That night, she took the tray herself. Sabine had already spoken to the usual servant who brought Viktor his drink, convincing him to step aside for the evening. Ayoka walked down the hallway with her hips steady, her breath shallow but controlled, her heart drumming low and hot beneath her ribs.
She wore a uniform that whispered seduction without shouting it—deep navy trimmed in white lace, like a maid's attire pressed and polished for high society. It hugged her waist with precision, flared just enough at the hips, and the bodice dipped low without revealing too much—just enough to catch the light, to suggest rather than show. It was proper. Technically. But no eye could pass it by without wondering.
As she neared the study, she paused. Something curled around her ankles—mist, maybe. No, smoke. Pale gray tendrils rising just above the floor. She blinked, looked down, and it vanished. The door creaked open before she could knock.
Inside, Viktor was wearing a sleek, dark suit that clung to his broad frame like shadow to bone. The fabric stretched across his shoulders, every tailored line accentuating the sheer power beneath. His sleeves were rolled just enough to reveal forearms roped with muscle, the veins pronounced as he moved. Each stroke of the whetstone across the axe blade was slow, deliberate—like he was taming something feral with every pass.
The motion was rhythmic, almost hypnotic. His jaw flexed with focus, beard trimmed sharp along his chin like the edge of a warlord's promise. Ayoka's breath caught slightly. There was something in the way his copper eyes shimmered beneath the low light—half-predator, half-priest. When he finally looked up, he didn't speak. He just raised an eyebrow, curious but silent—his entire body language a challenge wrapped in calm hunger.
Ayoka said nothing either. She approached the desk with quiet grace and began to pour his whiskey. As she leaned forward, her breasts brushed the edge of the table—prominent and purposeful. The cut of her uniform made the movement feel like a deliberate offering.
Viktor watched, eyes burning into her like coals that remembered fire. He didn't stop her—just observed, as though her body spoke a language he was deciding whether to understand or conquer. He took the glass from her and sipped slowly, deliberately, never breaking eye contact.
In his mind, a thousand calculations turned. She was playing a game. And he was letting her—for now. He knew history well: some slaves had risen to power not with rebellion, but with proximity. Seduction. Strategy. Cunning masked in service. He remembered one story buried deep in dusty pages—the tale of Ebed-Melech, a Cushite eunuch who served under King Zedekiah. A foreigner. A servant. Yet it was he who dared speak truth to the king, who pulled the prophet Jeremiah from a cistern and secured a divine promise of safety. Power, hidden in loyalty. A servant who became a symbol of righteousness in chaos.
He'd seen echoes of that in the margins of journals, in court whispers and bitter laughs at dinner tables. Even kings had fallen for their so-called property—whether by love, manipulation, or raw need. Ayoka wasn't asking for power. She was testing if she could earn it. Or survive it.
And yet, he couldn't deny the pull. The shape of her. The challenge in her silence. The defiance tucked into the corners of her mouth. She was offering more than her body—she was offering tension. A wire drawn taut between risk and reward.
But Viktor knew better. This wasn't just temptation. It was a test. A quiet chess match unfolding one gaze, one breath at a time. And beneath it all, he measured not just her limits—but his own. How far would she go? How far would he allow?
He patted his lap. "Sit. Right here."
Her stomach fluttered. The moment had turned, thick and uncertain. She paused—not because she feared him, but because this, too, was a power move. Sitting would mean playing into his hands. But not sitting? That might ruin the hand she was building.
Still, another memory tugged at the edges of her thoughts—one from an old tale Sabine once whispered by candlelight. A myth of three lovers, each in love with the same person, each willing to share that love in secret. Yet when the person left them, the endings weren't equal. One lover found joy and peace, the life she always wanted. The second was cast into sorrow, her love story turned tragedy. But the third? The third lover escaped unnoticed, untouched, free as wind. No love lost, no pain claimed. Ayoka never forgot the story—not because of the romance, but because she didn't know which lover she might become.
The idea twisted in her belly. What if this wasn't about love or power, but about survival written in the ink of desire? What if she could walk away the same way—untouched, unpunished—if she played her cards just right?
So she stood there, weighing history, myth, and instinct in the silence between them.
She hesitated. He saw it—his eyes narrowing with quiet disappointment. It reminded him of a night not so long ago, when she had offered herself to him. Back then, her body had been willing, but her eyes had waited—for something else, something unseen. And in that stillness, even the shadows had whispered: Not yet.
He remembered thinking he would take her then. But something stopped him. Maybe instinct. Maybe the very gods Ayoka had long stopped praying to. Or maybe it was the way her body seemed willing, but her mind hesitated—tethered by invisible chains.
He'd heard things from his incubus friends, a bonded couple who used to work court contracts. They'd once told him that sex, to them, was a job—a transaction of energy, not emotion. But even they could feel the difference between consent offered in desperation and consent given in power. The body might move. The lips might part. But the mind? The mind told the truth. And too often, people offered their bodies with eyes that whispered, I'll pay this cost if it keeps me safe.
That night, Ayoka had offered him her body. But her spirit had been curled somewhere far away, still watching, still measuring. He'd felt it. The tension. The wait. And the shadows had whispered: Not yet.
So he'd walked away. Not because he didn't want her—but because he wanted all of her. And now, as she stood before him, spine taut with poise and eyes steady with fire, he wondered if this was the moment he'd waited for. True consent. Not survival dressed as submission. Not surrender. But choice.
Now, she wasn't just offering. She was choosing—and that choice stirred something deeper than want. It made him wonder why. Why now? Why him? What did she think she stood to gain—or lose?
The difference tasted like heat in his throat. He'd overheard a woman once say that consent was sexy. A man had disagreed—said it wasn't about sex, but about power. About being wanted with clarity. Viktor didn't think consent should ever be eroticized like that, but tonight, the clarity of it unsettled him. It settled over him like silk—dangerous, deliberate, and utterly sincere.
This time, she wasn't playing a role. She was playing a hand. Still, the hesitation lingered. And he wondered if she would pull back again. If she did, he might let her—but this moment would be a measure of them both. So he hardened his tone, voice cool and cutting. "I don't like repeating myself. If you're not going to sit—leave."
She stepped forward and sank into his lap. But not before Viktor calmly reached over and set the axe aside, sliding it into a nearby sheath with quiet precision—placing it far enough away to make a point. There would be no fear in this moment. Only choice.
His body was warm, solid, his chest steady against her back like an unshaken drum. He leaned his head forward and rested it between her breasts, like they were a pillow carved for only him. She could feel his breath on her skin—hot, slow, anchoring—and it made her own breath falter.
She reached up and gently stroked his hair. Just once. Like she was testing the edge of a blade or daring herself to touch fire. It was a small rebellion wrapped in tenderness. But he lifted his head and looked up at her with a smirk that wasn't cruel—just knowing. It made her heart beat faster, the game alive in every glance between them.
"What does my little bird want?" he asked softly, his voice dragging across the moment like velvet with claws. "Is this about the boy? Or are you just here for yourself tonight?"
Ayoka matched his energy with a sweet, calculated smile. "Nothing much," she said, her voice dipping into something sultry and sharp. "Just noticed your guest seems to be giving you trouble. Thought I'd offer a bit of relief."
He stared, gaze slow and assessing, reading her like a script he'd memorized but found rewritten in a new tongue.
She stepped between his knees with practiced ease, her movements fluid and deliberate. With a soft sway of her hips, she navigated her way into his lap, letting her full backside press against him just long enough to leave a smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. She bent at the waist, her upper body dipping low while her hips gave a gentle, knowing wiggle—more tease than dance—as she retrieved the glass from the floor.
The motion made her curves ripple under the candlelight, a siren's silhouette painted in shadow and velvet. He didn't comment. Didn't need to. Instead, he gave her a command cloaked in calm: leave—but return tomorrow night. And she did.
Each evening, she arrived dressed modestly under moonless skies—quiet fabric, steady step. But when the moon climbed high and sharp like a blade drawn from bone, she wore danger stitched in silk. She draped herself in mystery and hints, her presence humming with restrained hunger. Not sex—not yet. Just the promise of something that would not be tamed.