Chapter 13: Distraction at Darlinalia

(Content Warning: This chapter includes incest of dubious consent.)

Scene 59

Even after staying up so late, Zofia was still the first to get up and active the next evening. She finished her bath, cosmetic oils and all, before the others even started to wake.

To fill the time, she sat out on the balcony with Lady Margaret. And she looked out at the club. This early in the evening, they weren’t yet open for patrons, and the staff instead took time to set up. To restock the bar, to arrange the tables, to rehearse on the stages. To chat and laugh together.

“It’s so different from the Owls,” she said. “The girls here are so much ... happier.”

Lady Margaret laughed. “I would hope so.”

Zofia smiled at her for a moment, but the thoughtfulness returned to her face. “I’m going to free them.” That much was definite. “If they have homes waiting for them, I’ll return them.” She thought of Melisa. Reconciliation had to be possible. But then her thoughts turned to the likes of Tiffani. “But ... what about the rest? What do you do with people that have nowhere else to go?”

The question was rhetorical, just Zofia thinking aloud. But Lady Margaret smiled. “Usually, I find a job for them.” She waved off the predictable protests. “Not in the club, not unless they really want to. Behind the bar, in the kitchens, cleaning rooms.” She smiled fondly. “When I first met Val and Liz, I made them rooftop messengers.”

“I...” Zofia frowned to herself. Her first instinct had been to say that she couldn’t do such a thing. She was used to straightforward efforts. She could draw her sword and fight for her people. She could call the guards and magistrates — if she found ones she trusted — and convict the Owls who had hurt them. Even something as indirect as their Darlinalia gambit was outside her comfort, and that was with Lizabet and Valerie making the plans, and the collar barely felt like a lie anymore. She’d never imagined herself capable of doing something so economical for her people. But...

“There’s always work that needs doing, princess.” Lady Margaret sipped her wine.

Zofia put a hand to her tiara, thinking about it from a new angle. It wasn’t just a mark of responsibility, of the duty that had her fighting so hard to free her people from the Owls. It was a mark of privilege. If anyone had the resources to find places for these displaced people, it would be the royal family. The thought made her smile.

Lady Margaret set her glass down. “That smile looks good on you. It seems like you have a plan now?”

“The beginnings of one.” It would take time to detail. Zofia was more of a knight than an administrator. But she’d also been more of a knight than a slave, and she’d learned that role well enough. “Thank you.”

Speaking of knights, Sir Jorge arrived on the balcony. He opened his mouth to give his report, but stopped short when he caught detailed sight of Zofia. “Just a robe again, Highness? Really?”

She met his eyes steadily. “Yes. Just a robe.” Some small part of her wondered just how he’d react to seeing her wearing a slave collar, but he was the last person who could find out about their plan. Sir Jorge’s artlessness made Zofia seem like a veteran grifter by comparison. “How is she?”

Sir Jorge’s jaw set and he kept his gaze pointedly above Zofia’s chin. “Magistrate Somerville is still alive and stable, but still unconscious. The doctor says she’s more responsive than before, but still not enough to wake. At this point, she’s received all the treatment that can help, and recovery is up to her.”

Zofia sighed, nodding her head. Better news than it could have been, but not as good as she would have liked. “Thank you, Sir Jorge.” She turned her attention back to the club below. “Dismissed.”

He frowned, watching her watch the club as a full-chested dancer ascended to the stage. “And you watching these...” He looked aside at Lady Margaret and schooled his wording. “... women is necessary to defeat the Owls?”

“Yes, Sir Jorge.” She locked eyes with him, showing him that he wouldn’t make her flinch anymore. “Dismissed. You have your part and I have mine.”

The knight muttered as he left, and it took Zofia a moment longer to calm herself as she turned her attention back downwards.

The way that woman moved ... yes, watching her was a necessary part of the plan, but it was so unusually nice to have a duty that Zofia so enjoyed. She was beautiful, and the way she danced shone spotlights on her beauty. Zofia handed a waitress a few silver coins to carry down to her. Just because she wasn’t down by the stage didn’t mean she couldn’t show some appreciation.

Scene 60

That night, Zofia returned to Darlinalia. Her mind raced as she and Damascus followed the librarian to the dungeon, going over and over the plan, rehearsing it in every way she could short of adding dance steps to the way she walked.

Damascus squeezed her hand and she smiled at his reassurance. As long as she had good people behind her, people like Lizabet and Valerie, the plan would work.

When they arrived, the party was already starting. Some slaves still waited in the enclosure, but several were already being put to work. Melisa on her knees, losing herself in her duties; Tiffani and Felisity kissing for the entertainment of both their masters. She didn’t see Pita anywhere, but Allix knelt dutifully by the feet of their shared mistress.

The Queen of the Owls. Princess Monique. Her aunt. She was already there, lounging beside the stairway up to their target. Seeing her made Zofia’s heart skip several beats, then hurry to catch up. This was real. This was happening.

All eyes turned to Zofia as she hung her coat, revealing her promised nudity. But the other Owls fell into the background compared to the way her aunt’s tourmalines raked over her body.

Damascus leaned in close, kissed her cheek, and whispered three words: “Dance for me.”

Zofia glanced around and found a stage which had manacles hanging from the back wall, but unoccupied floor space. Yet, her performance began with how she crossed the room toward it. She added a little more sway to her walk, highlighting her hips. A little more spring in her step, and Jay gasped as her bounce caught his eye. But primarily, Zofia walked like herself: the balance, precision, and grace of a swordswoman.

That hint locked the Queen’s attention onto her, eyes wide and practically aglow with lust. Valerie had been right: Monique was taken with her. Not with the slave that shared her appearance, but with the thought that she could really be Zofia.

The princess shivered with reflexive revulsion, but she couldn’t spare the time to think about that. Her master was counting on her. She ascended the steps and started to dance.

This was the key part. This was why she’d been watching the women of Lady Margaret’s. She blended their sensual dance with a basic martial kata. A twirl showed her body from every angle, then settled into a steady stance with her hands at the ready; a few short, sharp steps brought her to the stage’s edge with perfect footwork, where she whipped her body through a few sultry poses. Every motion suggested a sex-worker who’d studied to fake the role of a knight-princess ... or a knight-princess faking the role of a sex-worker.

Zofia’s mind was spinning. She wished she’d had more time to watch, to learn, to practise. All she could do was try her best and hope it was enough.

Scene 61

Damascus hung back for a little while, watching the princess dance. Part of him still felt that hint of guilt at ‘applying’ Zofia like this, but it was ultimately her choice.

His heart fluttered again as he looked at her. Both for the beauty of her unique routine and lovely body, and for the sheer wonder of her resolve. He shook himself to refocus.

The Queen was on the edge of her seat, chomping at the bit. Yeah, Zee had her hooked. But they couldn’t let themselves be too obvious that she was the mark.

Instead, Damascus got a glass of dragonscale red from Rachelle, then made a circuit of the party. Anyone who had an ounce of spare attention spent it keeping an eye on him: the new guy, unproven, suspicious. So he let them see him up close, coming to each in turn. He whispered his slave’s praises, reminded them that it wasn’t the first night anymore. He fawned over the perfection of her ‘transfiguration’ and hinted that he might go between them and his ‘alchemist friend’, for the right price.

Each one in turn relaxed their suspicions. Damascus wasn’t there to rob them. He was there to cheat them. That, they could understand.

When he was about halfway through the room and Zofia was about halfway done with her dance, the Queen approached him. He sat up straight, greeting her with a smile and a raised glass. Now for the fun part, dragging out the haggling until she squirmed with need—

She slammed a single coin down onto the table. It was almost as wide as her palm, coloured a delicate rose gold, and stamped with an insignia that Damascus had seen only three times in his life. “A Royal for a royal. She’s mine tonight.”

Damascus almost choked on his whine. He barely had to fake the shaking of his hand as he took the coin and inspected it, finding it legitimate. A Royal Gold coin. He could buy a house with that. Clearly, the Queen was in no mood to haggle.

So much for dragging it out. Damascus nodded his acceptance and rose to his feet. Zofia’s eyes went wide on seeing their approach — this was so much sooner than planned. But she managed to gracefully shift into bowing. The bow a swordswoman would give a sparring partner.

The Queen actually growled at the sight, though it was barely audible even to Damascus.

He took the pr incess’ leash and held it out to the Queen. “Enjoy.”

Scene 62

Monique could have snatched the leash from Damascus’ hand. But no: however eager she was, she was in control, and she would have what she wanted soon enough. So she took her time lifting the offered leash away.

Intellectually, she knew the magic only affected the slave wearing the collar. But still, she could swear she felt the transfer of power like energy shooting up her arm as Zofia gasped. Just as demanded, just as paid for, the false princess was now hers.

Those so-convincing tourmaline eyes turned downwards, knowing better than to look her in the eyes. “How shall I—”

Monique yanked the leash and caught her with a kiss. The slave tensed at first, surprised, but didn’t fight her off like the real Zofia would.

Zofia’s fists curled, ready to strike. In the absence of a command’s compulsion, she had to hold herself back. But she was ready for it. And as her aunt kissed her, she became aware of something. A sweet cherry scent that made her head swim and her heart race even more than the situation alone. The Queen was wearing Darleena’s Bite as perfume.

The perfume did its job. Even without a command, the ‘princess’ soon melted into the kiss. Her lips were the wrong colour ... but they felt so soft, so full, so perfect. Was this what kissing Zofia would feel like? The thought intoxicated Monique, drove her to push forward, tongue conquering the slave’s mouth, and she shivered with delight when she felt the soft moan muffled into her mouth.

It felt so wrong, but it felt so good. As much as Zofia wanted to blame the collar and the aphrodisiac, it was simply true that her aunt was a skilled kisser, and she had the same legendary Tourmaline beauty as Zofia herself. While her head spun between aversion and attraction, she reminded herself that this was for a purpose. She wasn’t kissing her aunt just for its own sake; she had to keep the Queen of the Owls distracted. So, though she hesitated, she opened her mouth to it and greeted that invading tongue.

She even kissed like she was almost as inexperienced as Zofia would be: clumsy, unsure, but driven by lust that she couldn’t help. Transfiguration aside, where did Damascus find an actress this skilled? It drove Monique crazy. She wanted more.

Mouths still entwined, she shoved the woman backward until she hit the wall and grabbed her arm while she was still reeling, pulling it up and towards one of the hanging manacles.

The Queen was binding her. Cold dread and hot lust both flooded Zofia, forming a storm within her. She’d never been bound before. For a split-second, she couldn’t help herself; she struggled, she fought back.

Lucky for her, that was exactly what the Queen wanted.

Monique wrestled her, growling with effort and dominance as she forced that wrist into confinement. In the heat of the moment, she let herself believe it. This wasn’t some random slave; this wasn’t a pretender with a good potion. She let herself believe that it was Zofia naked before her.

Haughty, aloof Zofia. Stunning, beautiful Zofia. Zofia who always turned up her nose at so much as a glass of wine. Of course she would struggle against being turned into a sex toy. But Monique had all the leverage, and she thrilled at the feeling of not just having Zofia, but claiming her, taking her. She found herself moaning when the cuff locked closed.

She got to feel that thrill all over again as she bound her niece’s other arm. Then she pulled back, watching her tourmaline eyes go wide.

Zofia felt sick with anxiety. This was the plan, but it had so much in common with the worst-case scenario. She hadn’t been commanded to be still, so she let herself indulge in a bit of struggle, pulling at the chains and finding them unrelentingly solid.

The jingling of steel was music to Monique’s ears. Yes, she finally had what she’d been wanting for years. She wasn’t going to let a little colour shift ruin her enjoyment.

So she closed her eyes and focused on her other, unspoiled senses. Yes, that was the sound of Zofia gasping, with both trepidation and unexpected, ‘bitten’ arousal. Yes, that was the scent of her, clean and feminine, perfumed only by cherry-blossom soap.

Yes, that was the taste of her as Monique pressed another kiss to her lips. Yes, that was the feel of her: full, firm, perfect breasts that overflowed Monique’s grasp, but let her fingers sink into softness as she squeezed. Zofia whined again, helpless, squirming back and forth with the war between her long-held chastity and her growing need.

It felt so good. Even without a command from her master, the collar enhanced every sensation. That aphrodisiac set fire to her whole body. And her breasts were so sensitive. Zofia whimpered, bit her lip, but ultimately couldn’t keep herself from moaning.

That moan sounded like victory. Monique was winning, forcing her niece not just to partake in this hidden side of her life, but to enjoy it.

And she was just getting started. Blindly feeling its way, her right hand slipped between the princess’ legs. Zofia flinched back with what little leverage she had, she squeezed her thighs together as if to block her, but she radiated heat and desire. She couldn’t have stopped Monique even if she truly, completely wanted to.

Monique pushed.

Oh, gods, Aunt Monique’s fingers were in her. Only her master had ever touched her like that, and her aunt was so much more aggressive. Three fingers, deep and driving, thumb pressing to her clit. Even with what she’d experienced in recent nights, that touch was so much more intense than anything Zofia could have imagined. Her whole body jerked back and forth in time with Monique’s pumping wrist.

Monique just had to see it. She clamped a hand over those offending lips so they wouldn’t distract her, and looked deeply into her niece’s gemstone eyes. She drank in the fear and confusion as her body betrayed her. The hint of disgust, with Monique and with herself.

That disgust thrilled her. Yes, this was incest. She had her own niece naked, collared, chained, and helplessly trembling around her fingers. It was ‘wrong’ in ways even beyond the rest of what the Queen of the Owls had done. With that transgression, she announced herself: she would do as she pleased, and damn what anyone else thought. Damn society, damn her self-righteous brother, even damn the prudish niece who had quested against her and now squirmed as she soaked Monique’s fingers.