Chapter 7

The heavy doors swung open, this time with a slow creak that drew all eyes to the entrance.

A hush fell over the courtroom as the sound of clicking heels echoed off the polished stone floors.

All eyes turned to the entrance. A line of women began to file in,

The brothel women had entered gracefully, a deliberate sway to their hips as they crossed the threshold. Their clothing—or rather, the lack of it—left little to the imagination.

Thin veils hung over their breasts, the fabric sheer enough to show the curves beneath. Their skirts were slit high, revealing toned legs adorned with shimmering jewelry that clinked with each step.

They didn’t walk—they glided, as if the very air around them bent to their will. Their dark eyes scanned the room, lingering briefly on each man present.

The queen remained seated at the head of the room, her sharp eyes flicked over the group of women, her expression betraying a mix of anger and annoyance but she stayed composed.

The noblewomen, however, were not as composed. Their reactions ranged from barely concealed disgust to open hostility.

“Ladies,” Queen Julian said, her voice carrying across the room with a note of mockery, “it seems the gathering has taken a turn. Perhaps it is time for us to leave.”

The noblewomen exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from irritation to outrage. Still, none dared challenge the queen directly. One by one, they began to file out of the room, their heels clicking sharply against the floor in a staccato rhythm.

Amelia watched them go, her confusion growing with every passing moment. Should she leave as well? She wasn’t sure of her place in this unusual scene, but the memory of the old woman’s warning stopped her.

"Do not leave until every court member has gone," the old women had said, her voice gravelly but firm.

Finally the queen departed. The heavy wooden doors closed with a thud that seemed to echo through the grand chamber. Inside, the atmosphere was already thick, the air warm with the mingling scents of wine, sweat, and something musky—something primal.

The room seemed to grow smaller, more intimate, as the newcomers took their places along the edges of the space. The women began to move, their bodies swaying in unison to a rhythm that seemed to emanate from the very air itself.

Amelia stood near the back, clutching a silver tray so tightly her knuckles turned white. She felt her chest tighten as her eyes darted over the room. This wasn’t the place for her, yet here she was, standing among men whose appetites were on full display and women whose sole purpose seemed to be to satisfy those appetites.

Amelia’s hands trembled as she gripped the wine pitcher, her uncertainty growing with each passing moment. Was she supposed to continue serving? Should she retreat to her corner and wait for instructions? The lack of guidance was maddening, but the old woman’s warning echoed in her mind, urging her to stay put.

She risked a glance at the other servants, hoping for some clue as to what was expected of her. They moved about the room like ghosts, refilling goblets and clearing plates with practiced ease, their eyes never meeting anyone else's.

She swallowed hard, gripping the tray tighter.

“Come here, girl,” a nobleman called out, his voice loud and slurred.

Amelia’s heart jumped. She knew he wasn’t speaking to her—he couldn’t be—but still, she froze, her breath catching as she watched him beckon one of the dancers. The woman approached with a coy smile, her hips swaying with every step.

The man wasted no time, his hand curling around her waist to pull her onto his lap. His fingers trailed up her thigh, pushing aside the thin fabric of her skirt to expose more of her skin.

“You’re too beautiful to be standing,” he murmured, his lips grazing her neck.

She purred, her hands resting on his chest as she leaned closer.

Amelia’s cheeks burned as she turned away, but no matter where she looked, there was no escape.

The dancers continued to move around the room, their performances growing bolder and more intimate. One woman climbed onto a low table, her hips swaying sensually as she ran her hands over her body. Another knelt between two noblemen, her lips brushing against one man’s ear as her hand slid up the other’s thigh.

The noblemen grew more emboldened, their hands roaming freely, their words growing cruder. The women encouraged it, their laughter and teasing words only adding to the debauchery.

Amelia tried to block it out, but the sounds—the laughter, the moans—

were impossible to ignore. She felt trapped, out of place in a room where pleasure and power mingled so openly.

Amelia glanced at the other servants, hoping to gauge their reactions. But they all kept their eyes firmly on the ground, their faces carefully blank. Not a single one dared to look at the dancers or the nobles.

Amelia envied their composure.

Her mind raced with questions. Was this a common occurrence? A secret tradition? The other servants seemed unfazed, their practiced silence suggesting that this was nothing new to them. But for Amelia, it was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

On the far side of the room, a noble sat in a high-backed chair, his expression as cold and unyielding as stone. Two women knelt at his feet, their hands roaming over his thighs as they gazed up at him with wide, eager eyes.

“Do we please you, my lord?” one of them asked, her voice dripping with sweetness.

He didn’t respond immediately. His eyes flicked down to her, his gaze sharp and assessing. Then, without a word, he leaned back in his chair, spreading his legs slightly as if granting her permission to continue.

The woman smiled, her fingers deftly undoing the fastenings of his trousers. Her partner leaned forward, her lips brushing against noble men's jaw as her hand slid up his chest.

Amelia’s breath hitched as she forced herself to look away, her hands trembling as she adjusted the tray in her grasp

Malcolm, by contrast, seemed entirely disinterested. He lounged in his chair with a bored expression.

One woman twirled in front of him, her sheer skirts flaring out around her before settling back against her thighs. She dropped to her knees gracefully, arching her back as she ran her hands along her sides, her eyes never leaving his.

Amelia couldn’t stay here any longer. She needed an excuse to move, to do something—anything—to distract herself from the heat rising in her cheeks and the uncomfortable tightness in her chest.

The goblets on the table were nearly empty, their contents drained by thirsty noblemen. She set her tray down and picked up the wine pitcher, her hands shaking slightly as she poured.

She felt their eyes on her even before anyone spoke.

“Such a pretty little thing,” one of the men drawled, his voice low and mocking.

Amelia’s hands stilled for a moment before she forced herself to keep pouring. She didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge him, but she could feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

“Too shy to speak?” another man chimed in, his tone amused.

“She’ll loosen up eventually,” the first man said.

Laughter erupted, loud and cruel, but before Amelia could slip away, she felt it—another gaze, one far colder and more oppressive than the others. Malcolm.

He was seated at the head of the table, flanked by two women whose hands roamed over him with a boldness that made Amelia’s stomach churn. Yet despite their attentions, Malcolm’s icy blue eyes were fixed on her. His expression was unreadable, but there was something dark and unreasonable in his gaze, something that made her blood run cold.

Amelia dared a quick glance at him, and their eyes locked for a brief moment. His look sent a shiver down her spine, and she quickly looked away, clutching the wine pitcher like a lifeline.

Then he raised his hand—a simple, sharp gesture that made her blood run cold.

“Come here.”

His voice was a command, low and even, but laced with a cruelty that brooked no defiance.

She hesitated, her feet rooted to the spot. Surely he didn’t mean her.

“I said come here,” Malcolm repeated, his tone hardening.

The room seemed to fall silent, all eyes turning toward her as the tension thickened. The women beside him looked up in surprise, their brows furrowing as they turned to see who had captured his attention.

Amelia’s heart pounded as she took a hesitant step forward, then another. The room felt smaller with every step she took, the leering gazes of the noblemen pressing in on her. She wanted to flee, but there was no escape.

When she finally stood before Malcolm, she kept her eyes firmly on the ground, her hands trembling as she held the pitcher. He didn’t speak at first, just stared at her with that unrelenting gaze, his expression as unreadable as ever.

Malcolm didn’t say a word. He simply reached out and grabbed her wrist, his grip like iron as he pulled her toward him. The pitcher slipped from her grasp, falling to the floor with a dull thud as she stumbled forward.

Before she could regain her balance, he pulled her onto his lap, his strength leaving her no room for resistance.

She froze, her body stiff and trembling as the reality of her position sank in. His arm wrapped around her waist, holding her firmly in place as he leaned back in his chair.

The women beside him stared, their jealousy plain as their eyes darted between her and Malcolm.

“Leave,” he said, his voice curt and dismissive.

The women hesitated, their hands lingering on him as they exchanged another glance. But the sharpness in his tone left no room for protest. They rose from their seats, their movements slow and deliberate as they cast dark, lingering looks at Amelia before walking away.

She wanted to follow them, to flee from this unbearable situation, but Malcolm’s grip on her waist held her firmly in place. He shifted her slightly, so that she was turned to his chest, her body pressed close to his.

The room erupted with laughter and crude comments as the noblemen took notice of the scene.

Malcolm ignored them all, his attention fixed entirely on the girl trembling in his lap.

Amelia’s mind raced as she tried to make sense of what was happening. Her chest rose a shallow, rapid breaths.

She couldn’t bring herself to look up at him. Her gaze remained on her hands, which were now clenched tightly in her lap. She tried to make sense of what was happening. Her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and fear.

Malcolm’s grip on her waist tightened slightly, his thumb brushing against the fabric of her dress. “Who told you to serve in the court?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

Amelia didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her throat felt dry, and her heart pounded so loudly she could barely hear him.

“I asked you a question,” he said, his tone sharper now.

“I…” Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I don't know," she admitted her voice trembling.

Malcolm’s jaw tightened, his gaze darkening. He looked down at her, taking in her trembling form and the way she refused to meet his eyes.

Amelia didn’t dare move. She sat frozen, her body rigid as his arm tightened around her waist.

She felt his chest rise and fall beneath her, the steady rhythm oddly grounding despite the chaos in her mind.

Malcolm’s thoughts were troubled. He wasn’t blind to the danger Amelia’s presence posed. Queen Julian had been watching her, her sharp eyes filled with suspicion. If she found out it was Amelia…

He couldn’t risk it. But he also couldn’t send her away now, not without drawing more attention to her.

His grip on her waist tightened slightly, and he glanced down at her again. She still hadn’t looked at him, her gaze firmly fixed on her lap.

“Stay still,” he murmured, his voice softer now.

Amelia didn’t respond, but she obeyed, her body tense and unmoving.

The room around them continued to buzz with activity, the noblemen’s laughter and shouts growing louder as the night wore on. But Malcolm paid them no mind. His focus remained on the girl in his lap, his expression unreadable as he weighed his options