Chapter 5: I don’t share what I love (++)

In the dead of night, after Lady Chantra had fallen into a deep sleep from sheer exhaustion, Busaba slowly slipped out of the wooden bed without a sound.

The lantern cast flickering shadows of her bare body across the wooden wall. Yet her mistress's eyes remained shut, face buried against her pillow, breathing soft beneath the thin blanket.

Busaba reached for a shawl and draped it loosely over her shoulders, then carefully pushed the door open.

The wooden latch shifted with the faintest creak.

She stepped outside.

And then—

"Leaving your lady's chamber so late at night… Or were you serving her so well she couldn't stand up afterward?"

The voice cut through the silence like a blade.

Busaba jolted.

"So curious to know just what kind of 'service' you're giving her," the voice continued. "Lady Chantra's moans were loud enough to echo through the entire house. Sounded less like a noblewoman and more like a woman being pleasured by a man."

In the shadows beneath the eaves stood Daoruang—a maid not unlike Busaba in age and station. She leaned against a wooden pillar, hands folded calmly in front of her.

"Daoruang…" Busaba's voice nearly caught in her throat.

"How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough," Daoruang replied.

"Long enough to know exactly what you've been doing with Lady Chantra in that room."

Busaba's face drained of color.

She paused—then stepped closer.

"Daoruang, please…Don't tell anyone. I'm begging you."

"I won't," Daoruang replied, without hesitation.

"I won't breathe a word to anyone."

Relief flickered in Busaba's eyes—but it died just as quickly with the next words.

"But you'll have to give me something in return. The same thing you gave to Lady Chantra… You understand, don't you?"

Busaba's breath hitched.

Her once-steady eyes began to tremble.

She said nothing for a long moment… then looked Daoruang in the eye.

"Daoruang… this isn't something to joke about."

"Who said I'm joking?" Daoruang stepped closer.

"I know I've never been in your eyes. I've known for years I could never compare to your precious Lady Chantra."

Her voice cracked—just a little.

"But I'm tired of watching from a distance. I don't want this story to end without ever having a chance. I want to be yours too, Busaba. I want to be your wife as well."

Busaba clenched her jaw.

"And if I say no… Daoruang?"

Her voice was barely a whisper.

"Will you tell someone?"

Daoruang fell silent. Then smiled faintly. She said nothing. But in that silence… Busaba understood. There was no choice.

No escape.

She would have to belong to Daoruang, too.

Since that day…

every night after lying in Lady Chantra's arms, once her mistress drifted into deep slumber, Busaba would rise from bed and slip away—to fulfill the desires of another.

Daoruang. The other servant girl who, too, longed… to be claimed by Busaba.

.

.

Tonight was no different.

Once again, Busaba crept through the shadows, leaving the forbidden wing of the household.

The servants' quarters were closed for the night. Everyone else was asleep.

She moved through the trees behind the estate.

The wind whispered through the bamboo above, brushing leaves together with a soft, rustling hiss.

And beneath the old tree, at its thickest root—

Daoruang lay waiting.

She was sprawled naked atop a thin cloth spread on the dirt, her bare skin catching the faint shimmer of moonlight.

"When you're with Lady Chantra," Daoruang said with a sneer,

"you smile like the world belongs to you.

But the moment you lay eyes on me, it's as if the sky is falling."

Her voice was laced with bitter mockery.

"I'm your wife too, Busaba… or have you forgotten?"

Busaba lifted her gaze, then sighed quietly.

This was a body she touched out of duty, not desire.

A secret kept with skin and silence.

Her heart belonged to one woman only.

Lady Chantra.

The only one she would ever love.

The only one she would ever serve… truly.

"Shall I fuck you now?" she said flatly, cutting through the silence.

"So I can be done with it and go to sleep."

.

.

"Ahh… my husband—fuck me harder, Busaba. I need you—desperately. Can you push your fingers deeper inside me? I want you to crave me the way you crave Lady Chantra's body."

Daoruang's breathy whispers came endlessly, like kindling feeding the fire she hoped to ignite within Busaba.

She didn't want to be just a wife in name—used without feeling.

She wanted Busaba's eyes to turn toward her…

To look at her with the same hunger, the same reverence—not with cold indifference.

But Busaba's silence, her detachment—felt like abandonment.

In a sudden surge of emotion, Daoruang sat up, throwing herself over Busaba, straddling her with the force of suppressed ache.

"Am I not beautiful enough?" she hissed.

"Not like your precious Lady Chantra?"

"Treat me," she demanded,

"the way you treat her. Right now."

"You… are not her," Busaba said flatly.

"But I'm your wife too, am I not?"

"A wife I never wanted."

The words struck deep.

Daoruang slapped Busaba across the face, then seized her own breast—pressing the soft flesh to Busaba's mouth.

"Then service the wife you didn't want," she growled,

"because if you don't, I'll go to Lady Chantra's father myself—tell him exactly what you've been doing with his daughter."

Busaba didn't reply.

The threat seared through her, boiling into rage.

She grabbed Daoruang's breast with rough hands and bit—hard. The girl cried out, a sharp gasp of pain, but Busaba didn't stop.

She flipped Daoruang onto her back, straddling her.

Then—with no warmth, no tenderness—she drove her fingers into her, thrusting with ruthless rhythm.

Daoruang writhed beneath her, hips jerking as the waves overtook her, spilling out with a shuddering cry.

When it was done, Busaba wiped her wet fingers on the edge of her shawl, without care or ceremony.

Then she said, evenly:

"My duty is finished. I'll be going to sleep now."

.

.

Late that morning, Chantra sat cross-legged in the center of the pavilion, stringing jasmine garlands with poised, graceful fingers—every movement reflecting her breeding as the daughter of a Chao Phraya.

Her delicate hands moved steadily over the clean white petals.

But in her eyes—there was unrest.

By her side, kneeling respectfully, was Busaba—her closest maid—gently passing her each flower with quiet care.

On the other side sat Daoruang, a servant of similar age, calmly sorting jasmine petals. Her face remained composed, but her eyes…

her eyes were anything but calm.

Lately, Daoruang had changed.

She stared at Busaba too often—too intently.

Her greetings always came laced with hidden meaning.

Even her simple gestures—like reaching for something—were laced with intention, brushing her chest against Busaba's arm just a moment too long.

And her laughter… too sweet.

Too deliberate.

As if flaunting something, just beneath the surface.

Chantra said nothing.

Not a single word.

But her hands, once so precise in their work, slowed…

then nearly stopped.

"These jasmine petals are all dried up," she said evenly.

She placed the half-finished garland back onto the tray before her.

"I don't feel like finishing this. It won't be beautiful—not the way I imagined."

She stood without looking at either of them.

Her steps were brisk as she walked away, leaving behind a silence thick as smoke.

Busaba lifted her gaze, watching the retreating figure of her mistress.

Then her eyes met Daoruang's—just for a moment.

That was all it took.

Daoruang stood quickly, grabbed the silver bowl of jasmine water, and followed after Chantra without a word.

The wooden door closed with a soft creak. Lady Chantra sat with her back to the room on the edge of her sleeping bench, the hem of her sabai loosened slightly as she reached out to pluck a white gardenia from the vase.

Busaba stepped in quietly, setting the silver water bowl on the low table beside her before kneeling behind.

"My lady…" she whispered gently.

Chantra didn't turn.

"You may sit with that Daoruang as comfortably as you please. I don't wish to disturb you," she said coldly.

Busaba faltered. Her eyes trembled, sensing instantly what her mistress was thinking.

"I hold no affection for Daoruang, my lady," she replied softly. "You know well… that my heart belongs to you and you alone."

Chantra gave a short, bitter laugh.

"Words are cheap. Even if you had someone else behind my back, how would I ever know?"

Busaba moved closer, her calloused hand brushing gently against the hem of Chantra's garment. Her sincere eyes met her mistress's wavering gaze.

"I swear… I have no heart for anyone else. Only you, my lady."

Her voice was nearly swallowed by the silence.

"My heart… belongs only to you."

Chantra pressed her lips tightly. She was not easily swayed—but when it came to Busaba, the woman she loved…

"With you… I suppose I can believe that."

She paused, then added, "But I don't trust that Daoruang. The way she looks at you… it's beyond what a servant should."

Busaba went still. She feared the truth of her forced entanglement with Daoruang might eventually reach the ears of the mistress she cherished more than life.

"I'll keep my distance. I won't let her near," Busaba answered faintly.

Chantra stared for a moment longer before turning away with a long sigh.

"Good. Because I don't share what I love with anyone," she said slowly, returning the flower to the vase.

"Especially not what I love most… I'll never give it to another."

Before the words even faded, her slender finger tilted Busaba's chin upward with authority. Her touch, though gentle, held unmistakable intent. It told Busaba exactly what her mistress wanted: not just affection, but the intimate touch of a wife yearning for her husband.

Busaba responded without hesitation.

Their lips met—not in a tender or sweet kiss, but one raw and fierce, ignited by a storm of jealous fury, like dry timber set aflame by a single spark.

In that moment, Busaba knew only one thing: she must soothe the wildfire of her mistress's envy. Her lips grazed the bare curve of Chantra's shoulder, trailing slowly down her trembling skin. Her fingers swept across the smooth expanse of her back, as if to carve her touch into the body she adored.

Chantra's breath quickened with each caress. Her body arched in response like a flower blooming under sunlight. Her fragrant, silken skin stirred something deep within Busaba—an ache, a hunger.

"Busaba…"

Her name slipped from Chantra's lips, breathless and husky. Slender fingers gripped her soft hair tightly.

"You are the only one who has touched me as a woman," she whispered. "The only one I've ever allowed to see me bare. The only one I've ever spread my legs for—to show the very core of my womanhood. You are my husband… and you will be mine alone."

The declaration of possession sent blood surging through Busaba's veins. She leaned in and claimed those crimson lips once more.

Time slipped by, immeasurable and forgotten, marked only by the heavy breaths that filled the room—lingering proof of a bond now sealed. A bond that whispered one truth above all: that Busaba's heart belonged to none but Lady Chantra.

Even if her body was sometimes forced to serve another… her soul remained bound to one alone.