Before you do anything the door opens.

You do not put the robe on, because the latch goes before you have decided to, and it is not the king. Another man comes in with a tray that does not have bread on it. Metal laid out in a cloth: rings, a collar, two small capped weights, a third even smaller, wire so fine it looks like hair. He looks at the robe on the rug and then at you on the floor, and he clicks his tongue once at the tray, not at your face.

"On the bed," he says. "On your back. Legs open. If you fight the first one I still have to do the other two, and I would rather not chase a ring across his rug."

You stay on your heels long enough that he finds a longer sentence.

"The king told me to put house toys on you and to tell you to be thankful they are not the true slave set, which lives in a different box and does not come off without a smith. These come off if he wants them off. They do not come off if you want them off. Bed."

You get up because the door is still open at his back and because Sera’s legs know how to move when a man in this house uses that voice. The coverlet is cold through the old bottoms. You lie down and put your feet apart, blonde hair spreading on the pillow that is not yours, and the lingerie makes it easy for him to see what he came for. He sets the tray on the bed like a workbench and hooks the lace aside with two fingers that have done this before.

"Nipples first," he says. "They swell less if I do them before you start thinking."

The clamp is brief and mean. He marks the left with a pinch and drives a thin bar through in one push, and the sound you make is hers and raw, and he is already turning the little ring so it sits flush against the underside of the breast. The right one is worse because you know what to expect. Tears run into your hair and you keep your hands in the coverlet because he told you, without telling you, that hands would make it sloppier. He seats a second ring and then thumbs a small capped bead onto each, and the beads wake with a low hum you feel in the bone of the chest before you hear it. Magical, he said nothing about gods, only that they take a charge from the ring and keep it.

"Breathe," he says. "If you faint I have to wait, and I still have the third."

He moves down the bed. The worn bottoms come off your hips with one tug and he leaves them at your knee so he does not have to hunt for them later. Sera’s cunt is still flushed from the shop and the carriage, and he holds you open with his thumb as if you are a latch. The clamp on the clit is smaller and it still makes your hips try to leave the mattress. He waits until you are back down, and then he pierces, quick and exact, a tiny ring through the hood, and you shout into Sera’s throat and the beads on your nipples kick up in answer as if they liked the sound.

He seats the third bead on that ring. The hum lands between your legs like a thumb that will not get tired.

"Collar," he says, already lifting your head. The leather is plain, well-made, not ceremonial, and the ring on it is empty and heavy enough to notice when he turns it to the front. He buckles it so you can swallow, not so you can forget it is there. "That ring takes a chain if someone chooses. I was not given a chain. I was given this tray."

You find a full sentence because if you whisper he will ask you to repeat it.

"Will they stay on if I sleep."

"They stay on if you run, if you sleep, if you cry, if he wants a quiet room." He wipes the needle on the cloth and sets it back in its slot, and then he gives you the longer line he was always going to give. "True slave kit welds and brands and does not care if you bleed through supper. This is jewelry with a job. You can walk. You will walk sore. If you pick at the clit ring I will have to come back, and I will not be as tidy."

The beads do not shut off when he lifts the tray. Your nipples throb in time with them. Between your legs the third one is a small relentless pulse that makes you want to close your thighs, and when you do the leather of the collar reminds you that your throat is spoken for too. He hooks the worn bottoms back up with two fingers, not gently, and glances at the robe on the rug.

"You can put that on over it if you are cold. It will not hide the collar and it will not stop the noise in your chest. He is in the hall. I will tell him I'm done."

The man leaves with his tray. The latch waits in someone else’s hand. You are on the bed after all, which is the one thing he told you not to do, except this time it was an order from a different mouth, and the toys are already working under the lace while Sera’s body tries to decide whether it is in pain or in heat or both.