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    Summary

    Her ministrations dwindle to a halt. Small and beseeching: "I'm so sore, High Lord."

    For a time, the only response is the snap of the water where it roils against her.

    Then, "You would deny me?"

    Puzzlement dips her brow. "Never," she murmurs, grazing the bridge of his nose with her own. "I thought…"

    His gaze narrows. "You thought?"

    Through the haze of steam, her cheeks flush deep as a spring rose. "I thought only that you might make use of the other, High Lord."

    or: beron takes pleasure from his favored bed slave at the expense of her pain.

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