Drowsiness still clings to you as his insolence leaves purplish buds on your skin. You rise slowly, wincing at the dull ache reverberating through your body. In the faint light, the markings flourish like dark flowers beneath your skin. The room is hushed; the only sound is the distant murmur of the world beyond, echoing in your mind like annoying little bells, as the excess wine you have drunk is now making itself felt.

Gwayne's eyes remain fixed on the delicate marks adorning your skin, his brows furrowed as a shadow crosses his face. However, his disappointment is not aimed at you; it festers inside him because he can's control his ardour. He knows he must not give in to his desire like a starved hound devouring a steak⎯sin disfigures your body with the mistakes of steps.

A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he cradles his regrets in his palms, cherishing them like ancient scrolls of lament. Trembling fingers reach out with a contrite touch to the bruises on your dainty wrists. His eyes, shadowed with remorse, meet yours fleetingly before he bestows a soft, lingering kiss upon the dishonoured tenderness.

“I don't mean to, my lady,” Gwayne whispers, his voice soft and filled with heartfelt contrition. The kiss he bestows is gentle, a sacred vow to mend what is shattered. A warm touch grazes your skin, and you flinch like a delicate bird ensnared. His fingers trace the contours of your hand with the reverence of an artist, moving slow and deliberate, as if his touch alone could erase the marks of peccancy.

“Look at me,” he coos. “Please, my lady?”

He lets out a shuddering breath as if tasting the acrid bitterness of guilt. You mewl, and he grins crookedly between your ankles, pressing fervent kisses onto your delicate kneecaps. The sight of his contrition is almost comical; you are no noble lady, and his apologies seem a misplaced courtesy. He apologises, although he should not⎯a woman like you should not be treated with such reverence. On rare, fortunate days, your worth may surpass five copper coins.