Chapter 8: Tea and Teeth Behind the Curtain

The sun had barely risen when Sabine dressed her in ivory: a simple dress, but softer than the others. Fresh linen, scented soap, and a necklace shaped like a dragon with a ruby at its center—the kind of detail that made Ayoka suspicious. “Guests,” Sabine said, brushing out her curls. “Stay quiet. Stay still. Mostly ‘cause he asked to show off your kid. You’re gonna be the best wallflower there.” When Ayoka walked down the main stairwell holding Malik—his body warm against her breast, head wrapped in a soft shawl—she saw Viktor in the parlor, lounging in his favorite chair like a man born to it.

Genevieve sat across from him, delicate and polished, nibbling at a sugared biscuit like it held secrets she was trying to divine. A second cup of tea was already set—sweetened, slightly cooled, clearly meant for Ayoka. Though she had not been asked to join, she was meant to witness.

“You were telling some saddening stories to the other wives in that little sewing club of yours,” Viktor said, picking up Ayoka’s cup of tea. His eyes already looked tired of Genevieve’s antics. Genevieve responded with a lazy drawl, “About the child. What was it? That it was… maimed? You shouldn’t worry yourself, Viktor.” She giggled, brushing a crumb from her lap.

Viktor didn’t look at Ayoka, but his lips curled into something like amusement—too tight, too polished to be real. His shoulders were stiff, his fingers drumming lightly against the armrest, betraying the tension he tried to bury. He had to keep his guest entertained, even if every part of his body screamed disinterest. “Yes. You did say that. Something about maiming babies.”

“I didn’t mean it, of course… I could never do that to one of our own. But those things we feed, house, and allow to work for us? Well, they’re another story.” Genevieve licked her lips slowly, her gaze lingering on Malik with a disturbing kind of hunger. Then she looked at Ayoka, eyes gleaming with cruel curiosity. “Such fine skin,” she said, voice sweet and lazy. “It’d make a stunning coat—maybe a little trim for winter gloves.”

She turned back to Viktor with a laugh that dripped honey and poison. “But honestly, Viktor, you keep such pretty things around the house, and no one knows what to do with them.”

Viktor raised his own cup to his mouth, the porcelain trembling just slightly against his lip before he masked it with a sip. He straightened his back with a theatrical calm, cracked his neck like a man preparing for a duel rather than a parlor visit. “It would be a waste,” he said coolly. “She’s educated in the matters taught for my needs, dignified, and obedient enough. The kind who thinks twice.”

Genevieve set her cup down harder than she intended, the fine china giving a faint chime. “And she has a child with caramel skin and hair close to yours,” she said, biting the words like gristle. Her smile curled, cruel and amused. “Is it a preference now, Viktor? A little breeding experiment? Or is this that old nobleman's sickness? Fancying swollen bellies and half-bred curls? You always did enjoy dressing up your dolls.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

Ayoka stood like a statue in the corner of the room, arms tightening slightly around Malik. She did not move, did not speak. Her eyes locked on a crack in the hardwood floor, tuning out the room one heartbeat at a time. She turned her ears inward, letting Genevieve's words dissolve into static. It wasn’t silence—but it was the closest she could manage. For Malik’s sake, she needed her heart to stay calm.

Genevieve noticed the change in Ayoka’s posture when she used the word “it.” She felt like she had won. “It’s holding him now,” Genevieve added, her smile spreading like rot. “Look. So tender, like it’s hers. You don’t even own the child.” The room felt different. The shadows had shifted. But Genevieve didn’t notice.

“Genevieve,” Viktor said with a half-sigh, “you always say the wrong thing when trying to be charming. Poison in ribbons.”

Genevieve stomped her feet like a child denied a second sweet and said in a catty tone, “Well,” she pouted, rising from her seat, “if it offends you so, let me fix it.” Before Ayoka could shift, Genevieve crossed the room—too graceful, too casual—and held out her arms with a sugary tone. “May I?”

Ayoka hesitated for a moment and looked at Viktor for an answer. He didn’t look at her, but his silence was its own command. She could feel the heat of his cigar flare in the pause, the flame crackling just faintly. Genevieve’s fingers twitched with impatience—her mask slipping just enough to reveal hunger beneath the sugar. Viktor finally spoke in a smooth, commanding tone, “You can hold the child. But be careful. I would hate to tell your father that he might need to discipline his daughter.”

Ayoka obeyed like clockwork, every gesture slowed to preserve her place in this grotesque performance. She stepped forward, gently placing Malik into Genevieve’s arms. Her heart thundered in her throat, but her face was a curtain—soft, distant, and unreadable. Malik stirred at the scent of perfume he didn’t know, whimpered once, then nestled in, unaware.

Genevieve rocked him like she owned him. A single manicured finger traced his cheek, almost reverent. “He’s heavier than he looks,” she said with a tight, knowing smile. “Plump. Strong. Just a little thing now… but boys grow into problems, don’t they?”

Ayoka gave the performance expected of her. She curved her lips into something polite, bowed her head just enough, and murmured, “Yes, they do, Mistress.” Her nails carved crescents into her palms. Her jaw locked tight as stone. Every fiber in her body screamed to take him back—to claw her way across the parlor. But she didn’t.

She played the wallflower.

Genevieve tilted her head, eyes flickering between mother and child. “Relax. I’m not about to drop him,” she said with mock reassurance, even as her grip seemed almost too confident.

Ayoka’s mouth was a grave. Her hands curled at her sides. In her mind, she let go. She imagined grabbing Genevieve by the curls and yanking her down. She imagined fucking Viktor in front of her, hard and cruel, while Genevieve bled on the rug and gasped her last breaths. In that fantasy, she made it romantic—his hand in her hair, her teeth at his neck, Malik laughing nearby as if this were some twisted ballet of justice and passion.

But then Viktor’s voice cut through the illusion, cold and sharp.

“That’s enough,” he said, clipped and clear. “You’re playing your little games too far.”

Ayoka reached out, calm and cold, and took her child back. Her fingers brushed Genevieve’s. In that touch, she felt the chill of a woman who could command cruelty without ever lifting a hand. She held Malik tighter. His breath warmed the hollow of her neck.