Chapter One
I honestly wanted to kill my husband. The fact that he was the prime minister of Jagland made the potential crime seem more serious, but I didn’t think I’d get any more prison time for killing Takken than I would for killing any other fucking asshole. Maybe less, with the right magistrates sitting on the bench.
The thought should have horrified me—Fru Norquist, the perfect political wife, contemplating murder—but instead I found myself mentally cataloging the opportunities. The state dinner next week, perhaps. A tragic choking incident. Or maybe something more poetic: a fall from our residence’s balcony, the modernist architect’s glass barriers he’d insisted on installing proving, alas, inadequate.
I smoothed my ash-blonde hair, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror as Takken’s voice drifted from his study. Another late-night call with his ‘advisors.’ The same advisors who’d been pushing him to sign away Jagland’s energy independence to foreign interests, no doubt. My fingers tightened on my clutch until my knuckles went white.
“Darling?” His voice cut through my violent fantasies. “Could you come here a moment?”
I straightened my spine—an automatic response drilled into me by years of public appearances—and walked to his study. He sat behind his pretentious glass desk, his gray eyes calculating as always. The carefully maintained blond of his hair caught the light from the desk lamp.
“We need to discuss the Synergy Group reception tomorrow,” he said, not looking up from his tablet. “You’ll wear the blue Valentino. And for God’s sake, try to look interested when Monsieur Brenteuil discusses the partnership opportunities.”
“Of course,” I replied, my voice perfectly measured, perfectly diplomatic. Inside, my anger stirred again. It felt somehow primal… ancient. As if what I had inside came from a different time, and I had chosen myself to be the protector of my country’s traditional, truly conservative values: the sea and the land, the whisper of wind through pine forests, the crash of waves against fjord walls. Something that predated his progressive buzzwords and foreign deals by centuries.
This nation, carved so recently from the no-longer-quite-so-frozen north where the Vikings had held sway, needed a better government than Takken Norquist, the man who had scarcely touched me since our wedding night two years ago, could provide. Short of throwing him off a high building, I had no idea how to make that happen, but I thought I probably had to try.
He set down his tablet and leaned back, that familiar smugness settling over his features. “The Synergy Group is prepared to offer us very favorable terms. Twenty percent above market rate for our hydroelectric output, locked in for ten years.” His lips curved in what he probably thought was a conspiratorial smile. “Of course, the oversight committee will never see the full contract. The additional five percent will be directed to our Zurich account. Clean, simple, untraceable.”
I kept my expression neutral, though my stomach turned. After two years of marriage, I knew better than to protest his schemes. Any objection would be met with that cold stare, followed by a reminder of how easily accidents could happen to difficult wives. He’d never said it outright, but the implication hung between us like a blade.
“You understand the importance of this, don’t you?” He studied me with those calculating eyes. “Brenteuil needs to see a united front. A progressive couple ready to embrace the future.”
Progressive. The word tasted like ash. I thought of how differently he’d presented himself during our courtship—the passionate environmentalist, the defender of Nordic heritage. How skillfully he’d played that role until our honeymoon in the Seychelles, when the mask had finally slipped.
No… it hadn’t slipped. He’d simply taken it off. I could still remember the casual way he’d mentioned his ‘arrangements’ with Russian oligarchs while we’d sat on that pristine beach, his hand on my thigh, completely confident I’d be thrilled by the promise of wealth.
“I understand perfectly,” I said.
“Good.” He stood, adjusting his cufflinks. “I have a meeting tonight. Don’t wait up.”
A meeting. I knew exactly what kind of meeting required him to shower again and apply fresh cologne. The Maison de Joie, most likely—a discreet establishment on Storgata where the wealthy could indulge their appetites without fear of scandal. At least his complete lack of sexual interest in me meant I was spared the indignity of performing for him personally.
The memory of our wedding night rose unbidden. How naive I’d been, expecting the passionate lover who’d courted me so ardently. Instead, I’d gotten five minutes of mechanical thrusting, his eyes vacant, his hands perfunctory. He’d finished with a grunt, rolled off me, and checked his phone for messages. The tender, attentive man who’d written me poetry had evaporated like morning mist, leaving only this cold, corrupt stranger who saw me as nothing more than a political prop.
“Lorna?” His voice sharpened. “You’re wool-gathering again.”
“Just thinking about tomorrow’s reception,” I lied smoothly.
“Well, focus on being charming. Brenteuil has particular tastes—he likes his women submissive but intelligent. Play the part.”
Submissive. If only he knew the rage that burned beneath my practiced smile. But I nodded, the perfect political wife, while imagining how his body would look crumpled on the marble floor of our foyer.
The front door clicked shut behind him, the sound echoing through the modernist prime minister’s residence like a gunshot. I waited, counting to one hundred, listening for any sign he might return for something forgotten. When silence persisted, I moved.
My study—the one room Takken never entered, dismissing it as my ‘little hobby space’—waited at the end of the hall. Inside, behind a false panel I’d installed myself during one of his trips to Brussels, sat an ancient laptop I’d bought with cash from a pawn shop in the old quarter. The cybersecurity office tracked every device on our network, but this machine had never touched it. I connected through a neighbor’s unsecured Wi-Fi, then bounced the signal through three VPN layers.
My fingers trembled as I navigated to the forum I’d been lurking on for months. NordicTruth, they called themselves. Conspiracy theorists, mostly, but occasionally someone posted data that made my blood run cold. Energy consumption reports that didn’t match public records. Brownout patterns that coincided too perfectly with spikes in industrial usage across the border.
I created an account: TrueNorth1917. Generic enough. My heart hammered against my ribs as I typed:
Check correlation between Jagland power interruptions (Jul-Sep) and Kaliningrad industrial sector reports. Someone’s selling what isn’t theirs.
I hit post and immediately cleared the browser cache. My hands were shaking so badly I nearly dropped the laptop as I powered it down. What had I done? If Takken found out—
My phone buzzed.
Not my regular phone. The burner I kept hidden in my tampon box. The one that I had never turned on, never fully activated. The screen glowed with a notification from an app I’d never seen before: a black icon with a silver raven.
Go to your bedroom. Remove your clothing. Stand in front of your mirror with this device.
The message vanished as soon as I’d read it, leaving only the strange app icon. My mouth went dry. How was this possible? The phone had been off—more important, it didn’t have any connection to a network that I was aware of.
I should have destroyed the phone immediately. Should have flushed the SIM down the toilet and pretended none of this had happened. Instead, I found myself walking toward our bedroom, each step feeling predetermined, as if I’d already made this choice long ago.
The mirror—full length, framed in austere steel that Takken had chosen—reflected a woman I barely recognized. When had my eyes gotten so hollow? When had my shoulders started curving inward like I was protecting myself from invisible blows?
I shook my head, trying to clear it, as I realized I’d just obeyed a command from… whom? And at the moment, apparently, I was considering obeying another one—of a very different kind. I watched myself shake my head again, more decisively. No.
I looked at the phone in my hand. I tapped the silver raven tentatively. A box opened up with a blinking cursor, but before I could type anything there, another message came in.
I told you to take off your clothes. Last chance.
I swallowed harder than I thought I’d ever swallowed in my life. I felt the breath coming shallow and rapid, in and out of my nostrils. I thought, then typed, This is to make sure I’m not wearing a wire or something?
I wanted it to be true. I chewed the inside of my cheek. No, I desperately wanted to want it to be true.
No. Ten seconds.
My lips parted as if I could say something that would reach the person at the other end of the terrifying messages. My finger trembled visibly as I tapped out, or what?
I had no idea whether ten seconds had actually elapsed, or whether whoever it was had simply decided to demonstrate. What seemed a microsecond after I had tapped send, I felt as if my panties had burst into flame. Fiery pain grew rapidly into tormenting heat between my thighs. I cried out, dropped the phone, hunched down, watching in the mirror as Lorna Norquist, the prime minister’s wife, clutched at her privates as if in terrible need of the toilet.
“Oh, God,” I sobbed. “Oh, no… please…”
It couldn’t be happening, yet it definitely, definitely was. I could see it happening in the mirror. I sobbed as I managed to move my hands from my lap to the zipper at my neck. As soon as I did that, the pain vanished as though it had never been there at all. The immediate result, though, felt almost as bad: I felt myself clench, down there, for the first time in months, and I felt how instantly damp I had just become.
My fingers fumbled with the zipper, pulling it down with trembling hands. The dress—a conservative gray sheath that Takken had approved for ‘casual Fridays at home’—pooled at my feet. I stepped out of it mechanically, my mind still reeling from what had just happened. The pain had been real. Impossibly, inexplicably real.
The phone buzzed from where I’d dropped it. I bent to retrieve it, acutely aware of my near-nakedness, of the wetness that had gathered between my thighs. Another message waited:
Good girl. Now the rest.
Good girl. The words sent an unwelcome shiver through me. When was the last time anyone had praised me for anything? Takken only noticed me when I failed to meet his expectations.
I unhooked my bra with shaking fingers, let it fall. My panties followed, the damp fabric clinging briefly before I pushed them down my legs. I stood naked before the mirror, arms instinctively moving to cover myself.
Arms at your sides. Look at yourself.
I forced my arms down, made myself meet my own gaze in the mirror. The woman looking back at me seemed like a stranger—pale skin flushed pink, nipples hardened to tight peaks, a sheen of moisture visible on her inner thighs under the dark blonde pubic curls that preserved her modesty, if only slightly. When had I last really looked at my body? When had I last felt anything below the constant, numbing anger?
You’ve been very foolish, Lorna. That forum is monitored. Your husband should already know.
Ice flooded my veins. “No,” I whispered. “That’s not possible. I was careful—”
The laptop. The VPNs. None of it mattered if they’d been watching from the beginning. My knees nearly buckled.
But we intercepted the alert before it reached him. You have two choices now. Submit to our training, or face what Takken will do when he learns of your betrayal.
Training? The word brought a deep crease to my forehead. I typed with a shaking thumb: Who are you?
That’s not one of your choices. Choose.
I stared at my reflection, at this naked woman who’d just committed treason against her husband’s government. The smart thing would be to confess everything to Takken, throw myself on his mercy. Except I knew exactly what his mercy looked like—I’d seen what happened to the minister of finance who’d questioned the Russian deals too loudly. A car accident. His wife institutionalized for ‘grief-induced psychosis.’
My thumb moved across the screen: I submit.
The response was immediate:
Play with that sweet little cunt. Watch yourself as you make yourself come.
[divider]Chapter Two
Lorna
Heat flooded my face. The command was so crude, so direct. My fingers trembled as I moved them between my legs, finding myself already slick with arousal beneath the crisp, curly hair that always stirred such mixed feelings in me. In the mirror, I watched this stranger who wore my face begin to touch herself at the command of an anonymous message.
I’d masturbated before, of course. Quiet, furtive sessions in the shower when Takken was away. But never like this. Never while watching myself, never at someone else’s command. The humiliation of it made my cheeks burn, but beneath that shame, something else stirred. To my dismay, for a moment I had the sense that it had arisen in the same place as my ancient feeling, as if the dormant part of me that had awakened when I had decided to try to act on my husband’s corruption—the Viking feeling it had given me to rebel that way—had led me also to this mortifying scene of forced self-pleasure.
My fingers circled my clit, and I bit my lip to stifle a moan. In the mirror, I saw my hips begin to rock slightly, my other hand, the phone still in it, moving instinctively to rub my nipple with the back of my thumb. When had I last felt genuine pleasure? When had my body last responded to anything but anger?
The phone buzzed, and I looked down at it, a new flash of heat scalding my cheeks:
Don’t be shy. I want to hear you.
A whimper escaped my throat. Whoever was watching—because they were obviously watching, and listening somehow—wanted me to perform. The thought should have revolted me. Instead, I found myself spreading my legs wider, giving my reflection a better view as my fingers worked faster.
“Oh, God,” I gasped, no longer trying to stay quiet. My voice sounded foreign to my own ears—desperate, needy. “Please… sir…”
Sir, Lorna? You may call me Herra.
The word on my phone brought an unexpected sob of need from my chest. Herra: the Old Norse word for master. He—it must be a he, mustn’t it—hadn’t even bothered to ask whether I meant my husband or… him… whoever was commanding my lewd display… whoever had some way of punishing me in my most intimate places.
My Herra.
My fingers slipped inside myself, and I moaned at the sensation. How long since I’d been filled by anything? Takken’s pathetic efforts in the past few months hardly counted.
“Herra,” I whispered, though I tried to keep the word from slipping out.
Tell me what you need.
“I need…” My voice broke as I fucked myself with my fingers, watching the wanton creature in the mirror. “I need to come. Please, may I come?”
The words shocked me even as I said them. Asking permission, as if this anonymous tormentor owned my pleasure. But something about surrendering control, about having someone else make the decision, felt like lifting a weight I’d carried for so long I’d forgotten it was there.
Not yet. Put the phone on the floor. One hand on your fisse and the other on your røv. Play with your sweet little røvhul.
My eyes widened in the mirror. He—my new Herra, because I couldn’t help thinking of him that way—must know I’d grown up in Denmark. That fisse and røv would have the effect on me that only the forbidden words of childhood can have. I don’t know why that surprised me, given that as the wife of the prime minister my life was public knowledge. It did, though, make me shudder with shame and forbidden lust.
I’d never touched my anus, my tiny røvhul, that way—that wasn’t something proper Jaglandic wives did. But then again, proper wives didn’t commit treason or masturbate for mysterious strangers either. Biting my lip, I bent to put the phone on the floor. Then, as if I had no power to stop it, still in that posture where my bottom-hole was so shamefully available, my free hand moved behind me, one finger sliding between my taut hind cheeks and tentatively circling the wrinkly bud of my rear entrance.
The sensation was foreign, almost uncomfortable, but as I pressed gently, working the tip of my finger inside, something shifted. The fullness, the slight burn, the sheer depravity of fingering both my holes while watching myself was overwhelming.
Good girl. You’re learning. Now tell me the truth—you need to be owned, don’t you?
“No,” I gasped, even as my fingers moved faster, deeper. My eyes went from the terrible, debauched reflection in the mirror to the glowing surface of the phone with the obscene commands of a man who called himself my Herra, and who appeared to be demonstrating why he could so easily claim that title.
The instant the denial left my lips, agony exploded through my most intimate places. It felt as if electricity coursed through my pussy and bottom-hole simultaneously, a burning, tearing sensation that made the earlier punishment seem like a gentle caress. I screamed, the sound ripping from my throat without any attempt at control. My fingers jerked away from my holes as if they’d been scalded, and I clutched desperately at my pussy and bottom, trying to soothe the unbearable pain.
“Please!” I sobbed, collapsing to my knees on the bedroom floor. “Oh, God, please stop!”
Thank God for Takken’s paranoia, I thought through the haze of agony. His insistence on soundproofing, on keeping our residence free of surveillance to hide his corrupt dealings, meant no one would hear me screaming, no one would come running to find the prime minister’s wife naked and writhing on the floor.
The pain intensified, as if my mysterious Herra could read my wandering thoughts and disapproved. I pressed both hands between my legs, rocking back and forth, tears streaming down my face.
“I do!” I cried out, the words torn from somewhere deep inside me. “I need to be owned! Please, Herra, I need it!”
The horrifying truth of it crashed over me even as the words left my mouth. I meant it. God help me, I actually meant it. Years of being Takken’s ornamental wife, of having no real purpose, no one who truly commanded me—I needed someone to take control, to make me theirs.
The moment the admission passed my lips, the pain transformed. Where agony had been, pure, liquid pleasure flooded through me. My back arched as an orgasm slammed into me without warning, more intense than anything I’d ever experienced. I cried out again, but this time in ecstasy, my hands still pressed between my thighs as waves of sensation rolled through me.
The phone buzzed on the floor beside me. Through tear-blurred eyes, I read:
That’s my good girl. You need a firm master who will punish you harshly when you deserve it.
Before I could even process the words, another orgasm crashed over me, my pussy clenching around nothing, my bottom-hole fluttering with sensations I’d never imagined. I fell forward onto my hands and knees, gasping.
You need someone who will strip away all your pretenses and show you what you really are.
A third climax, this one centered deep in my belly, radiating outward until every nerve ending sang with pleasure. I collapsed onto my side, curling into a ball, overwhelmed.
Someone who will collar you and make you kneel.
The fourth orgasm made me sob with its intensity. My entire body shook, muscles I didn’t know I had contracting in rhythm with the pulsing between my legs. I could feel my own wetness coating my thighs, could smell my arousal in the air, could feel the shame burning through me even as my body betrayed how desperately I craved this.
Someone who knows exactly what you are beneath that perfect political facade.
The fifth orgasm was almost painful in its intensity. It started in my toes and fingers, racing inward like fire through my veins until it exploded in my core. I screamed into the carpet, my whole body convulsing, every muscle locked in ecstatic agony. When it finally released me, I lay in a trembling heap on the floor, unable to move, unable to think, unable to do anything but gasp for air.
My thighs were soaked. The expensive carpet beneath me was damp with my arousal. I’d never in my life experienced anything close to what had just happened to me. Five orgasms in succession, each one commanded by this mysterious Herra who somehow had the power to control my body’s responses completely.
The phone buzzed again. Through the haze of exhaustion and overwhelming sensation, I managed to turn my head enough to see the screen.
Tomorrow night at the reception. Pay close attention. Do nothing else yet.
I wanted to ask what I should be watching for, who he was, how any of this was possible. But my fingers wouldn’t cooperate. I could barely lift my hand from the floor.
The app icon flickered and vanished from my phone screen as if it had never existed.
For long minutes, I lay there naked on our bedroom floor, trying to process what had happened. The logical part of my mind—the part that had once earned top marks in international relations—tried to analyze the technology involved. Some kind of directed energy weapon? Electromagnetic manipulation? But the how mattered less than the why and the who.
Someone knew about my forum post. Someone had intercepted it before Takken found out. Someone had just demonstrated absolute control over my body in ways that shouldn’t be possible. And that someone wanted me at the Synergy Group reception tomorrow night.
No—not just at the reception. Paying close attention.
I finally managed to push myself up to sitting, wincing at the soreness between my legs. My reflection in the mirror looked debauched—hair tangled, makeup smeared, skin flushed and marked where I’d clutched at myself. This wasn’t Fru Norquist, first lady of Jagland. This was someone else entirely. Someone who’d just admitted she needed to be owned, and worse, had meant it.
The sound of a key in the front door lock sent ice through my veins. Takken. He never came home this early from his ‘meetings.’
I scrambled to my feet, grabbing my clothes from the floor. No time for a shower. I pulled on my panties, grimacing at how the damp fabric felt against my oversensitive skin. The bra, the dress—my fingers fumbled with the zipper as footsteps approached down the hall.
“Lorna?” His voice carried that particular tone of irritation that meant something had gone wrong. I managed to zip the dress just as he appeared in the doorway.
“What are you doing?” He surveyed the room with those calculating gray eyes, taking in my flushed face, the slightly askew bedding, the faint but unmistakable scent of arousal that still hung in the air.
“I was… trying on options for tomorrow,” I said, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the way my legs trembled. Then I remembered that he’d told me precisely what he wanted me to wear. “I mean… the blue Valentino, as you suggested, but I wanted to be certain it still fit properly.”
His gaze lingered on me for a moment that stretched like eternity. Could he see the marks on my skin where I’d clutched myself? Could he tell that his wife had just been writhing on the floor, coming at the command of a stranger?
“You look flushed,” he said finally. “Are you ill?”
“Just warm. I’ll open a window.” I moved toward the bedroom window, grateful for the excuse to turn away from his scrutiny. My fingers shook as I fumbled with the latch.
“The meeting ended early,” he said, and I heard the particular edge in his voice that meant someone had disappointed him—or, I thought maliciously, perhaps that he hadn’t been able to get it up, even under the care of a fille de joie. “You weren’t on your computer, were you?”
My blood turned to ice. “No,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Why would I be? You know I prefer reading actual books.”
“Hmm.” I heard him move closer, felt him standing just behind me. Not touching—Takken never touched me anymore—but close enough that I could smell his cologne, the same expensive scent he’d reapplied before his ‘meeting.’ Close enough that I could feel the predatory attention he usually reserved for political opponents.
“The cybersecurity office flagged some unusual activity tonight,” he said casually. “Someone accessing forums they shouldn’t. From this neighborhood.”
My heart hammered so hard I was certain he must hear it. But I forced myself to turn, to meet his gaze with practiced confusion. “Forums? You mean those conspiracy theory sites you’re always complaining about?”
“Among others.” His eyes searched my face. “You haven’t noticed anything unusual? No strange messages, unexpected visitors?”
The phone in my pocket felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. “Nothing,” I said. “Though if you want tighter security you should probably let them put cameras in the way they wanted to do when we moved in.”
For a long moment, he studied me, as if trying to figure out whether I had meant my words as honest advice or as a taunt. Then, apparently satisfied, he stepped back. “Probably nothing. Some teenager thinking he’s clever with his VPNs.” He turned toward the door. “I have calls to make. Don’t wait up.”
[divider]Chapter Three
Lorna
The reception managed both to bore me and to terrify me, from the very start. The crystal chandeliers of the Synergy Group’s Jagborg headquarters cast everything in a cold, expensive light that made my skin look washed out and Takken’s smile appear even more artificial than usual. I clutched my champagne flute—my third, though I’d barely sipped any of them—and tried to look fascinated as Comte Gaston Brenteuil droned on about sustainable energy partnerships. His French accent made the corporate doublespeak sound almost romantic, but I could hear the predatory calculations beneath each carefully chosen word.
“Your husband is a visionary, Madame Norquist,” Brenteuil said, his dark eyes sliding over me in a way that made my skin crawl. “To see beyond the… traditional limitations of national sovereignty.”
Traditional limitations. He meant our laws, our resources, our independence. I forced my lips into what I hoped looked like an admiring smile. “Takken has always been forward-thinking.”
My husband’s hand settled on the small of my back—a possessive gesture for the audience, nothing more. Through the silk of the blue Valentino dress he’d ordered me to wear, his fingers felt like ice. “Lorna understands the importance of progress,” he said, though his tone suggested I understood nothing at all.
Pay close attention, my mysterious Herra had commanded. But to what? The reception hall teemed with the usual suspects—oligarchs, ministers, their ornamental wives and mistresses. I recognized most of them from countless similar events, each face a mask hiding various flavors of corruption.
Then I saw the man I suddenly felt sure whoever had made me humiliate myself last night must be interested in.
Georgy Horakovsky stood near the bar, his barrel chest straining against a bespoke suit that probably cost more than most Jaglandic families earned in a year. The scar across his left cheek caught the light as he laughed at something his companion said. But it wasn’t Horakovsky that made my breath catch—it was the two young women flanking him.
They were beautiful, and they held themselves in a particular way that suggested extensive training rather than natural grace. Both wore designer dresses that covered everything while somehow emphasizing their submission in every line. The blonde kept her eyes downcast, her posture perfect, but somehow conveying complete deference. The brunette stood with her hands clasped in front of her, and when Horakovsky’s massive hand settled on her neck, she leaned into the touch like a well-trained pet.
I shouldn’t have recognized that look but, God help me, after last night, I felt suddenly certain I could tell the signs of a woman who was thoroughly owned by a powerful man. The thought sent an unwelcome pulse of heat between my legs, and I pressed my thighs together, horrified at my body’s reaction.
“Ah, Horakovsky,” Takken said, steering me toward the Russian. “We should pay our respects.”
As we approached, I caught the blonde’s eye for just a moment. Something flickered there—not quite fear, not quite embarrassment, and definitely not quite self-assurance, but a complex mix of all three that made my stomach twist with recognition.
Again without really understanding how I could tell, I saw that this girl knew exactly what she was, what she was for, and to whom she belonged.
“Georgy,” Takken said warmly, extending his hand to the Russian oligarch. “So glad you could make it.”
Horakovsky’s grip looked crushing even from where I stood. His gray eyes swept over me with the casual assessment of a man pricing livestock. “Prime Minister. And the lovely Fru Norquist.” His accent turned my title into something that sounded vaguely obscene. “You are radiant as always.”
“Thank you,” I managed, though my attention kept drifting to the two women. Up close, I could see the faint marks on the blonde’s wrists where something had been fastened tightly. The brunette had a small bruise just visible above the neckline of her dress, the kind that came from fingers gripping too hard.
“These are my… assistants,” Horakovsky said, noticing my gaze. “Katya and Mila. They help me with various… projects.”
The blonde—Katya—glanced up at the word ‘projects,’ and I caught a flash of something in her eyes. Not quite fear. More like anticipation, I realized, with a sudden flash of recognition that made me feel faint. The brunette—Mila—shifted slightly, and I noticed how she moved to present herself better to Horakovsky’s view, an unconscious adjustment that seemed to speak of intense conditioning.
“Charming,” Takken said, though his tone suggested he found them anything but. My husband had never shown much interest in women beyond their political utility. “Georgy, I wonder if we might discuss the energy proposal somewhere more private? I’ve been eager to hear your thoughts on the eastern pipeline routes.”
“Of course.” Horakovsky’s hand moved to Mila’s lower back, and I saw her suppress a shiver. “Girls, wait for me by the terrace doors. Do not move from that spot.”
“Yes, Master,” they said in unison, their voices soft but clear.
Master. Not sir, not Mr. Horakovsky. Master. The word sent an unwelcome echo through my body, a much-too-vivid sense memory of me calling my mysterious tormentor Herra the previous night, of the word tearing itself from my throat. I watched them walk to their assigned position, their movements somehow synchronized while still seeming natural. They took up poses that looked casual but were clearly prescribed—weight evenly distributed, hands clasped, eyes forward but not making contact with anyone.
“Lorna,” Takken said sharply, and I realized the men were waiting for me. “You’ll excuse us?”
It wasn’t really a question. I was being dismissed like a child while the men discussed carving up my country’s resources. The familiar anger stirred, but beneath it, something else. Pay close attention, my Herra had said.
“Actually,” I heard myself say, “I’d love to hear more about the proposal. After all, as you said, I understand the importance of progress.”
Takken’s jaw tightened. “This is rather technical—”
“Nonsense,” Horakovsky interrupted, his scarred face splitting into what might have been a smile on someone else, but looked predatory on him. “A woman of Fru Norquist’s intelligence should certainly be included. Besides, we may benefit from a… feminine perspective.”
The way he said ‘feminine’ made my skin crawl, but I smiled as if I’d been complimented. “How thoughtful.”
We moved toward a side door that led to one of the building’s private conference rooms. As we walked, I caught a glimpse of Katya and Mila at their post by the terrace doors. They hadn’t moved a millimeter, standing like beautiful statues despite the crowd flowing around them. A waiter approached with a tray of champagne, and I watched Mila’s eyes track the movement before snapping back to their fixed point. She wanted it—I could see the thirst in the subtle shift of her throat—but she didn’t even consider reaching for a glass.
At the last moment, I saw Horakovsky glance over at them and raise his hand, his fingers curling slightly. Instantly they began to glide toward us. The ease of their master’s control of these gorgeous young women sent a shiver up my spine—one that I had absolutely no desire to interrogate.
The conference room featured much dark wood and leather, obviously designed to make billion-kroner deals feel intimate. Horakovsky settled into a chair that groaned under his bulk, while Takken took the seat across from him. I perched on a smaller chair to the side, the positioning making it clear I was meant to observe, not participate. My heart fluttered nervously as Katya and Mila also entered, then went to stand unobtrusively by the wall.
“The eastern routes are problematic,” Horakovsky began without preamble. “Too much local interference. But if we run the primary conduits through the Nordvik corridor…” He pulled out a tablet, swiping to reveal a map covered in red lines that carved through Jagland like surgical incisions.
I studied the map, my stomach sinking. The Nordvik corridor ran through three protected nature reserves and at least a dozen traditional fishing villages. The environmental impact would be catastrophic, but worse, it would give foreign entities direct access to infrastructure that controlled power to half our population.
“The locals will resist,” Takken said, though his tone suggested this was a minor inconvenience rather than a legitimate concern.
“Locals always resist,” Horakovsky replied with a dismissive wave. “That’s why we have… incentive programs.”
The door opened suddenly, and Brenteuil entered with two more men I didn’t recognize. One was thin and nervous-looking, constantly adjusting his glasses. The other had the dead eyes of a professional mercenary.
“Ah, excellent timing,” Horakovsky said. “Dmitri here handles the technical aspects. And Kristoff… well, Kristoff handles problems.”
Kristoff’s gaze swept the room, lingering on me in a way that made my skin prickle. I forced myself to remain still, to play the decorative wife, even as my mind raced. This wasn’t just about energy contracts. This was about something much darker.
Takken leaned back in his chair, that familiar smugness settling over his features. “I think the matter is in good hands,” he said, his tone suggesting the deal was already done. “You have my word that Jagland will honor whatever agreement we reach here.”
“Excellent,” Horakovsky said, but his gray eyes remained calculating. “Tell me, Prime Minister, do you have enough loyalists in the Nordvik corridor’s police force? The locals can be… excitable when they feel their traditions are threatened.”
“With Kristoff’s assistance,” Takken replied smoothly, nodding toward the dead-eyed mercenary, “I’m confident the situation will remain under control. We’ve already identified the potential troublemakers.”
“Good to hear.” Horakovsky’s attention shifted as Kristoff moved from his position by the door. The mercenary crossed to where Katya and Mila stood, and without any preamble, his hand settled on Mila’s breast, squeezing roughly through the fabric of her dress.
“Please, no—” Mila started, her carefully maintained composure cracking.
“Girl.” Horakovsky’s voice cut through the room like a whip crack. “You are not permitted to talk back to my associates.”
Mila’s face went white, her mouth snapping shut. But I could see the trembling in her hands, the way her breath came in short, panicked bursts.
“Kristoff,” Horakovsky said conversationally, as if discussing the weather, “put her over the back of that chair. Pull her skirt up and take down her panties.”
My blood turned to ice. Surely this was some kind of sick joke. But Kristoff was already moving, grabbing Mila’s arm and bending her over the leather chair nearest to the wall. Her hands gripped the seat cushion as he flipped the skirt of her designer dress up over her back, revealing black lace panties that he yanked down to her knees with brutal efficiency.
“We’re leaving,” Takken said sharply, standing and grabbing my arm. For once, I was grateful for his intervention.
“On the contrary,” Horakovsky said, rising to his feet himself, his hand moving to his belt buckle. “You really should stay. It’s important that our partners understand exactly what kind of people they’re doing business with.”
The metal buckle clinked as he pulled the belt free from his loops. The leather was thick, expensive, the kind that would leave marks. My stomach churned as I watched him fold it in half, testing its weight with a casual swing through the air.
“This is unnecessary—” Takken started.
“Is it?” Horakovsky’s scarred face turned toward my husband. “You’re about to hand over control of your nation’s energy infrastructure. You should know who you’re dealing with. Men who maintain discipline. Men who ensure obedience.”
Horakovsky’s footsteps were slow and deliberate as he crossed the room, each heavy tread making my heart pound harder. Kristoff had both of Mila’s wrists pinned against the small of her back with one massive hand while the other pressed between her shoulder blades, keeping her bent at that humiliating angle. She struggled briefly, her body twisting against his grip.
“Mila,” Horakovsky said, his voice deceptively soft. “Do you remember what I promised would happen to fuck toys who resist?”
The girl went completely still, as if his words had turned her to stone. A whimper escaped her throat, but she didn’t move again.
“Good girl.” Horakovsky positioned himself beside her, running the folded belt through his free hand. “You know, Prime Minister, I’ve had some trouble with this one recently. Just last week, I had to plug her tight little ass with a punishment dildo. Eight hours she wore it, learning what happens when a girl forgets her place.”
The casual cruelty of his words sent a wave of nausea through me, but worse—so much worse—was the pulse of heat that followed it. My thighs clenched involuntarily as my traitorous body responded to the image his words painted. The memory of my own finger circling that forbidden place last night burned through me, and I felt my face flush with shame.
“We’re leaving. Now.” Takken’s grip on my arm tightened painfully as he pulled me toward the door.
“Suit yourself,” Horakovsky said, not even looking at us. “Though I think your lovely wife might benefit from some old-fashioned discipline. These modern women, they forget their natural place without proper guidance. Isn’t that right, Fru Norquist?”
His eyes found mine over his shoulder, and I saw in them a terrible knowledge, as if he could see straight through to the shameful dampness gathering between my legs. Takken yanked me through the doorway just as Horakovsky raised the belt.
The sharp crack of leather on bare flesh echoed into the hallway, followed immediately by Mila’s scream—raw and desperate. The sound seemed to follow us as Takken dragged me away, my heels clicking frantically on the marble floor as I struggled to keep pace with his angry stride.
“Fucking Russian savage,” Takken muttered, though I noticed he kept his voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry back to the conference room. Even in his anger, he wouldn’t risk offending Horakovsky. Not with billions of kroner at stake.
My legs felt weak, trembling with a combination of fear and the helpless arousal that the silver raven had confronted me with last night. Behind us, I could hear another crack, another cry. Part of me—the part that had writhed on my bedroom floor last night—wanted desperately to look back, to see what was happening in that room.
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