Feral King (The Dominant Bastard Duology 1)

“She likes being useful.” He shrugged innocently. “I’m just being friendly.”

“Careful now,” she said, putting the bowl down by his elbow and handing him the spoon for the potatoes. “You don’t mind this one, but if you push her too hard with your peculiarities, she’s going to leave.”

“The girl won’t leave,” he said, his lip curling in amusement. “I pay her too much.”

Chapter Three

“Do you have to be in here?” he growled.

“Sutton wants me with you today.”

Severin’s top lip curled but he didn’t order Minnow out. It was the first time she’d trespassed into his lair, and she and Sutton had both agreed he’d probably toss her out on her ass. This was progress. It was hard to work with a man who seemed determined to ignore her. Church had been gone a week, and Severin had barely said a word to anyone.

Sometimes she caught him looking at her, his expression inscrutable. Usually his attention seemed to be distrust or irritation, but there were times she caught flickers of something else. Interest? Or maybe the fact that they were alone together so much made her see things that weren’t there.

It was so wrong, but between his gruff commands and his imperious aloofness, the man triggered every submissive reaction she owned. Normally she had no problem resisting dominant men when she wanted to, but Severin Leduc was ugly and mean and dangerous, and had a beautifully muscled and tattooed body that she wanted to lick. The power that emanated from him was lethal in a way her brain translated as sexual, and she kept fighting not to think about how big he was and what he might do to her.

Not that he would do anything. They’d been alone often enough and he didn’t so much as flirt. Forget flirting, he even flinched from accidental contact. She didn’t miss the way he kept meticulous space between them.

And the rules. There were so many. Every time Minnow thought she had a handle on them, they changed slightly. Some of the rules applied to everyone. Many were only for her. Sometimes it felt as if he was grooming her to

be what he wanted in a companion, but sometimes his random demands felt like deliberate punishment for being in his space.

“Sit in that chair,” he said, pointing.

If she sat in the chair to the left or right of the one he indicated, he’d get pissy and make her move. There were times she did it on purpose, but she cut him some slack, considering he’d let her stay in the workshop.

“Don’t touch anything.”

“Yes, S – Mister Leduc.” Damn. That was close. There’d been so many times she’d almost called him sir without intending to. A hazard of her past two relationships being D/s. Hopefully if she ever slipped, he’d think she was just being extra deferential.

He turned away and drew a glowing piece of metal out of the forge with a pair of tongs. The dirty canvas apron he wore over his chest did nothing to obscure his bare back. It was impossible to look away from the play of muscle under the collection of monochromatic demons tattooed over the wide expanse of his back and shoulders, blending into the ones on his arms. The demons fought, fucked, and ate each other, their faces twisted in agony and ecstasy, but it was the man who wore them that drew the eye.

For ages she watched him heat the metal, bludgeon it with a hammer. As the reddish orange heat faded, he would slide the piece back into the forge. No small talk. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he’d forgotten she was there. When he went back to working the metal, he switched the hammer to his left hand without any hesitation, completely ambidextrous in his work.

The flex of his arms as he worked, beautiful and mesmerizing, had her fantasizing again before she realized she was doing it. Slowly, the piece took shape, the serpentine body and rearing head of a cobra rising gradually out of the hot metal.

His big hands on the tools, with his scarred knuckles and thick fingers, had her squirming unintentionally in her seat as she imagined him holding her down, spanking her. She couldn’t imagine taking two of his fingers would be comfortable, and the rough calluses would hurt. One finger would be doable, but two? He’d have to be patient. She could almost feel the stretch of her pussy as he coaxed a second finger into her body, his cruel gaze focused on her as he forced her to take it –

“If it’s too warm in here, Miss Korsgaard, go outside.” His voice startled her. “Are you prone to fainting?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your cheeks say otherwise.”

Her hands flew to her face, and the heat emanating from her cheeks was extreme. “Maybe I’ll take off my sweater.”

He grunted and went back to work. She unzipped her hoody and drew it off then realized he was watching her even though he was still hammering the metal. When she looked up, she briefly met his enigmatic gaze before he refocused his attention on his work.

“What?”

“Your clothing is inappropriate.”

She glanced down at her top and jeans, wondering what he was talking about. “You don’t like what I’m wearing?”

“This isn’t a fashion show.”

She laughed. “It doesn’t get much more casual than this – unless you have some rags I can borrow? Maybe a slave collar? Do I get to wear shoes or do you want me to suffer?”