The Beastkeeper's Redemption

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Three

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Several days passed that were remarkably uneventful.

Or rather, Kaede thought, blessedly uneventful.

If Lewis Grant, with all his offended lordly sensibilities, held ill-intentions towards him or Izzy, none were yet forthcoming.

To boot, his wards were unerringly undisturbed about the property, and the pixies- though irritating with their presence- went about their existence unperturbed.

On the sixth day since the constable's visit to the Hawkins' townhouse, Kaede found himself holed up with Izzy in her chambers, a very battered and well-used script in his fist as he lay naked on her bed, turned onto his side so that he could arch a brow at her performance.

Her impromptu stage performance, that is... and not the one she had given him moments before by straddling his thighs and sinking down upon his cock.

It was a good thing there was a heavy coverlet of deep red velvet draped over his hips lest she think that something was wrong with him since his body was hardening yet again- despite having lost himself within her thrice already just that afternoon alone.

As it was he was sore-pressed to stave off the reactions he was having to her as she paraded across the creaky floorboards of her chambers, draped in one of the gold-tassel throws that had previously been homed atop the back of one of the settees pressed against the small windows.

Her hair cascaded over her bare shoulders in deep burgundy ringlets with wayward abandon, deliciously mussed by cause of his hands, and there was a gleam in her eye, a twinkle of happiness that hadn't been as prevalent as before so shadowed with worry had Izzy been since he'd known her, and he couldn't help but feel entirely enamoured by her.

"My husband."

The words caught him off guard and he started slightly for it.

Truthfully, he had hardly heard a word of the other bits of soliloquy she had been spouting with a flare that embodied emotional turmoil- all for show, of course. She was re-enacting one of her many performances for him, Macbeth- he thought it was called- but he was also supposed to be playing a part.

But since he didn't have her astounding ability to retain heaps of information and recall it with little to no provocation, she had procured him the script and urged him to read over some 'lines' with her.

"Kaede!" Izzy admonished. "You need to say-"

"Sorry," he grumbled, reluctantly dipping his gaze away from her to stare down at the page.

When he took too long to form a response, Izzy prompted again, "My husband."

"That's me, correct?"

"Macbeth, yes."

"Right." Kaede huffed a sigh. It was one thing to find her enthralling, but quite another to try to emulate whatever... this was. He'd fail, he knew he would, and he hardly wanted Izzy to be disappointed in him. "I have done the deed," he deadpanned, throwing her a look. "Did... didst?" He gave her another look. "Is this even a word?"

Izzy snickered, trotting over to him. She clutched her throw tightly in one fist and came to perch her bottom on the edge of the mattress, resting back against his thighs. A long, tapered fingernail tapped the page he was holding. "You're supposed to be riddled with guilt and despair for murdering Duncan," she teased, eyes dancing with mirth. "Some tonal inflection wouldn't go amiss. And yes, didst is most certainly a word."