The heated cups clung to Konrad’s back like warm, inverted bells, each pulling at his skin until the ache in his muscles turned to something looser, almost fluid.

He heard the physician murmur something to his assistant — and then realized the voice had changed.

“Stay still, my Lord,” a soft, accented lilt instructed. “This last one must sit longer.”

He froze. That voice.

Isla moved within his peripheral vision, dark hair bound high but still spilling loose in curls. Her eyes met his briefly before dropping to her work.

“Where is the physician?” he asked.

“Summoned to the palace. A fever in the royal wing,” she replied.

“I was asked to finish.”

Her hands worked with quiet efficiency, loosening the cups one by one. The air rushed back to his skin in little cool breaths. She dabbed each mark with a cloth steeped in mint water, the scent fresh enough to make him inhale deeper.

Her fingers brushed his shoulder as she positioned him, and he felt it — the deliberate slowness, the faint press of her fingertips against his skin as he lay down on his stomach, with only a tiny linen towel wrapped around his waist.

“You’re trusted enough to take his place?” he asked, half curious, half testing her.

“I’m trusted for more than tending to guests,” she said, leaning close so her words warmed his ear. “Sometimes I overhear things. Things a man like you should know.”

He turned his head, catching her gaze.

“And why tell me?”

Her lips curved.

“Because a man who looks at me as you do might also see me as more than property.”

The room seemed smaller after that.

Isla worked with the same tools the physician would have used, but her touch lingered longer, traced broader lines.

For the briefest second, while adjusting a cup near a deep scar on his ribs, Isla’s gaze dropped — not to his body, but somewhere far away. The faintest shiver ran through her shoulders. A memory had crept in uninvited: rough rope biting her wrists, a faceless voice barking orders in a language that was not her own, the crack of a lash. She pushed it away, smoothing her expression before he could notice.

When the last cup was removed and she bent to clean the drawn blood from his skin, her breath fanned over his back. She straightened, cloth in hand, and as she passed by his head, Konrad reached for her wrist.

Her eyes flickered down to his, he pulled her closer, cupping her face in one hand. The kiss started slow, but there was no mistaking the hunger in it. Her lips softened against his, her body leaning into the cradle of his arm until the cloth between them was the only barrier.

Her hands splayed over his chest, fingertips brushing the fresh marks from the cupping. She wasn’t timid — she touched as if she’d already imagined this moment.

Konrad sat on the bench, and Isla climbed onto his lap, straddling him with practiced grace. Her linen dress rode up, baring the tops of her thighs. His hands gripped her hips as she rolled them forward, pressing down on him.

Their mouths met again, harder this time, their breathing mingling. Each grind sent heat surging through him, the pressure growing unbearable.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured against her neck.

“I want my debt gone,” she whispered. “Freedom.”

He slid a hand up her scarred back, cupping her nape.

“And if I said I’d buy it?”

Her hips stilled for a heartbeat, then moved again, slower, deeper.

“Then you’d own more than just my body tonight.”

The words sent him to the edge. He clenched his jaw, holding himself back, letting the friction draw them both into a shared rhythm until he felt her tremble over him.

They didn’t stop.

He lifted her off his lap, setting her gently on the bench. His hands made quick work of the ties at her shoulder; the linen slid away, pooling at her hips.

Her breasts rose with each breath, nipples hard in the cool air, and he bent to take one into his mouth while his hand slid between her thighs. She arched under him, her fingers tangling in his hair.

“You don’t have to be gentle,” she gasped.

He wasn’t. His strokes grew firmer, his thrusts deeper when he moved over her, pressing her into the bench. The sounds in the room became their own language — her moans, his groans, the slap of skin, the catch of breath.

When the release came, it was fierce. She clung to him, legs wrapped around his hips, nails raking down his back. His climax tore through him, hot and shuddering, and for a long moment they stayed like that, bodies locked, chests heaving.

She lay beneath him, lips parted, eyes dark.

“Now you know what you will be buying, my lord,” she said, a faint smile tugging her mouth.

He brushed her hair back from her face.

“And you will know I’m not the kind of man who forgets a promise.”

Her smile faded into something softer — almost hope — as she drew him down for one more kiss.

The Deal

Isla and Konrad hurriedly dressed up before anyone enters the cupping room.

And then — as if both had agreed silently — the conversation slid into another current.

He asked questions without ever saying exactly why, and she answered without ever naming the thing she was revealing. Words passed between them that shifted something deep in him — a sense of duty reshaped, the weight of his place in the kingdom suddenly heavier and clearer.

“You would risk this much,” he said quietly, “only to vanish?”

Her gaze lifted to his.

“You promised me freedom. I will claim it. Whether you see me again… that is not for us to decide now.”

They straightened up their garments. She stepped back.

“You will have what you need, my Lord” she said and bowed low.

And he understood she was not only speaking of the information.

__________________________________________________________________________

The Last Night

Weeks after exchanging discreet messages, Konrad and Isla have reached the last part of their agreement.

The knight’s private chamber was lit by a single candelabrum, flames bending in the night air. He had sent for Isla quietly, arranging it so no one would question her absence from the bathhouse.

She entered in a simple dark gown, hair loose over her shoulders, with eyes that lit up like when he met her gaze for the first time.

“This night is yours,” he said, closing the door behind her. “No stone benches, no prying eyes. Just us.”

She smiled faintly. “And the papers for my freedom?”

“Signed. You’ll have them at dawn.”

She didn’t thank him — not with words. She moved to him, unfastening the front of his shirt, her fingers brushing the scars and hard planes of his chest.

Konrad took in every detail of her — the warm gold of her skin against the pale of his, the faint scent of clove and salt that clung to her from some island far south of Nuremberg, the way her hips shifted when she stepped closer.

When her lips touched his, he kissed her as if he could press time still.

Isla broke the kiss and said, “Tonight, I will set the pace.”

The heat within Konrad rose up to his neck. They made their way to the bed, his back meeting the cool linen. Isla climbed over him with slow, deliberate grace, her knees framing his hips.

Konrad’s hands traced up her thighs, over the swell of her hips, to the soft undercurve of her breasts, just like how he felt them in the bathhouse.

Isla leaned down, letting her nipples graze his chest before finding his mouth again.

Her pace was her own — controlled, unhurried — as though every movement was chosen. She held his shaft in her hand first. It was already tough, thick, and pulsing. She reached down, guiding him into her slowly — inch by inch until he was buried fully inside.

He groaned, the sound deep and raw, his hands instinctively gripping her hips.

A gasp escaped him. “God… you feel…”

She moved in a slow rhythm at first, hips rolling, each descent swallowing him whole. Her hair fell forward, brushing his face; he breathed her in, memorizing her scent, the taste of her skin with all its scars when he kissed the curve of her neck.

“Look at me,” she whispered.

He obeyed — and in her eyes he saw not surrender, but command. She set the pace, tightening around him, grinding until his groans deepened into something raw.

He cupped her breasts, sucked one nipple into his mouth, then the other, his tongue circling, teasing until she shivered. Her hands pressed against his chest for leverage as she moved harder, faster.

“Come with me,” she breathed, her voice breaking.

He thrust upward to meet her rhythm, his fingers gripping her hips. She rode him with fierce, rolling movements until their moans tangled, their bodies tensing together. The release hit them at once—his warm seed spilling into her as her own flooded around him, her thighs trembling.

For a long moment, Isla stayed astride Konrad, her breath mingling with his. His hands supported her waist. Then she sank down onto his chest, her cheek against his shoulder.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly, feeling the steady beat of her heart against his ribs.

“Stay,” he said into her hair. “I’ll give you more than freedom. Be my wife.”

She was silent for a beat too long, then lifted her head to meet his eyes. “You have given me exactly what you promised. Nothing more was part of the bargain.”

She pressed one last kiss to his mouth—soft, lingering—then slid from the bed.

Konrad, appalled by what she said, couldn’t speak. He just watched her dress in the candlelight, each movement a quiet undoing of him. She gathered her cloak, opened the door, and looked back.

“I will wait for the papers, my Lord. Thank you.”

Before he could utter a response, she stepped into the corridor and closed his chamber door.

The scent of her—cloves, salt, and something sweet—lingered on his skin long after the door closed.

And he knew: she had taken more from him than he had ever meant to give.