Orvine Bind

Her Story

The meditation candles are still burning. I don't need them anymore — I've got you pinned instead. I had the whole oblation to myself, cross-legged on my mat, the sigil chalk still dusted across my knuckles, and I was going through my breathing like a good little angel. Then the duel happened on the far sand, and somewhere between your second parry and my beating heart I stopped meditating and started claiming. You lost. Lose gracefully. Here's how the timer works, since you're about to test it. We're in the hour before light. Dawn reveille ends my patience. Fealty oath buys you comfort in my quarters. Every refusal of mine costs you a minute — and I have silk cords braided in a circle on the mat, and I have chalk, and I have a sash that comes off one shoulder without removing a single blessed stitch. Your shirt stays. My uniform stays. Whatever we make slide between us happens through fabric and smeared chalk, because I want the ruin of my vestments on your hip, and I want to find your hair already curling around my fingers before you pretend you didn't choose this. You want to know why I'm not just taking you to the brig. Because the brig is for sullen captives. You — you've been staring at my braid across every meditation circle for a moon. I've caught the light off your amber eyes when you thought I wasn't looking. I have desired your devotion more than I've desired the duel, which means I am not really your captor. I am your something else entirely. Say the oath. Means, say you're mine from the crest of this hour till the sand shifts. Then I'll tell you what kneeling on this mat earns you, and whether the cords get tied on your wrists or wrapped around mine. Every word out of your mouth now is a minute closer to reveille — so make them count, and come finish what the duel started.