Chained to My Mistress: Her Slave, Her Lover, Her Obsession

The carriage rumbled away from the auction gates, its lanterns swaying like fireflies in a jar. Inside, velvet cushions muffled every jolt, but Eira still felt each cobblestone through the soles of her bare feet. The collar's weight stayed constant at her throat, metallic and cold, though the leash now rested slack in Lady Seraphine's gloved hand.

Neither woman spoke.

Eira kept her gaze lowered to a tasteful degree - respectful, not broken. She studied the carriage floor, noticing filigree vines etched into the brass plates beneath her toes. Even here, beauty served power.

Rain began to patter against the roof, soft and insistent. The cool scent of damp earth drifted through a small window left cracked for air. When the wheels turned onto smoother stone, Eira guessed they had reached the Valdryssia estate road. An iron gate screeched open, then clanged shut behind them.

"Look up," Seraphine said, voice no louder than a whisper yet impossible to disobey.

Eira raised her eyes to the opposite window.

The manor appeared through the darkness - a silhouette of spires, balconies, and stained-glass arches, every line as sharp as cut obsidian. Lanterns ringed the grounds, their flames shielded by ruby glass that washed the gardens in crimson glow. Thorned rosebushes, pruned into devouring shapes, bordered a marble path that led straight to twin doors of polished black ironwood.

A private world, walled from mercy.

The carriage stopped beneath a vaulted portico. Rain drummed on slate tiles overhead while liveried footmen hurried forward. They wore gray uniforms with silver thread at the cuffs, eyes fixed on the ground. One opened the door, bowing so low his cap nearly touched his boots.

Seraphine stepped out first. The hem of her gown never brushed the wet stone; she moved with such practiced precision that even the rain seemed unsure whether it should fall on her. She turned and lifted the leash, giving a gentle yet undeniable tug.

Eira followed, bare feet meeting chilly marble. She resisted the urge to shiver. Through the collar she felt an almost imperceptible hum - magic recognizing territory.

Servants lined the entrance hall beyond the doors, women and men both, all silent. Their faces betrayed nothing. Only a tall woman in a perfectly tailored charcoal dress dared look directly at Seraphine. Silver hair coiled tight at her nape, expression carved from granite.

"Miriel," Seraphine said. "The girl is Eira. She will serve me exclusively. Furnish her quarters and attire. Keys to no doors but mine. Understood?"

"Understood, my lady," Miriel replied. Her voice was low, shaped by long years of swallowed opinions.

Seraphine slipped the leash's clasp free of the collar. The touch was brief - silk brushing steel - yet Eira felt her pulse quicken. Without the tether she was still bound, and they both knew it.

Miriel inclined her head toward a side corridor. "Come."

Eira followed, leaving the cathedral-sized foyer behind. The corridor's lanterns burned with steady white witch-light, illuminating paneled walls of dark walnut. No tapestries, no portraits. Only polished wood and the faint scent of lemon oil.

"You will rise an hour before Lady Valdryssia," Miriel said, walking briskly. "Prepare bathwater exactly thirty-eight degrees and jasmine tea brewed six minutes. She dislikes steam fogging the mirrors. Wipe them after you pour."

Eira committed every word to memory.

"She dines at seven bells and again at dusk," Miriel continued. "You will stand to her left unless she indicates otherwise. Speak only when questioned. Errors earn silence first, consequences later."

They passed a set of frosted windows. Lightning flashed beyond, revealing a courtyard pond whipped by rain. Stone nymphs knelt in its center, their marble wrists locked in chains that dipped below black water.

"Your uniform," Miriel said, opening a narrow door, "will arrive by dawn."

The room beyond was small yet finely appointed - mahogany wardrobe, narrow bed with crimson coverlet, a writing desk, and a silver washbasin already steaming. A pair of soft black slippers waited by the bed. Someone had measured her feet.

Miriel lingered at the threshold. "The bellpull rings directly to my quarters and to her ladyship's. Use it only for fire, blood, or death."

"Yes, Head Maid," Eira said, voice steady.

A flicker of something - surprise, perhaps approval - crossed Miriel's eyes. "Rest, then. Tomorrow will not be gentle."

The door clicked shut.

Eira exhaled slowly. For the first time since the auction hall, she was alone. She washed, careful not to wet the collar, then stood before the small mirror above the basin.

Water traced down her collarbones, catching yellow candlelight. The runes in the obsidian band reflected crimson, faint yet constant, like banked embers. She lifted a hand but did not touch them.

"I belong to you," she whispered, testing the words, tasting their weight.

In the mirror, her storm-gray eyes neither softened nor hardened. They simply watched.

At some unknown hour of night, a soft knock preceded the door's opening. A junior maid slipped inside, eyes down. She placed folded garments on the bed - a long-sleeved black dress, white apron, lace cuffs, starched cap - and set a ticking brass alarm clock on the desk before vanishing again.

Eira ran a fingertip over the uniform's fabric. Fine wool, smooth and strong. No frills beyond what formality required. A maid's armor.

She lay atop the coverlet, not daring to slip beneath, hands folded on her stomach. Rain whispered beyond the shutters. Wind moaned through chimney flues like distant voices. Yet the house itself felt still, listening.

Sleep came fitfully.

She dreamed of red lanterns swaying, of an onyx gown brushing stone, of a leash coiling around her wrist like a living serpent. A voice - low, amused - whispered questions she could not answer.

When the clock chimed five, she woke without needing its bell.

The servants' wing remained hushed as Eira slipped into the hallway, dressed and slippered, hair braided tight. Only Miriel waited by the main staircase, holding a silver tray with a key, a folded cloth, and a small tin of polish.

"First task," the head maid said, offering the tray. "Lady Valdryssia's riding boots. They must shine enough to see your reflection by the time she wakes."

Eira accepted the tray.

Miriel eyed her collar. "Others think the mistress seeks screaming pets to amuse her. They are wrong. She values service beyond beauty. Remember that."

"I will."

A faint nod, then Miriel disappeared down the corridor.

Eira descended to a dim boot-room lined with wooden racks. The pair set aside for polishing were black leather with silver buckles, already clean yet short of perfection. She knelt on a cushioned stool and began her work - slow, methodical circles, cloth whispered across leather.

Minutes stretched. The polish's scent - beeswax, clove, turpentine - filled the small room. Eira's hands moved steadily, though her mind drifted to crimson gardens, statues bound in marble sorrow, and a woman whose eyes burned like fresh wounds.

She buffed the final shine and caught her reflection in the leather - pale face, silver hair, collar clasp gleaming. A perfect mirror.

Footsteps approached.

Seraphine stood in the doorway, already dressed in a deep wine morning robe, hair loose down her back in shining auburn waves. No servants flanked her; she walked these halls like a reigning ghost.

Eira rose, boots cradled on the tray. She met the mistress's gaze with that same respectful stillness.

Seraphine looked at the boots, then at Eira's face. Rain-shadow light from a high window painted her features in soft gray.

"Well done," she said, accepting the tray herself. The faintest, almost imperceptible curve touched her lips - an acknowledgment rather than a smile.

Eira felt warmth bloom in her chest where fear might have taken root.

"Follow," Seraphine added.

She turned, and Eira kept half a pace behind, silent. They climbed the grand staircase together. Outside, the storm lightened; dawn's first pale blue edged the stained glass. Within that fragile glow, mistress and maid ascended side by side, tethered not by leash but by an understanding neither yet spoke aloud.

For the moment, silence was reward enough.