Page 58 of Her Viking Guardian

I stood in the middle of the room in my sundress and pink underwear and sandals, my platinum hair loosened and disordered, my bottom striped beneath the pretty cotton, and I felt the nymphobus’s green eyes on me and Herra Henrik’s gaze from behind. I had the uncanny sense that being dressed had become another stage of the ritual rather than its end.

I risked a glance at my master then.

He stood where he had stood before, broad and composed in charcoal and pale linen, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other relaxed at his side. His expression was unreadable. His eyes moved over me once, slowly. His gaze had a proprietary attention that made the space inside the dress feel too warm. I wondered again, suddenly, about my pendant.

I looked down at once.

“She wears civilization prettily,” he said, and though I couldn’t look at my master I could hear the smile in his voice. My chest warmed, and I tried to feel anger about that warmth. I failed.

Giovanna moved behind me and began to gather my hair with quick, competent fingers. “A girl who understands that the restraints are internal can be trusted in cotton,” she said. “One who does not must remain in leather until she learns. She held Mateo well.”

Henrik came closer. I saw his shoes stop a foot from my sandals.

“Do you understand better, lille en?” he asked quietly.

My throat tightened. I could not pretend not to understand. Not after the whip. Not after the way my body had answered the thought of him watching. Not after the sick, grateful certainty that the dress did not undo any of it.

“Yes, Herra,” I whispered.

He was quiet for a moment. I felt, rather than saw, that tiny crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

“Good.”

Giovanna finished with my hair and I thought she would step back. Instead, I felt her hands come around in front of me, and then I felt a familiar chain and a familiar weight against my breastbone. Warm—from her pocket, of course.

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.

“Thank you, Mistress,” I said, meaning it very deeply.

“What rune is that, lille en?” Henrik asked, stepping forward and reaching into the front of the sundress with such arrogant possessiveness that I whimpered, and worse, clenched inside my new pink panties. He pulled the pendant out, and I saw his eyes widen, then crinkle at the edges as he met my own wide-eyed gaze. “Wunjo,” he said, his voice carrying a weight that instantly made me see it, and then want to slap my forehead for not having realized before.

Wunjo… W, which was the same as V…

The first sound of vǫlva.

“We’ll go up through the office,” Giovanna said, apparently oblivious to what had just passed between me and my master. “The car is waiting.”

My Herra’s arms, strong and massive, came around me, and his left hand held my head, my cheek against his chest so that I could feel his mighty heart beat warmly. I felt as if it shook my whole body.

“My vǫlva,” he murmured. He kissed the top of my head, and then he held me away from him and turned to Giovanna.

“We’re ready,” Henrik told her, and I felt control of me pass back into the middle ground between North and South, Nordic and Roman. “This columba is yours to command, Bellatrix.”

For a moment I thought Giovanna would lead me on a leash again, or perhaps just grip my arm, but neither happened. The absence of any palpable restraint struck me harder than if she had buckled my collar back on. I stood in the little room in my sundress, free to move—to try to run, even—and I knew with dreadful clarity that I would follow anyway.

Wear the leathers in your heart.

Yes. I did.

Giovanna opened the door. “Walk properly,” she said. “You represent the Ostia Agency now, however provisionally.”

I went out ahead of them into the corridor. My sandals made soft noises on the stone. The skirt moved around my legs. Every step made the welts on my backside sting beneath the lacy panties.

When we reached the stairs toward the Ostia office, I became acutely aware of my own body in this new costume. The sundress brushed my knees. The pink lace at my breasts felt too pretty, too intimate. The panties hid the cleft that had been on display moments earlier, and that concealment did not feel like innocence regained but like a secret held under cotton. I climbed carefully.

I felt my master behind me again, and I wondered again if his cock were hard at the sight of me, knowing that if he chose he could rip my lovely clothes off and fuck me right there on the stairs.

The office above seemed, when we entered it, almost offensively normal. Glass, chrome, white walls, tasteful art, cool conditioned air. A receptionist in an immaculate blouse glanced up, saw Giovanna, then me, then Henrik, and let not a flicker of surprise cross her face.