CHAPTER 140: A TASTE OF HER MEDICINE

Aiden’s POV

I jolted awake from the nightmare, chest heaving, soaked in sweat—and full of hate.

Her.

The fury simmered hot under my skin like it had never left. I was so stupid to ever think I could move past it. She was lucky this wasn’t the medieval era anymore—lucky there were laws and consequences now. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t pay. It didn’t mean I wouldn’t make her feel every ounce of the pain she inflicted.

The clock glowed faintly in the darkness.

2:00 AM.

The whole villa was silent.

She was sleeping in one of the guest rooms—more luxurious than she ever deserved. More comfortable than I’d ever known as her slave. Back then, we chamber slaves slept just outside her door, curled on cold marble like dogs. No. Even dogs were treated better.

I walked down the hallway and opened her door without knocking.

She was sprawled on the bed, asleep like she had no care in the world. Like her conscience was clear. How could she sleep so peacefully? After all the screams, all the lives she ruined?

I stepped into her bathroom, filled a jar with cold water, and came back.

Without hesitation, I threw it on her.

She gasped awake, sputtering curses into the air—but then her eyes met mine. And she went still.

The bedside lamp cast a low amber glow across the room. Just enough to see her wet and shivering, lips parted in confusion. Fear.

Good.

I didn’t say a word. I walked to the armchair near the bed and sat down, legs spread, arms resting on my thighs, eyes locked on her.

"Remember when your father bought me as a gift for you?" I asked quietly.

She didn’t answer. Just sat there trembling in her soaked nightgown.

"Six months into your service, you caught me confessing my love to Mira. Do you remember her?"

Still nothing.

I sneered. "Of course you don’t. She wasn’t important enough for you to remember. She wasn’t a chamber maid. Just another slave."

I leaned back slightly, letting the rage settle in my bones. "You ordered twenty lashes for me. Ten for her. Because, apparently, slaves don’t get to love. We don’t deserve attachments."

Her lips started to quiver. She sniffled, but I wasn’t even halfway through.

"And later that night, when the pain hadn’t satisfied you—when our screams weren’t enough—you called me into your chambers. Do you remember that?" I asked, my voice low and sharp.

She shook her head, barely whispering, "I’m sorry..."

I ignored it. I wasn’t here for apologies.

"You lined up seven naked slave girls in front of me. Made Mira kneel in the corner. And you gave me a choice—fuck them all, in front of her, or you’d give her to the guards. Or kill her. You even gave me pills, like it was a performance for your sick amusement."

Tears streamed down her cheeks now. Her mouth trembled with more apologies, soft and broken.

But I didn’t care.

"I remember the way they looked at me—those girls. Terrified. Ashamed. Just like Mira did. Just like I did. And you sat there. Watching. Enjoying it."

I stood.

She flinched.

"Tonight," I said, stepping closer, "you’ll feel what it’s like to be powerless. To be exposed. To have no choice."

Her eyes widened in panic.

"Stand up," I said, voice hardening. "Strip."

She didn’t move at first.

Just sat there, staring at me like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Like maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t serious.

But I was.

The silence stretched.

Then, slowly, she stood.

Her bare feet touched the cold floor, and she wobbled slightly from the shock, from the water still clinging to her skin. Her breath trembled, her hands hanging at her sides as if frozen.

But then I saw it—the way her fingers twitched, gripping the hem of her nightgown. Not with urgency. Not with obedience.

She was stalling.

Playing for time.

If this were the past—if our roles were reversed—she would have slapped the person who dared speak to her this way. That’s the kind of brat she was. Entitled. Cruel. A girl raised in a palace where "no" was a foreign word, where other people’s pain was entertainment.

Now, she just stood there.

Her bottom lip trembled. Her hands kept moving to the edge of the fabric, then back down. Up. Then down. She couldn’t meet my eyes.

"Still think you’re above this?" I asked quietly, venom in every word. "Still think you can act like the princess and control the pace?"

She swallowed hard, but didn’t answer.

I stepped closer.

"You don’t get to hesitate," I said. "You didn’t give those girls a moment to think. You didn’t let Mira beg for mercy. So don’t expect it from me now."

Her fingers finally hooked under the hem again. This time, she didn’t let go.

But even as she lifted it slowly, there was defiance in her eyes. That royal pride—battered but not broken—flickered to life. Like she was telling herself this wasn’t happening. That she could endure it if she just acted like it didn’t hurt. Like she was still in control.

I almost laughed.

No amount of pride would save her from what she deserved.

And no crown could shield her from the truth:

She was nothing now.

Just another human, stripped of power. And tonight, she would feel every second of what it was like to be less.

She stopped just at her panties, her arms wrapping tightly around her chest. She shifted from one foot to the other, her breath hitching, the trembling more visible now. But still—she didn’t cry. Not the way I expected. Not the way those girls did.

She was holding it in. Maybe still trying to figure a way out of this.

I stepped closer, my voice low, controlled, cruel.

"Go stand at the mirror," I said.

She looked at me, confused.

"Bend over the table beside it," I added, watching the panic flicker in her eyes. "Look at yourself. Look at how far you’ve fallen—from sitting on thrones, giving orders, punishing people for loving each other... to this. About to be fucked by the same slave you once called filthy."

She flinched at the word, and for a second, I wondered if she even remembered saying it.

But it didn’t matter.

She was remembering now.

Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to speak—maybe to beg, maybe to explain—but no words came out. Just the sound of her bare feet padding against the cold floor as she slowly turned away.

She walked to the mirror.

The table beside it was small, polished, probably where she kept little luxuries she had for being my wife. She hesitated in front of it, her back to me, her breath shallow.

Then, like her body was no longer hers, she bent forward.

Her palms pressed against the surface. Her back arched. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror—wet hair clinging to her cheeks, ass up high in the air, trembling thighs.

I saw her shame.

And for a moment... I wanted to stop.

But then I saw Mira’s face again. Heard her cries. Remembered the screams in the courtyard, the cruel laugh, the smug tilt of the princess’s chin as she watched pain unfold like theater.

No.

I couldn’t stop.

Not yet.

I walked behind her, eyes locked on her reflection. She stood bent over the vanity table, her once-pristine nightgown pooled at her feet, her bare ass trembling in the dim light. The same mirror she probably used to admire herself now reflected her shame. And I drank it in like a man dying of thirst.

"What would your father say," I murmured, voice low, deadly calm, "if he saw his precious princess like this? Bent over, ass in the air, waiting for the very slave he bought her, to fuck her?"

She flinched, but didn’t speak.

I spanked her—sharp, loud. She gasped, crying out.

I chuckled. No amusement. Just satisfaction.

"From a princess... to a waitress... and now?" I spanked her again, harder. She whimpered. "My wife. My slut of a wife."

Another slap. Another jolt. Her body trembled.

"From a royal life... to poverty."

Another.

"Reincarnation really fucked you up, huh?" I continued, fingers curling in her hair, yanking her head up so her gaze met mine in the mirror. Her cheeks were wet—whether from the water or the tears, I didn’t care.

Then I grabbed her panties and pulled them down, slow and deliberate. They were soaked.

I sneered. "Are all royal sluts this wet for the dick of their slaves?"

"From silk sheets to spilled beer and tips... Now dripping wet for your former slave’s cock?"

Her body betrayed her. I saw it. Felt it.

"Tell me," I said, my voice dropping to a growl, "were you wishing I was the one fucking you back then? Instead of those girls I was forced to use while you watched like the twisted monster you were?"

Her lip trembled. She opened her mouth—maybe to deny it, maybe to beg. But I didn’t give her the chance.

I pulled out my cock, aligning it with her entrance. Took hold of her hair, yanking her head back so she arched—so her eyes met mine in the mirror.

"I hate you."

And then I thrust in.

Hard. Deep.

She cried out—part shock, part something else.

I stared at her in the mirror, her eyes wide, mouth parted, body shuddering around me. She looked wrecked. Beautiful. Mortal.

I moved—slow at first, then brutal. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t healing.

This was punishment.

But even as I drove into her, even as I marked her, used her, I felt it—the lie twisting in my chest. I told myself this was justice. That I didn’t care. That I hated her.

And yet... I couldn’t stop looking into her eyes.

I wanted her to feel it. Every thrust. Every cruel reminder. Every ounce of shame she had ever made me swallow.