Interlude: The Kitchen Ledger
Callis stepped away from the door, keeping one hand hooked loosely through the leather strap of his satchel until the rhythmic thud of Mara’s paring knife against the chopping block settled the room back into its old working rhythm. The oppressive anxiety of the morning finally bled out into the ambient heat of the kitchen. Mara offered him a knowing smile before turning back to the scarred wooden table to resume peeling winter tubers, tossing the pale root vegetables into a copper bowl.
Yselle shifted her weight in her seat, letting her leather boots slide off the lower rung of the neighboring chair. She leaned back, shooting Callis a wicked grin that dispelled her earlier act of professional indifference at the forge. "You should have seen your face when you pushed through that door, Callis. You looked like a stray hound expecting a kick into the freezing slush."
Callis pulled a chair out and sat down, finally dropping his satchel onto the floorboards. The frantic arithmetic of ledgers and Guildmaster threats faded behind the heavy oak door, replaced by the crackle of the cast-iron stove. "I assumed I was walking into a tribunal. You let me sweat."
"You needed to sweat," Mara noted without looking up from her blade. "Men who make unilateral decisions involving merchant queens require a brief period of terror to keep them honest."
Yselle laughed, a low, rumbling sound in her chest. She shifted her posture, sliding her soot-stained left hand beneath the thick wool fabric of Lysa’s skirt. "We agreed hours ago we were keeping you. We just needed to establish that Damaris coin does not dictate the rules inside this room."
Lysa whimpered, her fingers gripping the sides of her ceramic cup as she tried to maintain her composure. Callis watched the baker's posture stiffen, a hectic flush crawling up her neck as Yselle set a slow, deliberate rhythm beneath the table. The sudden intrusion caused a splash of hot tea to spill over the rim of the mug and hit the wooden planks.
"Yselle, please," Lysa gasped, her voice trembling. She shot a desperate, embarrassed look toward Callis. "He just got back."
"He just got back, which means he gets to appreciate the progress you are making," Yselle countered, keeping her gaze locked on Callis. Her arm moved in steady, deep strokes beneath the wool. "Someone has to educate our third wife while you are off playing politics in the Lantern Ward. She had a tragic lack of practice before we brought her into the fold."
Callis leaned back in his chair, his political exhaustion burning away in a sudden flash of arousal. The sight of Yselle claiming Lysa in the middle of a mundane afternoon grounded him far more effectively than a drawn sword ever could. "What are you teaching her?"
"Endurance," Yselle stated. She twisted her wrist, drawing a sharp, fractured gasp from Lysa's lips. "I spend my afternoons stretching her out and teaching her how to accommodate a demanding man. She tends to hold her breath and lock her hips when she gets overwhelmed. I am showing her how to loosen her spine and push back."
Lysa squeezed her eyes shut, abandoning her grip on the tea mug to brace her hands flat against the table edge. Her fingernails dug into the scarred wood as she tried to weather the sensation. "She has no mercy, Callis," Lysa managed to say, her breath tearing through her teeth. "She just corners me by the stove and makes me practice until my legs shake."
"I am ensuring she is primed for you whenever you drag yourself back from the mud and the monster hunting," Yselle said. She accelerated the pace of her hand, the wet sound of her fingers sliding into Lysa cutting clearly through the quiet kitchen. "We share the maintenance of this hearth. Mara keeps the kitchen running, and I make sure our newest addition is prepared for your return."
Mara shook her head at the display, picking up another winter tuber to peel without missing a stroke. Her casualness cemented the reality of their dynamic for Callis. The women did not tolerate each other to share his bed; they operated as an intertwined unit that bypassed traditional boundaries entirely. The smell of roasting meat mingled with the physical musk of arousal filling the small space.
"Try not to make her scream too loud," Mara advised dryly, tossing the paring knife onto the board. "The taproom is starting to fill up for the midday rush, and I prefer my patrons to eat their stew without wondering what is happening on my cutting boards."
Yselle ignored the warning. She curled her fingers upward, striking a sensitive nerve that sent a violent shudder through Lysa's frame. Lysa let out a ragged moan, her hips bucking against the seat of her wooden chair as the friction overwhelmed her senses. Her thighs clamped down around Yselle’s wrist as a climax ripped through her core. She slumped forward over the table, burying her flushed face in her arms while her chest heaved with dragged, shallow breaths.
Callis stared at the display unfolding beside the cutting board. He watched Yselle slow her movements and extract her glistening fingers from beneath the wool skirt. She lifted her hand, displaying the slick evidence of her afternoon lessons with a smug, territorial pride. Callis felt the aching pulse of his own need responding to the sight. The Elderforest could take blood, coin, and sleep from him, but it could not touch the kitchen that had already decided to keep him.