(Content Warning: Consensual BDSM-Domination/submission and whipping.)
Their days in Denerim spun onward, nearly a week, and with each sunset Rìona grew more restless. The longer they tarried in Denerim, the greater their chances were of being captured by Loghain and Howe's men. That they had escaped notice thus far was due in large part to the collaboration of the city guard and—of all things—the Antivan Crows.
Rìona had approached the the beleaguered Sergeant Kylon of the city guard after witnessing a refugee get robbed before her very eyes in an alley off the market district. Rìona had been slipping through the alley, practicing her ability to hide in shadows, and only her timely intervention with a few well-placed arrows had saved the poor girl's life. One bandit had died, but the surviving thugs had managed to escape—some limping—with the purse containing every meager coin the girl had possessed. The girl had been hysterical, uncertain how she would survive with no coin and, when Rìona had left her, she'd been sobbing that she would have been better off staying on her freehold in the Southron Hills to be claimed by the Blight than coming to the Maker-forsaken city of Denerim. But worst of all had been the fact that around the corner, two of Howe's elite guard had stood, hearing and laughing about the girl's cries and doing nothing to aid her.
The sergeant had known who Rìona was immediately; he'd noticed her the day she entered the city, in fact. Howe had passed around a description and likeness of her to his own men and senior members of the city guard. Kylon was no coward, but he was well aware of the Grey Wardens' purported skill at arms. In addition, his dislike and mistrust where Arl Howe was concerned made him loathe to attempt to apprehend her, particularly since he was unlikely to receive any aid from the incompetent guardsmen he was charged with commanding. Apparently Howe was currying favor with the bannorn willing to consider Loghain's usurpation of the regency legitimate by trading services, such as giving their acknowledged bastards employment with the city guard in exchange for votes in the Landsmeet. The effect was that the guard was now utterly useless as a peacekeeping and security force.
All this, Kylon explained with a dry wit that Rìona found delightful. His rant about how his guardsmen would run and "cry big, sobby tears into their courtesans' bosoms", if he asked them to undertake any task that might be considered dangerous, had her laughing until she was slumped against a wall, breathless. She struck up a guarded friendship with the overworked sergeant and in exchange for her help with a few of the more deadly tasks that fell to his responsibility—the ones for which he could not rely on his own men—he agreed to keep her presence in the city a secret and not attempt to arrest her or any of her company.
She supposed her association with the Sergeant Kylon was odd, considering she was simultaneously undertaking a number of jobs that were quite illegal, such as breaking into a warehouse and pilfering funds Arl Howe was stealing from the treasury. Nevertheless, she found in him a secret and potentially valuable ally in her despite of Arl Rendon Howe. Which had made it all the more entertaining to employ Leliana's bard-born skills at larceny—sadly, Zevran had exaggerated his own abilities in this area—to steal from the inn room of Howe's supposed mistress. Not to mention a number of other noble targets who had thrown in their lot with Howe and Loghain.
But it was her cooperation with the Antivan Crows that was perhaps the most bizarre development of their sojourn in Denerim. She had been in Denerim three days when Master Ignacio, an Antivan merchant from the marketplace, approached her with an offer. Her assistance with certain jobs, in exchange for his considerable influence exerted on her behalf, to prevent the Crows from accepting any further contracts on her life beside the one that had already been taken. That one, which Zevran had failed to fulfill, could not be canceled until the master Crow who had accepted it was dead.
In order to prove his bona fides, Master Ignacio had passed a particularly interesting contract to her. One of Howe's men, by the name of Paedan, was wanted dead for killing a wealthy merchant's son to cancel a gaming debt Paedan owed the lad. That, in and of itself, wasn't enough to persuade Rìona to hire her company's services as assassins, until Master Ignacio shared what his people had discovered in their efforts to track Paedan down to fulfill the contract. Apparently, Howe's man had laid a trap with the intention of silencing supporters of the Grey Wardens, luring them to a private meeting and disposing of them quietly, to prevent anyone contesting Loghain's claims of the Grey Wardens' complicity in King Cailan's death.
Despite Zevran's misgivings, Rìona had accepted the contract and now Paedan would no longer be silencing Grey Warden supporters. That particular job didn't pay, however. It simply established Master Ignacio's goodwill toward Rìona and demonstrated to her the benefits of a reciprocal arrangement. Rìona had agreed.
Unfortunately, even with all the work they had taken on—and they had spent days clearing out back alley gangs for the Chantry and hunting down the relatives of blood mages to issue warnings against such activity on behalf of the Mages' Collective—they were still lacking the coin they needed to fully provision themselves.
And the situation had just become worse.
"Where is this village—Haven—located?" Rìona had asked when Wynne announced that she had found some indication of Brother Genitivi's true destination.
"He indicates it's in the Frostback Mountains, some days west of Redcliffe," Wynne answered with a troubled frown.
Rìona groaned in dismay, closing her eyes. "Maker's balls!"
"What's the matter?" Alistair asked, confusion furrowing his brow. "We have to head back that way, anyway, to return to Redcliffe. It's just a little out of our way."
"It's a climb into the mountains in the middle of what is turning out to be a brutal winter."
"Even such provisions as I have managed to acquire for us will not be sufficient in such conditions," Morrigan stated and Rìona nodded in agreement.
"And our only other alternative is to wait for spring and hope Arl Eamon's condition proves unchanged," she added, rising to pace Genitivi's cramped study. "He's our best hope for standing against Loghain. Bann Teagan is a respected voice in the Landsmeet, but he lacks Eamon's influence and Teagan does not command Eamon's troops. Andraste's mercy. This is going to add weeks to our travels and increase what we need to spend for winter clothing and other gear."
Alistair looked wounded at that, and Rìona felt bad for bringing it up. He was keenly regretting his generosity with his sister, now that he understood how little coin there was to be had doing odd jobs around Denerim. In the week they had been there, they'd barely made up the loss. There were other jobs which would take them out of Denerim, but payment would not be delivered until they returned with the job completed.
It wasn't enough. It wasn't close to enough.
"I'll see if Sergeant Kylon has any more work for us," Rìona sighed after a moment. "I'll... figure something out. Excuse me."
She left before they could see her despair, before it could have an effect on their morale. That much she knew about leading people, for it had been one of the lessons on authority, both in battle and simply in managing an estate, that her parents had imparted. She must always take care to inspire confidence in others and never let them see her doubt herself.
She was failing. If she took her company into the mountains again without enough warm clothing, they might die. But the Urn was their last hope, a foolish, wild, desperate hope at that, of healing Arl Eamon. They had to follow Genitivi. It was their only chance.
The rumors she was hearing on the streets, and in the taverns and inns, were getting worse. Now two months into Loghain's regency, battles were starting to break out as the bannorn set to resisting Loghain's levies for troops and provisions and Loghain attempted to force them into compliance. Rìona wasn't certain if it was better or worse that he appeared to be keeping his mercenaries in reserve for fighting the darkspawn; the Fereldan men of the Bannorn were falling to Fereldan blades. Bann Bronach was apparently dead, and there wasn't a count of the men lost in that particular battle. Rumor had it that over a thousand men had been on the field.
Loghain was tearing Ferelden apart.
There wouldn't be men enough to battle the Blight if this continued. How many more Fereldan men and women would fall fighting one another if she waited until spring thawed the mountain snows to attempt to heal Arl Eamon? How many would be left to battle the Blight?
She needed Eamon now. Perhaps he could negotiate a truce between Loghain and the bannorn, pending a Landsmeet to decide the legitimacy of Loghain's regency. If anyone had the influence to do so, the Arl of Redcliffe, uncle to the late king, did.
"You are troubled, my Warden?" She turned to look at Zevran, who had slipped into the alley behind Genitivi's house, quiet as a cat, while she was lost in her thoughts.
"Yes," she nodded slowly, but didn't elaborate. Zevran knew well enough what their situation meant.
He came up behind her and she felt his breath on the back of her neck, his lips brushing. It felt good. Her knees wanted to unlock, her weight wanted to sag against him as she forgot herself in the pleasure of being touched.
Instead she pulled away. "No, there's not time. I must do something, anything. I must do more."
When she looked at Zevran, he was smiling. "I have no desire to keep you from doing what you must, querida, but my role here in this company is two-fold, yes? We have discussed this before."
"Yes."
"Then allow me to ease your burden."
Maker help her, she ought to be staid enough to refuse, to carry on without the crutch he offered. But she wasn't.
"Here in the alley?" she asked, only half-joking. Her eyebrow lifted inquisitively.
"Would you like that?" Zevran's smile grew predatory as he drew nearer, and Rìona retreated a few steps. "I could do it. Ahh, I could bend you over those barrels there and take you, not even bothering to remove our clothing beyond the necessities. I could bury myself deep within you out here in full daylight, where anyone might chance upon us and see, drawn by your cries of pleasure. Perhaps even the plain-faced sergeant whose humor charms you so. Just think of it, Warden. Think of taking him into your oh-so-talented mouth and bestowing your gratitude for his consideration until his seed coats your tongue while I have you before his eyes."
Her back was to the wall of Genitivi's house. He had trapped her, and he showed no inclination to let her go. His hand slipped up under her war skirt and unlaced the leather ties of her groin covering, taking it from her and tucking it into his belt pouch while the fingers of his other hand worked their way under her linen smallclothes.
"Maker, Zevran!" Rìona moaned, her head falling back as her entire body went rigid with pleasure at his touch. She had thought she knew how to seduce with words, but she was merely a talented amateur compared to him.
"I can see the idea pleases you," Zevran said, his deadly smile a blur in her vision as he stood practically nose-to-nose with her and brought her to the brink with skillful strokes. The glide of his fingers was an exquisitely slick torment on her sensitive flesh. "Is that what you crave? Surrender? To let go the mantle of authority awhile?"
"Yes," she whimpered, closing her eyes tightly against the sudden burn of tears and shame. It was a weakness, and yet she needed it, the surrender he offered.
He ripped away her smallclothes, the rending of the linen cloth a startling snarl in the silent alley. Rìona flinched and began to protest, for even linen for undergarments was an expenditure, but he silenced her with a hand to her mouth.
"Do not question," he said, and there was a menace in his voice, a hint of dire recompense if she should disobey. "You know as well as I do that the expense of replacing those is but a trifle compared to all we must do. A copper or two, no more. And even if it weren't, you must trust that I shall attend to what you need, yes?"
Rìona swallowed hard and nodded, and in the next instant Zevran's fingers were plunging inside her.
"I did not hear you, Warden."
Rìona gasped. "Yes!" Her hips moved of their own volition, seeking more. Sleeping on bedrolls on the floor of Genitivi's modest house lacked even the illusion of privacy afforded by a tent, and so she and Zevran had not lain together since their arrival in Denerim. Her entire body thrummed a need born of deprivation.
"Very good," he purred. His fingers withdrew from her, leaving her feeling cold and exposed. He pressed against her, the full length of his body, and kissed her, slowly, deeply, thoroughly. He nibbled and sucked and pulled at her lips, plundered her mouth with his tongue, until Rìona could barely recall her name, much less her troubles, or the fact that it was cold in the dingy alley. Her lips tingled and felt bruised when Zevran finally released her.
"Go inside and get your cloak. We are going out for the day and I do not expect we shall return until quite late."
"Where—?"
"Ah! Did I not just say not to question?"
"But—"
He smiled again, and it was a smile to be deeply afraid of. "And for that there shall be a punishment, later. Let's go."
She bit her tongue as she was on the verge of asking what he intended her to do for smallclothes and proceeded him inside the house.
Like everything in Denerim, woolens were scarce and expensive. Morrigan had been forced to get more creative in her efforts to locate the items they needed, and so she had begun purchasing cloaks from refugees whose loved ones had died of privation outside the city gates. There were not enough to go around, yet, and they would need to buy an extra one in order to sew together a longer, wider cloak for Sten, but it was a start.
Rìona had laid claim to the most tattered and threadbare of the lot, and when she wasn't poring over Brother Genitivi's papers, Wynne was industriously lining the cloaks with the tanned furs they had traded for. She made a ridiculous sight in hers, Rìona was certain, but it would serve its purpose.
Alistair's gaze took in her heavy eyelids and swollen lips, and then he turned away, his shoulders hunched. Her voice wasn't very firm as she explained that she and Zevran would be going out to look for more work, but no one asked any unnecessary questions. They agreed to complete another sweep of the back alleys to make certain the gangs had been culled, and then Rìona followed Zevran out into the streets.
Their destination surprised her.
"The Pearl?" she blurted before she remembered she was not to ask any questions. Their business had brought them to the brothel before, on behalf of both the Antivan Crows and the city guard, so she was not unfamiliar with the place. She just couldn't fathom why Zevran would bring her here. It wasn't as though they had spare coin to hire a whore.
Zevran gave her a chastening look and led her past the stoop to the brothel and around the corner of the building. Once again she found herself pressed up against a wall. Between him and Alistair, it was practically becoming a habit, she thought tartly.
At least it was warm, enveloped between his cloak and hers.
"I think, Warden, you need a little lesson on the rules of the game."
"What are you—?" her words trailed off when he began unlacing the leather cod-flap of his breeches above his own long leather boots. His erection sprang free, and she reached for it eagerly, grateful for the chance to ease the frustrated buzz that had been plaguing her ever since they had left Genitivi's house. But Zevran caught her hands and pushed them away, pinning them by her head.
"Here. Your hands do not move," he instructed. Grabbing one of her knees, he lifted it up around his hip, the stiff stitching of his leather armor rubbing roughly against her soft inner thigh. And then his hard length was prodding at her entrance. With a smooth, effortless motion, Zevran grabbed her beneath her backside and lifted her the few inches necessary. Her legs went instinctively around his waist and he guided himself into her with a single firm thrust.
"Maker's breath!" she gasped, her eyes snapping shut as her head slammed back against the wall of the brothel.
Zevran set a demanding pace, hammering into her, drawing urgent groans and cries from her lips despite her attempts to be quiet. He made no effort to kiss her or stroke her, and with her hands beside her head, her sensitive nub was achingly ignored.
"The rules are these: today your body, and your will, belong to me."
His words made her spasm, the tension within her belly painfully, unbearably tight.
"Zevran, please," Rìona moaned.
"You do not question. You do not hesitate. If I wish to have you in the middle of the market square, you will take me gladly within you and cry out your pleasure for the whole of Denerim to hear. If I wish you to pleasure another, you will use your mouth, your ass, your sweet—" thrust "—little—" thrust "—cunt, at my command. Your only job is to obey."
"Zevran, I'm...oh, Maker, Zevran, please, I'm so close..."
"No, Warden," he said almost tenderly. "I am afraid you are not."
Zevran ripped himself away from her, taking his slick, shining length in hand. With just a few strokes, he spent himself on the wall at her feet before she could catch her breath or move. Rìona stared at him in disbelief as he opened his eyes.
"You Maker-forsaken son of a whore!" she breathed, feeling ridiculously near tears.
"This is true," he said mildly. "I am all that and more. And you, dear Warden, will not have your pleasure until you learn to obey." He reached for her hand where it still rested beside her head as she slumped, aching with unfulfilled arousal. He brought her fingers to his face, breathing deeply. "And if I detect even the slightest whiff of quim on these lovely fingers, you shall suffer terribly indeed."
Casually he laced up his cod-flap again and turned, walking away from her, requiring Rìona to scramble to keep up. She was practically limping, her unsatisfied need an actual cramping pain that threatened to double her over for a moment. "Come. There is someone within you should meet."
She glared at him, ready to call the whole thing off. But he looked at her, a challenge in her eyes, and she recalled the way it had felt outside Genitivi's house when he offered her a chance for surrender. Drawing a deep breath, she followed him inside.
The Pearl was lavish, and though times were hard, there was always a bustling business being done. The whores, who to Rìona's delight deemed themselves a craft guild and took pride in their work, ranged from demure and tastefully dressed to scantily clad and bawdy, drinking and flirting enthusiastically with the patrons.
Seeing them, Rìona mused softly, "I've always wondered what it would be like to be a whore. My mother didn't like to speak of her time at the brothel."
"My dear Warden," he laughed, taking her cloak, "we are all whores. Some of us are just more frank about the currency we accept, yes?"
"Yes, well that is precisely what makes me wonder... to be so open about bartering sex, no motivation or angle more complicated than the need for mere coin."
"And why would this, of all things, intrigue you?"
"It seems it might be liberating, in a way," she answered, frowning. "No need to maneuver or seduce or cajole. A simple transaction, pleasure is had, and it's over."
"Ah, dulcita, you betray your youth with your idealism," he sighed. "For the whore, pleasure is far from guaranteed, especially when the option of refusing no longer exists. The liberty you assume is rarely present."
"I suppose that's true," she nodded. "Pay me no mind. It's an immaterial point, anyway."
Zevran took her not to the proprietress, Sanga, but to a back corner of the bar area, where a striking woman sat alone at a table. Rìona recognized her, vaguely. She had been engaged in a rather one-sided brawl with several men the last time their business had brought them to the Pearl. Zevran seemed to know the woman, though he'd not mentioned it before.
"There are two things I at which I excel, Warden. Killing is the other. Sometimes the two coincide, and meeting the woman I am about to introduce to you was one of those times. She makes my own skill seem paltry in comparison."
Confused, Rìona studied the woman as she rose and greeted Zevran, bantering with him about his having killed her husband—a fact over which she seemed to cherish no actual ill-will. Apparently she had inherited a ship out of the deal, and Rìona quickly deduced her to be a smuggler, or a pirate.
"Warden, allow me to introduce Isabela, the fastest blade in Llomerryn. Isabela, you will no doubt be amused to know I am traveling with a Grey Warden."
"A Grey Warden?" The captain's eyes widened a little and her brow lifted as she took in Rìona, letting her eyes slowly stroke her from head to foot and back again. "Interesting."
"The Warden is outstanding with a bow, but she lacks skill in close-quarters combat," Zevran said casually, ignoring Rìona's indignant glower. "It hadn't been my intention to approach you when I saw you here in Denerim, Isabela, then I thought, 'who better to teach her?'"
Rìona opened her mouth to protest, but Zevran's eyes glinted as he glanced sidewise at her, and she realized he was daring her to question him. She bit down on her lip hard to stifle the impulse.
"I... saw your fight the other day against those men," she said instead, struggling to assume an attitude of modesty that did not come naturally to her. "I've never seen anything like it."
"And you want to learn." The pirate studied her for another long moment, then looked at Zevran. "You know I prefer to know my students better."
"The Warden lacks your talent at cards, but she has other skills you would find much more entertaining."
"I see," Isabela hummed thoughtfully. "How could I possibly turn down such a delicious offer?"
They wound up going down to the docks, to Isabela's ship, The Siren's Call. The woman's crew treated her with awe and deference, and when they discovered she had brought aboard a pupil, they cleared a space on the foredeck, moving enormous coils of hemp rope and buckets of sand aside. Only half her crew was actually on board, Rìona learned. The others were ashore, taking in their fill of the pleasures to be had on dry land, before Isabela set sail with the intention of putting Ferelden and the Blight as far behind her as possible.
Those that were still manning the ship gathered to watch the show, and Rìona was certain they got their share of entertainment, especially since Rìona was wearing no smallclothes and wound up sprawled on her back with Isabela's dagger at her throat countless times. Between the training and the rolling of the ship, she found herself unbalanced and awkward. The fundamentals of Isabela's fighting style should have been at least somewhat familiar, for Rìona had been trained to daggers herself even if she'd never been all that enthusiastic a pupil, but it wasn't. The woman moved unlike anything Rìona had ever seen, always just managing not to be where her opponent's blade fell. Quickly, Rìona began to discern the advantages of the style, not only for fighting with daggers but also as an archer. If she became more skillful at evading attack, that—along with Zevran's attempts to teach her stealth and the art of remaining concealed from her opponents—would go a long way towards relieving Alistair and Sten of the burden of defending her.
Morning wore into afternoon, and if Rìona had ever thought her weapons-master back in Highever merciless, she was entirely mistaken. When Isabela tired, Zevran took over, and back and forth they traded training with her, while Rìona grew more and more weary. They barked orders and slid home smoothly witty insults like daggers' blades between her ribs. They dissected every nuance of her fighting form; her grip on her daggers, her stance, the placement of her feet and the way she balanced herself, nothing was left unremarked. Never in her life had she felt so utterly inept or been so keenly aware of her inadequacies as a fighter. Getting angry and retaliating against them accomplished nothing except for ensuring that she found herself once again landing painfully on her backside with one or the other looming triumphantly over her. Still they pressed her, until every muscle in her body ached and she was practically weeping with frustration and exhaustion.
The frigid wind whipping off the bay from the Amaranthine Ocean ceased to matter, for she was panting and drenched in sweat by the time Isabela—with barely a sheen of dew on her upper lip and brow—called a halt and offered Zevran and Rìona an early supper. She promised she would be in port several more days at least, if Rìona found the time to return and continue her training, and led them below deck to her cabin.
Isabela's cabin boy had already left a tray of food and buckets of hot water, and stood by the door waiting as the captain stripped of her own leather armor and gave it to him to be wiped clean and oiled. She bade Rìona do likewise, and happy to turn the never-ending task of armor maintenance over to another for once, Rìona gladly obeyed. As they stripped, the pirate tutted at the condition of Rìona's stained and mended linen shirt and frayed breast bindings, which had been new just weeks ago in Redcliffe, but were already worn from incessant wear and the rigors of battle.
Isabela made a small hum of surprise and Rìona followed the path of her gaze down to notice, despite the constant travel and meager rations her company had subsisted upon, there was now the tiniest swell just above her pubis. How had she not noticed before? Rìona wondered. It was barely enough to be noticeable, certainly not enough to impede her, but the pirate's discerning eye had picked up on it. Isabela looked at Zevran questioningly and he shook his head quickly in firm denial.
"Blight's going to be hard on you, sweet thing," she said to Rìona, something not entirely kind in her voice, and Rìona nodded grimly. "You should take care of that."
"So I've been told," Rìona muttered, looking away.
Thankfully, Isabela let the subject drop. A staunch believer in creature comforts, was the pirate captain. She possessed a comfortable, though economically small, bed and her cabin was cozy, kept warm even on the windy seas by strategically placed braziers. In their heat, Rìona was not troubled by her nudity, and when Isabela took up a cloth and began bathing the sweat from her body with hot water from the buckets, she gratefully allowed herself to be pampered. Zevran stripped down to his linen shirt and leather breeches and made himself comfortable, draping his lithe form over a chair and watching as Rìona grew more relaxed under Isabela's ministrations.
The embers of the arousal Zevran had ignited that morning had been banked during the training, but they quickly flared to life despite her exhaustion when Isabela dropped the cloth and, pulling Rìona close, took Rìona's nipple into her mouth. Rìona's mouth dropped open in a gasp of pleasure, her body sagging, becoming more pliant. Her nipple, so exquisitely sensitive with her pregnancy, ached with each tug of the pirate captain's lips. Past Isabela, she saw Zevran's eyes grow darker and gleam with wicked interest.
She wanted him. Maker, how she wanted him! She almost resented Isabela's presence, for though she was lovely, the pirate was not what she needed. She needed what Zevran had promised her earlier: surrender. Surrender to his skillful hands and hypnotic voice and the fact that he, not Isabela, knew her burden and how to lighten it.
"Before you proceed further, Isabela, you should be aware that la Guardiana is not allowed to have her release unless I say it shall be so."
The pirate released Rìona's nipple slowly, and turned to look at Zevran over her shoulder. "Zev, that's just cruel," she scolded. "If that's the game you were playing, you should not have brought her to me."
"Indeed, Zev," agreed Rìona, her voice flat with irritation.
Zevran shrugged. "But then I would deny myself the pleasure of watching her service you, and that, I was not about to do."
"This 'game' of yours is quickly losing its fun," Rìona warned.
"Is it?" he challenged. "Except for the past few days, you've had your pleasure every morning and night, often several times. It's simple for you, finding someone to seduce, or inviting me into your tent, where I do so enjoy to be. Pleasure comes easily and readily to you. Obedience, however? No, that is not nearly so simple. You are too used to having your own way, having to command others, and that is not what you desire now. Can you honestly say you don't enjoy the challenge, the mystery, the constant state of yearning with no idea when it will be fulfilled? Tell me you do not anticipate finding out how much more powerful your release will be when it finally comes?"
She closed her eyes, swaying to the sound of his voice, her limbs weakening with desire. Maker help her, everything within her was a mass of need, but he was right. Even as her own body grew heavy and slick with arousal, the denial was delicious, taking her away from control and responsibility to a place where her only duty was to obey.
"If I can't give her pleasure, can I cause her pain?" Isabela asked him eagerly, and this time there was a pause as Zevran's eyes searched Rìona's. The words sparked another surge of arousal within her, but also... not fear, but... discontent. When he had promised her punishment, she had thought it would be at his own hands. If such a thing was going to happen, she didn't want it to be with Isabela, whom she didn't know, didn't...
...Trust.
She licked her lips, readying herself to protest, when Zevran narrowed his eyes thoughtfully and shook his head. "Er... no. I think not. Today it is for me alone to give the Warden both pleasure and pain. Perhaps another time. Warden, you will be certain to thank our fair Isabela most graciously for her teachings, or I will be exceptionally displeased."
Relieved, Rìona smiled and leaned in to kiss the pirate captain, a delicate mingling of soft lips and deft tongues that soon had Rìona arching against Isabela, embracing her, sliding her body against the captain's. Suddenly a hard hand fisted in her hair, jerking her head back, and Zevran hissed in her ear, "Do you think I'm willing to wait all day while you dally, Warden?"
For a moment, Zevran pressed hard against her, hard enough to trap her between himself and Isabela. Hard enough for Rìona to feel the bulge in his breeches. His teeth closed upon her shoulder and began to clamp down, until her mouth opening in a wordless cry that Isabela swooped in to swallow. No tender love nibble, but a bite, deep and hard enough that a bloodless, throbbing ring of impressions remained when Zevran drew back.
"Pleasure her," he growled, and the hand in her hair dragged her downward, compelling her to her knees until her vision was full of generous hips and dark, glistening curls from which the heady musk of arousal wafted. Even more compelling than the hand that occasionally jerked her head sharply was the force of his will, demanding her capitulation, promising reward and recompense in equal measures.
It was for his sake, rather than the pirate's, that Rìona didn't stint to ply the skills she'd learned from her mother. Keenly aware of Zevran's attention, she took pride in Isabela's cries as her tongue parted the slick folds and found the pearl of her pleasure. Zevran's hand in her hair loosened and began to caress her scalp only to tighten again, reminding her of his presence, his compulsion. Isabela's cries grew louder, and her own hands came to rest on Rìona's head, lightly, for the sake of balance, as pleasure nearly made the pirate's legs buckle beneath her.
Even on her knees, perhaps especially on her knees, there was power, Rìona thought with a satisfied smile, humming to make her lips buzz until Isabela squeaked at an excess of sensation. Her parents had always told her it was so, of course; that had been the ultimate purpose of their tutelage, after all. But now she was beginning to understand. Power, and freedom. Freedom from care, from responsibility, from duty.
Suddenly there was a sharp crack and a flare of warmth on her backside, where Zevran's hard hand had reddened her skin. She yelped, startled, and pulled away from Isabela only to be drawn inexorably back.
"Lest you forget your purpose here," Zevran said smugly, spanking her again, harder this time, and again. "It will go all the worse for you if you falter in your labors. I do not recommend doing so again."
She brought Isabela to one climax there on her knees before the pirate, and another with Isabela spread upon the bed, Rìona's expert fingers thrusting and curling within her, driving her ever higher. And always, Zevran's voice, that beautiful rich accent beside or behind her, making sounds of enjoyment in her ear.
"It had been my intention to allow Isabela to pleasure you, until you were so very disobedient," he remarked almost conversationally, seated casually at the edge of the bed while Rìona worked, his cod-flap bulging. "That you do not spend your afternoon sampling such delights is entirely your own doing, mi amada. Either way, I get to enjoy the show, yes? Ah, how beautiful you are at your work! When we are done here, we must find someplace private to go. I intend to have you to myself tonight, yes, where your screams cannot disturb our comrades."
Evening was well underway by the time Isabela, replete, reclined upon her bed watching as Zevran and Rìona dressed. Despite the thrum of frustrated arousal, Rìona felt satisfied with the day's labors. Even—or perhaps especially—with the weapons training. It felt good to have learned something beyond the scope of her abilities. Isabela pushed herself up on her elbows and kissed Rìona, encouraging her to come back when she was not under such a cruel restriction. Rìona's armor, cleaned and polished, was delivered by the cabin boy, and Isabela gave her a clean linen shirt, breast-bindings and smallclothes from her own wardrobe. Zevran helped her dress, thanking Isabela for the lesson and the entertainment. His attitude could almost be described as eager as he ushered Rìona of the ship and away from the docks toward the market district.
There was only one place in Denerim Rìona knew of that would afford them privacy without costing them coin they did not have to spare. Though she was scrupulously unquestioning and obedient, her heart raced in anticipation of a night of pleasure as she led Zevran to the house Marjolaine had inhabited off the market square. He had clearly been paying attention to what Leliana did earlier in the week when they completed a series of break-ins on behalf of Slim Couldry, for Zevran deftly picked the lock and allowed them into the cold house.
Rìona had half-feared the landlord had reclaimed the property, but apparently Marjolaine's lease was paid up. Nothing had been disturbed; even the bloodstains were still upon the floor. Rìona ignored them as she and Zevran worked on building a fire on the hearth in the bedchamber, shivering within the tattered folds of her cloak until its glow began to warm the chilly room.
It was hard to say who attacked whom, once the room had been warmed, but suddenly they were upon one another, tearing at straps and buckles and ties, tumbling upon the bed. As he had against the wall of the Pearl earlier in the day, Zevran seized her wrists and pinned her hands above her head as he stretched out above her, drugging her with kisses, biting her neck, grinding his erection against her belly while she gasped and begged shamelessly for him to take her.
"Please, Zevran... oh, dear Andraste, please. I need you!"
"You want me, Warden?" he purred, sucking hard on her neck leaving bruises she knew others would see.
"Yes! Oh, Maker, please. I can't wait any longer. Now!"
"Ah, but you were most disobedient earlier, mi ciela," he said with a regretful noise, lifting his weight from her slightly. "I vowed you would be punished, and so you shall, unless you care to end our game now."
He hovered above her a moment, watching her eyes, and Rìona knew her own were wide with nervousness. This was where all her extensive knowledge became purely theoretical. Such games were known to her, of course, but beyond a bit of self-experimentation with soft floggers and tawses during her tutelage, she had no actual experience with them.
Zevran was staring at her, staring... staring... waiting. Waiting for her to refuse, or consent. For a moment, refusal lingered on her tongue, so very precariously close to being spoken. But if she refused, Rìona knew she would never have what he'd promised her, not truly. Surrender was simple when all one had to submit to was pleasure. In duress, that was where true surrender lay, and the freedom that came with it.
She bit her lip, closed her eyes, and nodded.
Zevran kissed her again, deeply, tenderly. He kissed her until her tension and fear had bled away, until she was pliant and trusting beneath him, until she would do anything, endure anything, just to win another intoxicating kiss.
It made the moment when he seized her hair and forcibly tore her away from his lips all the more shocking.
For a moment, she clung to him, mewling, her needy fingers scrabbling to draw herself back to him, but Zevran was implacable, the force on her hair inexorable. The expression on his face when she forced her eyes open was... stern. Cold. No hint of warmth or humor. For a moment she felt a frisson of fear, for it was not a face she had seen on him before, even in the heat of battle. Fighting, he wore a savage grin and made quips. This, she thought, was the face of a man who could spend the night in a woman's arms and murder her without remorse in the morning.
Every story he had shared with her about his life as an assassin for the Antivan Crows came rushing back to Rìona in that moment, replacing fear with terror. This was madness. Madness to trust him, madness to make herself even more vulnerable to him. It didn't seem to matter that he might have murdered her a hundred times since that day he had given her his oath of loyalty; in that moment she knew he was still capable of discarding the oath, if he found reason to do so. The assassin was still there, still a part of him.
But that hand in her hair, that painful pressure on her scalp, seemed to drive away all reason. Everything else paled in significance, all other considerations were diminished. All that mattered was surrendering to that pull.
She surrendered.
With efficient movements and a stranger's face, Zevran bound her arms behind her back with the belt of his baldric. It was no simple binding of her wrists, either. At his command she folded her arms behind her back, grasping each of her forearms close to the elbow. He wound the belt around both arms that way, and wrapped off the ends above her elbows so that each effort to win her freedom only made the bonds tighter. Rìona allowed it, gave herself over to it, fear and elation warring within her. Every pull, every jerk, every movement he made sent a tense pulse of desire through her. Any touch, an accidental brush, might have brought her tumbling over the edge of rapture, but that was not Zevran's purpose. Instead, he pushed her over until she was face-down amidst the pillows and moved away from her. She had to turn her head to the side to breathe, and her weight was unbalanced and awkward.
The first stroke of another belt was heralded—barely—by a faint whistle. Rìona cried out as a line of heat traced across her exposed buttocks. The pain was more intense than she had anticipated; she had expected something like the teasing spanking he had given her aboard Isabela's ship. This was different; pure pain, with no intent to arouse or titillate.
"Did you think this would be merely a game?" Zevran's voice, low and dangerous, queried next to her ear as Rìona whimpered at the lingering burn. His hand threaded once more through her hair, gripping, pulling, and again she felt that need to surrender settle upon her as it did so. "A few soft, almost pleasant taps, and you then call yourself punished? No, querida, that is not how it will be for you tonight. I will ask you once more if you wish to stop; I will not ask again and no amount of begging will compel me to do so."
She moaned as his hand stroked over the welt he had left upon her backside. "Please," she whispered, hardly knowing what she intended to ask.
"Please what, Warden? You must tell me. You must speak the words." The brush of his fingers on that hot line of skin was almost more than she could bear. She felt she could barely speak, struggling to force words past her lips.
"Please don't stop."
He didn't. Not for what seemed to be an eternity. Any attempt at stoicism she might have made was quickly broken, swept away by pain so intense it was impossible not to protest. Begging for cease availed her nothing, just as he had warned. And beg she did, pleading in agonized wails for him to stop. Again and again, the belt fell upon her skin, raising new welts, crossing existing ones, until it felt every inch of her backside and upper thighs was covered in liquid fire.
Begging gave way to shrieks and howls and then, at very long last, to sobs and tears that drenched the pillows beneath her and made her hair cling to her face in wet tendrils. Still he did not pause, not until she had stopped struggling and simply surrendered, sobbing so brokenly it ached and she thought she might be ill from it.
Once she started weeping, it felt she would never stop. It hardly seemed to matter that the strokes of the belt had quit falling or when Zevran unbound her numb and aching arms; still she wept. Grief and loss, fear and uncertainty, guilt and self-doubt and hopelessness, every unworthy emotion she concealed from them all as she struggled to lead her company, all of it poured out in those tears.
Rìona's head ached by the time she lifted it, too dazed and weary to wonder how she came to be held in Zevran's arms with her head against his bare chest, limp and pliant and trusting, while his voice murmured softly to her in Antivan. She thought she ought to say something, to thank him, or perhaps apologize. But once she looked up, he merely pulled her forward, toward his mouth. He dragged his tongue up the half-dried trail of her tears, tasting them, and then he kissed her. She tasted her own salt and sank into his kiss, surrendering to it as utterly as she had the belt.
Laying on her back was an agony, and yet it didn't seem to matter, as he rolled her over and rose above her, pressing her down onto the bed. Zevran swallowed her pained whimpers as her abraded backside brushed the bedclothes. Then he moved down her body, lavishing kisses and licks upon her breasts before proceeding further. He gripped Rìona's hips and brought her sex to his mouth. Within moments she was shrieking her pleasure to the rafters through a throat already raw with screaming, wave after wave of unbearable rapture crashing over her.
Barely had she caught her breath than he rolled her again and had her on her hands and knees. Deliberately he lightly scraped the tender skin of her buttocks with his fingernails, then he bent over and ran his tongue along her welts, tracing them, leaving cooling trails of moisture that at once soothed and renewed the pain. Parting the globes, he licked along the cleft between them, gently probing as Rìona moaned her pleasure. Even the pressure of his smooth, hairless face against her heated skin was its own delicious torment. The fingers of one hand gripped her hip while the fingers of the other slid carefully, gingerly into her other entrance, slick with oil, spreading and relaxing her.
Dear Maker, it was good. She could feel his hands shaking and knew his own capacity for self-denial was nearing its end as he pulled away and removed his breeches. When he returned, his fingers were replaced by something far more substantial. The was a hint of burning pain, and then such intense fullness...! When his pelvis pressed against her flaming backside, Rìona shuddered and moaned, burying her face in the bedclothes. But when he withdrew, she pushed back against him and followed, seeking more.
He gave it.
Screams that had nothing to do with pain were barely muffled by the bedclothes as she clawed and bit madly at them, lost in an excess of sensation. Each thrust brought fullness and sensation so intense she was certain she couldn't bear it. She moved away from it and ever, ever his hands were there to pull her back. Zevran's hand curled around her hip, his fingers seeking and then everything was lost in a mad vortex of pleasure. She screamed and clawed at the satin coverlet, sobbing with the force of her release.
Zevran tumbled over the edge behind her, spending himself deep within her rear passage. Rìona sank down weakly, her limbs refusing to support her any longer as Zevran carefully withdrew and pulled the coverlets up over her. A relaxed, sated silence settled between them as he sat propped against the headboard and Rìona lay with her head pillowed upon his tattooed thigh.
She felt wrung-out and exhausted, but there was a newfound lucidity as well, a clarity she had lacked when they had departed Genitivi's house that morning. Then, her mind had been churning with the impossibility of her duty. Now, having relinquished that burden for the day, she could come back to it clear-headed and refreshed.
There, in the aftermath of pleasure found on a dead woman's bed, in the middle of a city gone corrupt and mad, Rìona knew what she had to do.