Kneel, little pet maid

**Ivery Clark POV**
"Kneel."
The word slashed through the air like a whip, its weight suffocating, undeniable.
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. My body refused at first, pride screaming at me, rage twisting in my stomach. 
But the look in his eyes—patient, cruel, knowing—told me he would wait. Wait until I broke. Until I caved. Until I had no fight left.
With a shaky breath, I sank to my knees.
Humiliation burned through me, clawing up my throat. The cold floor bit against my skin, but the chill was nothing compared to the icy smirk curving his lips.
"There you go," he murmured, his voice like silk laced with barbs. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it?"
I clenched my jaw, my fingers curled around the cloth beside me, and with shaking hands, I lowered myself further, rubbing the expensive leather of his shoes.
I felt his eyes on me, devouring my every move, my every breath.
"Good girl," he hummed, the words coiling around me like a serpent. "You learn fast. Like a proper little pet."
My teeth ground together so hard my jaw ached. I refused to react. I refused to give him the satisfaction.
"Ah, but something's missing," he mused, tapping a finger against his jaw in mock thought.
“Why don’t you thank your master for allowing you to stay, despite everything? Despite how you’ve wronged me so many times.”
I stiffened, every muscle in my body tensing. 
"Thank you?" The word felt foreign on my tongue, like a curse. "For what? For using me to feed your ego, to get whatever twisted satisfaction you desire from my suffering?”
His lips curled, not in the way of affection, but with a satisfaction so complete, so wrong.
"You seem to forget your place, Ivery," he said smoothly, his voice too calm, too certain. "I could’ve discarded you. Thrown back to the wolves. Left you to fend for yourself. But I didn’t. I gave you a place here, even though you’ve done nothing to deserve it.”
The words were like acid to my veins, burning, numbing.
"So say it," he pressed, his eyes gleaming, predatory, hungry. "Say you’re thankful. That’s all I’m asking.”
I could feel my pulse in my temples, the blood rushing in my ears, and for a split second, I was certain I might suffocate under the weight of his expectations.
“Thank you.” The words slipped out of me, forced, unwilling. 
“Thank you what..?” 
“Thank you master for saving me.” I forced out, my voice shaking with a mix of fury and humiliation. “...And letting me live here and earn.”
Then a dark chuckle, low and satisfied. “Good girl. Your brother should have seen this. How obedient his little sis is. Don't you think so?” 
 I felt sick. I hated him. I hated myself for saying those words. But what choice did I have? 
Alrigo thrived on control, on making me kneel—figuratively and literally. And I had just given him exactly what he wanted.
"Get up."
I blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"Get up," he repeated, his voice carrying that lazy command that left no room for disobedience. "We’re going."
I hesitated. "Going where?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, a slow smirk curling his lips. "Do you think you're in a position to ask questions, *pet*?"
My stomach twisted at the nickname, but I bit my tongue. Alrigo turned on his heel and walked toward the door, his movements smooth and controlled. I had no choice but to follow, my heart hammering in my chest.
The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows as we moved through the silent halls. 
But as we stepped into the grand dining room. The long, polished table was already set, the morning spread luxurious—fresh fruit, steaming coffee, golden pastries. 
And people were there. The workers of Alrigo’s. All eyes snapped to me. Alrigo barely spared me a glance as he walked over to the head of the table and took his seat, his movements elegant, effortless—like he owned the world and everyone in it.
Then, he turned his gaze to me, his lips curling into that slow, lethal smirk. He gestured to the side.
"From now on, this girl is going to serve me.”
I stood frozen, heat creeping up my neck as realization sank in. This wasn’t just about making me work. This was another game. Another way to remind me that I was under *his* control.
Alrigo tilted his head, watching me struggle, his smirk deepening.
"What’s wrong?" His voice was lazy, amused. "You seemed eager enough to please me before."
My hands curled into fists. Bastard.
“Pour,” he ordered.
I grabbed the wine bottle and leaned forward, keeping my hand steady as I filled his glass. My skin prickled under his gaze, slow and heavy, watching me as if I were something to be studied—owned.
“That’s enough,” he said just as the liquid reached the rim.
I pulled back, exhaling quietly, but before I could step away, his voice came again.
“Napkin.”
I looked at the white napkin folded neatly beside his plate. “It’s right there.”
His lips curved, a lazy mockery of a smile. “And?”
Heat flared up my neck. *He wants me to hand it to him?*
Gritting my teeth, I picked up the napkin and held it out. But instead of taking it, he lifted his hand slightly, palm open.
“Wipe my hands.”
My fingers curled around the fabric, pulse pounding in my ears.
“You can do that yourself,” I said, barely keeping my voice steady.
His dark eyes gleamed. “I can. But why would I?”
I hated him. I hated the way he leaned back in his chair, enjoying this, knowing I had no choice but to obey.
Slowly, stiffly, I reached forward, gripping his hand in mine.
But before I could pull away, his fingers wrapped around my wrist, and with one sharp tug—
I gasped, stumbling forward—straight onto his lap. What the hell..!?
My breath hitched, my body tensing as I felt the solid warmth beneath me. My uniform bunched awkwardly around my thighs, and the weight of eyes—hidden, lurking—sent a violent heat rushing to my face.
The servants. They were watching.
I knew they wouldn’t dare interfere, wouldn’t even meet my eyes, but their presence made it worse. The humiliation burned through me, setting my skin on fire.
Alrigo’s grip on my waist was firm, holding me in place as if I belonged there. He didn’t look embarrassed. He didn’t even look surprised.
No—he was *amused*.
“What a weak, pathetic girl,” he murmured, his voice deep and mocking. His fingers tightened, making my stomach twist. “Can’t even do things properly.”
My fingers dug into his shirt, not out of need but out of sheer, shaking frustration.
He leaned in, his lips hovering just near my ear, his breath hot against my flushed skin. “What will I do with you, Ivery?”
My body locked up.
He was too close—so close that every shift of his body, every rise and fall of his chest, sent a shiver through me. His scent—dark, expensive, dangerous—wrapped around me, intoxicating and suffocating all at once.
And suddenly with a practiced ease, Alrigo picked up his knife and fork, cutting into the steak, the sharp blade gliding through the tender meat.
A perfect bite. Then, without a word, he lifted the fork, turning it toward me.
“Eat,” he ordered.
I froze. My breath hitched.
He wasn’t serious. He couldn’t be—
I turned my head away, my voice tight. “I’m not hungry.”
His fingers, still resting on my waist, flexed. A warning. A reminder. 
“Don’t make me repeat myself, Ivery.” His voice was low, edged with something dangerous.
I clenched my fists. “I don’t—”
“If you refuse,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over my ear, “I’ll punish you right here, in front of everyone.”

*What!?*