NO MERCY, MY DUCHESS

10

The morning after the brutal claiming, a hushed anticipation hung over Blackmoor Manor. The usual breakfast chatter in the grand dining hall was muted, punctuated by the faint clink of silverware. The formidable Duchess of Blackmoor, Julian's mother, a woman who prized punctuality and routine above almost all else, surveyed the empty seat at the head of the table.

"Where is my son?" she asked the butler, Mr. Finch, her voice betraying a hint of impatience.

Julian was a creature of habit, always at the breakfast table at precisely seven o'clock, ready to begin his day's rigorous schedule.

Mr. Finch, ever the picture of discreet efficiency, bowed slightly. "Still sleeping, Your Grace," he informed her, his voice carefully neutral.

The Duchess's elegant eyebrow arched. "At this time?" she questioned, a note of disbelief in her tone.

Julian had not only failed to appear, but neither had he called for his breakfast to be brought upstairs. This was utterly unprecedented. Julian's dedication to his duties was unwavering; a prolonged absence from the public eye, particularly after his whirlwind marriage, was unthinkable.

The Duchess exchanged a subtle, knowing glance with her husband, the elder Duke. They knew their son. This was not typical.

A day of anxious whispers and hushed speculation followed. The household moved with a strained quietness, everyone aware of the Duke's uncharacteristic seclusion. Mr. Finch maintained his impeccable composure, but even he seemed to carry an air of suppressed knowledge.

Livia remained unseen, presumably still confined to the guest chamber, though no one dared to inquire directly.

The heavy doors of the Duke's bedchamber finally opened late in the afternoon. It wasn't because he was finally stepping out to resume his duties, to face the world and its demands.

Instead, Mr. Finch received a series of crisp, precisely articulated commands delivered directly from Julian himself.

"Finch," Julian's voice, though firm, carried a trace of roughness, as if from disuse. "Bring food. For myself and the Duchess. A substantial meal, not light fare." His tone left no room for interpretation; he was ordering for two, acknowledging Livia's presence and, implicitly, her continued confinement within his private domain.

"And," Julian continued, after a brief pause, "prepare bath water for both of them. Hot, and plenty of it. Scented with lavender. And ensure there are ample fresh linens."

The request for a shared bath, and the specific mention of lavender, usually reserved for ladies, sent a ripple of unspoken understanding through Mr. Finch. The Duke's intentions, private as they were, were becoming clearer.

"Additionally," Julian added, his voice dropping slightly, though still audible, "I require herbs for pain. The stronger variety. And have them delivered discreetly." This particular request, delivered with a directness that bypassed any polite euphemisms, painted a vivid, disturbing picture for the butler. The implications of Livia's suffering were stark.

"Finally," Julian concluded, his voice resuming its usual authoritative tone, "new clothes for her. Fresh gowns, suitable for lounging within my chambers. Nothing formal. Soft fabrics. And ensure a wide selection."

The commands were delivered with Julian's characteristic precision, leaving no doubt as to his expectations. Mr. Finch, maintaining his unruffled facade, simply bowed deeply. "At once, Your Grace."

As the butler turned to dispatch the orders, a chilling realization settled over him. The Duke had finally claimed his Duchess. And judging by the nature of the requests, the claiming had been anything but gentle. The herbs for pain, the prolonged seclusion, the specific demands for Livia's comfort within Julian's own chambers – it all spoke of a brutal initiation, a violent subjugation. The Duke's rage, once contained, had evidently found its terrifying release.

The silent understanding that passed between the servants, the knowing glances, confirmed it. The Duchess, Lady Livia, was no longer just the Duke's wife; she was his utterly possessed property, and the world outside the Duke's bedchamber would now learn that Julian Lancelot Blackmoor always, always, claimed what was his.

**********

Livia lay sprawled on the bed, her body screaming in protest with every shift. When Julian finally returned, having dispatched his orders, she tried to push herself up, to regain some semblance of dignity, but her muscles simply wouldn't obey.

A soft groan escaped her lips as her limbs trembled.

Julian observed her with a dark, unreadable intensity. "With such a loud mouth," he drawled, his voice low and laced with a cutting taunt, "you'd think you had the strength to match it." His words, a brutal reminder of her earlier defiance, sliced through her.

He offered no assistance, simply watching her struggle, a silent, almost cruel challenge in his gaze.

When it became clear she couldn't rise, he huffed, a sound of impatience and lingering dominance. He reached down, hooking an arm under her knees and another behind her back. Livia winced, her entire body aching as he lifted her effortlessly.

The warmth of his skin against hers, the sheer power in his arms, sent a fresh wave of terror through her.

He carried her to the large, claw-footed tub, now filled with steaming, lavender-scented water. The aroma, meant to soothe, felt cloying in her heightened state. He lowered her into the water, her body protesting with another soft winch as her sore muscles stretched and submerged.

He didn't get in immediately. Instead, he took up a sponge and began to bathe her. His hands, large and capable, moved over her skin with a surprising, almost unnerving gentleness. He scrubbed away the dried blood, the lingering grime, cleansing her body with a meticulousness that was both intimate and utterly clinical. His fingers traced the soft swell of her hips, the curve of her waist, lingering on the delicate skin of her inner thigh.

Livia felt a terrifying sensation bloom within her. His touch, though gentle, was also possessive, deliberate.

And then, undeniably, she sensed his arousal. A tremor ran through her, fear and a strange, unwilling awareness mingling. Her breath hitched in her throat, her heart beginning to pound a frantic rhythm.

"Please," she squeaked, her voice barely audible, like a trapped mouse. It was a plea, a whisper of desperation, begging for an end to the terrifying intimacy.

But he ignored her. His eyes, dark and unyielding, met hers for a fleeting moment, a silent declaration that her pleas were futile. Then, with a decisive movement, he stepped into the tub himself, the water sloshing around them.

He positioned himself behind her, pressing her back against his hard, warm chest. Her body, still aching, was now entirely enveloped by his. He shifted, his powerful frame settling, and then, with a single, deliberate movement, he pressed her down, forcing her body to yield, and took her again, there in the hot, steamy water of the tub.

The last of her resistance crumbled, dissolving into the warm, scented depths.