Cassia Side Story: The Ironwood Request
The heavy oak door settled firmly into its frame, shutting out the freezing wind and the frantic crunch of Callis’s boots sprinting toward the merchant district.
Silence descended over the warm kitchen, broken only by the steady crackle of the hearth fire and the soft hiss of rendering bacon fat.
Mara let out a rich, chest-deep laugh. She lifted her clay coffee mug, tapping it lightly against the air in a silent toast to the Spymaster.
Across the table, Cassia returned the gesture. She took a slow sip of her spiced tea, her sharp grey-blue eyes gleaming over the rim of the delicate porcelain cup. The high-born lady looked immaculate in her dark velvet dress, every silver hair pinned flawlessly in place, projecting the very image of Imperial authority.
But as Cassia lowered her cup to the saucer, her aristocratic gaze drifted.
Mara turned her back to the table to grab a fresh dish rag from the iron hook. As she reached up, the practical linen of her tavern gown pulled taut against her frame, heavily outlining the thick, plush curve of her hips and the massive, sun-browned weight of her thighs.
Cassia’s eyes tracked the movement with the dark, starving focus of a predator watching a wounded stag. The polished mask of the Arathorian Spymaster cracked, letting the feral, unhinged degenerate bleed straight through.
"Speaking of which," Cassia murmured, her voice dropping into a smooth, predatory hum. She reached out, tracing the porcelain rim of her teacup with a manicured finger. "Do you happen to keep a leather harness in this wonderfully debauched tavern of yours?"
Mara paused.
The heavy clay coffee mug hovered just inches from her lips. She turned her head, looking over her shoulder at the high-born lady. A dark, curious eyebrow arched upward.
"I keep several," Mara answered, her tone cautious but deeply amused. "Why?"
Cassia leaned back in the wooden chair, letting her velvet skirts pool around her legs. The refined posture vanished, replaced by a ruthless, unapologetic hunger that made her look terrifyingly similar to her lethal brother.
"Because my tongue is exceptional, Matriarch, and I thoroughly enjoyed my breakfast," Cassia stated, her eyes dropping deliberately to the heavy swell of Mara's ass. "But I find myself feeling greedy this morning. I want to strap on a thick piece of carved wood, bend you right over that butcher block, and hear that fat ass clap."
Mara’s breath hitched.
The sheer, blunt filth of the statement hit her like a physical blow. A fresh, heavy throb of heat pulsed instantly deep inside her pelvis. Between her thick thighs, the lingering soreness from the night before vanished, replaced by a sudden, scalding wave of fresh slickness that immediately dampened her cotton undergarments.
Cassia saw the reaction. The spymaster watched the tavern owner’s dark eyes dilate, watched the subtle, involuntary tightening of her thighs, and offered a slow, wicked smile in return.
Mara didn't look away. She slowly turned around, leaning her plush hips back against the counter. She raised the clay mug to her lips and took a long, deliberate sip of her black coffee, letting the caffeine and the raw anticipation burn down her throat.
A feral, corrupted smirk spread across the matriarch's face.
"Top drawer of the heavy oak dresser in my bedroom," Mara rumbled softly, her voice thick and vibrating with sudden heat. "Boiled leather and polished ironwood. It was custom-made by the local smith, so it has plenty of girth."
Cassia’s eyes flared with dark delight. She stood up from the table, her silk napkin fluttering to the floorboards. She walked across the kitchen with slow, predatory grace, stopping just inches away from the tavern owner.
"Boiled leather and ironwood," Cassia repeated, the words rolling off her tongue like a prayer. She reached out, her pale fingers lightly tracing the heavy, linen-draped curve of Mara's hip. "I have one more question, Matriarch."
Mara tilted her head, her breathing already growing shallow. "Ask."
"Since my little brother seems to have cultivated an entire frontier harem of mature, neglected tradeswomen," Cassia purred, her thumb brushing a slow circle against Mara's thigh. "Do you think he would mind if I sampled the rest of his collection while I am visiting?"
Mara let out a low, vibrating chuckle. She set her coffee mug down on the edge of the butcher block, resting her hands on the laces of her gown.
"Callis doesn't hoard his meals," Mara explained, her voice a warm, heavy rumble. "He is remarkably generous. And honestly, Cassia... if you ask him nicely, he would probably hold the baker's wife down for you himself."
Cassia's polished facade broke into a grin of pure, ravenous delight.
"I love this territory," the spymaster breathed.
"Go fetch the harness, Spymaster," Mara commanded softly, pulling the linen laces loose and letting the fabric fall open. "We have a lot of work to do before your brother gets back."