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Alayne presses her lips down firmly on the square, leaving bloody red prints. Their meal is almost over, but this is, essentially, her last night as a free woman. She can afford a bit of vanity. Tomorrow is the rehearsal dinner. Tonight, Harry and his friends are at some strip club or another, drinking their body weight. Her bachelorette party is a quiet dinner with her father at their favorite restaurant. It's pathetic, but she has no interest in getting drunk beyond walking.
Randa has a way of prying things from her when she drinks.
She smooths out the wrinkles of her dress, a tight-fitting black sheath, and imagines herself to be in mourning. Alayne loves Harry, is unspeakably excited for their impending nuptials. Sansa, however, is not so confident in eternity. Her chestnut waves sit calmly on her shoulders, despite the humidity. She thanks the powers that be for small miracles. With a final assessment of her appearance in the mirror, she stalks out of the bathroom in her red-soled Louboutins - a gift from Harry.
Her father waits patiently at the booth they share, perusing the dessert menu. His beard is greyer than she remembers it being when they first met, all those years ago at that company party held in Robert Baratheon's honor. The frost that hung at his temples has begun creeping upward recently. In every way, he is the opposite of Harry - short where her fiancé is tall, lean where he is sculpted, experienced where he is young. Alayne thinks the contrasts as comforting as they are striking. For all that her father is smaller than Harry, his presence is greater. She finds that he fills the small dining room, wears his suit better than any other man there, and even with his attention directed elsewhere, she feels him.
She seats herself again beside him, sliding across the leather. He smiles at her, that quirk of the lips that suggests promises but promises lies. His hand covers her knee. She has been hovering at the edge of anticipation all during dinner. Even her arm brushing against his is enough to send a spark to her stomach. Alayne knows he has something very special planned for this, their last night completely belonging to one another.
"See anything you like, Daddy?"
His grip on her knee tightens, then slides up. His hands are large, for such a little man.
"I can't seem to decide."
The restaurant is full. She wonders what people see when they look at them together - a man and his mistress or a man and his daughter. Both are true. She shifts nearer to him until she can smell the Armani.
"The creme brûlée looks nice."
His hand travels further, past where she's comfortable, but she pretends not to notice as his thumb traces little circles on her inner thigh. But that's not enough for him and then she feels that thumb tracing the hem of her panties. She clenches her thighs closed on his hand so fast there's a soft slap.
"No, I don't think so."
He shoves them apart and she's thankful for the long table cloth.
"What are you doing?" She hisses under her breath, her furtive glance darting back and forth.
"Reading the menu."
"Can't you wait until we get home?"
"There's not a menu at home."
She glares at him and closes her legs again. He chuckles and she hates and loves how the sound coils in her belly.
"Why don't we play a little game, Alayne? You like games, if I remember correctly."
Her eyes narrow. Despite herself, her interest is piqued.
"What kind of game?"
"You're to be married soon. You won't be Daddy's little girl anymore." He frees his hand from the vice of her thighs and pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. "So how about we pretend you're still my baby girl tonight? You'll do everything I say and if you're good, you get a reward."
Her mouth suddenly goes dry. It's a dangerous proposition, but the smooth tone of his voice and his lingering touch along the skin behind her ear begs her to agree. She's never been his 'baby girl,' but there was a time when she obeyed him more willingly than she did now. Before she had found Alayne's rebellious streak. It's a dirty idea, foul and perverse and unlike anything she engages in with Harry. How can she refuse?
"Okay."
He smiles indulgently and that part of her that she tries to tamp down, the part of her that begs approval, flares.
"Good girl. Now," he lowers his voice, "Open your fucking legs."
And she does, albeit slowly, hesitantly. She expects his hand to return to where it was immediately, but of course, it doesn't. His eyes are trained on her lap, though, one brow quirked.
"Wider. Keep going. Ah, there we go."
Her legs are spread uncomfortably wide now, ankles almost sideways in their heels, back pressed against the booth to accommodate her new position. Her panties just cover her slit and though there is opaque white fabric hiding her from the rest of the diners, she still feels terribly exposed.
"Is this really necessary, Daddy?" There's a hint of a plea in her voice.
"It is if I say it is."
There's that hand, now, creeping along the fabric just covering her sex. He traces the folds of it and her thighs tremble with the effort of staying parted when every instinct demands she push him away. His touch is light, but she imagines she can feel ever ridges of his fingerprint branding her. The beginnings of moisture collect inside her. This will be another pair of panties ruined.
"Sweetling, I seem to have forgotten my glasses. Read it aloud, won't you?"
Oh. She had forgotten he was doing something besides fondling her. She leans forward to read, hair falling from her shoulders.
"Sacher torte with sa--ahh." She stutters off into a gasp when he abandons the borders in favor of her pulsing center. Up and down in circles, with light pressure surrounding her clit. Her cheeks burn, the adrenaline born from shame sharpening the sensation.
"What was that? With what?"
"Salted--salted caramel."
"That sounds good. What else?"
"Um...mmm..."
He pinches the fabric and pulls it into her, rolling it back and forth between his fingers so the wrinkles tickle. Her stomach flutters. She can't help herself from looking down, seeing the lavender fabric darken as it peeks at her from between reddening lips.
"Don't mumble, Alayne. It's unbecoming."
"Honey panna cotta. Pom--pomegranate coulis."
He's pulling and releasing, pulling and releasing.
"We'll have that."
His hand leaves her and flips the table cloth over her thighs, quick as a blink. She is equal parts relieved, surprised, and dismayed - but when she sees the server approach, all that coagulates into a cold dread. Alayne straightens immediately, clenching her legs together as if that would erase anything he might have seen. The cotton is still wedged inside her.
Her father's voice is steady as he places their order and asks for the check. She keeps her eyes averted. The server converses, laughs as if nothing at all is wrong, undoubtedly charmed. If he can't see anything, can he smell it? Can he taste her on the air? He leaves and she exhales the first full breath she's had since she left the bathroom. But that's not to last.
"Where were we? Ah, yes. I was playing with your cunt, wasn't I?"
"He'll be back any moment--"
"You're talking back an awful lot."
His tone is warning, the threat implicit. She opens her legs again. He reaches beneath the tablecloth and this time, he shoves her panties away. His deft fingers part her folds, sliding against her hood. She smothers her cry into the heel of her palm. Petyr touches her languidly, with none of her building urgency, stoking her fire in soft strokes. He touches her where she wants and then slides away, content with his almost bored exploration of her inner folds.
All the while, he talks of nothing. Carefully coded goings on at the office, Cersei's upcoming trial, Margaery's acquittal. All of this would be very interesting to her if he wasn't flicking his finger against her and if she wasn't putting all her concentration into not bucking her hips. She hangs her head to hide the furrow of her brows and the parting of her lips, the sound of her breath hissing through her nose.
His hand stills but it remains pressed against her when the dessert and check arrive. He exchanged a few pleasantries with the server and she manages to squeak a thank you when he pinches her. The server looks at her oddly, but thankfully, departs. Petyr's hand glistens when he detaches it from her to reach into his pocket for his credit card. It gives her a small amount of relief to see his erection tenting his slacks. How he manages to stay so unruffled while she is practically melting beside him is beyond her.
She watches him place the card in the booklet without so much as a glance at the price and straighten the mockingbird clip on his tie - a gift from her. Then, as casual as scratching an itch, his fingers resume their former position, this time dipping lower to hover just at her entrance. She thinks idly that her hair is probably frizzing from the sweat at the back of her neck. He doesn't move inside her, doesn't do anything but leave himself there. It's uncomfortable; she's torn between wanting to pull his hand away and wanting to push it further in. Before she can stop herself, she whimpers and the sound is pitiful even to her own ears.
"Well?"
"Well what?" She whispers.
"Try it."
The spoon trembles in her grip, metal tapping against the china as she dips it in. She bends forward to take it into her mouth and as she does, she brings him further in. Her mouth snaps shut over the spoon; he curls into her, pressing and rubbing into the spot that always makes her see stars. The spoon falls to the table, cream sitting on her tongue as she gasps. He pulls out, leaving her empty, then his palm meets her sensitive skin in a sharp slap. Pain meets pleasure in a heady mix, punctuated by a muffled shout. The sting lingers in her core.
"Mouth closed when you eat. You're not an animal."
Alayne manages to swallow, but she hardly tastes it.
"Sorry, Daddy."
"You won't do it again, will you?"
"No, Daddy."
He takes his own spoon and takes from the dessert himself. Treacherous eyes watch as his mouth works the custard down his throat, even as he rubs over the sore skin. She can feel her wetness trickling out of her. He signals her to eat more, so she does, sloppily, but with her mouth tightly shut. Her hips rock in tune with his languid motions. Oh, she can't take it anymore. As soon as she opens her mouth to say so, the server reappears to whisk the card away.
"I think we're done here."
She nods eagerly, hardly able to contain her elation as he signs the check. Chivalrously, he helps her pick her unsteady way out of the booth. His hand is still sticky with her. A furious blush still stains her cheeks; it grows even darker when she realizes she left a puddle on the leather. He notices because there is nothing he doesn't notice.
"You're going to ruin the upholstery in the car."
He tosses a napkin over it.
The outside air brings no respite to her heated frame. The dense humidity, made worse by the echoes of nearby cicadas, leaves her painfully aware of how her hair sticks to the back of her neck and the warm rivulet swimming down her inner thigh. The BMW's air conditioning is a godsend. Momentarily, she forgets her embarrassment as she brings her face nearer to the vents - until she looks to him and sees the Cheshire grin on his face.
"That was...very dangerous, Petyr."
"It's Petyr now, is it? I thought we were playing a game. You agreed, remember?"
She bites her lower lip, her irritation mounting under the press of his smirk. What's even worse is that her pulse still thrums between her legs. She had agreed, hadn't she? The part of her that remains Stark cannot abide by the idea of asking for mercy in something so small as this. She resolves to stay quiet for the ride. She might have been successful if he hadn't started talking first.
"Don't be so upset, sweetling. I thought you liked being on display. But you had nothing to worry about. I already have to share your pretty cunt with one other man. My generosity only stretches so far."
Her dying arousal spikes again. Is she that predictable or does he simply know her that well? He doesn't even have to lay a hand on her to draw out her lust.
"You can't honestly tell me you didn't enjoy it. You soaked the booth. And the noises you made. Like a little kitten."
She twists in her seat, discreetly trying to rub her thighs together to alleviate some of the building ache. Somehow, she doubts she could ever do anything discreetly enough to escape his attention. He laughs and continues on blithely, reaching down to palm the bulge in his pants, eyes still focused on the road.
"Even now, you want it. You want to touch yourself so badly. Go on, then. No one is here to see you but Daddy."
Her breath catches and she hates him because he's right. Would be so awful, to surrender in this?
"There's no winner or loser in this game, Sansa."
Slowly, she parts her legs, sneaking glances at him all the while. His smirk widens. Her left hand reaches over the shift to grip his thigh while her other hand ventures beneath her panties. All her frustration leaves her in a hiss as she works her fingers over her slick mound, the wet, slurping sounds audible over the sigh of climate control.
"Yes. That's a good girl. Does that feel nice?"
Her hips strain against the seatbelt as she picks a rough pace, the digits clamped around him flexing. Her middle finger slides easily through her entrance and, finding it wanting, she adds her index as well. She spreads them inside her, stretching and clenching. No one to see her but Daddy and no one to hear her either, so she allows herself a strangled moan. Her thumb flicks over her clit, her back arching in answer.
He licks his lips.
"Can you feel how tight you are? That's how it feels when you ride my cock."
Her fingers piston in and out of her sloppily, urgent smacks tearing through the air. She had been dangling at the edge all during dessert and now, she could careen over it.
"Don't come yet."
She whimpers in protest.
"I'm serious. You don't have my permission."
Damn his permission. Rebellion streaks through her, inspiring her to rock her hips in search of more. Her fingers press upward, dragging across her favorite spot and the press of her thumb quickens. Her climax is a white light on the horizon and she rushes through it, letting it sweep her into the perfect moment of oblivion. Her hips quiver as she bows in half, riding out the bliss until she sinks back into the seat, beautifully limp.
The garage door lifts before them. Petyr sighs.
"So disobedient."
She's too relaxed to care - that is, until he parks, gets out of the car, goes around to the other side to open her door, and drags her out by the wrist. She falls into him, her heels suddenly too tall. He catches her in his arms and rights her so gently, she thinks the game must be over.
"You've been a very bad girl tonight. You'll need to be punished." He whispers into her ear. Of course, she was wrong.
He yanks her toward the door, clicking the garage shut on the way. She is led through the laundry room and into their seldom-used kitchen before he releases her, stumbling into the counter.
"Clothes off."
It takes her a second to regain her bearings, but apparently, that's a second too long, because he demands it again. She begins with her dress, lifting her arm to tug down the zipper bisecting the side. Her gaze never leaves his. A certain anxiety flutters within her; he has never been so overtly dominant. The anxiety, however, isn't entirely unpleasant. After so much stability, this safe (she trusts him with her body and not much else) spontanaiety is exciting. Fresh. Her childhood years were spent being the good girl, the conscientious girl. Arya was the wild one. Now, as Alayne, she can be whoever she wants.
The dress falls to a soft puddle at her feet. She will worry about the wrinkles later. Now, with his eyes narrowed and that crooked half-smile on his face, she can think of nothing other than fucking him. She removes her bra next, then her panties, which she has to peel away. Those hit the floor with a small slap. She begins slipping off her shoes, but his raised hand stops her.
"Leave those on. Turn around and bend over the counter."
Her pulse stutters in her throat, but she does as he says anyway. The added height from the heels forces her ass up.
"Arms in front of you."
The marble chills her chest and her forearms as her hands dangle over the edge. He moves to her front, tie in hand and knots her wrists together with it. Not so tightly that it hurts, but tight enough so when she tests it, it holds. The drawer opens; she cranes her neck to watch him, but his back blocks her view. When he turns, there's a large wooden spoon in his hands - the one she uses to mix pasta sauce or soup, on the rare occasion she cooks.
She's afraid to ask what he's going to do with it, but from the wicked grin and the way he keeps slapping the flat of it against his palm, she has an idea. Alayne shakes her head, her lips pursing into a pout.
"No, please, Daddy."
"I wouldn't have to do this if you weren't so willful."
Of course, she could stand, refuse him, undo her binding with her teeth, but she is a well-trained actress. So well-trained that she believes every role she plays. There's no real danger, but she lets herself pretend there is.
"I promise I'll behave."
"I doubt that. Not without the proper motivation."
He reaches back and she clenches her eyes, bracing herself for impact, tensing every muscle. The wood whistles through the air and meets the flesh of her left cheek with a loud slap. It's the sound that strikes her first - the sting comes after, spreading hot across her skin. It's not pain as she knows it. It's sweeter, more defined, and while she can't say she exactly likes it, she's surprised by how little she hates it. He brings the spoon against her again and again, over the top of her things, the swell of her ass, relentless. The smarting intensifies as her skin grows more and more sensitive until she's howling, bound hands tightening into fists, jerking forward with every strike. It hurts, but alongside that hurt is a pleasure she didn't expect, dancing along her singing nerve endings. Beneath her cries and the smacks, she hears him.
"Bad girls get punished. You know that, sweetling. You made me do this."
Tears collect at the corners of her eyes as she struggles for breath. The next blow doesn't come - instead, there's his hand, smoothing over her, warm and comforting. Her knees buckle against each other as a rivulet of her arousal trickles down her thighs.
"I'm sorry, Daddy, I'm so, so sorry. You're right." Her voice quavers at the edge of a sob.
He sets the spoon down and she hears him shift behind her, but her eyes are tightly closed; she has no idea what he's doing until his lips murmur against her backside. The ache of her desire throbs between her legs with the burn of her rear.
"I am right. I'll accept your apology for now and make you feel better. Is that what you want?"
"Oh, yes. Yes, yes, yes."
"Where are your manners?"
"Yes, Daddy, please."
"You can't come until I say. Understand?"
"I won't."
He holds her hips, lifting them upward. When he speaks again, his warm breath blows across her sex.
"I'm holding you to that."
Her jaw hangs slack. His mouth is searing, his tongue reaching out and pushing through her lips. A rush of inane babbles fall from her, murmurs of "thank yous" and affirmatives. Her breath fogs the granite beneath her chin, arms still over her head. He ravishes her, pulling and pressing and sucking, his beard scratching her sensitive skin. He's not gentle, but she doesn't want him to be. The soreness is a lovely counterpoint to the mind blistering pleasure. She's close, very close, and he had told her not to come, but he's so very good at this and surely he can tell by the way she presses into him that she's going to, so maybe it was okay, maybe it was all talk and---
It rolls through her abruptly, drawing a ragged scream from her throat. She clings to the countertop in a white-knuckled grip to keep from falling. Her hips rotate over his face, riding his tongue, and he doesn't stop for a moment, pulling her orgasm so taut that she thinks she might snap. It's too much, but she can't find the words to tell him so and she can't move to stop him and she can't reach behind her, so she wails, high and long. It builds again into another and another until there's no distinguishing one from the next.
When he finally stops and lets her go, she loses her one point of stability and slumps into a liquid pile of limbs and shivering torso, spreading across the floor like a spill. When her ass hits the floor, she's reminded of its recent abuse. The cabinet is cool against her forehead as she desperately searches her lungs for steady respiration. She knows her cheeks are streaked with black tears, that her hair is a tumbleweed, and that her lipstick is smeared well beyond its appropriate boundaries, but the ordinarily vain Sansa can't bring herself to care. Slowly, she looks over her shoulder at him. He looms over her, but she can't believe the tight line of his lips because of how they glisten, how the evidence of his handiwork stains his facial hair.
"You came again without my permission. You didn't even ask."
"But Daddy," she mews weakly, "You made it feel so good I couldn't help myself."
It's not over. She knows this without a shadow of doubt. For all his dominance and mischief, he's predictable in his body and his urges. He never, ever gives selflessly.
"And you're still talking back. That wasn't punishment enough?"
"I guess I'm just a bad girl."
He bends and picks up her wet panties.
"Enough of this nonsense. If you can't stop yourself from talking back, you don't talk at all. Open your mouth."
She does and he stuffs the fabric between her teeth. It sits on her tongue, her own flavor saturating her saliva. This is degrading. This is insulting. She loves it.
"Stand."
She scrabbles to her feet, awkward in heels without use of her hands. He's already walking ahead and she follows him past the breakfast nook and formal dining room, the sitting room, through the foyer, and up the stairs toward his quarters. Once inside, he turns on his bedside lamp. She waits at the doorway, gaze cast downwards at her pretty shoes.
"Lie on your back on the bed. Hang your head over the edge. There's a good girl."
A sense of unease hangs over her as blood rushes to her head, but it's quieted as he begins removing his shirt button by button. She has never seen him naked. He's pale, like her, with black curls adorning his chest. Then she sees them, the scars she knew but had never witnessed. Two pink circles a few inches apart sit beneath his sternum, just above his stomach. The hands awkwardly resting on her stomach reach up to touch them, but he pushes them back down as the shirt falls from his shoulders. His torso is compact, gilded with lean muscle that flexes as he makes quick work of his slacks, socks, boxer briefs, and shoes. She knows the lower half of his body quite well - the lap she so often sits on, the cock she so often rides - so her focus rests on his chest.
She may be gagged, naked, and bound, but he's the vulnerable one.
Petyr pulls the gag from her mouth. She smacks against the dryness. Then, he poises his erection against her lips, rubbing the head against the seam of them. His grin is wicked.
"Open your mouth, little one."
She loosens her jaw and he slips in, slow at first, then as she adjusts, he buries himself to the hilt. Sansa is more experienced in this than she was previously - Harry loves being sucked off - but this angle is something she's unused to. She rolls her lips over her teeth and finds that he is blocking her breath. And that's even before he starts fucking her mouth, grabbing the sides of her head and thrusting into her. She splutters around him, taking all she can manage, her throat gurgling against the assault. He's choking her with his length, she realizes. It's vile and uncomfortable, but it summons that sweet pulse between her legs, arousing her even after two powerful orgasms.
He grunts, low and guttural, and the sound throbs in her clit. Just when she begins getting dizzy, gagging and convulsing around him, he pulls free, a string of thick saliva hanging from the end of him. She whimpers, craning her head in an attempt to reclaim him, even as she pants.
"Filthy, filthy little girl. You're so hungry for my cock you don't care to breathe."
"Yes, Daddy, I love your cock, Daddy." She babbles hoarsely, writhing her thighs against each other.
"You want more then?"
"Yes, please."
"Ah, there's your manners. Glad you finally found them."
He delves into her mouth again and she eagerly accepts him, swirling her tongue against the warm, soft flesh. His precum is a salty, bitter counternote to the sweetness that still lingers from dessert. His dark gaze is pinned on her lips, where his cock slides in and out, muffling her gasps and sucks and sputters, murdering them in her throat. The hands at her stomach occupy themselves between her thighs, seeking friction to quell her rapidly growing need. That, apparently, is unacceptable. He pulls free of her with a pop, shocking her with the sudden gust filling her lungs, only to expel that gust with a sharp slap across her tits.
"Did I tell you to touch yourself?"
"N-no, Daddy."
"Greedy girl. Trying to come without my permission again?
"I was just--you made me so--"
He raises his hand - a cue for her to stop talking, which she quickly takes.
"What did I say about talking back?"
"I'm sorry, Daddy."
"That's right. Now, you want to come?"
He stalks around the bed to the other side, as perfectly confident in his nudity as he is at every other time. She follows him with her eyes, lifting her neck when he travels just out of view.
"Yes, please."
"How do you want to come?"
"With your cock."
He snarls - actually snarls. Strong hands grip her ankles and pulled her roughly until her legs dangle over the edge of the high bed, splayed to give him room between them.
"Ask me politely."
"Please make me come with your cock inside me, Daddy."
The vulgar words leave her mouth in a rush. She attempts to hide her face in her hands, incensed by her shame, but he takes them away immediately and begins tugging at the knot. The tie is then flung across the room. She rubs idly at her wrists, but she cannot stop looking at him in all his feral glory. Tension tightens every muscle - she realizes how much control he must have, to watch her come and come again without release himself.
"I've been so selfish. Please forgive me, Daddy."
"Have you been taking your pill?"
"Yes."
He lifts her knees and bends them so the balls of her feet touch with a click. Suddenly, she's very glad for the yoga videos she's been doing on YouTube.
"Hold onto your heels."
She wraps her palms around the spikes, lifting them higher and further exposing herself to him. He stares down and licks his lips; she follows his eyes to see herself wet and pink and waiting. The mattress dips with his weight as he crawls on and bends over her, aligning his cock with her entrance. Mesmerized, she watches as he sinks in, piercing her with his length, and she forgets the breath she struggled so hard for only moments before.
He slips into her easily, drawing a hum from him and a sigh from her. For an agonizing moment, he stays still until she can stand it no more, wiggling against him. His hands find her hips and then, without warning, he starts a brutal rhythm, thrusting into her with reckless abandon. She rocks with him, unable to do much else but take as much as him as he can offer, allow herself to be filled. Every time he bears into her, she hisses a moan through clenched teeth, her grip on her heels so tight that the corners dig into her skin. She's miserable with pleasure, that unfathomable bliss of being stretched and taken with sloppy, noisy force. Her eyes tear, but she can't tear them from where they're joined in the vicious ins and outs that jerk her body. She wants to grab onto him, use him as an anchor, but she dares not let go for fear that he might stop.
One of his hands goes to her clit, rubbing the pad of his finger against her insistently. It blocks her view, but it doesn't matter; the sheer power of the sensation is enough to clench her eyes shut and turn her whimpers to roars. He slams into her so deep she fancies she might feel him in her stomach. She peers up at him to see his forehead lined with sweat, his mouth ajar, his breathing erratic and damp over her calves. When he catches her looking, he gives her a sinister smile that makes her clench around him. She wonders how she might look to him, brows furrowed in pleasure, her expression twisted, teeth dragging over her lower lip.
"You can come now, sweetling."
She had forgotten the need for his permission, but now that she has it, she chases the impending eruption. Sansa closes her eyes, focusing on how thick he is inside her, how deftly his finger moves. And that's it. She tosses her head back and relinquishes her grasp on her shoes and her wits, crying prayers to any power that will listen at the ceiling. The tide hits her in spasms that bend her spine and curl her toes. Her legs wrap around him, twitching tight around his hips. His pace doesn't slow inside her - if anything, it's harder and merciless, each stroke sending her further and further into feeling. He growls and pulls out, jerking himself against her clit where he sprays hot and sticky over the slick surface of her cunt.
He collapses on top of her and she bares his weight without complaint. Idle fingers trail along his back as they both find the correct tempos of their bodily functions. For the first time in a long time, she feels at peace. After sometime, he rises wordlessly, sinking to his knees before her and removing her shoes. He massages her feet with sure, steady hands, then departs to run a bath. She stretches out, feeling the plush bedclothes until he fetches her.
As she sinks into the tub, fragrant with bubbles, taking a peek at her face - which is as disastrous as expected - she thinks over who might really be in control.