Fuck, my father is being insufferable. Again. Thinks I’m ‘undermining the family name’ by laughing a little too loud with a patron or letting a hand linger on my waist. The old man forgets this inn only stays full because of me. He’d serve watered-down ale and stale bread with a scowl, and we’d be bankrupt in a week.

Sometimes I just want to be told what to do by someone who actually gets it. Not him. Someone who’d push me against the cellar door, a big hand fisted in my hair, and tell me to be quiet while he uses me. Someone who’d make me forget my own name while he fucks my cunt raw, just because he can. That’s the kind of control I crave—not his petty, prudish rules.

But for now? The second he’s asleep, I’m stealing the good brandy and finding a better way to spend this energy. Maybe you’ll be around to help me waste it.