Born for silk

Chapter Three

Rome

Cairo’s message from the Half-tower burns a hole in my mind: ‘The Silk Girl is known. Protect the heir.’

It is an entire lecture.

My Silk Girl is pregnant and known. This has not happened in hundreds of years, but we move forward and take hard measures. Aster won’t always like what that means, no more privacy, eyes glued to her, eyes watching the babe grow in her womb… I don’t like it.

Up ahead, the Redwind enters through a gap in The Estate fort, a strategic vent to deter Common.

She walks a step before me along the stone path, her hood pulled up, a mask covering her fragile face, even though she is hidden by my larger body from the aggressive wind and the sly gaze of Trade perso

We head toward my wing.

I have a wing where I used to fuck the House Girls—though it has been inactive since the night of the carnival when a little five-foot-two Silk Girl climbed into my lap.

I have a wing for business.

And this wing.

As we approach the five-storey stone structure untouched by modern reformations, she slows her step, and I practically stop to accommodate her sweet hesitation.

Her violet eyes sweep upward, gaping at the sheer walls as she enters the dark shadow it casts with thick stone and sturdy piers. I have always liked the Romanesque architecture that characterises the majority of The Estate’s older buildings —fortress-like, domineering, defensive, a style for survival.

She removes her mask and sets it on the hallway table. From her shoulders, she slinks her hood, exposing her personalised Silk Girl dress with straight elegant lines down her lithe body. Across her upper chest, I can make out the faint rows of tiny bones beneath her skin while at her breast, the shadow of each nipple teases me. She is delicate and fine. I crack my neck from side to side, releasing some tension.

As we walk through the wing, she observes the space, the servers setting the table for three—her, Tuscany, and myself—the absurd amount of flowers, a floor-to-ceiling synthetic fire that spans the length of a soaring stone wall.

She stares at my personal space, and I…

I stare at her.

She has clawed her way into my mind, completely consuming it.

Aster… flower. A little flower that I plucked from the dirt and refuse to replant.

Nothing can be done now the heir is known, so the Silk Girl must stay by my side for her safety. That is all. Under this condition, she is most secure.

I do not trust her with any man or woman; I do not trust her with her Collective. And I will execute every being that interferes with… this. This thing between us which has no title nor law attached.

I will kill the creatures that have hurt her in the past and those who plot to do so in the future, those that glance her way with lust, bother her, force her to move, change her smile⁠—

I growl. The rampage of thoughts thunder within me, but then she catches my eye again…

“Wow.” She reaches her tiny hands out to feel the flame hearth, humming when it radiates but doesn’t burn.

I sigh, her sweet cadence giving me breath. Her awe forces me to smile, a rarity, and one I’ll only allow to exist for her, with her.

I realise that while I relish the crimson slashes of death on my calloused hands, the Redwind carving through the skin of Common—war—sharing quiet moments with her might be equally as pleasurable.

“Your wing, my king.” She spins to face me, and I try not to let her see the effect she has, flattening my smile. “It looks just like you. If you were a building.”

“What an odd thing to say.”

A coy smile bunches her cheeks. “I know.”

“I want to hear more.”

She blinks. “More of what?”

“Of your mind.”

I stride to her and cup her face, holding her tiny Common head in my hands, lifting her chin so her eyes peer through fluttering, black lashes to meet my gaze.

“You will stay here. You will not argue appropriate interactions or draw lines between us in the name of The Trade. Do you understand that everything is different now? Say yes, my king, and I will take you to my room.”

She swallows, and my cock stiffens.

“Say it.”

“What of my shots?”

“Your question implies you do not trust me to take care of you.” I frown, but answer, “Your Watcher will take you to the Medi-deck each first-light for your scan and vitamins.”

“Paisley,” she informs, as though I should use her name. Insolent little creature. “What of my Collective?”

This fucking girl.

Just say, ‘Yes, my king.’

I talk through grit teeth. “What of them?”

“I wish to see them—often.”

Sighing roughly, I sweep my thumb over her smooth cheek. Why the fuck do I want to give her everything? “You may see them when you wish, but Odio will accompany you outside this wing.”

“He scares people.”

“That is by design.”

She chews on her bottom lip and shows her acceptance in two slow nods. “Yes, my king.”

Better.

I walk her down the corridor toward my chamber, allowing her time to study each taxidermized eagle head mounted along the walls. The magnificent beasts increase in size until the skulls are larger than her own.

Odio’s lineage.

She muses. “Does this not make you sad?”

My boots rap on the tiles while her feet glide, weightless.

“If my heirs wish to cut off my head and hang it once I am dead,” I say, “they are more than welcome to.”

I expect a gasp, but she simply hums. “I don’t think you’ll have that opportunity. No one could rest with you staring at them, my king.”

A chuckle breaks from me.

“Was that a laugh that I heard?” Tuscany’s voice sails down the corridor, the melodic flow drawing Aster’s attention.

“My queen.” Aster curtsies.

My sweet sister stops a few feet away from us. I’m surprised she is here… nosy, perhaps. Though, that is not in her nature. Disappearing is.

She enjoys her space and very rarely touches anyone. When she does, it’s a fucking butterfly on skin, terrified a small twitch will turn it to dust on broken wings.

She rests her small hands in front of her waist, her hair as straight as her posture. “It has been many years since I heard a laugh in these halls.”

My smile thins, her presence reminding me of my failings. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“I came to say a few words.” She squares her narrow shoulders, pretending to have confidence that does not exist. “I approve, but please do not keep her locked in this wing, Sire. She is far too bright.”

Not Rome.

Sire.

Her words land a blow to my chest, embedding with the bullets and shrapnel I have claimed over years of war. I don’t answer, and she doesn’t elaborate. I hear her.

She reaches out to touch me but retracts her hand and slowly turns to leave. Tuscany does not walk as though the floor is a shell she might crack beneath each heel—my sister walks as though she is the shell.

I watch her disappear around a corner, my chest pounding with anger, not at her, not at all. At my own fucking helplessness.

Tearing my eyes away, I am met with the enquiring violet gaze that slows my heart to a steady, powerful beat. My little creature, now mine, somehow levels me.

“You do bring me peace,” I declare, staring down at her; though, she is tiny, a power greater than my darkness resides within her.

“Tell me,” I ask, guiding her into my room and shutting the door behind us. “Why did you pick gold for your sheet?"

Her brows weave. “My king asks an odd question.”

“I learned from the best.”

My little creature looks at the floor. Blushes. Her eyes glisten with something akin to what I feel but ca

My eyes track her as she moves around the space, looking like a baby bird in the cage of a monstrous eagle.

"Paisley noted down gold,” I state.

"Maybe they are the same colour to her."

That I had not considered. "Perhaps."

"What is your favourite colour, my king?"

"I'm not a child. I do not have a favourite colour."

"You’re a being of decisions and actions. What about a favourite number? I am sure you have a favourite number.” She looks at the bed. “No steps?”

“No Common.”

She beams at that admission. Yes, sweet creature, you’re the only one. Tuscany is right, she is bright. “Let me guess your favourite number.”

“I don't have one.”

My little creature strolls to me, her steps far sultrier, like a dance, than my sister’s. Craning her neck, she stares into my eyes, diving in deep, intent on finding a silent answer.

She stares until it hurts. "One."

The corner of my mouth lifts, smirking. I want her. Her eyes widen when I pick her up at her waist. Her legs dangle, shoes two feet off the floor, not knowing what to do now.

“Wrap your legs around my waist.”

She does, and her warm core presses to my abdomen. With a little hesitance, her hands rest on my shoulders, her gentle fingers feed into my hair, and I fucking groan when she strokes me.

“Purring for me again, my king.”

I should hate this⁠—

I do hate this.

I roll my head further against her caress, closing my eyes. Not sure of anything in this moment. My reality has been changed since I met you, little creature. I don't even recognise myself, but instead, see what I am through you.

"Am I right? Is that your favourite number?"

I open my eyes to hers inches away and answer—a lie and truth. "Yes.” But I don't have a favourite number because I'm not that man, not a man at all, but— Now I have a favourite number.

And it's one.

Her eyes suddenly well up, and I frown. “What is it.” She peers down and squirms to get free, but I don’t release her. “No.”

“Please, put me down so I can discuss something of great importance with you, my king.”

A deep, rough sigh leaves me. I don’t want to discuss anything of ‘great importance.’ I want to fuck her on my bed until the sheets smell like her pussy.

“Please.”

Well, fuck.

I walk us to the sunken circular rest area in the centre of the room and sit down with her on my lap.

Her legs stretch wide to accommodate the breadth of my hips, and my cock fills with blood, creating a long thick bulge right at her warm apex.

Her eyes widen.