Chapter Twelve: Fears, Reassurances, and Boundaries Broken

Lyra lay on the soft bed in the plush room that had once belonged to the tavern's old boss, staring up at the ceiling, her thoughts swirling in a storm of doubt and fear. Her bruises were fading, the purples and blues slowly turning to sickly yellows and greens, but the pain lingered. Not just the physical pain, but the aching sense of being replaced, of becoming irrelevant. 

She could hear the sounds of the tavern below—the clinking of mugs, the low murmur of voices, and, sometimes, the familiar, muffled moans of pleasure that seeped through the walls late at night. Lyra knew those sounds well. They were the sounds of Marla with Thomas, their needs finding each other in the shadows, and now there was the other woman, Sera. Lyra had seen her once, thin and sharp-eyed, slipping out of a room in the early morning, her expression smug, her clothes barely on. 

Lyra bit her lip, her mind racing with every cruel possibility. She'd been his first here, the one who kept him satisfied when his hunger flared. Now, she was just a broken toy, left to mend herself while others took her place. The thought gnawed at her, and she felt tears sting her eyes. She couldn't bear it any longer.

She pulled herself from the bed, her legs shaky but determined, and made her way down the stairs. The tavern was alive with the bustle of patrons, the smell of fresh bread and stews filling the air. Thomas was behind the counter, his sleeves rolled up, sweat glistening on his brow as he moved with the practiced ease of a man who had found his place. Lyra watched him for a moment, her heart twisting at the sight. She missed his touch, his rough hands, the way he took her without hesitation.

Lyra moved closer, her voice trembling as she called his name. "Thomas." He looked up, wiping his hands on his apron, his expression softening when he saw her. 

"What are you doing up? You need to rest," he said, concern lacing his voice.

Lyra shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. "You… you don't need me anymore, do you? You've got Marla, and now… her." The last word came out bitter and sharp, her jealousy simmering just beneath the surface.

Thomas's expression hardened slightly, and he set the ladle down, stepping around the counter to pull her aside. "Lyra, listen to me," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "I haven't replaced you. I won't touch you until you're healed, not because I don't want you, but because I don't want to hurt you. You're still mine. You'll always be mine."

Lyra sobbed, pressing her face into his chest, her body trembling with the weight of her fears. "You don't have to pay me, Thomas," she whispered desperately, her voice breaking. "Just feed me. I'll do anything, just don't—don't push me aside."

Thomas cupped her face in his rough hands, forcing her to meet his gaze. "I'll do everything to you, Lyra," he said, his voice low and resolute. "But not until you're healed. Until then, you eat, you rest, and you get better. You're not going anywhere."

She nodded, her tears soaking into his palms as she clung to him, the reassurance she'd needed finally finding its way to her ears. Thomas held her close, feeling her thin body pressed against his, and he knew that once she was whole again, he would reclaim her as fiercely as he'd promised.

---

The tavern bustled more than it ever had before. Thomas worked tirelessly, overseeing the kitchen with a sharp eye and a steady hand. The vegetables were cleaner, the stews richer, the bread fresh from the oven each morning. As word spread of the improved food and atmosphere, more and more patrons filed through the doors, filling the once grimy space with life and noise. 

With business booming, Thomas had hired a family—a father, mother, and their three children, two of whom were fierce daughters with fiery tempers. They scrubbed the floors, washed the dishes, and ran errands, keeping the kitchen running smoothly. The girls, barely teenagers but already hardened by Flea Bottom, took to their maid work with a no-nonsense attitude that let no man dare lay a hand on them. Their presence gave Marla and Thomas the space to breathe, time that he eagerly filled with other, darker indulgences.

Thomas took full advantage of Sera, using her as often as he wanted. Her needs—those twisted, filthy desires—matched his own darker urges perfectly. There were nights when she would lie waiting, her thin body stretched across a dirty mattress, knowing he'd come to her with new demands, new cruelties to explore. Tonight was no different.

Thomas pulled her into one of the spare rooms after the last patron had left, his grip tight on her bony arm. Sera looked up at him with eager, dark eyes, her lips parting in a knowing smile. "You need it again, don't you?" she purred, already reaching for the bottle of oil she kept hidden beneath the bed. "Something different tonight?"

Thomas nodded, his expression hungry. "The other hole," he said bluntly, his voice rough with anticipation. 

Sera's eyes lit up, her smile widening. "Oh, I like when you ask for that." She handed him the bottle, her movements unhurried as she leaned over the edge of the bed, arching her back and offering herself to him with a delighted sigh. "Make it good, Thomas."

He poured the oil over his cock, the cool slickness coating his length as he positioned himself behind her. Sera moaned as he pressed the head of his cock against her, pushing slowly but insistently. She gasped, her fingers clutching the sheets as he breached her, the tightness resisting before finally giving way. Thomas groaned, feeling the tight, sinful grip around him as he thrust deeper, the oil making each movement smooth and deliberate.

He moved inside her with a slow, relentless rhythm, each thrust forcing a strangled moan from her lips. Sera writhed beneath him, her body trembling with each forceful push as she begged for more, her breath hitching with every ragged gasp. Thomas gripped her hips, his pace quickening, each movement precise and punishing, driving deep into her until her cries filled the room.

Sera's pleasure was filthy and raw, her voice breaking into high, needy whimpers as she clutched the sheets tighter, her body bucking against his thrusts. Thomas watched her, lost in the sensation, in the control, in the raw need that bound them together in the dark. He pounded into her, his cock buried deep in her other hole, her cries echoing off the walls as he fucked her hard, unrestrained.

When he finally spilled inside her, his release was powerful and consuming, his body trembling with the force of it. Sera sighed contentedly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the bed as she came down from the high, the oil and sweat slicking her skin. Thomas pulled out, catching his breath, and left her sprawled on the bed, a satisfied smile lingering on her lips.

He didn't linger, making his way back upstairs to his own room where Lyra waited, half-asleep but still aware enough to sense him. Thomas moved quietly, retrieving the small jar of ointment he kept hidden. He smeared the cool, medicinal salve over his cock, feeling the slight sting as he coated himself, then climbed into bed beside Lyra.

She stirred, her eyes fluttering open as she felt him press gently against her mouth. "It'll help," he murmured, his voice soft but insistent. "Just a little."

Lyra nodded, taking him in with care, her movements slow and deliberate as she licked the ointment from his skin. Thomas sighed, his eyes closing as he let her soft, cautious touch soothe him. He didn't push, didn't demand—just let her take what she could, her mouth warm and gentle around him.

When she was done, Thomas lay down beside her, pulling her close, his body spent and his mind at ease. Lyra rested her head on his chest, her fingers tracing lazy circles over his skin, and for the first time in days, she felt the unspoken promise that things would return to the way they were. For now, Thomas was hers, and she was his, and they had the night to share in a quiet, fragile peace.