That night, Lady Isolde came to Cairon's guest chamber alone.
She wore a gown of black silk that shimmered like oil in candlelight. It clung to her figure, cut daringly low across the chest, revealing the full swell of her perfect breasts. Her curves were generous, the kind no maiden could possess. Isolde had a mother's body. A woman's body. She was twenty-eight, and more seductive than ever.
It infuriated Cairon just how breathtakingly beautiful his stepmother truly was.
She was the one he hated most in the world. The woman who had cruelly abused him when he was a child. She had tormented him, ordered him whipped, humiliated him before servants, called him filth, a bastard, forced him to sleep among dogs, treated him like something rotten and vile.
And yet, she was also the source of his earliest lust. The cause of his first confused desires. His sexual awakening. The subject of his first wet dream. The first face he had ever imagined while touching himself in secret.
He felt drawn to her. He hated her. He hungered for her. He lusted for her.
But he was no longer a boy. That broken child Isolde had power over had died in the Blightlands. What stood in his place was a man forged of iron and ice. A serpent dressed in silk and steel.
Now, he would be the one to dominate her.
"You look radiant tonight, Lady Isolde," Cairon said, his voice warm with the charm of a mysterious foreign lord. His eyes studied the line of her cleavage without shame, a silent signal that he was not blind to her beauty.
Isolde smiled, pleased by his gaze, his attention to her body. "And you are even more striking up close, Lord Viremont. So tall. So strong. A warrior of such fame. We are truly honored to host a man of your caliber at our crumbling keep."
"I have heard that you are no less remarkable," Cairon replied, his tone smooth. "You took command of Blackstone Keep after your husband fell ill. That takes courage. Resolve. It speaks of a woman who knows how to lead."
He let his voice harden slightly. "But your position is precarious. Your house is deep in debt. Your enemies grow bold. Your husband is weak and frail. Your son too young to rule. And a lady, even one as capable as you, cannot command men in battle."
He stepped closer. Slowly. Calmly. Like a shadow wrapping around her. "You need a protector. Someone who can shield you. Someone who can kill your enemies and keep your children alive."
Isolde met his eyes. Her voice was soft and sultry, wrapped in silk. "Indeed, my lord. I have found myself in desperate need of a strong man to defend me and my house. And then you suddenly appeared. Kael Viremont, the mercenary lord who has never been defeated. It feels like fate itself has brought us here tonight."
"Perhaps it has," Cairon smiled, standing close enough to smell the perfume on her skin. She smelled like red rose hidden behind thorns. "I know you sent word to the king, pleading for aid. But he ignored you. Alric the Third is old, half-mad, and dying. His grip on the realm slips with each passing season. When he falls, the Kingdom of Ellandor shall fall with him. The lords will turn on each other like starving wolves. They will seize what they can. Burn what they cannot take. They will slit throats, crown themselves as petty kings, and leave no survivors in crumbling keeps like this one."
He looked directly into her eyes.
"When that happens, your house will fall. You will be killed. Your sons will be dragged from their beds and slaughtered. Your daughters sold or raped by soldiers. Blackstone Keep will burn. And your name will be forgotten."
He let that truth sink into her skin.
"But I can prevent that," Cairon said, his voice calm and confident. "The Blackcoils are the finest mercenary company in the kingdom. There is not a force in the Northreach that can stand against them. Not Lord Avenlock. Not your creditors. No one. Just our presence on your side would prevent most from attacking you."
"I know of your reputation, Lord Viremont," Isolde's breath quickened. Her chest rose and fell with each word. Her cheeks flushed with heat. "And what would you ask in exchange for such protection?" she whispered.
Cairon smiled faintly. "What would you offer, my lady?"
She stepped closer again. Close enough that the silk of her black gown brushed his arm like a whisper. Her hand lingered near his, her voice soft and rich with suggestion.
"My husband is dying. He will not live the year. When he passes, my son Rylen will become Lord of the Keep. But he is still a boy. Too young to lead men in battle. He could rule in name, while you and I guide and rule through him. You are a lord without land. I offer you Blackstone Keep. These walls. This house. These lands. We could rule them together."
Her hand brushed his. The contact was light, but deliberate. She looked up at him with eyes dark and gleaming. Her gaze met his with lust and hunger for him. She desired the man she saw before her now. The one she thought fate had brought to her.
And Cairon saw her clearly. The noble daughter sold into marriage too young. The cruel stepmother who had tormented a child. The proud noblewoman who once had him whipped. The cold beauty who had abused him. And now, the widow-in-waiting, standing in his chamber, desperate and aroused, offering herself and her house to a mysterious stranger. Not knowing who he truly was. Not knowing what she had created.
"A generous offer, Lady Isolde," Cairon said softly. "Very well. You shall have my protection." He let his voice drop, intimate and suggestive. "Your husband is too weak to guard you. Too frail to satisfy you. And your son is too young to defend you. But I am not. I will keep you safe." He leaned closer, his breath warm at her cheek. "Tell me the truth. Has your lord husband touched you at all these last two years? Or has he left you cold and aching every night?"
Isolde flushed, lips parting. But she did not pull away.
"He has not touched me in over two years," she admitted, voice low and trembling. "My husband has become impotent because of the Blight sickness. His manhood as soft and withered as he is, he does not grow hard even when I use my mouth or hands. For over two years, I have not known pleasure. I have not known heat. I have not been touched."
Cairon whispered, the words clear, "Would you like me to take you tonight, Lady Isolde?"
Isolde looked shocked by the vulgar bluntness of the question. But a smile appeared on her face, and she replied seductively. She placed a hand on Cairon's chest, felt the strong muscles, and licked her lips. "I want you to ruin me," she said, trembling now, eyes shining. "I want you to make me feel again. I want your mouth on my lips, your hands on my breasts, your manhood inside me. I want everything."
Isolde expressed her desires in an unladylike, vulgar, frank manner. Cairon found himself smiling. The stepmother he hated so much now all but begged him to fuck her.
He leaned in close. His mouth touched her ear.
"Then take off your gown."
She obeyed.
And the bastard boy who once wept in the stables claimed the lady of the keep as his prize.