The first pale rays of dawn slipped through the broken slats of the stable roof, painting long, jagged lines of light across the straw-strewn floor. Dust floated in the beams, drifting lazily, like tiny flecks of gold caught in the stale, heavy air.
Beneath that sickly glow, Merlin stirred. Every part of her ached. Her thighs burned as if rubbed raw; her chest rose and fell shallowly, lungs dragging in the reek of sweat, musk, and dirt that clung to the cramped wooden stall. Her lips cracked as she licked them, tasting only salt and iron. She was trembling before she even tried to move.
Her attempt at shifting brought her no relief—only the crushing reminder of the weight against her lower back.
The goblin was still latched onto her, even in its restless sleep. Its wiry arms locked tightly around her waist, its jagged nails scratching faint lines into her skin each time it twitched. Its face pressed into the curve of her shoulder as though she were its mate, its breath hot and rank against her ear.
Down between her thighs, there was no part of her left untouched. She was slick, filthy, her skin sticky with a mess that had dried and cracked in places, still fresh and dripping in others. The straw beneath her was matted, soaked through.
She shuddered at the memory of the night before. It had not stopped—never once granting her reprieve. The goblin had used her again and again, each thrust blurring into the next until time itself seemed to dissolve into a haze of flesh and ragged cries.
She had screamed until her throat burned raw, until no sound came but hoarse gasps and sobs. Even then, the creature's hunger had not relented. It had been tireless, insatiable, rutting with a frenzied need that defied reason.
And yet—she had endured.
Her head lolled forward, cheek brushing against the coarse straw. A weak, broken whimper escaped her lips, half sob, half sigh.
She stank of sex, of sweat, of dirt, and her hair was plastered in damp strands across her cheeks and neck. Her chest was smeared, her thighs streaked, her whole body a map of what she had given up. She hugged herself as tightly as her weary arms allowed, clutching at her ribs as though she might hold together what little of herself still remained.
But through the filth, through the ruin, she clung to a single thought: Arthur.
He told me to do this. He told me… it was the only way.
The words circled in her mind like a mantra, a prayer. She repeated them with every shallow breath, forcing them into herself until they were all she had left.
If she bore this humiliation, if she offered herself fully, completely, without faltering, then maybe—just maybe—he would see her worth again. Maybe he would not cast her aside. Maybe he would let her stay at his side.
The goblin stirred, and she froze. Its claws shifted against her stomach, tracing her flesh without thought. Its length pressed against her from behind, half-stiff, obscene even in slumber. The touch made her body jolt with a tremor she could not control.
She bit down on her lip so hard she tasted the metallic tang of blood. A sob threatened, but she swallowed it down.
"I can do it," she whispered, her voice broken, barely audible. "I'll… I'll take care of him. I'll take care of Arthur's goblin."
Her voice cracked, the words quivering like the last fragile threads of sanity. She knew she was ruined, her body used beyond anything she thought she could bear. She knew she reeked of filth and degradation. And yet, in the middle of that horror, her lips twitched upward into the faintest, strangest of smiles.
Because to her, that ruin was proof. Proof of what she had endured for him. Proof of what she would endure again. In this degradation, she saw not despair, but a fragile, fevered thread of hope.
If she gave herself until nothing remained, then surely—surely—Arthur would love her again.