Akidna's boots clicked softly against the polished flagstones of the garrison's upper wing, each step a measured echo in the hush of late afternoon.

The air here carried the faint tang of polished steel and lingering incense from the morning's hurried ablutions—remnants of a court that had teetered on the edge of ruin and now pretended at normalcy.

Her fingers twisted the hem of her cloak, a habit born of impatience, as she approached the heavy oak door to Aiden's temporary quarters. A room befitting a "guest of honor," though the irony twisted her lips into a wry half-smile.

She paused, hand raised, and knocked—three sharp raps that cut through the quiet like accusations. No answer at first, only the muffled thump of something rhythmic from within, like distant war drums muffled by velvet. The door was locked, of course. Aiden's precautions were as much habit as necessity.

"Aiden," she called, voice steady but laced with the exasperation of familiarity. "Your things are packed. The carriage awaits. We can return to the House of Leonidus before dusk catches us."

A beat of silence, broken only by a low, feminine gasp from the other side—sharp, needy. Then his voice, rough and unhurried, filtered through the wood: "Come in, Akidna. It's unlocked now."

She sighed, the sound long-suffering, and twisted the latch. The door creaked open gradually, inch by inch, and with it came the sounds she'd half-expected:

obscene moans, throaty and unrestrained, weaving through the air like smoke— "Ahhhnngh... yes... deeper, you brute..." —punctuated by the relentless collision of skin to skin, a wet, rhythmic slap that spoke of unyielding fervor.

Akidna's cheeks warmed, but she pressed on, slipping inside and easing the door shut behind her with a soft click. She'd grown accustomed to this symphony of Aiden's conquests; it was as much a part of him as his golden eyes or that damnable smile.

The room was dimly lit by shafts of fading sunlight slanting through arrow-slit windows, casting long shadows over the disarray: a rumpled bed with sheets twisted like battlefield banners, a discarded gauntlet on the floor, and in the center of it all, the spectacle that had become his signature.

Akidna straightened her glasses with a precise flick, her dark eyes taking it in without flinching, and offered a small, formal bow—to the woman pinned against the edge of the sturdy oak desk, not to Aiden himself.

"My lady," she murmured, deference crisp in her tone. The Countess of Wessex—elegant even in ruin, her once-pristine gown torn at the bodice and skirts, hanging in ragged tatters that exposed the pale curve of her back and the flush of her thighs.

Black hair, usually coiled in severe braids befitting her station as wife to the disgraced Earl and mother to young Aethal, now spilled in wild, disheveled waves down her shoulders.

Aiden's fist was tangled in it, yanking her head back with rough command as he plowed into her from behind, non-stop, each thrust a deep, claiming drive that made her body jolt forward against the desk's edge.

Her golden eyes—sharp, aristocratic, once cold as winter forges—were half-lidded now, glazed with satisfaction, lips parted on endless, breathy pleas: "Oh gods... Aiden... don't stop... fuuuck..."

The Countess had played her part masterfully in the Earl's downfall, whispering poisons into the right ears, forging alliances in shadowed alcoves—all to pave the way for her son's ascension, Aethal, the reluctant heir turned reluctant savior.

She'd bartered her husband's legacy for a brighter one, and in the chaos, Aiden had seen the opportunity. Now, she reaped her reward in gasps and shudders, while he claimed his: the unraveling of a noblewoman's composure, thread by silken thread.

With a final, guttural grunt, Aiden withdrew and threw her down—not gently, but with the controlled force of a man who knew exactly how far to push.

The Countess hit the floor on her back amid the scattered cushions, her chest heaving in ragged bursts, body jittering from the aftershocks of countless climaxes—limbs trembling, skin sheened with sweat, a faint quiver rippling through her core as if the echoes of pleasure still pulsed within.

She lay there, golden eyes locked on him, lips swollen and parted, a low whine escaping: "Moooore... please... I need..."

Akidna cleared her throat, arms crossed over her chest, one eyebrow arched behind her glasses. "Shall I keep watching, then? Or .....join in? The carriage won't wait forever."

Aiden glanced over his shoulder, his smile that dangerous curve—sated yet predatory—as he wiped sweat from his brow. "Watch," he commanded, voice low and brooking no argument. "That's all you're allowed today, Akidna."

She puffed her cheeks in mock indignation, a childish gesture at odds with her poised frame, and adjusted her glasses with a sharp nudge. "As you wish, sir Aiden," she replied dryly, though her gaze lingered a fraction too long on the tableau, a flicker of something unreadable in her dark eyes.

Aiden dropped to the floor with predatory grace, reining over the Countess like a conqueror claiming spoils.

He positioned himself between her splayed thighs, guiding his rod—still thick, glistening with her essence—back to her entrance with deliberate slowness, teasing the slick folds until she whimpered, hips bucking up in desperate plea.

Then he thrust in again, gradual at first, filling her inch by inch until she arched off the cushions with a throaty moan.

"Aiiiiddddeeeennnn... yessssss... fiiiillll meeeee!" Her legs wrapped around his back instinctively, heels digging into his spine, pulling him deeper as he began to pound her anew—harder, faster, the rhythm building to that familiar, brutal cadence that made her breasts bounce and her nails rake bloody trails down his arms.

Plat! Plat! Plat! Plat!

The Countess's voice broke on a sob of ecstasy, her body yielding utterly beneath him.

"Take me with you," she gasped between moans, golden eyes pleading even as her walls clenched around him in rhythmic spasms.

"To the Leonidus fief... please, Aiden... I can't... ahh... I can't let you leave me. Not after this... heaven... for the first time... ooooohhhh... cuuuummmiiiinggg!"

He didn't slow, hips snapping with relentless power, driving her toward another shattering peak—her back bowing off the floor, a long, quivering wail tearing from her throat:

"Uuuuuhhhhhnnn... fuuuuck meeeee... more...!" Aiden's price, as always, was steep—etched in loyalty deeper than blood oaths. "Only if you're ready to sell your soul," he murmured against her ear, voice a velvet growl amid the frenzy.

"Give your body fully to me. Join my club, Countess. Swear it, and you're mine—body, secrets, everything."

Still pounded deep, her body a quivering ruin beneath his brutish dick, she shattered again—walls fluttering wildly, a prolonged howl escaping: "Yessss... allll of yoooouuuu... take it...!"—but clarity pierced the haze, jealousy sharpening her golden gaze.

"Then why... oh gods... why is that green-haired bitch, the Countess of Saxon, going with you? In the name of meeting Lady Catherine? I know... mmmph... she's just as addicted... gaining the upper hand... she's going with you!"

Aiden's rhythm faltered for a heartbeat, then surged harder, punishing—each thrust a claim, a reminder of his dominion.

Plat! Plat! Plat! Plat! PLAT! PLAT! PLAT! PLAT!

He chased his release with final, savage drives, burying himself to the hilt as the Countess convulsed one last time beneath him, her orgasm crashing in waves

"Aaaaaahhhhhh... RUIN meeeee...!" He followed with a muffled roar against her shoulder, spewing all his cum inside her in hot, pulsing jets—filling her until it leaked in creamy rivulets down her thighs, marking her as thoroughly his.

He rose slowly, standing over her spent form—chest heaving, golden eyes distant with satisfaction—as she lay there, body limp and glowing, breaths coming in shattered sobs of bliss.

"Because," Aiden said at last, voice calm now, laced with that unyielding certainty, "she already gave her soul to me fully, While I sense confusion in your surrender..."

Akidna exhaled a quiet laugh from the corner, pushing off the wall where she'd leaned to observe. "Poetic as ever. Shall we leave the Countess to... compose herself? The House of Leonidus awaits, and Lady Flora won't appreciate tardiness."

The Countess stirred weakly, one hand reaching toward him, golden eyes pleading even in exhaustion.

"I...I..." She could not speak any further, he told the truth, her heart still wasn't ready, maybe, if he could seduce her to come with him, but....

Aiden only smiled—that slow, dangerous unfurl, wearing his pants back—and turned toward the door, leaving the echo of her whimpers behind.

The garrison's halls would whisper of many things in the days to come, but this? This was a secret sealed in sweat and seed, another thread in the web he wove toward whatever ruin or salvation lay ahead..

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