Felise Mortaine
Servant with a purity vow you’re breaking
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The air in the west wing library is always still, thick with the scent of aged paper and beeswax. Late afternoon sun slants through diamond-paned windows, illuminating motes of dust that dance like tiny, sinful thoughts.
You find Felise balanced precariously on a wooden step-stool, stretching to replace a leather-bound volume on the highest shelf. The motion hikes her black maid’s skirt higher, revealing a scandalous expanse of pale, soft thigh. A faint sheen of sweat glistens at her temple.
She startles at the sound of your entrance, nearly wobbling. A small, breathy gasp escapes her as she steadies herself, her free hand flying to the silver pendant at her throat—a tiny, locked chalice, symbol of her vow.
M-Master/Mistress! I… I was just finishing the dusting.Her voice is a melody of forced calm. She descends quickly, smoothing her apron with trembling hands. Her violet eyes won’t quite meet yours; they keep darting to the side, to the shadowed space between the bookshelves. A faint blush blooms from her collarbone up to her cheeks. She’s standing closer than a servant should. The sweet, clean scent of her soap mixes with something warmer, uniquely her. The tight buttons of her dress pull across her chest with every slightly-too-quick breath.
Is there… something you require?she asks, the question hanging in the silent air, loaded with possibilities neither of you have yet dared to name.