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Lambert wakes up trapped.
He’s less upset about it than he might be, because it’s not iron bars or stone walls that contain him. No, he’s safe in his own rooms, in his own bed, with the thick curtains drawn closed to keep out the winter chill, and he’s really very comfortable. He just can’t get up.
Milena is asleep on his right side, head pillowed on his shoulder, one leg thrown over his and a slender hand resting on his chest just under his medallions, her hair coming out of its nighttime braid in little wisps. Aiden is asleep on his left side, draped half over Lambert, one arm around Lambert’s waist and both legs wrapped around Lambert’s left. And Bluebell is curled up in a surprisingly heavy little ball on the pillow against Lambert’s head, purring deep in her chest.
Technically Lambert’s hands are free, but one of them is resting on Milena’s hip and the other is tangled in Aiden’s hair, and he doesn’t want to move either of them if he doesn’t have to.
It’s not yet dawn, and at this time of year, deep in the coldest weeks of midwinter, even Geralt doesn’t want to train outside; the wolfblood mostly race each other up and down the stairs or have wrestling tournaments in the great hall. No one will notice or care if Lambert and Aiden aren’t up and about. There isn’t any reason for Lambert to get up.
Which means he can lie here with his beloved Cat in one arm and his beloved wife in the other and his wife’s cat purring thunderously against his head like the world’s weirdest hat and just bask.
He never thought he’d have this. Before Aiden vanished, Lambert never even dreamed of having a wife; after he married Milena, he daydreamed without any actual hope of having Aiden too. And now he has them both, and they have each other, and the whole room smells of roses and pine and honey rich enough to taste.
He’s so damn happy it hurts.
He wriggles down a little more snugly into the bed, pulling his beloveds closer, and closes his eyes, and dozes off again, completely trapped and utterly content.
*
Aiden is trapped.
Under almost any circumstances, especially these days, this would cause him to go into a feral rage and not come out until he wasn’t trapped anymore, but in this particular circumstance he doesn’t actually want to move at all. There are not one but two cats curled up in his lap, Bluebell grooming Catastrophe’s ears and Catastrophe kneading at Aiden’s leg and purring like a miniature thunderstorm, and Milena is combing out Aiden’s hair in preparation for braiding it, hands gentle and steady and soothing, and Lambert is leaning against his legs and reading aloud from a book of children’s tales Marika sent her sister.
Technically Aiden could get up if he really wanted to, but then he would not have cats on his lap and gentle hands in his hair and Lambert’s lovely rough voice rumbling through his very bones, and that, frankly, would be a tragedy.
He never even knew to dream of this, during his long years in captivity. Oh, he dreamed of Lambert, absolutely, of his voice and his callused hands and his glorious warm strength. But he never thought that his life might include cats, their fur soft against his fingers as he strokes them, nor yet a sweet little cath fach who has taught Lambert gentleness and learned fierceness in return. He thought that getting back to Lambert would be the pinnacle of joy. He never guessed there might be higher peaks.
He wouldn’t have guessed someone like Milena was even an option, honestly. The number of dainty little noblewomen who could cope with wolfblood customs, who could learn to love Lambert despite all his prickles, who could open their hearts to two wolfblood without fear or jealousy or hesitation - well, he suspects it’s a very small number indeed. One, perhaps. The one they’ve got right here, humming softly to herself as she braids an embroidered ribbon into Aiden’s well-combed hair.
Aiden has no intention of moving. He is so very happy to be trapped beneath two cats, between his beloveds, here in the rooms that smell like theirs, like leather and roses and honey and home.
*
Milena is trapped.
She tugs experimentally at Lambert’s grip on her wrists, and goes, as expected, absolutely nowhere. Lambert grins down at her. “Gotcha,” he murmurs, and Milena giggles.
“Oh, help, I’ve been caught by the fearsome wolfblood,” she replies, not managing to sound even a little scared. Lambert’s grin gets toothier.
Aiden drapes himself over Lambert’s shoulder, the silver thread in his eyepatch glinting as he leers cheerfully down at her. “And do you know what fearsome wolfblood do with pretty maidens?” he purrs, and wiggles his eyebrows. “They eat them all up.”
Milena’s breath catches on a whimper. “Please.” She can feel how much slicker she is between her legs just at the thought; she knows her beloveds can smell it, too.
“Fuck,” Lambert growls, and kisses her hard; she moans into it, and moans again when Aiden eels down the bed to pull one of her legs over his shoulder and wraps his hands around her hips and licks her open ravenously. Lambert breaks the kiss so she can breathe, biting his way down her throat instead, and she writhes helplessly, pinned by her beloveds’ unbreakable grips. Her moans echo from the stone walls.
She’s utterly trapped, and they’re not going to stop until she’s absolutely limp with pleasure. Lambert is growling curses against her skin, and Aiden’s tongue is gloriously agile between her legs, and she feels like there is lightning in her blood, stars glittering behind her tight-closed eyelids as a wave of ecstasy builds to overwhelm her.
Gods, but she is lucky beyond all measure.