The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth, thawing frost, and the faint, sweet promise of spring.The st vestiges of winter were clinging on, patches of snow stubbornly refusing to melt in the deepest shadows, but the days were getting longer, the sun warmer, and the world was slowly waking up from its long slumber.Soon, I thought,this whole pce will be green again. Wonder if Ashara will make me Shadow Dance through a field of wildflowers… naked.I shivered, and it wasn’t entirely from the lingering chill.

  This was it. My final test. The culmination of weeks – months, really – of Ashara’s relentless, brutal, and often humiliating training. I stood at the edge of the sprawling gardens that surrounded the mansion, a knot of anticipation tightening in my chest. But this time, the knot wasn’t just nerves. It was… excitement. A thrill of confidence I hadn’t felt before. And the objective: an enchanted brooch. Small, easily concealed, but undoubtedly valuable, and, according to Ashara, “a fitting challenge for your… developing… skills.”

  The mansion itself was smaller than the Ravencrest estate, thankfully, but still imposing. A three-story structure of dark stone, with numerous windows – most of them dark – and a heavy, oak-paneled front door that looked like it could withstand a battering ram. Guards patrolled the perimeter, their movements predictable, their attention… x. Servants bustled around, carrying firewood, supplies, the business of the mansion. The grounds were meticulously ndscaped, with winding paths, manicured hedges, and the skeletal remains of what had probably been a rather impressive rose garden in the summer.Now, though, the ground was a mix of mud, melting snow, and the first, tentative shoots of green grass, a testament to the changing seasons.

  Easy, I thought, a smirk pying on my lips.Too easy.

  But I wasn’t going to compin. I’d earned this. I’d endured the poisons, the beatings, the endless drills, the…everything. I’d mastered Shadow Dancing, my agility had improved tenfold, and my senses were sharper than they’d ever been. I was… ready.

  Dusk was settling, painting the sky in shades of deep purple and fading orange, the perfect cover for my approach. I took a deep breath, focused my mind, and melted into the shadows of a rge, gnarled oak tree at the edge of the property.

  It was like stepping into another world. The darkness embraced me, cloaked me, empowered me. I moved, not walking, not running, but flowing, a whisper of movement, a fleeting shadow, barely a ripple in the fabric of the night.

  I navigated the gardens with a newfound grace and fluidity, my senses on high alert. I observed the guards’ patrol patterns, noting their timing, their blind spots, the way they favored one leg or constantly adjusted their helmets. Amateurs. I identified potential entry points – a slightly ajar window on the ground floor, a trellis leading to a second-story balcony, a conveniently pced drainpipe. Options. Plenty of options.

  I moved past the servants, close enough to smell the sweat on their skin, to hear the muttered compints about the lingering chill, but they never saw me. I was a ghost, a phantom, a figment of their imagination.

  Ashara would be proud,I thought, a flicker of satisfaction warming me from the inside out. Probably. Maybe. Okay, maybe not proud, but at least she wouldn’t be smacking me with that damned riding crop.

  The thrill of the hunt coursed through my veins, a heady mix of adrenaline and anticipation. This wasn’t just a test; it was agame. And I was pying to win.

  I reached the mansion walls, the stone cool and rough beneath my fingertips. I chose my entry point – the ajar window on the ground floor. It was a risk, closer to the guards’ patrol route, but it was also the quickest, the most direct. And I was feeling… confident.

  With a final gnce around, I slipped through the window, silent as a shadow, and stepped inside.

  ***

  The interior of the mansion was dimly lit, but far from deserted. The air thick with the scent of beeswax, old wood, and something… subtly floral. I found myself in what appeared to be a rge pantry, shelves lined with jars and bottles, the faint aroma of spices hanging in the air.

  I paused, listening. The sounds of the house were a constant hum of activity – the distant murmur of voices, the occasional clink of silverware, the muffled strains of music from somewhere deeper within, and the closer sounds of footsteps, of doors opening and closing, of servants going about their duties. This wasn’t going to be as easy as sneaking around the grounds.

  I moved out of the pantry and into a long, narrow corridor, the floorboards creaking softly beneath my weight despite my best efforts. Damn it. Need to work on that. The walls were lined with portraits, stern-faced ancestors staring down at me with disapproval. Probably wouldn’t approve of a half-naked rogue sneaking through their ancestral home. Oh well.

  I utilized the Shadow Dance, melting into the pools of darkness cast by the flickering sconces on the walls. It was more challenging here, inside, with less natural shadow to work with. And the constant movement – servants carrying trays, guards patrolling hallways, guests (presumably) wandering about – made it even harder to maintain the effect. I had to keep moving, keep shifting, keep adapting.

  I bypassed several guards, their heavy footsteps and bored conversations a clear warning of their approach. Each time, my heart leaped into my throat, my muscles tensing, ready to bolt. But each time, I managed to remain unseen, a fleeting shadow at the edge of their perception.

  I slipped past a pair of servants gossiping in a hallway, their words a meaningless blur as I focused on remaining unseen, pressing myself against the wall, holding my breath, feeling the rough texture of the tapestry against my skin.

  Then, disaster nearly struck.

  I entered what seemed to be a rge, unused parlor, the furniture shrouded in dust covers, the air stale and still. A perfect pce to catch my breath, to re-orient myself, to…

  And then, the door opened, and two servants bustled in, carrying candebras and armfuls of firewood.

  Shit.

  My Shadow Dance flickered, the sudden influx of light threatening to expose me. I dove for the nearest cover – a rge, ornate side table, draped with a heavy, embroidered tablecloth that reached almost to the floor.

  I scrambled underneath, pulling the tablecloth down around me, my heart pounding in my chest. The space was cramped, dusty, and smelled faintly of mothballs. I could hear the servants moving around the room, their voices close, too close.

  “Light the fire, Thomas,” one of them said, her voice brisk and efficient. “And be quick about it. The Lordwill be arriving soon, and he expects the room to be warm.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the other servant, presumably Thomas, replied.

  I held my breath, my muscles tense, listening to the sounds of their activity. The scraping of flint against steel, the crackle of the fire as it caught, the clinking of candles being pced in their holders. Each sound was a potential threat, a reminder of how close I was to being discovered.

  I could see their feet through the gap between the tablecloth and the floor, moving back and forth, so close I could have reached out and touched them. I stayed perfectly still, barely daring to breathe, praying they wouldn’t notice the slight bulge in the tablecloth, the faint tremor of my body beneath it.

  They worked for what felt like an eternity, lighting candles, arranging cushions, adjusting the fire. Finally, with a few st instructions and a muttered compint about the lord’s demanding nature, they left, closing the door behind them.

  I let out a shaky breath, my body trembling with relief. That was… too close. Way too close. I needed to be more careful. This wasn’t a training exercise anymore. This was real.

  I crawled out from under the table, dusting myself off, and took a moment to regain my composure. The encounter had shaken me, but it had also sharpened my focus. I needed to be more alert, more aware of my surroundings, more… rogue-like.

  I ascended a grand staircase, the plush carpet muffling my footsteps, and found myself on the second floor. The air was warmer here, and the sounds of the household were fainter, repced by a sense of quiet anticipation. This was where the family resided, where the valuables were likely kept. And where my target… hopefully… awaited.

  I moved along the hallway, peering into each room, my senses searching for any sign of… well, I wasn’t entirely sure what the enchanted brooch would look like, or where it would be hidden. Ashara had only said to retrieve the enchanted brooch.” Typical. No description, no hints, no… nothing. Just “enchanted brooch.” As if that narrowed it down. It could be anywhere in this sprawling mansion. Tucked away in a jewelry box, hidden in a secret compartment, dispyed openly on a dressing table… or even worn by someone. Gods, I hoped it wasn’t being worn.

  I stood there, frozen, my mind racing, my heart pounding, my carefully constructed confidence crumbling around me. I had infiltrated the mansion, bypassed the guards, evaded the servants, and found… this.

  And I had absolutely no idea what to do next.

  The young woman – Rosalind – was bound to the four-poster bed, her wrists secured with thick ropes, her eyes covered with a bck silk blindfold. She was wearing… nothing. And on her inner thigh, high and almost hidden, was a tattoo. A crescent moon, cradling a single star.

  What the hell was going on?

  She shifted slightly, her body moving restlessly against the ropes, and a soft moan escaped her lips. The sound… it was like a spark to dry tinder.

  My rogue’s training, Ashara’s warnings, the mission… it all faded into the background, repced by a primal, overwhelming urge. I knew I should leave. I knew I should turn around, walk away, find the damn brooch, and get out of here. This was… wrong. Dangerous. Stupid.

  But…

  But she was beautiful. Vulnerable. And… clearly expecting someone. Someone who wasn’t me.

  Before I could fully process the thought, before I could make a decision, she spoke again, her voice a little louder this time, a little more impatient.

  “Took you long enough,” she murmured. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”

  I took a step closer, my shadow falling across her body. She stilled, sensing my presence.

  “Who’s there?” she asked, a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

  “Rosalind,” I said, my voice a low whisper, she couldn’t see me through the blindfold. “It’s… me. Sam.”

  She tilted her head slightly, as if trying to see me through the silk. “Sam,” she repeated, my name a soft sigh on her lips. Then, a flicker of surprise crossed her face. “What are you doing here? My fiancé will be here any minute! You need to go!”

  “I know,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I… I just…” I couldn’t expin. I couldn’t tell her about the mission, about Ashara, about the… everything.

  She let out a frustrated sigh. “Gods, that idiot,” she muttered, mostly to herself. Then, she looked in my direction, a sudden, sharp determination in her voice. “Look, Sam. I’ve been waiting for hours. Hours. And I… I can’t wait any longer. I need to… someone. Now.”

  She paused, then added, her voice dropping to a whisper, a seductive purr that sent shivers down my spine. “So… are you going to ravish me? Or are you going to stand there all night?”

  It wasn’t a question. It was a command. An invitation. A dare. And, gods, I wasn’t about to back down.

  My hands moved before I could second-guess myself, reaching out to trace the ropes that bound her wrists, her arms pulled tight against the posts, the soft skin beneath. The pull to help was undeniable. To touch. To please.

  I kissed her.

  I broke the kiss, my breath ragged, my body on fire. I looked down at her, at her flushed skin, her parted lips, her blindfolded eyes.

  I knew I was making a mistake. I knew, with every fiber of my being, that this was a terrible idea. That when her noble lover arrived, I’d be caught red-handed. That Ashara would… well, I didn’t even want to think about what Ashara would do.

  But…

  I needed no further invitation, I thought, as I unbuttoned my tunic and took off my pants. The room was warm, and the fire was down to embers. And I knew, with a certainty that defied logic, that there was no turning back.

  “Tell me what you want,” I murmured, my lips brushing against her ear.

  “Fuck me, Sam,” she whispered, her voice raw, desperate. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

  And I did.

  I started slow, teasing, exploring. I kissed her deeply, my tongue tangling with hers, tasting her desperation, her desire. Her arms and legs, tied tight against the bed posts, struggled. Then, I moved lower, trailing kisses down her neck, across her colrbone, to the soft swell of her breasts.

  I took one nipple in my mouth, smiling up at her. This was intoxicating, her warm body, her struggle, the blindfold. I was suckling, teasing, drawing a moan from deep in her throat. Her arms struggled, I could see her bisceps, struggling against the rope, a grin on her face. That struggle only heightened my arousal.

  I inched lower, teasing her and kissing my way down her belly, gleaming under the candlelight,feeling her abs clench beneath my touch. I reached the juncture of her thighs, pausing, as I felt the restraints. Her legs struggled then, against the ropes, in a feeble attempt to keep control my access. I pushed back for a second, admiring her lithe figure, wiggling against the mattress, tied tight against the bedposts, hot to the touch, sexy, waiting for me.

  There, high on her leg, between her legs, was her tattoo. That sexy crescent moon and star, driving me forward. I brushed my lips against the tattoo, a soft, reverent kiss, and I felt her shiver.

  “Gorgeous,” I whispered. I looked up at her face. Her face scrunched up, clearly enjoying the caress.

  I used my tongue, my lips, my teeth, exploring every inch of her, tasting her, savoring her, driving her wild. Her taste was metallic, almost sweet. She was soaked. I found her clit, a small, sensitive bud hidden amongst the soft folds of her flesh, and I teased it, flicked it, sucked it, until she was writhing beneath me, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

  I slipped my finger inside, and she groaned. I smiled up at her, watching her struggle against the constraints. I worked my fingers into her, preparing her, feeling the slick heat of her arousal. She was so wet, so ready, so… responsive. It was intoxicating.

  She was a storm, and I was happily caught, drowning in her.

  “Faster,” she gasped, her voice a desperate plea. “Please… faster…”

  I felt her canal, my fingers exploting, teasing, massaging and moving in and out of her, my tongue swirling around her clit, my whole body focused on bringing her to the edge. I could feel her tightening around me, her inner muscles clenching, her breath coming in ragged gasps. This was fucking awesome, my cock? Yeah, it was ready to go.

  She arched her back, throwing her head back, her eyes squeezed shut, her legs straining against her bonds, a low, guttural moan rumbling in her chest. She was close. So close. And I knew exactly what was coming. This wasn’t my first rodeo with Rosalind, and if there was one thing I’d learned, it was that her orgasms weren’t just intense – they were… geological events.

  My heart hammered in my chest, a mixture of anticipation, excitement, and a healthy dose of “here we go again.” I braced myself, my fingers tightening their grip inside her, my tongue swirling, flicking, provoking…

  Here… it… came…

  She stilled for a moment, pulling against her bonds, as she let out a sharp, piercing scream, way too loud for my supposedly sneaky infiltration mission. So much for stealth, I thought wryly, as a wave of heat, intense and familiar, washed over me.

  She trembled, hard, her hands holding tight, her toes curled, her back arched, her knees raised, and then… she squirted.

  A godsdamned deluge. A tsunami of juices that drenched me, coated me, covered me, my face, my hair, my chest, everwhere. It was… excessive. Extravagant. And, honestly, amazing. Most women… didn’t do this. Most women… couldn’t. But Rosalind? Rosalind was a goddamned fountain. A geyser of pure pleasure. A sudden, intense gush of heat, a flood that soaked me top to bottom.. It was like standing under a warm waterfall, a surprisingly sweet-smelling waterfall that was currently erupting from the woman beneath me.

  I raised my head, slowly, deliberately, tasting her pleasure, the feel of it, the scent of it, the sheer, overwhelming proof of her pleasure. She was still trembling, her body still buzzing with the aftershocks of her orgasm, a look of blissful peace on her lips. And I… I was grinning like a fool. A soaked, sticky, utterly satisfied fool.

  “Wow, she said,” as her body finally rexed.

  She was an unquenchable minx. And, in that moment, I was her very willing, very drenched, accomplice.

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