fainter, less potent, than before. And surely that was because of Filak , because of what he’d done, back there in that dyflissa . Showing her that she would be safe, with him. Safe , even in a dungeon. Safe , shouted so loudly she couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t unlearn it.

And in the midst of it, he’d made art with her, too. Just like he had in the tunnels, and with the Skyli . And now, lying here sprawled and sated on this bed, with this dangerous devil in her arms, Daisy could almost see it, almost believe it…

“Do you think I’m a real artist, Filak ?” she asked, foolishly, into the close silence. “ Daisy artist?”

She mimicked drawing in midair with her hand, and Filak’s glance down toward her in the candlelight was bemused, and almost fond. “ Ach , sólin mín ,” he said. “ Daisy artist.”

He said it with such simple, decisive certainty, as though the matter had never been in question. And his eyes on hers were so certain too, just as sure as he’d been back in the dyflissa , just as sure as when he’d stomped Lew’s tattered letter under his boot.

“Daisy artist,” he said, with a soft kiss to her forehead. “ Artistinn minn. Sálufélagi minn . Heim .”

Heim . Home . It shuddered against the distant nagging voice, still echoing through Daisy’s thoughts — he was still dangerous, he’d locked her in a dungeon, and she was only supposed to be watching, right? Ridiculous and immature behaviour, appallingly unscientific, foolish…

“But… what about Lew ?” Daisy croaked, wincing, into the silence. “ And the regiment? The attack?”

But Filak’s scoff was harsh and thick with derision, his claws reflexively prodding against her shoulder. “ Nei Lew ,” he snapped. “ Nei , sólin mín . Lew is naught. Forget Lew .”

The certainty of his voice shuddered her all over, another too-tempting beacon in the dark. No Lew . Forget Lew . Just like she’d tried to forget Filak , but he was still here, and far stronger than before. Drawing his vows on her skin, chaining her in a dungeon, sharing his long-lost home with her…

“Forget Lew , Daisy ,” Filak said again, even firmer than before, as his hand slid up to her neck, and curled close and tight around it. Letting his claws dig in, hard and almost painful, almost like a threat — and oh, then he bent his head down, too. Spreading his mouth wide and deliberate against the delicate skin of her throat, letting her feel all those sharp deadly teeth…

It truly was a threat, a show of his power, and his control. If she didn’t obey, he could snap her and break her, tear her apart, leave her here to bleed out alone on the bed…

But instead of the fear Daisy should have felt, or maybe the shocked affronted rage, there was only a shaky, heavy exhale, and something almost like relief. Like … affection. Because just like in the dyflissa , this was just Filak trying to protect her, and help her, and comfort her, right? He wouldn’t actually ever hurt her, or trap her again… would he?

“ Nei Lew ,” he breathed again, hot and menacing and wonderful against her skin. “ Forget Lew . Ach ?”

And in this breath, this quivering waiting moment, it was everything Daisy wanted, everything she’d ever wanted for her own. A dream, a dark dangerous devil, a dungeon, an artist, a home…

“Ach, Filak ,” she whispered, as she drew him closer, and arched up into his teeth, his menace, his promise. “ I’ll try.”