Page 27 of A Brat's Tale
His mouth forms a line and then his fingers are at my waistband, pulling them down, baring me for the spanking I’m about to get and over his knees I go. Bayaden knows what a warrior I am and therefore how much I can take, so he’s not easy on me. His hand is leaden, coming down on each cheek in successive sets of five.
My arse is quickly on fire and I’m squirming and kicking, trying to free myself, which is a useless endeavor and happens to be something else I like about this—being manhandled, unable to get away. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry all right?”
“That’s the fourth shirt this month, and I liked that one best.” He keeps spanking me.
“Ow! Baya-aaayowwch! You have seventeen others.”
I’m flushed in more places than my backside, it’s still embarrassing getting a spanking like a child when you’re a grown man, even if you need it. Any person could knock at any time and they do. Bayaden lets them stroll right in. Does that mean he’ll let me up? No. If I want to misbehave, then such is my fate.
When he finally lets me stand up, after the spanking from hell, I pout at him, but I feel better even with my arse afire. Sometimes I don’t even know I need a spanking until after the fact. I think that’s why his shirts “mysteriously” end up ruined. He pulls me in for a kiss with my pants still down. “That was naughty, brat.”
“You really do look better in the blue one, you know,” is my answer, because yes, I’m a bit naughty and I can’t deny it. In my defense, Bayaden brings it out in me. I pull my pants up.
“All right, fetch me the blue one then.”
I race off to get it. “What’s going on tonight anyway?” Bayaden is a Warlord, Warlords don’t dress fancy for anything. They wear their finest armor and that’s as lucky as you get.
“A dinner.” So he’s still not going to tell me. “I’ll need my tall blackboots unless you have another suggestion?” His brow quirks over a dark eye, his smile half-formed.
“No, the black boots, but with pants.”
He wrinkles his nose. He’s not fond of pants. “If I must.”
“And your hair tied back. I’ll do it for you.”
“I would appreciate that. Very well. I will go bathe. You’ll need to look nice too. For that I can have you done up.”
“I will be presentable.” I’m more worried than I was before. He’s never had me come to his fancy dinners. He hates them in the first place and only goes because he is required.
“I see that look in your eyes. Don’t ask questions. Now go before I think you need another spanking.” Bayaden’s gruff as usual—by the Gods he can be infuriating—but there’s something behind his eyes.
Still, I can’t allow him to talk to me like that and give him cheek right back. “Yes, my Liege.”
“Out!”
I leave, before he smacks my arse again, laughing all the way.
When Bayaden is dressed for the event, I can’t stop staring. He’s magnificent in blue, his large biceps pressing into the long sleeves. The shirt tapers into his solid black pants, which are tucked into the boots I polished for him—the best job I’ve done yet—and his long hair tied into a ponytail at the nape of his thick neck that stands out under his square jaw.
I’m proud of myself for dressing him so nicely and at the same time, I’m smirking. He’s like a schoolboy dressed up for mass with the way he’s scowling, and I’d say so to him if he knew what it meant to go to church—Elves believe in the Gods, but they do not attend mass. He hates dressing up. “My, you look fetching,” I say.
“I look all wrong. I’m a warrior, not a socialite.”
“Here, this will make you feel better.” I hand him one of his favorite swords, sheathed in its baldric. He straps it onto himself, so the sword sits at his hip. I realize I’m the only one who ever seesBayaden without a weapon. The large Warlord always has a weapon or several on his person. The only time he removes them is when he’s in his chambers, or on mountainsides with me.
Having the sword does make him feel better and I can see it as soon as the sword is securely around him. “I like you naked better,” he says.
“For the Gods’ sake. I spent all afternoon cleaning myself up, I won’t have you ruin me.”
He smirks. “I suppose flea-removal takes a while does it?”
I glare at him. I know he’s joking, but still. “Would you like me in nothing but my collar, sir?”
He grunts, which means no. “Tristan? Did you hope to have children someday?”
I stare at him before I can answer. First, there was his behavior on the mountainside and now this. “I wanted an heir to succeed me as Warlord until I had my title stripped. With Corrik, it was part of the marriage contract. We were obligated to have at least six, but as many as we wanted after that, or we could stop.”
“Forget about all that. What didyouwant?”
