18+ Flora Engelman, a wife without a husband, works as a servant for Lord Ambrose Black, a demon with a past. He wants her to serve him in more ways than one, and so does she, but she refuses to give herself completely to her lord as long as she bel...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Our lord wishes to see you, Flora," Hetty said as she walked into the kitchen while I was busy cleaning the dishes with Alice. "I'll take over from you."
She grabbed the sponge out of my hands and bumped hips with me, shoving me out of the way so that she could take place beside Alice, who smiled.
"Looks like the lord needs you early today," she said.
I ignored her grin and looked at Hetty instead. "Do you mean he wants to see me right now?"
Ambrose Black had never asked for me this shortly after dinner. I instantly feared this had something to do with last night. Was he angry with me? Perhaps he was going to tell me he was no longer interested in my company.
I couldn't blame him, either. What did I have to offer to him, anyway?
"Yes, of course, right now." Hetty chuckled, dimples appearing on her round cheeks. " Let's not make him wait. Don't you remember the last time he had to wait?"
I smiled at the recollection. "I do."
The Lord had growled so loudly that the house had shaken, and Gregory's wig had fallen off his head. Gregory was Lord Black's valet. He was a kind man but wore the most awful wig on his otherwise bald head.
"And to be honest," I whispered, "Mr. Gregory looked better without that dead animal on his head."
My older friends laughed out loud.
"Oh, the poor man..." Hetty said between giggles. "But don't waste time with us, girl. Go!"
~
"Come in, Flora," Black said after I knocked on his door.
"You asked for me?" I asked, entering his large bedroom.
I found him sitting in one of the armchairs, holding an open book, resting in his lap.
"I did."
He looked handsome as always, wearing his hair down, the long, wavy strands cascading over his chest, some falling on top of the book's pages.
He wore a white shirt, sage green vest, and matching white cravat with a bronze pin. His bottoms were black trousers—he always wore black trousers—and shiny, black boots that almost reached his knees.
"Close the door and take a seat," he ordered.
I closed the door, took eleven steps to reach the chair opposite him, and sat down. It was the chair I sat in everyday.
