Her Medieval Mistake

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

This man...this portrait man or whoever he really is, has got to be bat s**t crazy. His gaze doesn’t budge from mine. Not even for a minute…not for a second. He is hitting deep into her and still, that eyes is dead set on me instead.

My heart is pounding really hard in my chest. My brain is screaming that this is utterly insane. Hypothetically, if this was actually time travel, and a random stranger appeared in his chamber while he’s balls deep in someone, shouldn’t he… I don’t know… freak the hell out? Shout? Alert his s*x partner? Call for guards?

Whatever…he should just do something!

But he’s just staring instead…Calm…Unbothered. Like catching me watching him is about as normal as drinking water…like this isn’t the first time someone has caught him in the heat of the moment.

At one point, he even raises a brow at me. A single, sharp lift that makes my skin crawl. Psycho…some complete psycho.

I’m just contemplating shifting positions a bit when my body stiffens…it stiffens because I just watched his body do just that…with eyes still watching me, this man’s body freezes for a couple of seconds before his mouth then let’s out a low groan from deep in his chest.

I realize with horror what’s happening.

He’s finishing.

“Oh my God…” I mouth silently, my whole body tensing. I watch as he comes into her while his eyes are partly…no, definitely, on me.

A shiver runs down my spine.

He leans down, murmurs something into the woman’s ear, presses a kiss to her cheek, and then just like that, it’s over. She slips out from under him, gathers her clothes, and dresses without sparing him..or me [not that she knows anyone else is even in the room with them] even a single glance. And then she’s gone.

The door shuts softly behind her.

Then it all goes silent…the only thing I can hear now is my heart beating.

I’m frozen to the spot behind the chest, my knees aching, my hands trembling around the fabric of my jacket. My mind is racing so fast I can’t catch a single thought.

He knows I’m here. One hundred percent. He saw me. He stared at me..for several minutes at that. And yet… we haven’t spoken a word.

I feel my breath getting even more shallow as I peek at him again.

I watch as he calmly moves across the room…no rush..no sign of nervousness…not even a sign that he’s aware a stranger just witnessed him screw his partner into oblivion.

I can’t stop watching.

His body is… god.

I shouldn’t be thinking about that right now…I hate that my mind even has the guts to go there right now, but it just can’t stop.

He’s broad, tanned, built in a way that looks brutal instead of polished. There are scars I can see on his chest, faint lines crossing hard muscle. His stomach is ridged, not the fake gym bro six pack kind, but the kind you earn by breaking bones and getting yourself involved in physical fights or something.

And yes, my eyes still has more guts to flick lower. His damn c**k, not so hard anymore, is still quite heavy…It’s dark against his skin.

I feel my cheeks heat instantly.

Shit.

I watch as he sways around the room with the least urgency. I watch as he bends and picks up his trousers.

The trousers aren’t jeans…they ain’t slacks, or anything an actual dude I know would normally wear. No. Instead, these trousers are dark breeches, seemed to be made of rough wool, with laces instead of buttons.

He pulls them on slowly, tying the laces with methodical precision. Then he picks up what research scholars would call a long tunic, loose but belted at the waist, cream colored with sleeves pushed up to the elbows. He slides a leather strap across his chest, adjusting it until it sits perfectly.

My historian brain won’t shut up. 12th century. The fabrics. The cut. The belt. The leather strap probably for carrying a sword. No replicas. No costume shop sewing. This looks real.

Too real.

My stomach flips.

I then watch as he reaches for a cloak, dark gray, heavy looking s**t, and sweeps it over his shoulders in one motion. He fastens it with a metal clasp, scar glinting under the torchlight. This has got to be something I’m meant to see in one of these historical drama movies…

“Come out.”

The words catches me off guard, slicing through the silence.

I look up to his face…still so calm…expressionless.

Come what?

I freeze, pressing myself harder against the chest. Maybe if I stay quiet, he’ll think he imagined me and I’d probably just disappear from here. Maybe…

“You don’t want me repeating myself,”

I hear the warning in that voice…

“Do you?”

Shit.

My legs feel like they don’t belong to me as I push up and step out from behind the chest. My arms fold over my chest instinctively, like that’s going to protect me from the giant warlord lookalike glaring at me.

He turns fully, facing me now. Each step he takes feels heavier than it should, echoing in my chest instead of the floor. My heart pounds so hard it hurts. In fact, it has been pounding so fast almost non stop the second I found myself in this nightmare.

He’s taller than I even realized. Towering. His shoulders so broad I swear they could block out the torchlight. I feel his presence pressing on me… thick and suffocating, and I hate how small I feel.

Three feet away. That’s it. That’s all the space between us now.

“How long have you been watching?” His voice is cold, his black eyes sweeping over me like I’m an insect.

That’s his first question?

Not who I am, not why I’m here, but how long I’ve been staring at him screw? I feel my throat close up.

“I...I didn’t…” My words stumble out, weak and pathetic. “I was… standing in front of a mirror and then I was just…here. I don’t understand how I got here or…or what this is.”

His eyes scan my face, still unreadable. Then his lips curve slightly. But it’s definitely not a smile. “An intruder.”

I blink.Then my shock morphs into something that is starting to well up within me.

What the f**k is he even on to? An intruder? Really, I need to pull myself together and stop acting like I begged or expected to be here or something. Who the heck is really this guy and why do I have to answer to him?

“Excuse me?” I finally lash out as I should. “Intruder? What if you kidn*pped me? Huh? What if you drugged and dragged me here from the museum and…and you’re just playing some freak game with me?”

My voice cracks, but I don’t care.

His brow arches again. “Museum?” His tone is flat, as though he’s amused in the coldest way.

“You’re a freak,” I snap, though deep down, my stomach twists. Because if this is real…and God help me, every single detail screams that it is…then it means the impossible actually happened.

But what if he’s just a freak kidnapper!

He’s a freak kidnapper!

This dude takes one more step closer, smirk pulling at his scarred jaw like he wants to say something terrifying.

But then a knock rattles the heavy wooden door.

He stops. His head tilts, his expression sliding back to blank.

“Hide,” he says without looking at me.

Like an obedient puppy, I scramble back to the chest, my body pressed against the wood again, peeking through a c***k as he opens the door.

A man stands there. Also, this other dude is not in jeans. Not in sneakers.

Instead, he’s dressed like one of these medieval messengers.Tunic, hose, a leather pouch tied to his belt, a cap pushed low over his hair. Everything about him screams 12th century practicality. My historian brain races again; the stitching, the dye, the simplicity…real, functional, not stylized. No way a reenactment play could get this detail without seams showing. Or if that’s the case, then this is extremely impressive.

What sort of set is this?

But then I manage to look behind this man, through the c***k of the door, and I take a glimpse of some things. I take a glimpse of stone corridors lit by torches. Banners hanging. A narrow window carved into the wall showing outside…and is that chimney smoke too? My chest tightens.

No, this looks too real.

This is too much to be a set…too graphic to be a play.

I watch as weird portrait man dismisses the messenger with a nod, shuts the door, and turns back. His boots slams against the floor as he crosses to the chest.

I straighten quickly, stepping out before he even reaches me. My arms are still folded, but it sort of feels pointless now.

“I have matters to attend to,” he says, pulling his cloak or whatever tighter. His eyes lock on mine, dark and unrelenting. “Do not leave this room.”

I swallow, but his gaze doesn’t let me go. I want to ask him why he’s talking this way…why his way of constructing words is so formal…so different, but I’m still so stunned to speak…my brain is still trying to pull an actual explanation for what is actually really happening.

“I will return shortly.” He says. “Stay.”

I open my mouth, about to say something, but before I even get the chance to do so, he turns and walks out of the room. The door slamming behind him.

“Great!” I yell out loud.

I don’t know if this dude even locked the door but then I’m alone here. I look around the damn room again, and then like someone inspecting a section of a museum, I begin moving around the place because I really do have to figure out what this is really about.

I walk towards the chest I have been hiding behind since I found myself here, my fingers trailing over the carved patterns on it. Next, I walk towards a table and pull back the lace draped across it. I run my hand over the rough weave on the lace…it’s so freaking detailed.

Then my eyes spot some ink and what appears to be feathered quill on the table…then i spot a couple of shields in the corner of the room…Some more swords…another wooden box by a corner.

Then the mirror.

I almost forgot…that freaking mirror.

I rush to it, pressing my palms against the glass, trying to satisfy the theory my brain is yelling out.

Nothing. There’s no freaking ripple.

My heart slams harder. I trace the strange carvings along its frame, whispering half remembered translations, cross references. There’s no ripple. No pull. Just solid, cold glass.

“s**t,” I whisper.

My eyes dart to the canopy bed. The sheets still messy. The smell of sweat and s*x heavy in the air. I back away quickly, my skin crawling.

The Curtains.

I grab one and yank it aside, revealing a narrow window. I lean forward, breath catching.

Outside, it’s evening. The sky is orange fading to violet, smoke curling from thatched rooftops below.

I’m seeing people…There are several other people here? Really, what sort of simulation am I in? What is this place?

There are people moving in what appears to be a medieval looking courtyard…ladies in wool dresses, aprons, coifs tied neatly. The dudes I’m seeing are in what Professor Brown would refer to in history 503 class as tunics…these dudes are in leather boots and they are carrying baskets.

The sound of neighing directs my gaze towards a corner.

Wait…horses again?

I do see a couple of horses in New York but still…

“This… this can’t be a play.” I mumble out. “It’s too real.”

I slam the curtain close, my hands shaking. My stomach twists. I stumble toward the bed, sit down for two seconds before springing up in disgust. He just had s*x here. Right here.

I rush to the window again, desperate. Can I jump? The drop looks brutal. I’d die before I can even land.

The door.

I spin, rush to it, tugging at the heavy iron handle. It doesn’t budge. I yank harder at it.

I keep yanking and pulling until I hear a scrape of metal.The door moves, and then it opens.

I let out a sigh of relief and step into the corridor.