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

Gray dawn seeped through high windows, tinting the corridor with pearl light. Eira followed Lady Seraphine toward the mistress's private suite, half a pace behind, carrying a lacquered tray that balanced three glass phials, a porcelain teacup, and a folded linen napkin. Her new shoes - soft black leather - made no sound on the marble; only the faint jingle of the collar hinge marked her passage.

The clock had not yet struck six. The household still breathed in hushed rhythms, but in this wing silence felt heavier, deliberate, as if the walls themselves obeyed a rule never spoken aloud.

Seraphine paused at a double door carved with thorned roses. She did not look back, yet Eira sensed the brief flick of scarlet eyes checking the tray's steadiness. Satisfied, the mistress pushed the door open and flowed inside. Eira followed.

The suite resembled a chapel to midnight. Velvet curtains in deepest garnet draped tall windows, drawn just enough to let the weak dawn glow paint silver on the polished floors. A four-poster bed, canopied in sheer black gauze, occupied the center like an altar. On the right stood a dressing table of ebony and glass. Every brush, jar, and vial sat aligned to a ruler-straight line.

"Begin," Seraphine said.

That single word served as both permission and examination.

Eira crossed to the ensuite bath, its copper tub already filled from an earlier servant's silent labor. Steam curled in languid arabesques. She uncorked the tallest phial - pale gold bath oil scented with jasmine and myrrh - and poured precisely fifteen drops, counting by heartbeats. Next came the smallest bottle: two drops of bloodroot elixir, enough to tint the water faint rose and soothe tired muscles. The scent deepened, floral layered over iron-tinged spice.

She checked the tub's heat with the back of her wrist. Thirty-eight degrees, just as Miriel had drilled into her. Good.

When she returned to the bedchamber, Seraphine had already shrugged free of her robe. Satin nightgown clung to her tall form, the color of black cherries, buttons of jet down the spine. Hair spilled over her shoulders in silken auburn waves.

"Assist," she said, facing the window so dawn haloed her outline.

Eira set the tray aside. Her fingers found the top button, worked it free, then the next. Each click of glass through silk echoed in her pulse. She smelled skin washed in violet soap, felt warmth rising from Seraphine's back. When the last button slid loose, the nightgown slithered to the floor in a dark sigh.

Smooth shoulders, flawless pale skin, the curve of a spine too straight to break. Eira swallowed and stepped back.

Seraphine walked to the bath without another glance. She descended into the perfumed water like royalty into a throne. A soft exhale escaped her lips, first hint of vulnerability Eira had heard.

As steam enveloped the mistress, Eira laid out fresh towels beside the tub, then returned to the dressing table to prepare garments: a high-necked mourning dress of charcoal silk, matching gloves, silver hairpins, a single onyx ring. She aligned each item exactly parallel to the table's edge.

Behind her, water lapped gently. Minutes passed. Rain tapped at the windows again. The solitude thickened.

"Tea," Seraphine called, voice drifting through steam.

Eira poured jasmine tea steeped six minutes, three sugar cubes, unstirred. Cup and saucer rattled only once as she carried them - the slightest tremor. She cursed the slip, placed cup on a small marble stand beside the tub, handle angled precisely toward Seraphine's right hand.

Scarlet eyes lifted to her face. They lingered not on her collar or hands, but on the faint quiver that still lived in her fingertips. A slow blink, unreadable, then the mistress turned away, taking the cup without comment.

Silence resumed, heavier.

Eira breathed once, twice, until her hands lay still.

When water grew quiet, Seraphine rose, droplets gleaming on her skin like quicksilver. Eira wrapped a towel around her shoulders, another around her waist, careful, reverent. The mistress allowed it. Together they returned to the dressing area, steam trailing like ghost veils.

"Brush," Seraphine said, seating herself before the mirror.

Eira picked up an ivory-handled brush. One hundred strokes, Miriel had instructed. No fewer, no more. Each pass drew gleams of copper fire through the auburn mass. The reflection showed Eira's concentration, lips parted in measured breaths, storm-gray eyes flicking between hair and collar clasp.

Stroke ninety-two. Ninety-three.

A single strand tangled—too quickly, or her angle was wrong. The brush tugged.

Seraphine's posture stiffened.

The room seemed to contract. Eira eased the snarl free with fingers first, then slow strokes, gentle. But the misstep hung in the air like an unspoken verdict.

Stroke one hundred. Done.

She set the brush down, stepped back, hands folded, heartbeat a drum within her ribs.

Seraphine met her gaze in the mirror. No anger colored her expression, yet the chill in her eyes cut deeper than any shouted rebuke. An interminable breath passed before she spoke.

"Fetch the mirror cloth."

Voice even. No warmth, but no ice either.

Eira retrieved the square of gray linen from the tray and returned. Seraphine lifted one black-gloved palm.

"Clean the glass."

The looking glass spanned ceiling to floor. Without asking why, Eira dampened the cloth at a crystal decanter and wiped. The surface already gleamed; still she polished until not a single streak dared remain. Hours seemed to breathe by while she worked.

Finished, she stepped aside. Seraphine stood, fully dressed now, charcoal gown hugging her frame, silver pins catching the light like tiny daggers.

"Face the mirror," the mistress said.

Eira obeyed.

Two figures reflected: the mistress, statuesque in silks, and behind her the maid in black uniform, collar a stark ring of darkness at her throat. Seraphine's red eyes shifted between their images, studying the pair as a painter scrutinizes balance.

"You will not hesitate next time," she said, soft but absolute.

"Yes, my lady," Eira murmured.

A gloved finger lifted, brushed a stray silver hair from Eira's cheek, tucked it behind her ear—a gesture tender in motion, possessive in intent.

Then Seraphine turned, dress whispering across the floorboards. At the door she paused, head angled slightly.

"Seven bells. Dining chamber. Do not be late."

She left.

Eira remained before the mirror, watching herself, tracing the line where the collar met skin. No bruise marked her. No cane striped her legs. Yet the sting of that cold stare burned hotter than punishment.

She drew one slow breath, exhaled, and straightened her shoulders.

Next time, she would not falter.