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When he does nothing to defend his name, that's when Kathani knows:  He really did love her.

--

Four days after the failed mating, word spreads among the ton-- Lord Bridgerton is said to have gone into rut.  Alone.

--

Two days after the failed mating: Lord Bridgerton has fled to Kent.

--

One day after the failed mating: Lord Bridgerton did not show his face this morning on promenade.

A guilty conscience, they all say.  Even an alpha as vicious and cruel as the Viscount must feel a sense of shame.  He wouldn't be human if he didn't.

If there are sides to be taken in the failed wedding as to who wronged whom, it seems the ton unanimously agrees: the side to take is Miss Sharma's.

Kathani feels viciously vindicated in her choice.  She had been willing to give him a chance.  She had been hopeful, that through the tight hold he kept on his side of the bond, those slips of feeling she felt from him were true.  That the adoration and love he poured into her while he was fucking her, while she was riding him, while they were locked on his knot and basking in the afterglow, proved the gossip regarding his reputation-- his unfeeling and bond-deficient nature-- false.

Because that was what everyone said he was: charming, polite, and distant.  They said he moved through lovers, mistresses, brothel girls with a rate that put all other rakes to shame; they said he'd earned that title of "Capital R Rake."  Not even his best friend, the Duke of Hastings, could deny it.  Betas and omegas could attest to the attention he lavished on them while they were in the privacy of the bedroom, the way he made them believe he was truly in love.

Betas and omegas could also attest to the fact that after an affair was over, he did not acknowledge their past connection.  Lord Bridgerton was a gentleman: he was not rude, he did not feign ignorance, he did not pretend they were strangers.  He was charming, polite, distant-- and it was all the more devastating that he was, to see before their very eyes that he was so unaffected by the end of their affair.  After having experienced how he could be when he was present--

Suffice to say that more than one beta and omega had developed a one-sided scent bond, only to have it broken ruthlessly, thrown in their face as if it never was.  Because it never had been, not on his part.

He had a reputation, and it was clear he was indifferent to it.  He wore it well.  He wore it as though it was a foregone conclusion, that an alpha such as he would have such a reputation.  It was part of his allure, they said; every beta and omega he approached vowed they would not be seduced, promised themselves they would never fall for his tricks, only to experience how truly powerful the appearance of his devotion could be.

During her engagement, Kathani had been surrounded on all sides by those who were jealous that she'd caught him, and those who were impressed-- they joked that they didn't think Lord Bridgerton was capable of forming a bond at all.  Everyone immediately concluded that they were True Mates: after a single encounter with her, she and Lord Bridgerton had emerged with a nascent bond.  What else could they conclude?

Lord Bridgerton flat out ignored any talk of True Mates.  His grimaces when the topic was raised were noted.  He made very vague comments when asked a question; nothing like the happiness and joy everyone expected with finding a True Mate.  Kathani had dreamed of finding her True Mate, sharing that soul deep connection, just like the one she'd seen in Appa and Mary.  They would share everything, they would know each other's thoughts at a mere glance.

The reality was quite different.  When she met her True Mate for the first time, when they completed their bond, all she could feel from him was horror.  His emphatic denial of their connection.  She had reached for him through their connection and he had recoiled, screaming as though he'd been burned.  Everything which should have been joyful was filled with images of him being shackled, maimed, shipwrecked; the first thing he said upon their consummation was that it was her fault.

It only went downhill from there.

She hadn't known who he was-- they only knew each other's names ( Anthony ) through that first touch of the bond forming--

Every subsequent action-- everything he said and did made it clear to her that he resented being caught in this manner; he had never wanted a True Mate despite the fact that his parents were one such pair, as well as his sister and best friend.

That first day in the woods, Kathani had hoped he would protest her offer to dissolve the bond.  And he did protest-- for a moment.  She felt the bond flood open as a surge of possessiveness washed over her.  He couldn't imagine letting her go; he wanted to keep her; he wanted to tie her to him in every possible way; their bodies were in tune now in every way, inevitable and true-- then she felt him shut down those thoughts, cut them off and push them away.  The pain of losing that touch in her mind made her whimper.

She felt his sympathetic shudder of pain, that he had hurt her.  He reached out for a moment, just a touch of comfort, before he removed his hands from her.  Trying to minimize contact.

Then she felt his panic at the thought that she might be in pre-heat, that his seed might take and leave her with child.

It was too much to bear.  He promised her anything and everything, so long as it was not the bond.

That thought cut through her and he was a gentleman.  He helped her stand, he cleaned her up, he was sweet and thoughtful and fetched her horse.  Then it was as if a switch had been flicked and he was suddenly stiff, distant, completely and utterly polite in the worst way.

Every so often, during those first five days of their separation, she'd taken a peek at what he was doing, how he was feeling, whether he thought of her, whether he missed her.

The answer gutted her.  Other than his clear annoyance that he was going through pining sickness, his mind was a hive of appointments, duties, obligations.  Whenever she appeared in his thoughts and feelings, he ruthlessly suppressed it.  He didn't even seem to notice her presence through the bond-- or if he did, he ignored it.  She didn't know which was worse.  The night of the Conservatory Ball, she had felt-- for the first time since they'd met-- his eagerness to see her, his desire to keep her, and it allowed her to hope.

Then, when Lady Violet Bridgerton announced that the Viscount was looking for a mate, when he already had one--

Kathani knew enough about Lord Bridgerton to know this was not his doing; she felt his pure shock and anger at Lady Bridgerton's announcement.  She felt his sheer exasperation and growing resentment as he danced set after set after set, his mind wandering to her, wondering where she was, wishing he could see her, scenting the air for her.  Thoughts and feelings slipped through, an entire Pandora's box divided into parts; the largest by far was an eternal shore of yearning, like he was the ocean without a tide.

When she saw him bow out and leave the Conservatory, Kathani couldn't help herself; she followed him out of the ballroom to eavesdrop on their conversation.  She told herself she wanted clarity.  That was all.  

She had been surprised when he opened the bond to her completely-- he was in a playful mood, inviting her in on the joke.  And it was entertaining, she could admit to that.  But she had been waiting, and waiting, and waiting for him to tell them that there would be no respite for them: he had a mate.  He'd met his True Mate and she was no secret.  She waited for him to acknowledge what they had openly.

He said no such thing.

He was full of affection, flirtation, and it was so easy to fall into a rhythm of conversation with him and-- he almost seemed to care.  He held her in his arms, unrestrained in his happiness, allowing her to bask in his-- in his love.  Or what felt like love.  He asked after her health, all of those suppressed thoughts and feelings pouring out in an overwhelming wave of concern, longing, desire, admitting to her that attempting to break the bond was taking just as much of a toll on him as it was on her.

She couldn't help but imagine how wonderful it would feel, to be mated and lie in his arms--

Lord Bridgerton withdrew like she had scalded him and that was the moment she decided; they needed to break this for good.  If only for her own sanity.  His moments of tenderness were too few and far between for her to risk her entire life chasing after scraps of affection.

Some part of her wanted him to stop her from going through with it.  Some part of her wanted him to deny that he would ever look for a mate because his True Mate was right in front of him, waiting for him to open himself to her.  She waited for him to declare that no-- he wanted to keep her.  He wanted their bond, he wanted her by his side always and his reaction was simply because of the shock of the mating, how unexpected it had been to finally meet her.  She thought he might-- she thought she heard in that sharpness of his voice--

Instead, he went on bended knee and allowed her to put her hand to his bare throat.

He said the words without hesitation.  There was no uncertainty in his voice or gaze.  When he re-entered the ballroom, the next beta and beta's mama immediately descended, claiming the dance; Lord Bridgerton continued his evening unaffected, dancing perfectly.

She spent the night heartbroken.  She felt nothing from his side of the bond.

Come morning, she was shocked by the severity of the illness which rolled through him-- a reaction to their dissolution.  The unending pain would surely prove that they were True Mates.  Surely he would come to her and ask for her to take him back.  Surely he wouldn't torture himself with this agony when she was right there.

He never came.  He endured the entire ordeal, unmoved by her cries for him on the other side.

And the next day, proceeded to begin interviewing debutantes.

--

He doesn't remember what happened during that rut.  All he remembers was waking up surrounded in his own blood, every part of his body bearing witness to the fact that he had clawed at the walls, thrown himself on the bolted doors, tried to climb the windows to escape.  He could barely whisper; he had been screaming.  The bed and blankets were shredded, saturated in the scent of despair.

Kathani had said:  He was incapable of loving anyone for his own sake-- only for the sake of his family.  Simon had said:  Anthony was stretched too thin-- the bond could be something which freed him rather than constrained him.

In some respects, Simon was right:  Anthony was free.  In fact he was so free, he was totally apathetic.  Whatever it had been which grounded Anthony, kept his spirit from floating away into the ether, was gone; in its place came an indifference so absolute, it shocked his family.

His family quickly discovered that an Anthony who did not care about anything was an Anthony who was casually cruel.  He spoke whatever was on his mind without a hint of emotion-- brutal and unvarnished honesty was delivered without remorse or thought to the other person's feelings.  His siblings tried to strike back at him but they found no purchase; Anthony's usual dramatics, his bombastic anger, his obvious frustration or hurt or exhaustion were nowhere to be seen.  His brothers and sisters had long used guilt as a means of getting what they wanted from him.

After that rut, he felt no guilt.  Felt no duty, affection, responsibility, desire.  Whistledown continued to print all sorts of scurrilous gossip.  Anthony went about his business with a coldness so absolute, unaffected by people giving him the cut direct, acting as though it was all so completely beneath his notice, that the ton ended up admiring him for his sheer gall.  If they thought he'd been unfeeling before, it was nothing compared to how he behaved now.

He was a person with no nerve endings and therefore could not feel pain; he could deal blow after blow, withstand hit after hit, unaware he had broken all his bones.

Therefore it's a surprise to him, and not a surprise at all, when one day, Miss Sharma, Miss Edwina, Lady Mary, and Lady Danbury have called on Bridgerton House and joined the family for tea.  Everyone holds their breath when he enters-- they've taken to walking on eggshells around him.  Anthony would have been concerned if he had the capacity to care.

Benedict is watching him carefully; he's the only one who seems unaffected by Anthony's personality transplant.  His brother spends much of his time with Simon-- discussing Anthony, probably.  However, with the family's reputation in disarray, it's more likely that his mother and Lady Danbury have arranged this tea.  What they hope to gain from it, he doesn't know.

Anthony merely bows, looks at Miss Sharma and feels nothing, states he hopes they enjoy tea, and walks out of the room.

He'd hoped, for a moment, that he would feel something.

But he didn't.

Anthony had not been allowed to see Kathani the day before their mating; he had no idea what to expect.  When she appeared, it surpassed his wildest imagination: Kathani was wearing the most beautiful, bright red dress (he guessed from India), covered in ornate patterns of gold thread.  What was truly astounding, however, were the delicate scents she was wearing, some of which Anthony had never smelled before.

As she approached, he was hit with the light, airy scents of spring flowers: ephemeral, fleeting traces of crocus, pear blossoms, shy bursts of sprouted barley; followed by more substantial notes of the middle bodied scents: azalea, peony, cold river water on a summer day.  The full, round scents of jasmine, orange blossoms, sun-warmed fields of olive trees, reached him like a long wave breaking on the shore, each one perfectly layered against the other, some scents disappearing, others lingering, new scents rising as they blended with his own profile so that each pull of air he took was a new and unique fragrance.

When she finally reached him, he was hit with an incredible mixture of spices; omegas and betas in England tended to go with lighter scents, a particular blend of pink tea roses, white climbing roses, and plumeria being the most popular at the moment.  At the very base of Kathani's scent, however, was a mixture he never would have thought could go together: lily, amber, balsam (those spices, he realized), agarwood.  Somehow the stinging sweetness of the lily had been separated from the core to harmonize with everything.

To say Anthony was stunned by the time she stood before him was an understatement.  He dearly hoped that whatever concoction of perfumes it was which created the fragrance today could be recreated in the future; he'd never smelled a person more enchanting.  Anthony must have relayed the feeling through their bond because she had tilted an eyebrow at him, amused.

When he took her hands to prepare for the bond-tying, he saw her palms were covered in henna; his own palms felt naked against hers.  There was some tumeric from holding the cord; that was all.  In fact, his entire ensemble felt plain to the point of severity compared to her, and the only scent he'd come with was himself.  The orange-yellow was getting all over his stark black wedding jacket, the cuffs of his sleeves were already stained orange.  Yet he was grateful for it-- when the braiding of the cord was completed, it would leave intricate lines of golden yellow on his sleeve.

Kathani was deft and efficient in her ties; as the omega who'd claimed him as alpha, she placed her pattern of knots first, from elbow to wrist.  English tradition dictated that Anthony only place his tie in a thick band about her wrist; he was careful to ensure her bangles did not get caught in his part of the weaving.

He was aware that there must have been some words spoken, but he heard none of them-- legend had it that the bond-tie was not only symbolic; it really did strengthen a nascent bond or created the foundations for one.  With each knot she'd placed on him, each twist and curl of rope, he'd felt them drawn closer together.  And though his part of the band was shorter on her arm, it used the same length of cord, weaving layers one on top of the other.

It felt like there was something inevitable about their joining, the way everything opened so easily and flowed so freely between them.  For a moment, they were suspended, neither breathing.

Then it all came crashing down when she widened her eyes and slammed the connection shut as far as it would go; it was a miracle that Anthony managed not to make a sound.  Some inner creature in him was clawing at the gate she'd closed, growling at the forest of thorns and trying to find the best way to cross the moat of fire which surrounded her fortress of marble.  The inner creature was howling with rage, frustration, but more than that, grief.  A profound heartsickness as the forest of thorns only seemed to grow thicker and the moat became wider.

He understood, in theory, why she did it.  It was frightening to have one's thoughts peeled open and left bare for a virtual stranger.  They had known each other for a mere six weeks, three of which were spent trying to sever the bond, and the other three spent trying to keep the bond locked against each other as tightly as possible.

But this was their mating ceremony.  Biology might have prevented them from leaving each other, but there was undeniable chemistry and compatibility between them.  Conversation came easily.  Surely they could give each other a chance to at least be friends.  They couldn't avoid each other forever; they couldn't struggle against this connection for the rest of their lives.  It was exhausting, and Anthony was already tired.

He had felt her excitement, her anticipation for their mating ceremony.  She had been looking forward to this; with trepidation and worry, but also with hope and wonder.  Anthony admitted he had not been guiltless in this either; when she reached out, he was licking his wounds and slammed the door on her.  When he reached out, she was cold and unreceptive.  The only time they were unguarded was during and after sex; once the afterglow disappeared, he or she would inevitably say something cutting and the cycle would repeat itself.

They didn't have to be what everyone claimed they were; they could at the very least be friends.  If this bond had not forced a biological connection between them, Anthony knew he would have flirted with her, perhaps even sought to court her.  Didn't that count for anything?  They were going to start a life together and it was clear that life would be better for them both if they allowed the bond to fully form.  There were ways, later, that they could learn to restrict each other.  At least this way, neither of them would be struggling with noseblindness, near total loss of appetite, and insomnia.

If she had been dreading this so much-- if she did not want to go through with it, why was she going through with it?  Why was she punishing him for a bond that they neither chose?  She said herself that they could not have predicted this.  Did she think it was a matter of sheer willpower and that he hadn't been holding up his end of the bargain?

It hit him with devastating clarity that yes-- she blamed him.  She blamed them both: herself for being unable to stay away from him at the races, for seething with anger and jealousy when she heard of all the does he had been courting after she'd released their bond.  She'd hated him for going about life as though nothing had happened when she had been nursing a broken heart; it was proof that his feelings were manufactured by this thing he never wanted.  Even now, he was not arguing to complete the bond for the sake of love-- he was arguing for the sake of convenience.

She had never wanted to be bonded to an alpha who considered her an inconvenience, something to be remedied and put aside so that he could go on with life as though nothing had changed.  The bond was supposed to change everything.  Every aspect of every moment of every day, Lady Mary and Appa had shared with joy and love.  The only connection he could stand was a physical, carnal one.

He had never considered her a nuisance!  He had never thought her an inconvenience!  He'd kept his distance, remained aloof because that was what she had wanted, and he followed her lead.  She had already bond released him once and made clear that she had entered into the second accidentally; she told him every opportunity she could that she had remained despite her better judgment and perhaps even despite her own desires.  She had instructed him to court others; she had followed him and kissed him at the races; she had said, over and over and over again, that she'd wished she was free of him.  How else could he take her meaning except at face value?

Anthony sought a physical, carnal connection between it was the only thing she was willing to give.  He didn't break their engagement when he discovered she had no nesting dowry because of the reputational damage it would do to her sister-- if anyone was marrying anyone for convenience and utility, it was her.  How many times had she told him that she was only mating him for the sake of Edwina, and if it had been her choice, she would have gone back to India?

That was rich coming from him, given that his mother was so obsessed with matings and how his sisters' chances at a good match would be reduced if he married instead.  If the bond hadn't forced them together, she would never have wanted to be with him because he wasn't capable of loving anyone for the sake of himself, he could only love someone for the sake of his family.  Kathani did not want to be loved because of an involuntary biological reaction.  She did not want to be loved because their bodies made it inevitable.  And he did not love her that way, so here they both were, doing the expedient and expected thing, giving into the ton's whispers and the pressures of Lady Whistledown.

All of this while they stood, handfasted, with frozen expressions on their faces; as the magistrate droned on about the sacred traditions of mating.  Anthony and Kathani should have litigated this before the mating ceremony, but here they were in the Queen's own gardens, being mated before half the ton, thoughts and feelings exchanged at the speed of light.  The bond had opened unbeknownst to them both; the great irony was: it was only through the bond that they were allowed to understand each other so perfectly.

Then, right when he was supposed to make his vows as an alpha to his omega as a bonded, mated pair, her mother's bangle fell off.

Kathani rushed to pick it up without thinking-- in so doing, she jerked on the handfasting cord and like some terrible omen, broke it.  There was no loud rip; no one had noticed anything fray or come undone.  But it was undeniable that the cord was now severed; several in the audience gasped at the sight.  The magistrate, who was not a stranger to such things (he was old and had officiated many matings-- this was nowhere near the worst incident he had witnessed, which involved the beta bride and beta best man, who had never met each other, going into spontaneous heat and rut and consummating their bond right there).

Before the cooler head of the magistrate could prevail and reassure everyone that a broken cord did not mean a broken bond-- in fact, he had witnessed traditions in other countries where the culmination of the mating was to break the rope as a symbol of their independent vows to their mates-- Anthony and Kathani looked at the cord, looked at each other.

In hindsight, no one was truly surprised when they both ran away.

--

The 'bungled nuptials,' as Colin so wonderfully called it, of 'the Right Honorable the Viscount Anthony Bridgerton and Miss Kathani Sharma' was the only thing the ton could speak of in the following days.  His mother tried to put some sort of reputation mitigation plan in place to demonstrate... something... but Anthony refused to play any part of it.  It required he and Kathani appear together publicly, the entire family trailing after them like some sort of army of chaperones or traveling circus; with the breaking of the cord and their mutual flight from the altar, the very thought of seeing her made him sick.

He had other pressing matters he had to attend to; his rut was nearly upon him.  Anthony decided the only option was for him to go to Kent and lock himself in a heat chamber/rut room.  It was one of the oldest buildings on the estate-- apparently the need to contain raging alphas, rabid betas, and violent omegas during their cycles was something which well predated the modern era.  He'd decided that it was too much to be in London, where there was significant risk that he would try to find Kathani or she would be drawn to him.  The best solution was to remove himself from Town altogether.

Benedict and Simon were both doubtful of the wisdom of this idea, but they could not come up with anything better.  When they asked him about the state of the bond, he told the truth:  He didn't know.

The bond wasn't silent, but it wasn't as strong as it had been.  It wasn't completely severed, nor was it whole.  It felt muffled, buried underground.  He didn't know if he was totally unaffected, or if the energy from his pre-rut hormones were allowing him to function normally (Benedict and Simon were of the opinion the latter was, indeed, the case.  Anthony pre-rut was usually far more energetic and active).  He wasn't willing to poke or prod the bond because in truth, this blunted feeling of living underwater was preferable to being too present, too vigilant, too aware of reality.

She had rejected him.  Or rather, they had rejected each other in a poisonous outpouring right before they were supposed to be forever mated.  Kathani had gotten what she wanted, and Anthony didn't know what he wanted at all, so it was a moot point.

"You smell terrified."

"Hello, Anthony.  Congratulations on your mating, Anthony.  I'm here to offer your moral support as your best alpha, Anthony," he glared in the mirror.

Simon grinned.

"Carry on.  You were doing well on your own."

"At least tell me you have a flask."

"It's not that bad," he said magnanimously.  "I like Kate.  She'll keep you on your toes."

"Flask.  Now."

The container materialized with unnecessary flourish; Anthony sniffed the contents-- at least his best friend had brought something better than the godforsaken rotgut he'd acquired a taste for while abroad.

After taking a very necessary and significant draught, Anthony offered it back, fully expecting Simon to join; Simon merely capped the flask and stowed it away.

"Fatherhood has ruined you."

"I'm under orders from your future beta-in-law to deliver you safely to the mating grounds.  Unlike you, I have a sense of self preservation."

Simon and Edwina got along far too well.  But more pressingly:

"Why did I agree to this?"

"Patriotism, probably.  I'm told the Queen's persuasive."

Anthony closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.  He pushed away images of the mating glen at Aubrey Hall: sunlight through verdant leaves, a breeze of sweet jasmine, wildflowers brushing his bare ankles.

The Queen's gardens were magnificent.  The pergola of climbing roses was as beautiful as it was famous:  Legend said the palace's consecrated grounds guaranteed a fruitful union.  Given the Queen's fifteen children, Anthony felt completely justified in his feelings of dread:  Neither he nor Kathani wanted a literal litter.

He felt the warmth of Simon's hand through the layers of jacket, waistcoat, shirt, cravat.

"You and Kate are well-suited," Simon said in his steady, even tone hard won through bravery and practice.  "Daphne already suspects."

"Everyone suspects; everyone's overjoyed.  We're the first special license of the season and didn't even need to apply for it."

"Doesn't make it true-- I know better than most."

"You're supposed to reassure me."

"If lies reassured you, I would have lied.  You'd rather kill me than betray my confidence, which is very... you.  And strangely comforting."

"Si--"

"It explains quite a bit about you.  You should tell your mate."

"Tell her what?  That I'm incapable of acting in a rational manner?  She's well aware."

The words smelled sharp and acrid; Simon raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"I was referring to the fact that you're a gentleman, not the fact that you're irrational."

Anthony laughed, surprised by his own bitterness.

"Bridgerton, listen to me.  I didn't recognize it until I became a duke, mated, and had a son, but now I do: you've been pulled too many directions at once."

Simon's hand was at once constricting and comforting.

"This bond doesn't have to be another tether stretching you thin, Ant."

His best friend looked at him with the intolerable understanding of a mated alpha.

"You'd rather kill me than betray my confidence, Ant.  Swear to me you'll remember."

A footman knocked at the door; everything was ready.

Anthony felt Kathani's curiosity, worry-- excitement peek through their bond.  For a moment, he allowed himself to revel in its potential: hope unlooked for.  Even if their official mating was fodder for gossip, that didn't mean Aubrey Hall was out of reach.

The public spectacle of roses made the glen's wild lily-of-the-valley all the more important.

Anthony nodded:

At the end of the third episode, Charlotte manages to convince George to stop yelling at the sky and come inside.

Why is she able to do this?

Because she loves him.

Reynolds, who's known George much longer and therefore has likely seen and learned the ins and outs of George's episodes stands uselessly to the side with a blanket, but Charlotte, thanks to her Great Love for George, is able to draw his attention away from Venus and get him inside.

Perhaps I will be proven wrong when I watch the fourth episode next weekend, but I know how this story usually goes: She gets him warm, gets him safe, surrounds him with tender loving care and understanding so that when his episode is over, he may not believe he is deserving of love, but he will know that he is loved.

Love will give Charlotte the strength to stay with him and have fifteen children. Love is patient, love is kind, it always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. 1 Corinthians 13.

It's a common trope, well worn, familiar as that fucking bible verse. The trope is not only used in a romantic context. It speaks to the great love parents have for their children, or the Power of Friendship, or whatever kind of love it is you're looking to validate. It's got enough verisimilitude to be persuasive and enough optimism to be seductive.

And it's wrong.

Not only is it wrong, it's actively harmful. Because the corollary to this idea is that when love fails to heal, it is because the loving person did not love enough, or the person who is ill did not love them back enough.

Love is not enough, it has never been enough, and it will never fucking be enough. I hate this trope and I bristle every time I hear it in songs, see it in movies and tv, or read it in stories.

If love were enough, people would never commit suicide. They wouldn't become addicted to drugs; they wouldn't become alcoholics. They would be able to snap out of their manic depressive episodes; they would always be able to distinguish between what is real and what is not; they would be healed of PTSD; they would not obsess over routines. They wouldn't have eating disorders; they would stop exploding into rage; they would never be depressed.

If love were enough, the people who love individuals with mental illness would not feel helpless, frustrated, angry, desperate-- because their love would be enough to fix it all. Their love would be enough to convince their suicidal partner to stay. A child's love would convince their alcoholic parent to quit. A parent's love would be better than lithium.

To reduce the treatment of mental illness to love is to reduce the failure of that treatment to love, and as a result place the blame on the people who are supposed to love.

Mental illness is chemical. It is biological. It is because of neural pathways and neurotransmitters. It is a result of the strange coping mechanisms the human brain has developed over the thousands of years of evolution. I'm not denying that there is an enormous environmental factor.

However, I do not believe that anyone gets cancer because they are not loved enough, and I do not expect anyone to be cured of cancer by the power of love.

The human brain is an organ. Sure, we can dress it up with fancy terms about it being the seat of intelligence, wax philosophical about the soul or spirit, houses the essence of humanity, blah blah blah, whatever. It is first and foremost an organ and like any other organ, it can and does fail.

Mental illness is a lot of things, and only recently recognized as Real thing. Prozac was approved by the FDA in 1987 and while antidepressants are now widely recognized as helpful, that was definitely not the case even twenty years ago. Today, there's still a very real stigma associated with its use that makes people hesitate to actively consider it an avenue of treatment.

"Well, what did you expect from a spinoff of Bridgerton?"

I don't expect anything. That doesn't mean I'm not allowed to criticize it or point out things which are harmful. It's a really popular series. Number 1 on Netflix or whatever.

What I want to do is write this for myself, and for anyone else out there who is either asking themselves now, or will ask themselves someday, why love has not healed everything like it ought to have done.

Because I've heard it time and again from people left behind after a loved one commits suicide: Why wasn't I enough to make them want to stay? Didn't they know I loved them? (Why didn't they love me enough to keep living?)

Loved ones dealing with substance abuse: Why don't they love me enough to quit? Why wasn't I enough to convince them to get help? Where did I go wrong? If they really loved me, they would stop.

And the flip side, during an argument or in a moment of frustration: You don't love me enough to stop! If you loved the baby, you wouldn't be depressed. If you loved your parents, you wouldn't put them through this! If you loved your partner, you would have gotten help.

That's why this trope is destructive.

Mental illness and the treatment of mental illness are not about love.

Sure, love can help. But sometimes it doesn't.

"I don't believe you.  No one lives in the water.  You're going to drown and die.  My da says so."

"I've been living in the water my whole life.  Maybe you'd drown and die because you have those shrimpy things.  That's what you get for being on the surface-- I bet your fins dried out and split and that's why you can't swim."

"I can too swim!"

"You can't.  You're a stupid little boy and that's why you're stuck on the surface."

"I'm not stupid!  And I'm not a little boy!  I'm nearly eight!"

"Then prove it!"

"Fine!  I will!"

This went about as well as could be expected of a seven year-old boy trying to follow a mermaid down to the ocean's depths.

"So you've never had fins?  Your whole entire life?"

"No."

"Even as a baby?"

"I don't remember, but all my brothers and sisters didn't have fins when they were born."

"How many brothers and sisters do you have?  I have six sisters."

"Six?!  That's a lot.  I only have two, but ma's growing one right now."

"My mum's growing one too.  She visits the egg every day to make sure it's happy."

"You were born in an egg?"

"Of course I was born in an egg.  Weren't you born in an egg?"

"No.  I was born from my mother's belly."

The mermaid looked at him with a great deal of skepticism.

"How did you get out?"

This stumped the human boy.

"I don't remember."

"Then how did your brothers and sisters get out?"

"I don't know.  Ma sends me to my friends and when I come back, there's a baby."

"Hmm," she peered at him with her large brown eyes.  "What's your name?  Do humans have names?"

"We have names!  My name is Anthony."

"That's a strange name."

"It is not!  You think everything is strange."

"My name is Kathani."

"You've a strange name too.  Ka-tha-ni."

"You're very rude."

"You're very rude.  I don't like you."

"I don't like you either."

"You almost drowned me."

"You didn't tell me that humans can't breathe underwater."

"I--"

"Anthony!  I've been searching for you everywhere!  Where have you been?  You're all wet!"

"Ma!  I was talking to Kathani," he turned to introduce her.

There were only ripples.

"Who?"

"Kathani.  She was just here-- she's a mermaid."

His mother looked at him in that pinched expression of fondness and worry.  It was obvious she didn't believe a word he said.

"Come along, Anthony, it's time for supper."

"But she was right there!"

"I'm sure she was, my dear."

"She was!"

Kathani watched as Anthony the Human Boy Who Couldn't Breathe Underwater used his legs to walk down the pier, holding his mother's hand.  It seemed he hadn't been lying-- his mother was growing something in her belly.

Humans were very odd.

--

"I thought you had lessons today."

"Lessons are boring.  All they talk about are angles and constellations."

"You said you have to do well if you want to join the navy."

"I am doing well.  That's why lessons are boring.  What about you, I thought you weren't allowed to come to the surface anymore."

"I may have let a few stingrays loose in the classroom."

Kathani smiled with bright-eyed mischief as Anthony laughed.

"You won't get in trouble?"

"They can't prove I did it."

"Menace," he splashed her.  "I feel sorry for your tutors."

"You said you had something to show me?"

"Here."

Anthony offered her a small pewter figurine.  It had cost a bit of pocket money, but he wasn't going to tell her that.

"What is it?" she asked, awed.

"It's a horse.  I was telling you about them the other day."

"I've seen these around the pier!  They pull the boxes with wheels."

"Carts.  And those are draft horses-- this is a thoroughbred.  They're much faster."

"Humans ride these?"

"Yes.  You need two legs though," he teased.

"Why?  You can just hold onto the neck?"

"No, we have saddles and sit on their backs."

"That doesn't seem very comfortable for the horse.  It doesn't hurt them?"

"I don't think so.  We're much lighter than the carts."

"I wouldn't let anyone sit on my back."

"Why does that not surprise me."

Kathani moved to give the pewter figure back to Anthony, but he shook his head.

"It's for you."

"For me?  Really?"

"Yes."

"Thank you."

Anthony blushed to the tips of his ears, something Kathani either did not notice or did not quite understand.  She, however, was relieved that Anthony could not see the way her scales shimmered underwater.

There was a tug on her fin.  It seemed the very brief amount of time she had was up-- Newton was nudging her with his pointy nose.

"I have to go."

"You promised you'd help me study the constellations."

"Tomorrow night.  You'll have a boat?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll be there at moonrise.  Bring some more hard-tack.  Newton liked those."

Anthony rolled his eyes.

"More evidence that your dogfish has no taste.  Don't splash me!  They'll know I was at the pier!"

Kathani harrumphed, then dove under the water.

--

"Well?  What do you think?"

He turned around for her inspection.

"This is your uniform?"

"Don't say it looks odd.  You've seen enough human clothing now to know how it works."

"I still don't understand it, but it looks nice.  I like it.  This means you're an officer?"

"Something like that.  No longer swabbing the deck anyway.  Here," he carefully perched the ridiculous hat on her head.  "Don't get it wet."

It was crooked and fell over her eyes.  Anthony laughed as he adjusted the angle.  The brim of the hat slowly revealed her eyes, always so large and a clear, beautiful brown.

His breath caught as impossible dreams came to the fore-- dreams which had once limited their reach to night but now followed him into the day.

"It suits you," he said hoarsely. 

She kept staring at him.

"Anyway," he cleared his throat.  "I've been assigned to a new ship, the Aquata-- and yes, I know how ridiculous the name is.  I didn't choose my assignment."

"Whose idea was it to name a ship after my sister?"

"I haven't a clue."

"It's bad luck."

"Then you'll just have to sail with me," he replied, aiming for jaunty but coming out too hopeful.

She grimaced.

"Trouble below?"

"Ariel.  She's been sneaking to the surface."

"The youngest?"

Kathani sighed.

"What?  I can't keep track of all your sisters, there are too many."

"Says the man with seven brothers and sisters.  And none of you born from eggs-- I don't know why human women go through it.  It sounds terrible."

"I should never have told you about that."

She stuck her tongue out.

"Very mature, Kathani.  You undoubtedly serve as an excellent role model for Ariel."

"She's reckless, Anthony.  She's been seen too many times by shore-people-- not just sailors.  And she goes around collecting human things from shipwrecks."

"Any gold?"

"Be serious."

"You've been meeting me at the surface for nearly twenty years, why is it a problem when your younger sister does it?"

"It's different, Anthony.  She's friends with a seagull."

"Ah."

"You know what I think of seagulls."

"Scheming opportunists leading impressionable young mermaids astray?"

"Do you know what their names are?"

"There's two of them?  I thought there was only the one."

"Another has joined them!  Soon it will be an entire flock!"

"Dire circumstances indeed."

"Nothing good can come from seagulls.  Especially ones named Scuttle and Squakerdown."

"Does this mean you won't be able to come with me?"

"Don't be stupid, of course I'll be there.  As often as I can."

"You have to take care of your strange human boy who can't breathe underwater."

"I do," she said primly.  "So try not to fall overboard and drown this time."

"No promises," he grinned.  "I almost forgot," he pulled out a packed wrapped in old newspaper.  "For Newton."

The dogfish popped to the surface for a moment upon hearing its name and swam in excited circles to sniff its favorite surface treats.  Kathani, having sampled the hard-tack long ago, shared Anthony's opinion of the stuff: she didn't see the appeal.  But Newton never tired of them, especially if Anthony threw them a distance for Newton to catch.

They spent the rest of the afternoon that way, Kathani and Anthony taking turns to throw hard-tack for Newton.

If there happened to be gaps in conversation where they simply stared at each other, there was no one but an easily bribable dogfish to witness it.

--

"Anthony, what are you doing?  I told you there was going to be a storm!"

"His Majesty Prince Eric insisted on taking this intrepid voyage out to sea for his birthday."

"You can't be on the water-- the storm is moving too quickly.  You need to get back to shore."

"Prince 'I-outrank-you-as-Rear-Admiral' Eric seems to disagree."

"Humans!"

"None of us are here voluntarily," he said sharply.  "We're better sailors than that."

Kathani made a sound of frustration.

"This storm is getting bigger-- it will be a tropical storm, if not a hurricane, when it makes landfall tonight."

"I'll do what I can, but his Majesty is of the impression he is an expert sailor with a gift for forecasting the weather."

"Be careful!"

"Aren't I always?"

"No.  Anthony-- I can't promise I'll be here, there's a celebration today at the palace."

"Ariel's birthday, I know."

"Not her birthday, her debut."

"I wish I could be there to see it," he smiled crookedly.  "And this crab-composer you've been complaining of for months."

Her expression softened.

"I wish you could be there also."

He leaned down and kissed her-- her lips were salty but her mouth was sweet.  It was new and a long time coming, this thing between them.

"I have to go back on board."

"Don't drown," she whispered.

If he could have clubbed His Royal Highness Rear Admiral Prince Eric on the head to sail back to shore without being arrested by Grimsby for treason, he would have.  As it was, he was readying a rowboat as best he could to survive a goddamn hurricane.

--

He drowned.

Even a sailor as experienced as Anthony was no match for a hurricane.  Of the many sailors who went out that fateful day for Prince Eric's self-indulgent birthday celebration, only seven survived.

The rest were post-humously promoted and awarded medals of honor for their valiant service to King and Country.

Most of the bodies of the sailors washed to shore, which was surprising as the beach on which they were found was nowhere near the shipwreck.  Kathani and Newton had dragged them to the surface out of deference to Anthony, who'd told her it was a luxury for a sailor to be buried.

Anthony, however, she kept for herself.  Her strange human boy who couldn't breathe underwater.

"Misster Foxworthy, it is an unseasonably hot day-- allow me to fetch a lemonade for you."

"That would be most agreeable, my Lord."

Anthony makes his way down ("Lord Bridgerton!"  "Miss Edwina, Lumley"  "How delightful to see you, my Lord"); he contemplates placing a bet, but decides against it when he catches a glimpse of her.

Dorset is beside her, leaning in quite close.  Kathani laughs at something he says.

Lemonade.  He was going to fetch lemonade.  For Misster Marcus Foxworthy.  Who is amenable to marriage rather than mating.  Who is tolerable.  Who has suitable enough hips for child-bearing, and possesses at least half a brain.

Anthony focuses on his objectives.

It would, of course, be exactly his luck that when he returns to his seat, it is occupied by her.

"Yes, he called on me this morning to ask me to the races," Misster Foxworthy blushes.  "I was most flattered."

"I've heard that the Bridgerton family is quite close."

"Yes, exceptionally so.  I look forward to meeting them-- you can tell a great deal about an alpha from his family, do you not agree, Mr. Dorset?"

"Ah, Lord Bridgerton."

"Miss Sharma," Anthony tilts his head in greeting, hands occupied with lemonade.  "Dorset.  Misster Foxworthy, I have returned with refreshments."

"Oh, Miss Sharma, I'm afraid you've taken Lord Bridgerton's seat--"

"Here, we can make room," Dorset very obligingly moves to free up space while Misster Foxworthy does the same on the other end.

There is barely enough room for Anthony to take a seat next to Kathani; after delivering the lemonade to Misster Foxworthy, Anthony-- as a gentleman-- stiffly offers his own glass to Miss Sharma.

"Thank you, my Lord," Kathani smirks at him and takes a sip, well aware that he can't help but watch the subtle, unfairly erotic curve of her neck.  "It is a splendid day for a race."

"Indeed it is, Miss Sharma."

"Did you place any bets on the horses, my Lord?" Misster Foxworthy asks eagerly.

"I did not."

"You weren't much for losing even back at Oxford, if I recall," Dorset smiles.

"You recall correctly."

"Would you care to make a wager, my Lord?" Kathani raises her eyebrow at him in challenge.

Anthony stands abruptly.

"No need, Miss Sharma.  I shall go down to place my wager."

"But the race is set to begin soon," she protests.

"I shan't be long."

Anthony quickly picks his way through the crowd, Kathani following close behind.  As soon as they're somewhat out of sight, she drags him to a shaded corner and--

Her kisses aren't soft at all.  They're hard and biting, nearly breaking skin, as though she means to punish him.

And he is happy to let her, moaning into her mouth, exhilarated by the taste of her and that scent--

It's not until she's utterly wrecked him that she takes a step back and seems to remember something.  Anthony sees the moment she decides to leave-- he grabs her hand and pulls her in to kiss again.

"Let go!  We shouldn't--"

"Is Dorset courting you?"

"It's none of your business"

"It is my business!  You were the one who released me.  I gave up my claim because you asked it of me-- if I had known you were looking to mate--"

"I'm not looking to mate!"

"Then why are you doing this?!"

"I am not doing anything.  Mr. Dorset is merely accompanying me to the races."

"Stop lying," he growls.  "You were the one who gave me leave to look for another-- I told you I'd ceased courting, but it was your wish that I resume my search--"

"I never gave that command"

"It was your decree," he snaps.  "I was willing to wait the two weeks of separation, but you wanted the bond-release.  I stayed away from you at the Queen's ball when you knew I wanted to speak to you.  I obeyed your wishes--"

"Yes, you obeyed them so well that you interviewed thirty debutantes immediately after the Conservatory Ball."

"Of all the ways you could have dissolved the bond, you chose to use those words.  To discharge the obligations of an alpha to an omega, as though it is only duty which binds them together."

"Do not claim affection for me now, not when you never wanted the bond."

"No, but I would have waited another season.  I was willing to wait another season."

The shouts and cheers of the crowd abruptly bring them out of their world of two.  It's far too late to place any bets now.

"We should go back to our seats.  Our absence has almost certainly been noted."

Anthony offers his arm; Kathani takes it reluctantly.  But when she does, her grip becomes implacable, as though she does not intend to ever let him go.  The thought fills him with unsolicited happiness.

"Misster Foxworthy seems quite taken with you," she says, apropos of nothing.

Or perhaps apropos of seeing Misster Foxworthy craning his neck in search of Anthony.

"He's willing to marry.  I've spoken to his mother about the bond-price."

"That's not the impression I got.  He seems rather convinced he will be able to persuade you into a mating."

Anthony stops just short of rejoining the crowd, turning to her.  He doesn't know what his face is saying, but his scent is clean autumn honesty.

"You know I will not."

Before she can make any kind of reply, he begins walking again, in time to catch the final leg of the race.

--

They forgot (or perhaps they did not forget) that Kathani had renewed her claim, and it was there for everyone to scent.  A few reckless kisses should not have been enough to overcome the bond-release, but it seemed nothing about their connection worked as it should.

Any hopes of undoing the damage were destroyed when Whistledown printed her sheet the next morning, loudly proclaiming that the omega Miss Kate Sharma, had managed to catch the most eligible alpha of the season.  And not just catch-- but form a nascent bond.

There was much speculation in the gossip sheet whether Anthony and Kathani would be the first of the season to apply for a special license.  There were many congratulations for Anthony at White's, for winning such a scensational omega.  He had no idea how the news was received among Kathani's family.  They were pleased, if Miss Edwina's high pitched squeaks-- which sounded a lot like the words 'blue gate'-- were any indication.

But what Anthony did not know was how Kathani felt about the assumption they would mate.  He got a general sense of unease from her, but why she felt uneasy, he could not guess.  She would be well within her rights to break it off again.  However, since it would be her second request for bond-release, he was now well within his rights to contest it.

And he did plan to contest it; he refused to go through the hellish dissolution again.  Everyone said that enduring a second dissolution was far, far worse than the first.  Whether this was truth or myth, who could say-- Anthony was not going to be the one to test the hypothesis.

Besides, he had settled on an explanation he could live with:

They were compatible.  They were attracted to each other.  The strength of their connection was simply an indicator that they were strongly compatible and strongly attracted.  Many couples in the ton were strongly compatible and strongly attracted-- it did not signify anything more.

The panic and fear he'd felt in the woods was due to how quickly everything had taken place and spun wildly out of control, but he was prepared now.  He knew what to expect.  He would not be surprised.

It was a perfectly good, sound, reasonable explanation.  And this mating-- it wasn't bad.  It did not follow that it was good, but he could definitely say it wasn't bad.  A few days ago, he'd been making plans to mitigate any consequences that might befall his siblings in the event he married instead of mated.  Anthony could weather the accusation of being unfeeling and bond-deficient, but people assumed it ran in families.

If nothing else, the sex was excellent.

Kathani hadn't told him when her heats were; he told her he was expecting his rut in a month.  She did tell him that they were free to enjoy all the pleasures of engaged couples-- there was no danger of compromising her.

They both kept a very tight leash on their nascent bond.

Inconvenient, but necessary.  Thankfully, it did not prevent them from acting very... engaged.

--

"Do you always like to have your trysts in the woods?"

"You act as though you don't enjoy it as much as I do, if not more."

She was glowing in the morning sun, gloriously naked and the sweet smell of her sweat marking every part of his body.

"And we are not a tryst, my darling."

"Really?"

She kissed him, hands running through his hair and teeth biting.

"Really," he smiled.

"Then what are we?"

Anthony groaned as he felt her wiggle on his knot-- she already knew it was too early to separate, but she liked to test the lock because she was the bane of his existence.

"Darling, please--"

"I think I shall enjoy hearing you beg."

"You've already heard me beg."

"I think I shall enjoy hearing it every morning."

"I have no objection to your plans."

"Good alpha," she purred.

Desire of a different sort coursed through him, the overwhelming need to take her to their den filled with soft things which smelled like them so they could mate and claim and he could take her heat, she would be warm and flush and trapped on his cock, where she would stay until she understood that she was his now, and he was hers

But he felt her withdraw-- he could feel her withdrawing back into herself, leaving him cold and alone and rejected

"Hush," she told him.

Anthony hadn't realized he'd made any noise, least of the subvocal distress she shouldn't have been able to hear.

They both ignored this.

They were getting very good at ignoring things.

Once he'd gotten hold of himself and was firmly back in control, he moved his hands to her ass and squeezed.

"Anthony!"

"Yes?" he asked innocently.

And did it again.

"Anthony!  Stop," she tried to keep her face stern, but smiles kept breaking through.

"I think tomorrow morning, you should come to my lodgings directly."

"Why do I have to go to yours?"

"Darling, do you really want me to answer that?"

"Yes."

"Might I remind you exactly whose house it is in which you are currently residing?"

She blushed.

"Don't talk about Lady Danbury while we're tied."

Anthony raised an eyebrow.

"Fine, I shall go directly to your lodgings."

"There's no need if you do not want to.  I'm perfectly happy to continue meeting in the woods."

"No, I have decided."

"And woe betide anyone who interferes with your decision."

She scowled at him; Anthony kissed it.

"You could do what most engaged does do--"

"We are not discussing this again."

"-- and live with me."

"Living with you will always mean living with your family."

"You could still visit your sister."

"Why would I do that when I can see her every day.  We came to find her a mate, not me."

"But you do not even plan to seriously consider her suitors until she has been Diamond for a year."

"How do you know that," she asked sharply.

Anthony cast about for a lie they both knew would be a lie.

"I overheard.  The other night."

Kathani narrowed her eyes at him and Anthony braced himself for a scathing retort when they finally became untied.

"I still think there's something wrong with your knot."

"I still assure you that I'm perfectly well.  Perhaps everyone else in your experience has been lacking."

She refused to take the bait, instead beginning the task of cleaning and dressing herself.

"Do you have an appointment this morning?"

"Edwina and I have been invited to tea with the Queen."

"Ah."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"I know when you're lying."

"It is not possible for me to lie because I have not said anything."

"Then what was the 'ah'?"

"It was just a sound!  Am I not allowed to make noises?"

"You are not," she replied with affected haughtiness.  "Except to beg."

"I am already rendered speechless by your scent."

He kept kissing her; she kept kissing back.

"Anthony, I have to go.  I can't be late for the Queen."

"Special license."

"That is your answer to everything."

"It solves a great number of problems."

"I would say it has caused more problems than it has resolved."

He ignored that barb.

"You shall be free of me the remainder of the day, as there are no balls or events tonight."

"Would that we could be free of each other."

Silence.

Anthony turned to dress himself.

"I did not mean--"

"You should leave."

"Anthony, I--"

"It wouldn't do to be late for the Queen."

He could feel her hand hovering, reaching out to touch his shoulder.  But she never crossed those last inches; Anthony moved away before she could try again.

The sound of her mounting her horse; the sound of her riding away.

Perhaps it was good that she had chosen not to live with him during their engagement.

It made it easier to dismantle the den.

--

The invitation to the soiree mocked him.  It was free of all personal touches-- not even a note asking him to come.

But he knew how the game was played and he had to make an appearance.  Had to play the gallant alpha, even though she'd made clear today that she regretted claiming him a second time.

Still, they were to be mated.  If nothing else, he should support his soon to be sister-in-law.

The invitation specified poetry.

They're one of Those couples. They're That couple. The one who looks so good on paper, so good from the outside, and it's so good on the inside. Maybe it was his issues with his family. Maybe it was her issues with hers. Maybe it was that room with the grey door. They understood each other's scars too well to help each other heal them.

Anthony will never find someone who understands him like Kate did. And she told him, drunk the night that she accepted Tom's proposal, that he was the only person who was home for her.

But they made each other so fucking miserable. He didn't have an explanation for it, and still doesn't. With Kate, he discovered that it's possible to love someone like they're your second soul, and hurt that second soul just by existing next to them.

They tried every goddamn permutation. Friends, friends with benefits, living together, living apart, long distance, in each other's pockets. Anthony and Kate understand misery better than most others. And they loved each other so much, but they were so fucking miserable. She would cry in bed, curled up next to him and the tears were wordless, from some deep place that they neither understood. He would scream, kneeling in the shower and she would hug him from behind.

No one will understand their hurts better. No one will bring greater happiness. But they can't be together. Not if they want a chance at a happy life.

Of course he would never miss her wedding. They're best friends and their respective significant others-- Tom and Siena-- put up with a lot from them. Anthony explained it once that Kate holds all his hurts so that he can be happy everywhere else. And the same goes for him. No one understands the texture of her fears better than him.

He loves Siena the way Kate loves Tom: happily. They have happy lives which for the longest time, he and Kate didn't think were possible without each other. The therapist talked about triggering memories, reliving traumas, but that's not how it is. It's not codependence, no matter what every psychologist tries to say; he can't describe it. He doesn't know if anyone else will be able to describe it.

Maybe they're right. But he doesn't think it matters. Only that Kate will always hold a fundamental part of him, and he will hold a fundamental part of her, and that's how it will be for the rest of their lives.

They used to dream about it, behind the safety of the door. They told each other they would find a house, someplace far away, and they would get married and have a house full of dogs and hamsters and birds and flowers. They would have the sun every day. There would be stars. And fresh air. Their house would be so large they wouldn't know what to do with the space. She would turn on every single light and never turn them off.

But there was never a future without the other.

And there never will be a future without the other. Siena and Tom are understanding. When Kate is catatonic, Tom calls him and he drops everything he does to be with her. When Anthony can't stop panicking, Siena knows to get Kate as soon as possible.

It's not codependence. It used to be codependence, he can recognize that.

But god, they tried so hard to be happy, because that was the dream, behind the door. They wanted to be healthy and happy and it made him want to scream, made him want to hurt something that they couldn't be happy together. He would never long for the door-- he had nightmares about it. But he missed her. He missed them.

They told each other they would marry each other and have a five tier wedding cake with a different flavor for each layer. Her wedding cake is a sensible two tiers, vanilla sponge with raspberry.

Most people don't know their story. Which is why they seem so good on paper. Even people who know them, it's a story which seems good on paper. Happy, meant to be. But it seems that the only thing they can hold for each other is misery, even though they were each other's one reason to live for two goddamn years.

At least his father has the consolation that he never gave in to the terrorists' demands.

He didn't know her until they were thrown together and stayed together, couldn't be separated from each other. Now she's the most important person in his life. She shielded him from his father, mother, all his siblings who tried to drown him with sympathy and guilt. He protected her from it all; they stayed with her parents, insofar as it could be called "staying."

They ran away all the time.

Just to make sure they could.

She's so happy today, and her father passed away last year, so Anthony dances with her instead. He's happy for her and he wonders sometimes-- she wonders, they wonder together-- if the circumstances had been different, would they have ended up together? Would they have met and sparks flown?

It's a moot point. He and Kate learned to count the days by hours, especially after the door opened. Anthony knows for a fact that she saved his life, several times. She won't talk about it and he doesn't make her. Doesn't ask because what is there to ask? All he knows is that she owns his life a hundred times over and no one will understand what that means.

The wedding isn't an ending. They're never going to leave each other's orbit. He's going to be there for the birth of her first child, she's going to be there in the waiting room with him. They're going to pour sorrow and anger and desperation and helplessness into each other because she holds his and he holds hers, so they can be happy with other people. Tom and Siena put up with a lot from them. Anthony and Kate know they're lucky to have found two people so understanding.

Siena told him she just thinks of Kate as Anthony's Person. Like a father, mother, sister, brother, friend, old flame, ex, blood brother, war buddy, all wrapped up into one. Siena is brutally honest and tells him that he has more issues than a tabloid and that frankly, she's relieved that he has a person. Otherwise, she thinks he would be a lot worse than he is now.

He and Siena are engaged. They have a date set. Anthony avoids all wedding planning and leaves it to Siena. The only thing is he refuses to wear any kind of necktie-- a problem Kate didn't have because she's wearing a dress.

If life were fair, he and Kate would be happy together.

Then again, if life were fair, he and Kate wouldn't have been thrown behind the grey door to begin with.

Life is not fair, so they are not happy together even though they wish they had been happy together and do not understand how it is that they're unhappy when they're together. It was all they'd dreamed of, to find some way out together and eat as much ice cream as they wanted for the rest of their days.

Letting each other go was the hardest decision they'd ever made. Letting go of that dream, that assumption, that thing which saved their lives. It was like losing part of themselves again.

But it's unquestionable that they're happier in relationships with other people, even if they can't live without each other. He talks to Kate first about any kind of job transfer, though he knows he'll turn it down because Tom and Siena have to transfer jobs also if Anthony's going to move. If Anthony moves, so does Kate. It's non-negotiable. Negotiation doesn't even come into consideration. The word doesn't exist.

Tom and Siena are good friends, united by the oddness of their situations.

That is how it is.

If Anthony and Kate want to be happy, if they want to have a chance at a happy life, they have to be with other people. Neither know why, a psychologist could probably tell them, there are probably studies. They're probably a study. Something to be written about in textbooks.

She's happy today and he's happy for her.

When he gets married, she'll feel the exact same thing, and he'll wear the exact same smile she's wearing now-- too understanding and devastatingly ineffable. Wry and sad and accepting and happy and calm and lovely.

There were entire patches of time they didn't know how many days had gone by because there was no light and they were fed inconsistently at best.

He doesn't like it, that they have to be apart to be happy.

He doesn't like that he has to be throwing up with fear and screaming with anger and tearing into her to tear into himself if he wants to share his highest highs and lowest lows, the house with all the lights and more room than they know what to do, if he wants to share the twisted dream with her.

It's probably healthier this way.

It is healthier this way-- they're happier.

That doesn't mean he has to like it.

--

She deserves everything.

Her gloves are long and absolute, brushing the bottom of her sleeves-- as far as signals go, they could not be clearer:  She seeks no mate.  No one approaches to ask for a dance, not even the alpha and beta stags whom Anthony knows love nothing more than a thrown gauntlet.  Because that's what her declaration is; there is no reason for a beta or omega to attend the Queen's ball if they are not searching for a mate.

Anthony ignores the part of him rumbling with approval that everyone recognizes his claim.  Especially since that claim should not have roared to life upon catching a hint of her scent.

She released him.  He obeyed her release.  They had an excruciatingly painful reaction to the dissolution; and there most definitely was a dissolution.  His sense of her had dulled to nothing and in its place sprang ruthless efficiency.

So why is there a flare lighting up the dark halls of his existence, illuminating every corner of his being with a bewildering rejuvenation?  Why is he nearly shivering with unwarranted anticipation?  Everything smells sharp enough to sear; a week's worth of exhaustion hits him like a boulder rolling downhill; a year's worth of borrowed life fills his empty reserves and Anthony knows-- he knows-- he's going to pay for that later, with interest.

He can't bring himself to care.  His blood is singing a merry chorus of she's here, she's here, she's here while the ripped roots of the bond drag him down bodily-- it's all he can do not to stumble on the stairs and crash into Benedict, who is already wide-eyed and alert.

The spearmint scent of his brother's shock is what makes Anthony pull himself together, the idiotic yearning to pull back her sleeves and kiss her bare shoulders battling an equally imbecilic impulse to prove he is a worthy mate because he respects her wishes; she can ask anything of him and he will give it to her; she can tell him to go find cherries in winter and he will pick them from Dalmatia himself.

She is holding herself so very, very still, eyes staring straight ahead and adamantly ignoring him.

In front of him, Eloise spills over with curd and cornstarch nerves while Mother's rose oil extract is unable to mask her soapy apprehension.  Anthony is fairly nose-blind when it comes to his own olfactions, the same way his smiles in the mirror are nothing like his smiles in reality, but even he cannot ignore the pine resin of his distressed delight-- or delighted distress-- that he is broadcasting everywhere.

When they come to stand before the Queen, the Bridgerton family is, in a word, fragrant.  Thankfully, the Queen's overpowering raspberry coulis self satisfaction saves them; her scent gets stronger to the point of pungency after Eloise puts herself on the firing line to be named the Diamond.  Anthony has to make a concerted effort not to blink rapidly; he probably looks like a rabbit surprised to discover a world outside its burrow.

It's only after the Queen names a beta doe with too many base notes similar to Kathani, yet without the top notes that make his omega taste full bodied-- like a summer solstice sunset; it's only after Anthony dances with five other would-be, could-be, in their estimation should-be diamonds; only after his profound relief that Kathani does not take to the floor no matter the number of Lady Danbury's raised eyebrows; after he dances with Miss Edwina because for Anthony-- as the 'prize catch of the season'-- to snub the Diamond would be boorish and displease his omega the Queen;

When he escorts Miss Edwina from the dance floor to Lady Danbury and Lady Mary, Kathani is not there.  He can't help but linger for a moment to make inane comments; she doesn't appear.  He takes his leave; she emerges from the retiring room.  A part of him screams savagely, displeased with her but more than that, displeased with himself that his omega is avoiding him.

The rest of the evening, he maintains their distance.  Doesn't go near her, look at her, turn his nose her direction.  He doesn't even venture to the same side of the room.  It's a kind of dance.

This is what she wants; this is what he should want.  What he does want.

So, it is only after Anthony feels himself crushed like a sandcastle under the gleeful feet of a dandy's lapdog that he seriously considers retracting his intention to mate and changing it to an intention to marry.

Because what's increasingly clear is that, against his will and conscious decision, if he cannot have her, he will not accept any other.

--

When he turns it over his head that night, the thought of looking for a wife instead of a mate begins to sound more appealing.  It aligns with his goals; liking the beta or omega who will bear his children isn't strictly required.  Anthony's more than wealthy enough to pay off any bond-price; people will speculate, look askance, but there's nothing actually disreputable in marrying instead of mating.

He cannot help but wonder what her nesting dowry contains.  None of the light, frothy colors of most does, he's certain.  Most definitely not the concoctions covered in frills, sugar-scented cushions dripping with ribbons and blankets trimmed with lace.  The mattress would be firmer, he thinks, than the ridiculous floofiness of goose-down.  A lover-- Eustace?-- favored those mattresses during pre-heat, saying it felt like lying on a cloud.  Anthony mostly felt like he was suffocating on feathery lumps; the warm air the down captured made everything worse.

Solid, darker colors.  Purple, teal, emerald green.  He'd build her a den painted the colors of spring, with windows and skylight-- she the jewel nestled in the center.  Light scents, to allow her natural notes unfurl.  A balance of textures, complementary, no one touchfeel dominant or dissonant.  For some ungodly reason, Siena loved satin sheets and shaggy carpets-- whenever Anthony wasn't gripping the sheets because he thought he was going to slide off the surface, he was engulfed in heavily piled worsted wool.

Anthony stares at the ceiling and resists the urge to find a decanter; he is in his bed contemplating nesting dowries.  Of an omega who bond-released him less than a week ago, met less than two weeks ago.  He should be looking for a doe to mate.  He should be drawing up a contract for a wife.

Not indulging in ridiculous fantasies about mating bowers and bonds.

It alarms him.  There is something inside which cries out for her: a jagged stump, a missing rib, a blow to the head--

He also subsists on biscuits, tea, and brandy; he sleeps less than four hours a day; if he cannot find anything to occupy his time, it means he's forgotten something.

This state of extremely detached efficiency would probably alarm others, but it gives Anthony comfort-- he's used to this.  It's a familiar feeling.  It's the feeling which used to hound him every moment of every day the first seven years he was Viscount Bridgerton.  The fact that he has to return to this state means he's become complacent.  Lazy.  This is the standard of work he should always have applied these past three years; it's evident that he's slipped.  He'd become distracted last year by Daphne's season.  The two years prior, he has no excuse.  He thought he'd finally achieved mastery of his duties; there is always room for improvement.

That his siblings give him sideways looks signifies nothing.  What's important is that he cannot feel anything through the now-terminated connection; any lingering twinges are obviously the result of some very minor sequelae related to the bond's dissolution.

Anthony does not subconsciously perk up anytime someone mentions 'Lady Danbury and her guests.'  And even if he does happen to make note of it, his concern stems from basic human decency; it would be utterly callous-- ungentlemanly-- if he did not worry to some degree about Miss Sharma's health, given the severity of their sympathetic reaction.  The experience had been unpleasant and it's not something he's eager to repeat at any point in the future.  Or ever again.

Benedict, after trying to pry answers from Anthony regarding his illness (it was food poisoning; you've barely eaten anything this week!), finally stopped playing detective.  Anthony does occasionally see his brother looking at him like he's a puzzle to be solved, at which point Anthony resumes re-reading yesterday's news sheet.  Fortunately, he can count on Benedict to be discreet, and it seems that Lady Danbury runs a tight ship.  There has been no mention of any kind of bond-related activity mentioned in Whistledown; quite frankly, Anthony was relieved when Whistledown wrote with glee about his mother's announcement at the Conservatory Ball.

The thought of his connection, however brief it was, being splashed all over town, fodder for gossip among the ton's harridans-- it did not bear thinking about.

He is protective of his former mate-- there is nothing wrong with that.  It's entirely reasonable given the suddenness and intensity of the formation of the bond and the unusually debilitating reaction they had to the release.  However, as life lulls him into a familiar, frenetic rhythm, he's able to reorient himself back to his original purpose.

All of this is to say that when the Queen's Diamond Ball arrives, Anthony is completely recovered and perfectly fine.

He might even find a mate.

Really, this bond-release was a blessing in disguise.

Just look at how prodigiously productive he's been.

--

Pride and falls:  He is not fine.

No, there was one survivor.  Nine went to Kent, but they only found eight bodies.

Which one was missing?

The oldest one.

The oldest one's the Viscount.

I mean the oldest one alive after the Blind Man was executed.  Lord Benjamin Bridgerton.

I read there were eight at the house: the Viscount's wife, and he had four brothers and three sisters.

The Times says the Viscountess wasn't there, she was arrested by the constable.

Stop reading the Times, they don't know anything.  Everyone knows the constable in Kent was killed by the Blind Ghost.  They had to send a special investigator from London to take over the job.

So which one was it who came out alive?

I told you, the second oldest-- the spare.

All of them were killed.  No one left that place-- the Blind Ghost put a curse on it.

Here, says right here in the paper: eight found dead.

Do they give the names?

Doesn't say.  Just says "the bodies of four women were discovered, out of eight bodies total."

Then the other four were men.

Wait a minute, wait a minute.  This one here reports, "Authorities couldn't determine the gender of two bodies because they were skeletons."

I don't think the papers know anything because mine says different, too.

What's yours say?

Says that they found five women and three men.

Where?  I don't see it.

Right here.

Five women?  Who's the fifth woman?

That older one.  The mum.

Five women: there's the three sisters, the mum, and the Blind Ghost's wife.

Then the three men must be the brothers.

That's all of them counted for.

No, you got it wrong.  The Blind Ghost had four sisters and three brothers, I saw all of them at the trial.

You saw the trial?  What was it like?

Let's just say I'm glad the Ghost's back in hell where he belongs.

But any way you slice it, there's one person missing.

It still can't be the spare missing.  If there were three brothers and three men dead, who's the other man?

We don't know it was three men dead.  Could've been six women and two men.

Maybe it was the Blind Ghost's wife who got away.  Did they find her body?

Doesn't say.  What's it say in yours?

Doesn't say here either.

I say it must've been the Blind Ghost's wife who got away.  She killed them all.

Does it matter?  Far as I'm concerned, it's a good thing that family's gone from the earth.  We can finally put all this murder to rest.

Don't speak ill of the dead.

It matters because if there were nine at the house and only eight bodies, then one of them survived.

But which one?

I still say it doesn't matter.  There haven't been any more murders.  Now I don't have to jump at every shadow I see at night.

Now you've done it.

Done what?

You've jinxed us.

I haven't jinxed us!

This time next week, they're going to find another body, eyes gouged out.  Mark my words.  This isn't over yet.

Oh shut up.

--

Benedict remembered the night before Anthony's wedding, his brother had been acting strangely.  At the time, he'd just attributed it to wedding nerves, but staring now at the ghastly tableau of his ghost brother and a still-living Kate, Benedict realized it was something else entirely.

"Have you always been like this?" he asked, stunned that he hadn't seen it before.

"Who?  Me?  Or my wife?"

Anthony's arm was possessive around Kate-- Anthony had always been ridiculously possessive of Kate.  And now Benedict understood why:  It was a rare woman who discovered her husband was a serial murderer and instead of running away, joined him in the hunt.

"Never mind, I think I know the answer to that question," Benedict grumbled.  "Do you want to tell me why you've resorted to all this?"

"That depends, Brother-- do you want to know?" Anthony tilted his head.

It was a genuine question.

Kate watched Benedict with a surprising lack of expectation.  Usually her eyes were sharp and keen, taking in every movement and filing away every word.

"Well apparently you both have something to tell me about myself that I didn't know," Benedict snapped at them, a little peeved.  "Some notice would have been nice."

"Oh, Benedict, you knew," Kate replied.  "You simply never felt the urge to express it."

"So this is your idea of an opportunity?"

"Think of it more as a parting gift," Anthony said, eyes gleaming with a strangely comforting malice.

Comforting, because it was familiar and wasn't directed at Benedict; it was just the way Anthony looked at the world.  People had different names for it: intense, focused, hyperfocused, obsessed, angry, fixated, terrifying, terrible, hungry, unsettling.  Insane.

"You... want me to murder our brothers."

"Or you can watch, we don't mind either way," Anthony shrugged.

"And if I don't?"

Kate rolled her eyes.

"This is why Anthony is the first son and you are the second."

"That's a bit of a chicken-and-the-egg situation there, darling," her husband teased.

Benedict was about to say something smart when his attention was diverted.

"Are Col and Greg saying something?  Their mouths are moving."

"Oh," Anthony waved his hand.

There was a bit of pleading for all of a second before the sound cut off again.

"It gets rather tiring.  Usually we have to gag them, but since I have this wonderful new ability, I thought I'd take advantage of it."

Anthony proceeded to flick his fingers back and forth, turning the sound on and off like a child playing with an upturned beetle.

Kate grabbed his wrist to make him stop.  He simply grinned down at her and kissed her frown.

"Unbelievable, the two of you," Benedict shook his head.  "You're dead and you're still living and you're both still like this."

"Well," Anthony traced Kate's lower lip with his thumb.  "I love her."

Benedict rolled his eyes.

Then his expression grew serious.

"What if I don't."

"Don't what?"

"Murder our brothers."

"Ah, well," Anthony made a show of mulling it over.  "I suppose I shall have to kill them, then kill you."

"No chance you could just kill them for me?"

"You can't put it off forever, Brother.  You'll have to get your hands dirty at some point."

"So, I'd like to make sure I'm understanding you correctly.  You couldn't be bothered to leave me notes on how to manage the estate, but you were willing to come back from the dead to coach me through my first murders."

"Aside from the fact that I didn't return for you, I would say, yes.  That sums it up rather well."

"I'm glad you could fit me into your busy schedule."

"I will always make time for my favorite brother."

"Soon to be your only brother."

"That's the spirit!"

"I'd hoped the puns had died with you."

"As I told my wife, death has changed very little of who I am."

"If the two of you are finished, I have a gift for you, Benedict."

"Am I going to like this gift?" he asked with a bit of trepidation.

Kate held out a folding knife.

"At the risk of sounding stupid-- what is this?" Benedict asked.

"Have you had this with you the entire time?" Anthony demanded.

"I found it the other day," Kate said.  "It's Anthony's first knife."

"Technically, it's the first knife I bought for the specific purpose of murdering people."

"I thought Father gave you that knife for your seventeenth birthday."

"Father wouldn't know a knife of quality if it slit his throat.  The handle of that one snapped.  This one is magnificently crafted."

Kate put it in Benedict's hand, then turned to Anthony.

"Husband."

"Yes, my dear Wife?"

"I think your brother needs to begin cleanly.  Simply, only the basics.  Knives require a certain killing mindset, and you are asking him to kill your brothers."

"Excellent point."

Anthony looked around the room for a suitable beginner murder weapon.  He and Kate were both quite pleased when Benedict chose his own.

"That will do very nicely," Anthony smiled with approval.

Benedict felt an absurd sense of pride-- he'd chosen the wrought iron poker.  It had quite a bit of heft to it; one blow to the head and it would be done.

Then, looking at a silent Colin and Gregory, both crying and cowering with no sound coming out of their mouths, he hesitated.

"Benedict," Kate said, voice soft and stern.  "They tried to kill you, for a decision Anthony made."

He wondered what they were saying-- his brothers.

"Gregory was going to kill me because they thought I exerted too much influence over you."

He wondered if they were sorry.

Anthony followed the direction of his gaze.  He sneered, demonic and savage.

"Colin didn't succeed only because he was too stupid to slit your throat," Anthony spat.  "But I can assure you, he didn't hesitate to bring the knife down."

He still needed--

"Don't make it complicated, Benedict.  Murder is simple."

"You and Kate were the only ones to stand by me," Anthony tilted his head.  "Why do you think that is?"

He stared at the poker, white noise in his head.

"You're like us.  You've been a murderer all along-- the only difference is that now you know it."

Put that way, Kate was right.

It was simple.

--

Darling, I'll see you in hell.

--

Anthony plunged the dagger into her heart, staring into her eyes, watching with tender greed as her life drained out with each tortured beat.

A tornado roared around them-- glass shattered, cabinets broken, paintings torn, the bodies of his brothers lifeless on the floor-- and he and Kate in the center of it all.

His hand was warm on her chest, his arm keeping her upright as her body grew weaker, as she leaned further and further into him, back arching in an exquisite curve, neck exposed like a sacrifice.

She never looked away, his Kate.

His Viscountess, the love of his life-- the only person he could not kill, now dying in his arms.

He kissed her to steal her last breath.  And when her body went slack, eyes closing and hand letting go of his, he inhaled deeply along her neck, finally able to sate the hunger for her scent one last time.

Anthony brushed her hair back, smiling fondly at her corpse.

She was so beautiful, his wife.

A man could never ask for more than such devotion.

He carried her to their favorite corner of the woods, where she'd buried his ashes.  Anthony set her on top of his grave-- their grave now.  The last resting place for their mortal bodies.

He pulled the dagger from her chest and stabbed it into the ground: a marker.  The last set of pins he'd ever given her.

She looked like she was sleeping.

She looked like she was waiting: he'd dawdled long enough.

Time to go.

Anthony knelt by her corpse and kissed her.

Stood and looked east.

The sun was rising.

She and her party of two others had arrived mere moments before he'd stepped foot in the Conservatory with his family; despite the crush of the dancefloor and the overwhelming cloud of gawdy smells which hovered like sewage floating on the Thames, there was never a possibility that he would miss her scent.

As soon as he'd caught the slightest hint of her (i.e. immediately upon entering), it had taken everything in him not to rush to her side like some besotted, newly mated alpha; that his recently-blunted sense of smell and recently-lackluster appetite had suddenly reversed course did not bear mention.  The intensity of the smells which bombarded him and the swift awareness of exactly how little he'd eaten since he last saw her had made him nauseous, but it was all secondary to the gnawing urge to follow her scent and ensure she was well.

Follow her scent, ensure she was well, then carry her off to somewhere to renew his claim on her-- both carnally and scensually.  After which, he imagined he would stand beside her all night, hand possessive on her waist, snarling at any alphas or betas who dared sniff in her direction.  The only time he would not have his hand on her waist was when he had two hands on her waist while they were dancing.

A part of him-- the part which had been taken over by a hive of overenthusiastic mating hormones and was therefore to be ignored-- thought this an excellent plan to be enacted immediately.  Another part of him was vehemently opposed; he'd had to clamp down on the impulse to turn around and leave the ball posthaste.  Still another part was morbidly curious, poking at the tether like a child would poke a snake (i.e. a dangerous endeavor, but irresistible no matter what wiser voices warned).

Anthony did not know how it was possible that he was divided into so many parts, because yet another portion-- and the largest one by far-- was simply an eternal shore of yearning, and he was like dead marsh water without a tide.

"Bridgerton!"

Was there no corner of the grounds into which he could escape?  The last thing he wanted was to speak to Fife and his ilk.

"I owe you a drink."

"Whatever for?"

"With you as the prize catch of the season, the rest of us shall receive a respite from the mate-minded mamas this season indeed."

Ah yes, that lovely gift from his mother.  She'd taken exception to his sudden cessation of any and all courting following the morning he met Kathani, especially since prior to the season's beginning, he'd informed the family of his intention to mate.

Before his mother had made that announcement to what may as well have been the entire ton, he'd planned to show his face for the absolute minimum interval acceptable in polite society, then retire for the evening or escape to the club.  There was absolutely no chance Kathani would not be at the Conservatory Ball; in keeping with their agreement, he'd put measures in place to ensure their separation.  Now, all of those safeguards had gone up in flames.

There was a prickling feeling at the back of his neck.

"Enjoy your freedom while it lasts."

His (mate)-- his (omega)-- his

"You, too, will soon submit to this ridiculous rigmarole of courtship--"

She had followed him outside.  Anthony couldn't help but send a tendril of ?

To which he received an emphatic push the scensory equivalent of shhh! keep talking! (the better part of valor: he did not comment on her contradiction)

"--squiring every eligible doe around town until you're barely able to see straight."

He could feel her narrow her eyes, to which he responded with one part defensiveness (it's true!) and one part contrition (I know).

"Is one hind unlike any other?"

Her attention was so sharp, he could smell burnt lemon rinds.

"Simply pick the least objectionable and get them wed, bed, and bred.  Then you can return to more pleasurable pursuits."

It seemed impossible that the others did not notice the anger wafting towards them, but he held his tongue.  What was she doing behind the shrub?  Was she--?

"And more pleasurable partners."

He could barely hold back his laughter at the thought of her crouching behind the bush to eavesdrop; he didn't because she would scorch his tongue if he agreed with the three jesters.  Anthony felt mischief spark in him.

"You may be cavalier, but if I must leg-shackle myself in mating, the doe in question should have more to recommend them."

!!!

Come join us, I shall introduce you to these fine gentlemen.

"Do not tell us you're hoping for a love bond."

Fife's sarcasm was as pungent as his pipe, and equally pleasant.

"Love's the last thing I desire."

You are deliberately goading me.

"But if my children are to be of good stock, then their doe must be of impeccable quality."

(shoe leather damp with a dog's slobber)

"A pleasing face, an acceptable wit--"

(charcoal and sulfur set on fire)

"--genteel manners enough to credit a viscountess--"

(tooth-cracking biscuits covered in powdered sugar and baking soda)

"--it should not be so hard to find."

(blankets left in bleach)

"And yet the debutantes of London fall short at every turn."

(cloud of dust along a desert-dry road)

Are you certain you don't want to meet them?

(mud pie with stinkbugs)

"You want the best, perhaps the Queen will finally name a Diamond.  Save you some trouble-- at least of choosing them.  Wooing the piece will be a different story, indeed."

(scent of the quiet before a typhoon)

"I shall have no problem there."

He nearly drew her out with that one (burned cinnamon, cloves, black pepper), but she managed to stop herself when Fife mentioned the smoking room.

"I shall be there anon."

(cold river water on a hot summer day)

There was a loud clang! as he turned the corner.

"Why didn't you join us, I would have introduced you," he teased.

"And explain how we know each other?  You are rather shortsighted," she huffed.  "Besides, your olfactions are not discreet."

"My olfactions aren't discreet?  I could smell you quite clearly through the foliage-- whatever was in Fife's pipe must have dulled their scenses.  It's a miracle they didn't notice you."

"Are they your friends?"

"Who, Fife, Cho, and Lowe?  We are acquainted-- though it's difficult not to be in a group so insular."

"A necessary evil, then."

"Every court has its fools."

"And you one among them," she smiled, pear blossoms in spring.

He couldn't help but reach for her; she couldn't help but allow him to reach.

"You followed me."

She looked away.

"I needed some air.  It is too warm inside."

"Any other reason?" the first bite of a late summer apple.

He dearly wanted to take his gloves off; slowly peel hers off as well.

She tried to take a step back; couldn't.

"I should-- I should go.  It has not been two weeks, we should--"

"Are you well?  Have you been sleeping well?"

"I-- no.  I have not."

"Nor have I."

A brief flash of image-- scent-- lying together under a gazebo.

It was enough for them to jerk away from each other, scalded by the warmth of comfort.  They each took one, two steps back, as if distance and willpower would make the connection thin to brittle straw.  She exhaled shakily; though her face remained impassive, her scent was sharp with cumin.  He didn't know what kind of olfactions he was making-- usually his face was enough to give away his feelings.

She straightened, regaining her composure.  She was so fierce and tall, plate armor gleaming gold yet repaired one too many times.  Something in him pulled, and pulled, but he put his hands behind his back and remained immovable as an emperor.

"I came to ask," she said, voice measured and even, "if you plan to find a mate this season."

"It had been my intention to do so.  I have since abandoned the endeavor."

"You need not change your plans for my sake.  Do they recognize bond-release in England?"

"We do," he nodded stiffly.  "Engaged couples are required to give voice to their intent."

"It is the same in India."

"You would release your claim on me?  And ask me to do the same?"

"I think we must.  Our illness-- the pining sickness should not be this strong-- we should not have it at all!  We spent less than an hour in each other's presence."

He had nothing to say to that, as it was all true.  With a jolt, he realized he'd only said his omega's name once: while they were mating.

In keeping with English tradition, Anthony stepped closer to her and went down on bended knee.  He looked up at her, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his neck exposed.

"Anything within my power to give you."

Even this.

Especially this.

She placed her hand carefully at his throat, thumb and index finger pressed at the base of his jaw.

"I give you permission to seek another."

Her voice was steady, but he felt her throat close and chest tighten.

"You are discharged of any obligation due to me as your--" she stumbled.  "As your mate."

He stared at her.  Then:

"As my omega decrees, so shall it be."

And it was done.

Some had described the dissolution as an unpleasant fizzle, one beta had described it as an embarrassing fart; their connections had been based on convenience than any real courtship.  Simon, when he'd tried to break the bond with Daphne, had described it as taking Will's fist to his chest, then driving a spear through it for good measure.

Anthony, however, felt nothing.  They were both panting as though they'd been running from hyenas; her eyes had a shadowed, glazed quality to them; Anthony felt like he was walking through a barrel of molasses when he re-entered the ballroom.

The breathtaking pain came the following morning: an iron-tipped cat o'nine tails clawed his ribs, ripped his kidneys, broke his back.  Anthony stumbled out of his chair and threw up on the floor, shaking and drenched in a cold sweat.  Benedict was yelling something indecipherable, though Anthony could smell the disgusting mixture of shaving cream, bile, and rotted meat.