I groan, my hands locked firm on the wooden bed post, as Pippa tugs hard on the strings of my corset. “Pippa,” I pant, trying hard to look at her over my shoulder, “are you sure this is necessary? I’ve already got a pretty small waist…”
“I’m so sorry, Ariel,” Pippa says, the strings so tight in her hands that her fingers are laced red and white. “Gabriel’s orders. He said he wants you turned out in the height of fashion and…” she shrugs, looking down at my elaborate undergarment, implying that this is indeed necessary.
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