Chapter 213 Fiora’s Evil Plan To Please Alaric

The days following Alaric’s return bled into one another, marked by a serene domesticity entirely focused on Princess Griselda.

For Alaric, it was a performance, meticulously crafted.

For Griselda, it was bliss.

He woke beside her each morning in the opulent master suite.

Candlelight gave way to soft dawn filtering through silk curtains.

Her dark hair was invariably spread across the pillows, her plump form radiating warmth beside him.

“Husband…” she’d murmur sleepily, blue eyes fluttering open, a soft blush already staining her cheeks as memory of the night returned.

“Good morning, dear wife,” Alaric would reply, his voice kept deliberately soft, gentle. He’d brush a stray strand of hair from her face, his ruby eyes holding only tender affection.

He played the part of the devoted newlywed to perfection.

‘She’s adapting well,’ he noted internally, observing the way her initial shyness was slowly melting under his consistent, patient attention. ‘The fear is gone, replaced by trust… and a burgeoning desire she barely understands.’

Breakfast wasn’t taken in the grand dining hall. No, Alaric insisted they dine privately, either in their suite’s drawing-room or on a secluded balcony overlooking the mansion’s pristine gardens.

Kara or Ulriya would deliver the trays, their expressions carefully neutral, betraying none of the complex undercurrents swirling beneath the surface of Steele Manor. They served, bowed, and retreated, leaving the couple undisturbed.

“The honey cakes here are divine, husband,” Griselda remarked one morning, her eyes bright. “So different from the palace kitchens.”

“Only the best for my wife,” Alaric smiled, reaching across the small table to briefly squeeze her hand.

His thoughts, however, flickered elsewhere. ‘Kara looks tense. Ulriya avoids my gaze more than usual. They sense the shift. Good. Let them wonder. Let all of them wonder.’

He deliberately ignored the subtle attempts by his other women to gain his attention.

A lingering glance from Kara as she served tea.

Ulriya deliberately crossing his path in the hallway, her posture radiating a subdued plea.

He saw them. He registered them. He ignored them.

Even his mother, Lyra, who normally commanded his attention with an unspoken intensity, received only polite, brief acknowledgements when their paths crossed. He knew she understood the game, but the lack of their usual charged interactions, their secret glances promising future encounters, would still prickle her pride.

‘Mother thrives on control, on being central. This period of… neglect… will only sharpen her appetite for when I finally turn my attention back to her. And Cassandra too.’

His Aunt Cassandra, Fiora’s mother, normally a frequent visitor for strategic discussions or veiled familial power plays intertwined with their hidden desires, was also kept at arm’s length. Polite greetings, inquiries after Fiora’s well-being, and nothing more.

Rosalind, his fiery friend and sparring partner, likely chafed under the silence. She valued their intellectual sparring as much as their physical encounters. He imagined her pacing her chambers, frustrated.

Iridelle, Natasha’s reserved but fiercely passionate elder sister, another conquest bound by circumstance and his power, would be quietly observing, analyzing, waiting. Her patience had limits.

And Saintess Ceanna… the current target of his outward pursuit, a piece in a larger political game. Messages likely awaited him, inquiries about his well-being, perhaps veiled attempts to gauge his intentions after their last encounter. He let them pile up, unanswered.

His focus was Griselda.

Walking with her in the gardens, pointing out specific blooms.

Reading beside her in the library, occasionally sharing a passage.

Answering her innocent questions about the Steele lands, his artificing, his magic – simplifying everything, painting himself as the noble protector.

And the nights… the nights were dedicated to her continued initiation.

He remained steadfastly gentle. Patient. Worshipful.

Each session began with soft kisses, slow caresses. He learned every curve, every soft plane of her body. He discovered the spots that made her gasp, the touches that made her tremble and arch against him.

“Alaric…” she’d breathe, her voice thick with pleasure, her earlier inhibitions melting away under his skillful hands and tender words.

“Yes, my love?”

“It feels… so good…”

He’d smile against her skin. ‘Good. Learn to crave it. Learn to associate pleasure only with me.’

He introduced new intimacies slowly, always ensuring she was comfortable, aroused, before proceeding. He took meticulous care to bring her to climax multiple times before seeking his own release, embedding the association of his presence with overwhelming pleasure.

Her soreness faded, replaced by a constant, low hum of awareness, of desire. She began initiating kisses, tentatively touching him back, exploring his sculpted form with wide, curious eyes.

‘Perfect. Utterly devoted. Unsullied by the darkness the others swim in.’ He found a strange satisfaction in maintaining this separate sphere for her. A sanctuary of light he built around her, even as shadows lengthened elsewhere in the manor.

But this idyll, this focused devotion, served another, sharper purpose.

Fiora.

Fiora felt like a ghost haunting the edges of her own home.

Every glimpse of Alaric laughing softly with Griselda in the garden sent a pang through her chest.

Every time she saw them dining alone on the balcony, a knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach.

He hadn’t spoken a single word directly to her since his return. Not one.

His eyes slid past her in the corridors as if she were invisible.

‘He meant it,’ she thought, panic clawing at her throat. ‘He truly meant it. Until I complete the task… I don’t exist to him.’

The task.

Find two more beauties. Beauties comparable to her mother, Cassandra, and her Aunt Lyra.

It sounded simple when he’d commanded it, his ruby eyes intense, brook no argument. Find women of their caliber for his… pleasure. Helpers, because she, Fiora, couldn’t satisfy his stamina.

The memory burned with shame and a desperate longing. She wanted to satisfy him. She loved him desperately, relied on him utterly. His attention was like sunlight; its absence was a chilling void.

She had tried.

Secretly, frantically, she’d sent out trusted retainers with discreet inquiries. She’d poured over portraits sent from nearby towns, even made a few hasty, disguised trips herself.

Nothing.

Plenty of attractive women, yes. Pretty merchants’ daughters, alluring performers, even minor nobles with pleasing features.

But none possessed that specific blend of mature grace, captivating beauty, and underlying strength that defined Lyra and Cassandra. That magnetic presence.

‘He set an impossible standard!’ Fiora’s frustration mounted daily. ‘How can I find women like them? They’re unique!’

Days turned into a week. Alaric remained solely focused on his new bride. Fiora’s anxiety grew into a gnawing desperation.

Sleep offered little respite. She dreamed of his cold indifference, his back turned to her.

She needed him. Needed his praise, his touch, the possessive way he looked at her, even the demanding nature of their secret trysts. Anything was better than this chilling silence.

‘He’ll forget me,’ the fear whispered. ‘He has his Princess now. Maybe… maybe he doesn’t need me anymore.’

Tears welled, hot and stinging. No. She couldn’t accept that. She had to succeed.

The training grounds were usually a place Fiora found solace, the familiar burn of exertion a welcome distraction.

Today, however, even the sharp clang of practice swords felt muted, overshadowed by her inner turmoil.

She sparred with her mother, Cassandra, their movements fluid, honed by years of practice. Aunt Lyra watched from the sidelines, occasionally offering sharp, insightful critiques.

“Your footwork is hesitant today, Fiora,” Lyra called out, her voice crisp.

“Focus, child,” Cassandra murmured, easily deflecting Fiora’s sloppy lunge.

Fiora gritted her teeth, forcing herself to concentrate. Parry, thrust, dodge. The movements were automatic, but her mind was elsewhere.

‘Beauties like Mother… like Aunt Lyra…’ The words echoed in her head. Alaric’s specific phrasing.

Why like them? Why not just ‘beautiful women’?

He had always appreciated beauty, collected it almost. His maids, Kara and Ulriya, were testaments to that. But this request felt different. More specific.

Like them.

An idea sparked, sudden and electrifying, making her falter mid-parry. Cassandra’s practice sword tapped sharply against her shoulder.

“Pay attention!” Cassandra chided gently.

But Fiora barely heard. Her mind raced.

‘Like them… he wants women like them… because… because he finds them beautiful?’

It seemed obvious now, yet terrifying.

‘He wants… Mother? And Aunt Lyra?’

The thought was scandalous. Forbidden. They were family! His mother, his aunt!

But Alaric… Alaric operated by his own rules. Power radiated from him, a sense that conventional boundaries didn’t apply.

‘He wouldn’t… would he?’ Fiora’s mind shied away from the implication. ‘He asked me to find women like them. He admires their beauty, yes! That must be it. He wants women who look like them, possess that same aura.’

A flicker of hope ignited within the panic.

‘But maybe… maybe seeing them… would be enough?’

Her thoughts tumbled over each other.

‘He didn’t explicitly say he would sleep with the women I found. Just that he needed helpers because I…’ She blushed, remembering his comment about her stamina. ‘Maybe he just wants… companionship? Women who match his mother and aunt in presence?’

It sounded weak, even to her desperate mind. Alaric wasn’t a man who collected companions idly.

‘But what choice do I have?’ The desperation surged again. ‘I can’t find anyone else! This is my only chance!’

He had admired them. He had specifically used them as the benchmark.

‘What if… what if I present them to him?’

Her heart hammered against her ribs.

‘He’ll be pleased I understood the essence of his request, even if I couldn’t find exact replicas! He’ll see I tried, that I thought cleverly!’

And the key part: ‘He’ll talk to me again. He’ll smile at me. Maybe… maybe he’ll hold me again.’

The thought of his arms around her, his possessive heat, overshadowed the taboo nature of her burgeoning plan.

‘But how? How could I possibly convince Mother and Aunt Lyra? They’d be horrified! They’d never agree!’

They were proud women. Matriarch Lyra, stern and commanding. Her own mother, Cassandra, graceful but fiercely protective of propriety. Asking them to present themselves to Alaric as… objects? Unthinkable.

Unless… they didn’t exactly agree.

Her mind went to the Steele apothecaries. Resources available to the family. Substances that could… influence moods. Lower inhibitions.

Aphrodisiacs. Strong ones.

‘Could I?’ The thought felt like ice and fire. Drugging her own mother? Her aunt?

‘It’s not… it’s not like I’m handing them over to be hurt,’ she rationalized frantically. ‘Alaric… he can be demanding, yes, but he’s not cruel without reason. And he admires them. He wouldn’t… harm them. Maybe he’ll just… talk to them? Appreciate their beauty? And then he’ll see I succeeded, and he’ll forgive me!’

The logic was twisted, fueled by desperation and her complete, almost childlike reliance on Alaric’s favor. She didn’t see the trap being laid. She didn’t understand the depths of the game Alaric, Lyra, and Cassandra were playing. She only saw a path back to his side.

‘I have to do it. It’s the only way.’

Fiora Steel, driven by love and fear, made her decision.

She would offer her mother and her aunt to her cousin, using whatever means necessary.

Leveraging her status as the Earl’s niece and the Young Master’s cousin wasn’t difficult. A discreet visit to the head apothecary, a vaguely worded request for potent relaxants and mood enhancers for ‘personal use,’ and a heavy pouch of coins ensured silence and swift delivery.

The small vials felt heavy in her pocket, pulsing with illicit potential.

Dinner that evening was a tense affair, at least for Fiora. Alaric and Griselda sat at the main table, radiating an aura of intimate connection. Griselda looked happy, relaxed, her eyes frequently drifting towards her husband with open affection.

Alaric, as usual, appeared perfectly composed, attentive to his bride.

Fiora sat further down, flanked by her mother and Aunt Lyra. Her hands trembled slightly beneath the table.

Lyra was composed, regal as ever. Cassandra seemed serene. Neither showed any outward sign of distress at Alaric’s focused attention on Griselda.

‘Do they not care? Or are they just better at hiding it?’ Fiora wondered.

She waited for her opportunity. Servants moved quietly, refilling goblets. Wine flowed freely.

Under the guise of adjusting her seating, Fiora managed to subtly uncap the tiny vials. A quick, practiced motion as the servants momentarily turned away, and the potent, odorless liquids were tipped into Lyra’s and Cassandra’s wine goblets.

Her heart pounded. ‘Done.’

She watched them, barely breathing.

Lyra picked up her goblet, swirling the deep red liquid. Her eyes briefly met Alaric’s across the table. A flicker, almost imperceptible. Was it understanding? Acknowledgement? Fiora couldn’t be sure. Then Lyra took a delicate sip.

Cassandra followed suit moments later, lifting her goblet gracefully. Did her hand hesitate? Fiora couldn’t tell. She drank.

Alaric watched the entire exchange, his expression unreadable. He caught Fiora’s nervous glance and offered a faint, almost imperceptible nod. Not of approval, necessarily, but acknowledgement. He saw her.

Relief washed over Fiora, so potent it almost made her dizzy. He knew she was trying.

At the same moment, Lyra and Cassandra exchanged a glance. It was lightning quick, barely a flicker of eyelids, but charged with unspoken communication. They both knew exactly what Fiora had done. They knew exactly what Alaric intended. And they were ready to play their parts.

‘The little fool took the bait,’ Lyra thought, suppressing a smirk as she felt the first tendrils of warmth from the drug spread through her veins. ‘Falling right into Alaric’s hands. Good. This makes things… easier. More exciting.’

‘Alaric’s plan,’ Cassandra mused, feeling a familiar heat begin to pool low in her belly, mingling with the drug’s effect. ‘Always intricate. Using the girl’s desperation… Clever. And cruel. But… undeniably thrilling. Tonight will be… memorable.’

They continued their meal, maintaining perfect composure, even as the aphrodisiacs began to take hold, subtly flushing their skin, quickening their breath, sharpening their senses.

Fiora, oblivious to their silent complicity, felt only burgeoning hope.

As the meal concluded, Fiora gathered her courage. She approached Alaric as he stood with Griselda, preparing to escort her back to their chambers.

“Alaric,” Fiora said, her voice trembling slightly.

He turned, raising an eyebrow. Griselda looked at her curiously.

“I…” Fiora swallowed. “The task you gave me. I believe… I believe I have fulfilled it. Will you… will you visit my chambers later tonight? To see?”

Alaric’s expression remained neutral, but his ruby eyes held a glint of something – amusement? Satisfaction? “Indeed? You believe you have succeeded?”

“Yes! Please, Alaric. Come.”

He glanced at Griselda, offering her a soft smile. “Forgive me, dear wife. A small matter of estate business requires my brief attention later. You retire first, I shall join you shortly.”

Griselda nodded trustingly. “Of course, husband. Goodnight, Fiora.”

Fiora barely registered the princess’s departure. Her focus was entirely on Alaric.

He looked back at Fiora, his expression unreadable again. “Very well, Fiora. I shall come. Do not disappoint me.”

He turned and walked away, leaving Fiora trembling with a mixture of terror and elation.

An hour later, Alaric strode towards Fiora’s wing of the mansion. He projected an air of mild curiosity, masking the cold calculation beneath.

‘Showtime.’

He reached her door and knocked lightly.

“Come in,” Fiora’s voice called out, tight with nerves.

Alaric pushed the door open and stepped inside.

He stopped, letting his eyes widen in perfectly feigned astonishment.

The room was dimly lit by candles. Fiora stood near the centre, wringing her hands.

And on the chaise lounge, posed artfully but clearly under duress, were Lyra and Cassandra.

The effects of the aphrodisiac were now blatant. Both women were flushed, their breathing shallow and rapid. Their eyes, usually sharp and controlled, were slightly glazed, shimmering with a mixture of drug-induced arousal and carefully manufactured outrage. Their robes were slightly disheveled, hinting at perhaps a struggle Fiora had overcome, or simply the loss of composure. Lyra’s fingers clenched the velvet upholstery, while Cassandra bit her lip, looking away as if in shame.

It was a masterclass in acting.

“Fiora… what is the meaning of this?” Alaric asked, his voice laced with feigned shock and disapproval, though his eyes drank in the sight. His mother, his aunt, rendered seemingly helpless, radiating illicit heat.

Fiora rushed forward, desperate. “Alaric! You see! The task! You told me… find beauties comparable to them! I couldn’t find anyone else… no one matched! So I thought… maybe… maybe they were what you truly desired? Their beauty… their presence?”

She gestured towards the two women. “Do you… do you like them, Alaric? Are they acceptable? I did it! I fulfilled the task! You won’t… you won’t ignore me anymore, will you?” Her voice broke on the last question, raw with need.

Lyra stirred, pushing herself up slightly, glaring daggers at Fiora first, then Alaric. “Fiora! How dare you! Drugging us! Alaric, you must punish her for this outrage!” Yet, her body trembled, betraying the fire the drug ignited.

“Indeed, Nephew,” Cassandra added, her voice husky, trying for indignation but laced with an undeniable tremor of arousal. “This is… unspeakable. We are your family!” Her eyes, however, flickered towards his body, lingering for a fraction too long.

Alaric let the silence stretch, observing the tableau. Fiora’s desperate hope. Lyra’s feigned fury barely masking simmering heat. Cassandra’s alluring blend of shame and budding lust.

‘Perfectly played, Mother. Aunt.’ His inner voice purred with satisfaction. ‘And Fiora… my naive little pawn.’

Then, he threw back his head and laughed. A genuine, rich sound that echoed in the room, startling Fiora and making Lyra and Cassandra stiffen (acting, always acting).

He stepped forward, ignoring the older women for a moment, and pulled Fiora into his arms. He tilted her chin up, his ruby eyes burning into hers.

“Fiora, Fiora, Fiora,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. He leaned down and kissed her, a hard, possessive kiss that stole her breath and sent shivers down her spine. It wasn’t gentle like his kisses with Griselda; it was claiming, demanding.

He broke the kiss, leaving her breathless and flushed. “You audacious, clever girl,” he whispered against her lips. “You actually did it. You brought me my mother and my aunt.”

He chuckled again, a dark, predatory sound. “Yes, Fiora. You have done a very good job.”

Relief, potent and overwhelming, flooded Fiora. He wasn’t angry. He was pleased! She melted against him. “So… you’re not ignoring me anymore?”

“Ignoring you?” Alaric smirked, running a hand down her back, pressing her closer. “No, little cousin. You’ve earned your reward.”

“Alaric! Stop this!” Lyra snapped, trying to rise, though her movements seemed unsteady. “This is madness! Release Fiora! Let us go!”

“Nephew, please! Think of propriety! Think of Griselda!” Cassandra pleaded, though her eyes were fixed on his mouth.

Alaric merely glanced at them, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “Propriety? Mother, Aunt, I believe we are long past such concerns.” He looked back at Fiora. “You wanted my attention, cousin? You shall have it. First.”

He scooped Fiora into his arms. She yelped softly, clinging to him.

“Alaric!” she gasped, torn between shock and overwhelming desire.

He carried her towards her bed, tossing her onto the silken sheets. His eyes locked with hers, burning with possessive fire.

“Your reward, Fiora. For being so resourceful.”

He tore at the fastenings of her dress, his movements rough, impatient. Fiora whimpered, a sound that was equal parts fear and excitement. This was the Alaric she craved – dominant, overwhelming.

He shed his own robes quickly, revealing the sculpted physique that haunted her dreams.

“Alaric… they’re watching…” Fiora whispered, blushing furiously as she glanced towards the chaise lounge where Lyra and Cassandra remained, seemingly frozen in horrified disbelief.

“Let them watch,” Alaric growled, covering her body with his own. “Let them see how I reward obedience.”

He kissed her again, hard and deep, silencing any further protest. His hands explored her body with practiced expertise, finding sensitive spots, eliciting gasps and moans. He didn’t bother with gentle preliminaries tonight. This was about marking his territory, rewarding her action, and stoking the fires in the other two women.

He positioned himself between her legs and thrust into her without warning.

Fiora cried out, arching off the bed. It wasn’t painful – they were familiar lovers – but the suddenness, the sheer power behind the thrust, was overwhelming.

He moved with a driving, relentless rhythm, pinning her beneath him, his eyes fixed on her face, watching her expression shift from shock to burgeoning pleasure. He fucked her hard and fast, a stark contrast to the tenderness he showed Griselda. This was raw possession.

Fiora clung to him, meeting his thrusts, her earlier anxieties momentarily forgotten in the storm of sensation. She climaxed quickly, her body convulsing around him. Alaric followed moments later, spilling his seed within her with a possessive groan.

He withdrew, leaving Fiora panting, trembling, sprawled on the bed. She felt claimed, used, yet paradoxically satisfied. She had his attention again.

Alaric stood, adjusting himself slightly, his gaze shifting towards the chaise lounge.

Lyra and Cassandra were still there, their faces a mixture of feigned horror and undeniable, drug-fueled lust. Their breathing was heavy, their bodies taut.

“Now…” Alaric said, his voice a low growl, dripping with predatory intent. “For the main course.”

He advanced towards them.

“Stay away, Alaric!” Lyra commanded, though her voice lacked its usual authority, quavering slightly.

“Don’t touch us!” Cassandra echoed, shrinking back, though her eyes betrayed a different story.

Alaric merely smiled, a flash of white teeth in the dim light. He reached Lyra first, grabbing her wrist. She struggled, slapping at his hand, her movements hampered by the drug and her own carefully concealed excitement.

“Such fire, Mother,” he mocked, easily overpowering her. He hauled her off the chaise lounge, ignoring her Curses and feigned struggles.

He backed her against the nearest wall, pinning her there with his body, one hand tangling in her hair, forcing her head back. “Did you miss me?” he whispered against her ear, his other hand ripping open the front of her robes.

“You bastard!” she spat, but her hips gave an involuntary push against his.

He laughed darkly and captured her mouth in a brutal kiss, silencing her staged protests. His hand groped her exposed breast, squeezing roughly.

He broke the kiss, leaving her gasping. “You first, Mother. Or should Aunt Cassandra join us now?”

He glanced towards Cassandra, who watched with wide, luminous eyes, clutching her robes closed, trembling visibly.

“Don’t…” Cassandra breathed.

Alaric smirked. He released Lyra momentarily, stalked over to Cassandra, and pulled her upright. She stumbled against him, soft and yielding despite her token resistance. He pushed her towards the wall next to Lyra.

“Both of you,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. He stood before them, magnificent and menacing in his nakedness, radiating power and sheer sexual dominance.

He grabbed the front of Cassandra’s robes and tore them open as well, exposing her full breasts and trembling belly. She gasped, covering herself instinctively, but he slapped her hands away.

“No hiding,” he ordered.

He pressed himself between them, his erection brushing against Lyra’s thigh, then Cassandra’s. He ran his hands over their heated skin, grabbing handfuls of flesh, eliciting shaky gasps.

“Such beautiful women,” he murmured, leaning in to lick a stripe up Lyra’s neck, then turning to nip Cassandra’s shoulder. “Fiora has excellent taste, doesn’t she?”

They squirmed, uttering incoherent protests that sounded suspiciously like moans.

Fiora watched from the bed, her breathing hitched. Seeing her imposing mother and aunt manhandled like this, seeing Alaric utterly dominate them, was terrifying and intensely, confusingly arousing.

Alaric focused on Lyra again, hiking up her robes, exposing her completely. He positioned himself and, bracing her against the wall, thrust into her without preamble.

Lyra screamed, a mixture of feigned pain and genuine, overwhelming pleasure. Her carefully constructed mask of resistance shattered. She clawed at his back, her head thrown back against the wall, moaning his name.

Alaric pounded into her against the wall, his rhythm savage, punishing. He held her head steady, forcing her to meet his gaze. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Both of you.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled out of Lyra abruptly, leaving her gasping, and turned to Cassandra. He pushed her backwards, bending her over the arm of the chaise lounge, her lush buttocks exposed to him.

“Your turn, Aunt,” he growled, plunging into her from behind.

Cassandra cried out, her voice muffled by the upholstery. Her body immediately arched to meet his deep, driving thrusts. Her feigned resistance evaporated instantly, replaced by raw, needy moans. Alaric fucked her mercilessly in that position, his hands gripping her hips, controlling her movements, setting a relentless pace.

He switched between them, moving from Lyra against the wall to Cassandra over the chaise, then pulling Lyra down onto the floor, taking her fiercely on the expensive rug while Cassandra watched, her body slick with sweat and arousal. He lifted Cassandra, pinning her beneath him on the chaise itself, driving into her until she sobbed for release. He picked Lyra up as if she weighed nothing, holding her against the wall again, fucking her while she wrapped her legs around his waist, her earlier protests forgotten in the throes of raw lust.

He used their bodies relentlessly, exploring every angle, every position his demanding desire dictated, pushing them past their limits while they continued their increasingly unconvincing act of unwilling participants. The air thickened with the sounds of panting, slapping skin, and broken moans, a symphony orchestrated by Alaric’s dark desires, unknowingly initiated by his desperate, devoted cousin. The night had just begun.