From the Tip of the Tongue of the Lowliest Maid - Chapter 120

This work contains scenes of sadistic coercion and hardcore depictions of BDSM. Reader discretion is advised.

Lifting Arzeletta in his arms, Ragnar stepped past a wall and walked deeper inside.

The very heart of the lord’s castle, the deepest and most secretive place within—the lord’s bedchamber.

Still held in Ragnar’s arms, Arzeletta simply blinked. Her entire body lacked strength. Her face, still not understanding what had happened, remained innocent and clear.

That innocent expression made Ragnar feel guilty. It was a situation where, even to himself, it seemed he had lured the maid with a vile trick.

“…My lord.”

The small body of the maid was placed on the wide bed of the lord.

Panting, Arzeletta looked up at the man. Eyes filled with no suspicion. That face—waiting for his answer as though his words were eternal truth—made Ragnar feel like he wanted to die.

To recall the sins he had committed in this very bed while thinking of this very woman—no excuse could make this situation merely a result of carelessness.

Wasn’t this the realization of his darkest and most shameful fantasies, ones he could barely admit to himself?

“It’s incense for warding off intruders. I’ve grown too used to it and simply forgot.”

“Ah…”

“I’ll put it out right away. If you rest here just a moment, then soon…”

Ragnar paused mid-sentence at the touch of the maid’s fingers clinging to his sleeve.

It was a scent that made even infidel assassins, trained in harsh ways, cling at his feet in shame. It wasn’t something that would easily subside with a little time.

Arzeletta clutched him, not knowing what to do. As if she had been suddenly attacked. Her heart pounded as if it would burst, and her breath burned painfully.

She felt as if she would lose her mind if she didn’t cling to something. As if she would lose her reason and not know what she was doing.

“I, how, ah…”

Arzeletta gasped for breath. She clawed at the man’s chest, who was bent over her, as if scratching it, then gripped his shoulders.

Even in such a moment, all of Arzeletta’s presence was quiet. Even her heavy breaths were calm, and her gripping fingertips were soft as plants. As if she were beneath cold, clear water.

Her flushed eyes were red as roses. The tip of her ear, adorned with hair, was also red. Her eyelashes were wet with tears. Arzeletta clung to Ragnar as if to a lifeline. Perhaps she had even forgotten who she was clinging to at this moment.

“My Lord… My, Lord.”

“Arzeletta.”

“Ah, how can I, breathe, ah, My Lord.”

Ragnar took Arzeletta’s lips.

Arzeletta obediently parted her lips for him. She accepted the ruler’s breath, which entered her without resistance.

The bed sank. Arzeletta closed her eyes, feeling the man’s grand body climbing over her. Her spinning vision was too dizzying to open her eyes.

“Ah, haat… My Lord…”

Arzeletta swallowed the man’s breath that flowed into her, gradually calming her breathing. The pain in her chest, which had seemed to twist with tangled breaths, slowly subsided.

Instead, their mingled breaths grew hotter. Arzeletta accepted the breath of the man she clung to, feeling as if she were swallowing fire.

Moonlight streamed through the stained glass, sharply pointed upwards like a spear. The moonlight, filtered through the colored glass, was dyed red and fell shattered onto the black marble.

The man’s hand traced its way down Arzeletta’s neck.

Every time the fingertips of the man, God’s proxy, the master of all that belonged to this domain, practically an absolute being to her, brushed against her, Arzeletta’s slender neck convulsed, following him.

“Hmph…”

A sob escaped the woman’s lips in the slight gap when they parted. Ragnar remained silent, his lips tightly pressed, looking down at the woman weeping beneath him. Arzeletta pulled on Ragnar’s shoulder, to which she clung.

Arzeletta wept from agony. She couldn’t bear even the man’s momentary withdrawal from her, and she was frightened by her own state.

He was already the man to whom she had shown every inch of her body, and she had wet herself beneath his fingertips, heedless of shame.

Yet, even amidst that, her reason had never been so paralyzed. Arzeletta burrowed deeper into the man’s embrace, afraid of displaying unseemly behavior she didn’t understand.

She wanted to hide in Ragnar’s shadow, just as she had done in countless dangers until now.

As if completely forgetting that his power, his authority, had pushed her life into the shadows.