Her Medieval Mistake

ChapterTwo

Chapter Two

All I can feel right now is cold stone…wait…cold stone, and my head spinning so hard. I try opening my eyes but it seems like it’s failing me. I let out a groan as I also start feeling some sort of nasty ache on my back.

I try opening my eyes again and this time, it works. I breathe out a sigh of relief, but even with the eyes opened now, I can’t make out anything clear yet…not when my brain still feels so disoriented…not when I’m trying to figure out why the air suddenly feels so different from how it smelt five minutes ago…it’s heavier now, like burning wood and something metallic.

I blink.

While I can’t exactly understand my vision yet, I do know for sure that the environment around me is dim. Which is super weird because the museum I’m in right now is anything but dim.

The museum…

I scurry to my feet, my brain trying to pick up exactly on what I’m doing laying on the ground in the first instance. I do remember touching that damn mirror, and then like someone that is under some intense drug influence, my hands and body was going through the mirror, right? And then I was falling?

I let out a sigh, close my eyes and try to pull myself together for a couple of seconds, then I fling my eyes open.

My stomach lurches...

Where the hell am I?

The room really is dim, where’s the museum lighting?…there’s no white walls, no glasses protecting the relics…there’s no ‘Do not touch,’ sign.

The walls around me is made of thick stone bed, and there’s a massive canopy bed that dominates the far end of the chamber, the curtains half drawn.

What is this? Had I passed out and woken up to a section of a museum that has several of it’s relics on display with no glasses or barricades protecting them?

I could feel my chest pounding really hard as I make my way closer towards the massive bed and just when I move towards a certain angle, I feel my chest drop into my stomach.

“Oh my God,” I choke under my breath, stumbling backward.

There’s a man on the bed…a freaking man on the bed and he has a woman beneath him. The sounds coming from the bed, the creak of the mattress, the lady’s muffled whimpers, the fact that they are even both naked is enough for me to understand that a p**n show is playing right in front of me.

I want to say something…I want to call out for the Museum guide…for Professor Leclerc…for anyone, but I don’t think any of these people are around me.

With my chest still pounding really hard, I manage to scramble towards a corner of wherever the f**k I am right now. I duck behind a carved wooden chest, pressing myself flat against it, trying to disappear.

My hands shake as I clutch my jacket to my chest. I can’t breathe.

Then he moves…the man on the bed. He lifts his head, his gaze flashing upward for a moment. That’s when I see him clearly.

Dark hair falls to his shoulders, damp with sweat. A scar cuts across his jaw, sharp and merciless. And his eyes…God, his eyes are the blackest I’ve ever seen. Not dark brown. Not hazel. Black. Like the pupils swallowed the color whole.

My whole body goes cold.

And then it hits me…that freaking portrait I saw about half an hour or so ago. Why does he look exactly like the portrait?

My mind stutters, trying to rationalize, to deny, trying to even convince myself that the two annoying folks pressing hard against themselves earlier around the Mesopotamian section are now completely naked and having s*x in a really strange section of the Museum that I’m pretty sure doesn’t even look like a Museum anymore, but Professor Leclerc’s words slam back into me, crystal clear;

“He is said to have been a warlord in Northern Europe. Late twelfth century. Some claim he was second in command to the king of a kingdom long since erased from maps. Others insist the kingdom itself was never real at all.”

My throat goes dry.

Twelfth century.

Forgotten kingdom.

The stone walls.

The torches.

The bed.

And this man looking exactly like the one in the portrait with the same scar on the jaw.

Alive.

Moving.

Breathing.

Where the hell is this?

I press myself tighter against the chest, my heart pounding so loud I swear he’ll hear it. I peek through a c***k. His body moves again, muscles shifting, and the woman beneath him lets out a low sound that makes my body tingle in a sort of way it really shouldn’t right now.

I can’t tear my eyes away.

It’s him. The twelfth century warlord. The man from the painting.

And I am in a strange room with him.

Strange room

I force myself to take a careful look around the room again. My head is still spinning, but I take in everything. The chamber is larger than I first thought, the walls are made of some sort of rough stone blocks and they stretch up into an arched ceiling…more like those sort of ceilings you’d see it goth churches…and not even the modern day ones.

There are about four torches or probably even more around the room which just indicates that it’s likely evening time…which is weird, when I had stepped into the museum, it was just a few minutes into the afternoon. I want to make sense of the time and how it’s suddenly evening, but then clearly, I have bigger problems right on my laps like the p**n playing out in my freaking sight.

My gaze moves towards a large carved wardrobe that is pushed against one wall with it’s doors etched with patterns I really don’t recognize.

Really, what is it with the strange patterns today?

I look away from the wardrobe…I take in more stuffs like the furs draped across the bed frame, carelessly flung on the ground. Then next, a really archaic looking shield leaning against a corner, dark with dents, and yeah, beside the freaking old shield is a sword in what my Eastern Europe lecturer would call a scabbard, and it damn as hell looks like it could split me in half if I even sneezed near it.

Archaic looking cups…Trays…I take in a white feathered pen.

“Holy s**t,” I mutter under my breath.

My stomach twists…

The mirror.

Against a far wall. Large, tall, dark wood frame…I see it. The very same mirror with the same strange patterns I had traced with my finger just minutes ago, right?

But it hadn’t been in this room…The mirror was in a different section entirely.

I want to say that it has to be another mirror that looks so identical to that mirror that had weirded me out earlier, but then for some reason, my brain is messing with me by disagreeing so hard.

I blink at it, my throat tightening. No way. This really does has to be my brain messing with me. Right?

But then I can hear the museum guide’s voice echoing back at me, as clear as if he’s standing beside me again;

“Now, legend says this mirror opens once every thousand years... That if someone touches it at just the right moment, they might find themselves… elsewhere. Of course, myths are myths. Don’t worry… no one’s ever disappeared. You’re all safe.”

Elsewhere.

The word makes me swallow hard.

My hand trembles as I clutch my jacket tighter. Okay, so… hypothetically. Hypothetically. If this is actually happening, then… what? I time traveled? Through a mirror?

I almost laugh out loud because it’s so ridiculous. Time travel? Through wood and glass? I’ve studied every obscure chronicle, every godforsaken myth. Sure, there are thousands of stories about travelers disappearing into fairy rings, walking through doorways, stepping into mirrors.

Hell, I even wrote a paper in grad school comparing Celtic tales of “sidhe mounds” as portals with the Greek myths about Orpheus descending into the Underworld. I read about Japanese folklore too…mirrors as gateways to the spirit realm. I know these stories. I’ve dissected them, cross referenced them, cited them.

Yeah sure, I’m a historian. But let’s be honest, magic… time travel?

These are just myths, right?

Right?

My eyes goes back to the mirror. This thing rippled a couple of moments ago…I still remember it. I still remember how I touched it and it seemed to…to…swallow me.

Even thinking about that last bit feels so ridiculous…Swallow me…right, as if that’s even a sensible thing to think of.

No. No, no, no. This isn’t real. My brain is filling in blanks. Maybe I fainted in the museum. Maybe I’m in a hospital right now and this is some batshit hallucination.

Yeah. That’s it. A coma dream.

I squeeze my eyes shut, muttering to myself, “Not real. Not real. Not…”

A low groan cuts through my racing thoughts. My eyes snap open, and my stomach drops as I remember…

I look back to the bed. He’s got her pinned. His hand gripping the back of her neck, body pressed hard into hers like she’s his property or something. I can feel my palms starting to get really sweaty, which is super funny because if anything, they should have been sweaty the very instant I found myself in this freak room.

I can’t stop staring. This man is rough. He slams into her without holding back. Quick…hard…swaying his hips and gritting his teeth as he does so. His hands are clutching a huge chunk of her hair.

Who the hell is this man?

Fuck…

My eyes settles on the woman beneath him for a bit. She gasps, her back arching, her fingers clawing into his arm as though she can’t handle it any longer…as though she needs to move away from him, and fast…and yet, she’s so desperate not to let go.

This is super raw…dark…commanding. And yet, I can’t seem to tear my eyes off, especially not away from him.

My eyes falls back to him. His dark hair is now around his face as he moves, damp and wild, sticking to his temples. The scar on his jaw stands out under the flickering light, sharp and intimidating. His muscles shift like coiled steel with every thrust, and the sounds in the room…her whimpers.Oh God, that whimper….then the sharp slap of skin against skin. I can feel something crawling under my skin. I try to shake it off, but I can’t. It’s useless to deny that if this scene was playing out on my phone with me on my bed, that I won’t be beating myself to it.

Shit

Just as I’m shamefully thinking of how this would make a good clip for m**********n, something I have tried all my best to avoid for years, this man drags the lady from the bed before she barely has time to even catch her breath and then slams her against the wall.

I watch as her hands scramble for something…anything, until it finally presses against the wall…

I watch as this man cages her with his body completely against the wall…towering over her. He’s much taller than I even thought…much broader…really tanned skin, extremely defined bone structure…hairy legs, but not overly hairy...I can completely view his back. I have a view of the shape of his butt…toned, defined, better than what I think a gym bros butt should look like. I know when he’s slamming in and out of her…the very exact moment. Of course, I can’t see the woman anymore, and I only now have a back view but the way his butt moves…the way he compresses it before releasing it, gives it away.

And then there’s her muffled screams now. Almost like she knows it’s pointless fighting him. As a woman who considers herself never to believe in a man having control over a woman, any control at all…I hate to admit this but this man is taking on this woman as though he owns her, and somehow, this is giving me mixed feelings.

And I… God help me, I can’t breathe.

My hands shake as I clutch my jacket tighter, pressing myself harder into the wooden chest as though I could disappear inside it. But my eyes won’t move.

What if I don’t want it to?

Just as I’m contemplating tearing my eyes away. They move positions. He shifts her again, forcing her to bend, bracing her against the wall as he takes her from behind. But now, I have a side view of him…of his face.

I press my body closer against the chest while still making sure I have a really good view. He lets out a sound that is low and guttural…I don’t think I have heard anything like this before.

I watch as he presses hard against her…not slamming in and out this time, but just pressing his lower body really hard against her butt.

I can feel my thighs starting to act up…Wait, am I?

Did I just feel something warm pour from…

Oh God

The thought flies away from my head and my heart slams hard into my chest… it’s like every single breath is leaving my body.

I don’t know the exact moment it happened…I don’t know how I didn’t know the exact second he turned his head. But his eyes are dead set on mine.

His eyes are now on me

The portrait man’s eyes are on me!

Shit…

Everything inside me stops.

His black eyes don’t move a second away from my eyes. I can feel my hands shaking uncontrollably, my heart pounding in my chest as though it could fly out any second.

He’s looking at me. I know he is. Even as he is slamming hard into her, his face is turned towards the direction I’m hiding…his eyes are locked on mine.

And I know I’m in some big deep s**t right now.