However, life apart from your family and home brought about a few more epiphanies regarding all of this, too—some roles, though heavy and burdensome, were less desirable than others. The encumbrances you and your sisters shared as women married off to various individuals were not always appealing. But the gods drew lots, it would seem, over who would marry who, and your roll happened to land wrong.

Your father was famous about the tribes for his four daughters—beautiful and benevolent like the goddesses themselves, and, with a hefty dowry to boot, suitors vied for your hands. Your older sister, Helene, went first: her groom, the son of a rival chief, was visibly thrown off by the arrangement, even on the day. But he was kind and gentle with her throughout the wedding, something you and your other sisters commented on, and you allowed your young self to relax once you set eyes on their dynamic. The newly-established allegiance between your and his clan brought about great prosperity for the people, and your sister was blessed with an affectionate husband. 

You were all very young. Your sister was fourteen; her new husband seventeen. The rest of you and your two other sisters' marriages were arranged as engagements before you came of age—once you turned twelve, however, it wasn't long until your time drew swiftly near.

Mercifully, your father and husband-to-be at the time, of whom you did not meet until your wedding day, agreed to postpone the marriage for another year or so. You were just on the cusp of fourteen when the day dawned. You understood little. But that didn't matter, not to them. Therefore, it was at age thirteen, you were married. 

Your husband was twenty, and his chieftain father had recently passed. The man's tribe was quite wealthy, with expansive territory, famed for its vineyards. Your bridal price was sizable—evidently one your father deemed satisfactory. Everything about it was too much for your young mind. And, when the hour of the bedding ceremony approached, you cried into your sister's chest.

"Was it—was it scary, Helene?" Sight blurred with the welling of tears, you had peered up at her in desperation, clutching her skirts tightly. "I am so frightened, even though grandmother tells me I shouldn't be. She said it's something all women must endure—so why do I dread it so?" Helene, with an expression drawn in sympathy, lifted a hand and brushed some of your hair from your forehead, tucking it behind an ear. Your bridal crown sat crooked on your head. "Yes, sister, I was scared, too—but, I tell you, it'll be all over in a heartbeat. You shut your eyes and it's done."

"I heard—I heard it hurts," was your quiet reply, eyes now on the floral stitching of her dress. "And I don't like him, Helene. I don't like that man. He looks at me strange, and I'm to…spend the night with him? And the rest of my life?"

"Just remind yourself, sister," she said, swiping a tear from your cheek, "that it will all be over soon. Keep that thought in mind the entire time. When grandmother said to grit your teeth and bear it, she was not wrong. It's something most of us have had to do."

"You were blessed with a good husband, though." Much of this was easy for her to say—her spouse didn't give her long looks that sent chills up her spine. Her husband was loving, and paid close attention to her delicate self. "I can see why he was fond of you immediately, Helene—you are so kind and beautiful, but I am not. And also, that man is ugly."

She laughed, apparently thinking you were trying to be funny. You did not mirror her amusement. "Come now, sister, surely he can't be that bad! I do agree that his chin is a little…well, perhaps you will grow to like him. This is a union fated and blessed by the gods. Have gratitude."

No one really understood. The bedding ceremony came, the witnesses left you both in privacy for the consummation, and you vividly remember the crushing of your spirit the moment the marriage was physically bound between you both. Having no one to turn to, even when they were the ones who should have understood, was torment.

He was not gentle with you in the slightest, and the fact remained long after you departed your tribe's premises for his own. It became clear, months into your marriage, that you didn't strike his fancy that much at all. The relief you felt at this was overwhelming; you embraced your duties about the plentiful farmland surrounding his longhouse and estate, and found companionship in the servants. When he gathered his men and steeds and battleaxes and charged for the wilderness to pillage and plunder, you remained home, tending to the cattle and managing the estate, keeping the common people of the tribe afloat and content. It was routine, if a little mundane, but the years passed in relative peace for you. Your husband would return with greater wealth, more slaves, and wider territory, and you would do as your grandmother bid—grin and bear it.

"I hope you are not opposed, wife," your husband said one day, stopped at the entrance to the longhouse, glaring down at you with his armour still stained red, "to any additions to the household."

Your first thought was the prospect of children, which puzzled you, before his true meaning swiftly dawned. Ah. "Oh—no, milord, of course not." You lowered your head. "It is only…your right."

Apparently satisfied with your answer, the man merely grunted and whirled around, striding into the building, calling for three of the finest rooms to be prepared. You felt no heartbreak, but you did feel belittlement.

Your husband remaining preoccupied with this beautiful concubines brought you relief somewhat, but it was short-lived. Aged eighteen and still without child, your father, in his increasing years, knew only impatience at the knowledge that one of his daughters had not yet secured an heir of his bloodline in another's. You took the blame, despite your husband's rare visits to your chambers. To ensure you finally did conceive, Helene was sent, with her husband and children, to your territory, for supervision—much to your husband's chagrin.

"And they are to remain for an entire year?" was his growled reply to your announcement, brow clamped low over his eyes. "So they will be present for the duration of your pregnancy and eventual labour?"

"Yes, milord."

"How absurd." Heaving a scoff, the man sipped from his goblet and then pursed his lips in consideration, mood rapidly darkening. No such thing ever bode well for you, and you grew increasingly agitated. He scoffed again. "…Fine, have it your way. They may remain here for a twelvemonth. Tomorrow night, we shall fulfil our marital duty."

"We…we cannot, milord," you softly countered, almost choking on your words. "For I am on my…monthly bleed."

"Really?" You cursed your failed courage, for you couldn't help but lower your head, and his tone became eerily placid. "And when do those dastardly relatives of yours arrive? In two days?"

"…Just so, milord."

"And you will still be afflicted with that hellish catamenia you women endure at always the most inconvenient of times?" You did not have to look to see how that dreadful grin was twisting his lips. "You mean to make me wait, wife?"

"It is…not something I can control, milord. Even if we were to fulfil the duty, the seed would not take."

"Be grateful I am a lenient man," was his toneless response. His shadow fell over you as he rose from his seat, his lounging mistresses immediately moving to stand with him. Unlike what you ever expected, they did not gaze at you with malice or dark glee; they looked at you with pity and, in many ways, you hated that more. "For my patience with you and that futile womb of yours grows thinner by the year. If you do not conceive this time, I will have no other choice but to sire heirs elsewhere, and cast you out."

A fate worse than death, for you. Divorce meant disavowal from all your relatives, and you would be left alone, desolate, penniless, and scorned. An old spinster would have far more worth.

"And if you do not give me a boy…" His hand landed on your shoulder, and your entire frame flinched at the rough, unwanted contact, involuntary. You met his eyes and found ice. "Well. Need I say more?"

"No, husband." Once more, you lowered your head, humiliated. "You needn't."

Your helplessness was not something that you ever remained unaware of, and, many times, you wished you were. Ignorance is bliss—Helene, and your other sisters, know it. But they have reasonable spouses and tranquil homes. Your home is just as tranquil, really—but it's a tranquility induced by walking on eggshells, and never allowing yourself to misstep, all for fear of your own hide.

Seeing your nieces and nephews again brought you rare joy, however—they had grown much in the years past, and the eldest was now ten. Helene was truly favoured by the gods; their first child was a girl, but her husband was not irate at such, as most would be. Their second was a boy—and, despite his sickly disposition, he was well-cared for and adored by his parents. Loving marriages between viking families were rare, almost unheard of—but never unwelcome. It was difficult to not be filled with envy when graced with your sister, and her family's, presence.

"She is five months old," Helene softly said, face glowing with joy as she gently handed you her newborn daughter, "and healthy. We named her Idunn, because she was born in the spring."

"How lovely," you breathed out, in equal awe, tenderly cradling the babe to your chest as the little girl dozed, content after plentiful suckling. "Little Idunn. Very fitting, sister. She is just beautiful."

"Isn't she?" Helene smiled at you and then down at your niece, lifting a hand to delicately caress the infant's soft cheek. "Her older sister and brother adore her. I do think she'll be quite spoiled."

"And your husband?" you softly inquired, lightly adjusting your hold on the baby. "What are his thoughts?"

"He is just as overjoyed," she replied, and you almost sagged in relief. What a mercy she did not wed your husband. Never would she know such cheer then. "I, too, was so surprised. He said I could give him another girl and he'd be just as content."

How the gods favour her, you thought with no resentment, gazing at your sister affectionately. And then you looked back down at little Idunn and felt yourself warm with adoration. You loved your nieces and nephew; their stay would finally bring you some joy in amongst the misery of your situation. "You are truly blessed, Helene. But I might just steal this little lady for myself, you know."

She laughed, squeezing your shoulder. "Steal her away for as long as you like, so long as you return her to me when she cries for a feeding."

Despite their true purpose for taking up temporary residence in your husband's lands being to ensure your father's demands for an heir from you would be met, their company proved immensely enjoyable for you, in amongst the taxing duties life as lady of the house necessitates. You felt lighter, far more at ease, your time no longer largely preoccupied with bending to your tyrannical husband's whims and acting tentatively every time you are in his presence.

Your husband set out on an expedition about three months into their stay. With this announcement, you were left greatly concerned.

"How long will you be away for?" You were conscious of your father's impatience—his last letter to you said as much. Sometimes, his undertakings leave him absent for months—not to say that isn't something you appreciate, but with circumstances now, sudden departures will prove more detrimentral than ideal.

"One month," was his surly reply, tightening the bridle of his horse. You had been obligated to prepare the necessary resources for your husband and his men as they sharpened their battleaxes and wiped their breastplates down until they shone. And so a month's worth of supplies were organised for the men and their trip—though you took precautions and arranged for more. "I do hope to be welcomed with good news of a child on the way when I return."

Yes, it was so. Because of the external pressure on the both of you, the man was forced to swallow down his apparent revulsion of you and warm your bed; you were no less repulsed, if not more so. As the years passed, the greater your relief with such sentiments from him grew, knowing he did not desire you in such ways as to worsen his treatment of you further. However, it did nothing for your self-esteem—especially when aware you were considered the least beautiful of your sisters and with the least prospects before you were married off five years ago.

"I shall…petition the gods concerning it," you replied, dipping your head. No further words were exchanged between the two of you, and he and his men were on their way within the hour. One month of peace in the house, where you could govern it as you saw fit. But that meant one month of dreadful anticipation. And if you were with child, how would things go from there?

"Aunt," called Fredrik, your nephew, who shyly approached with an item in hand after you returned inside from seeing your husband off. "May I show you something?" "Of course you may," you replied, wiping all previous expressions of apprehension from your face and replacing it with a kind smile. You fondly brushed the seven-year-old boy's fringe from his eyes. "Tell me, what do you have there?"

"It's…it's a flower crown," he murmured, reticently holding it out for you to see. "They say flowers are not for boys, but I wanted to make this for mother, because she likes daisies and cornflowers."

"Oh, how lovely!" Kneeling down so you were eye-level with the child, you gently took the flower crown into your hands and admired it closely. "It is wonderful, Fredrik, and nothing to be ashamed of. I'm sure your mother will love it."

"…Really?" Timidity fading, your nephew peered up at you with eyes identical to his mother's and let a small smile slip. "Would you like one, then?"

You handed the crown back to him. "I would love one, and I think your sisters would as well."

"But…Idunn is so little, she won't remember it."

"What does that matter? You can be a good older brother and make plenty of flower crowns for your baby sister even when she's as old as me. Don't you think she'd like that?"

Fredrik looked at you confusedly. "You are only nineteen, aunt."

"That I am. And isn't that quite old?" Nineteen, married, but still without children—shame filled you. People whispered that you were disfavoured by the gods, due to your apparent lack of fertility, despite being wed for five, very nearly six, years. "But never too old for flowers. Now go, show your mother. She'll be overjoyed, I promise you."

And as you watched him dart away, eager to earn his mother's approval, you straightened with a lightened mood and faint sense of nostalgia. The sight of your sister's children playing about happily in the reaching fields of your husband's lands and their joy at the farm animals reminded you much of the brighter days of your own childhood. It also resurfaced an old memory—the memory of a friend you once made, the dirt on his face and the grime beneath his nails, and the cluster of wildflowers you once tucked behind his ear, because everyone deserves a flower, regardless of their identity, and regardless of their circumstances.

The gods finally took pity on you, it would seem, for you were discovered to be with child just after the messenger departed with news of your husband's imminent return. You did not feel joy at the news, only relief, and, when the man arrived, he immediately demanded to know if you were finally pregnant, his wrath curbed at your affirmative.

"Good," he'd remarked, huffing. "It means that wretched sister of yours can take her husband and children now and leave."

"Not so, milord," was your reply, careful. "They are to remain until I give birth."

Your husband had never been the sort of man to raise his voice often—and it was usually the placidity of the rage in his eyes that struck fear into you, and other people. Such was now, though you stood your ground. "You told me they would leave once you announced you were with child."

"No, husband. My father ordered for them to stay and ensure I carry the child to term."

He was seething, you could tell, but you had grown far too accustomed to his tempers now that it only faintly worried you. "…Must I have them tossed out myself? Is your father not happy merely with the news? Unbelievable."

"I am powerless before any of my father's decrees. And if it was not my father, it would have been my brother, and I have been informed that he is of the same mind."

The man wrenched off his great cloak, the apparel soiled with mud and dirt and dried blood, and tossed it to you. Then he turned on his heel and made to storm off. "Fine! Let your dastardly family continue to have their way and impose on my turf! But, I swear to you, woman—after this, no more!"

You sister had sat and comforted you following the man's outburst. "What is his issue with our presence, and our father's wishes? This goes beyond being merely territorial."

You'd sighed defeatedly, sitting still as Helene braided your hair. The man was always in particularly foul moods when having returned from an expedition, regardless of whether it went well or poorly. "I don't believe I'll ever know, sister. He is just…not a hospitable person, I suppose."

"Such a disparity to your own," she commented, tying the end of your braid and squeezing your shoulders. "We have known nothing but comfort during our stay here, thanks to your management of the staff and household. The children love it."

"I am glad to hear that." You reached up and placed a hand over Helene's, turning to smile at her. "I am also glad to know you'll still be here throughout the duration of my pregnancy. It would be quite daunting otherwise."

"Considering how resilient you are," was her lighthearted response, "even if I weren't here, I do believe you'd fare just fine."

That didn't matter, you found, as the weeks passed by and your belly swelled. It didn't matter if you were resilient or not—what mattered was that she was here with you, a woman having already experienced three pregnancies herself, someone you could trust with your concerns and fear. Your husband ordered for you to be put on bedrest for the majority of your pregnancy. This was not done out of concern for you, no—it was borne of an incentive to make sure your sister and brother-in-law and their children would be on their way as soon as possible, so they didn't have to stick around for another year or so if you happened to miscarry.

Miscarriages were too common. Two of your other sisters had experienced them, and so had your late mother. Despite their prevalence, they left the afflicted no less disillusioned and spiritless. It didn't help that women were ostracised and persecuted for such incidents. It was not something you wished to experience, not with the man you were wed to.

The concubines of the estate assumed your typical duties during your incapacitation. It was at your twentieth week that you received news of one of the women's own pregnancy.

"If she had been with child before you," Helene gravely mused, seated at your bedside, "how father's wrath would have been incurred! Perhaps this is a good thing, sister. But father and brother will demand for at least two more children."

You released a heavy exhale. "I know. What choice do I have? Do we have? It's all we're good for, Helene. Bearing children."

"Don't say that! You know that's not true. We have far more purpose than just babies. If it weren't for us, or in this case, you, this whole tribe of your husband's would have long toppled to the ground."

"No need to coddle me, sister. You and I both know that what I said is the truth. Just think: what did mother do? Grandmother? Our aunts? Our own sisters? Ourselves? You will return to your household once I give birth and I guarantee you, within the following six-or-so months, you will send word of another pregnancy—or, if not you, then it will be our sisters. Our brother's wife. Whoever. It doesn't matter anymore. Children are a blessing, yes, but isn't it a little discouraging to grow up from a girl to a woman with nothing but marriage and then gravidity after gravidity on the horizon?"

Helene had fallen silent; you relaxed back into the pillows and cast your weary gaze to the windows, staring out. "Do not misconstrue my words, sister. I am looking forward to meeting my child. I will make sure that, whether it be boy or girl, they will grow up comfortably. But it daunts me a little to know that not only for myself, but for any future daughter I may have, they will do nothing with their lives, and know no other future, except to thrash in birthing pains."

Months later, when you clutched at the birthing slings above in agony as you writhed through the anguish of labour, you knew only more relief once you let go of consciousness, and then held the baby boy tight to your front as he suckled contentedly at your breast, his soft cheeks puffy and pink with good health. Your husband visited once to confirm for himself it was a boy. Word was immediately sent to your father about the successful birth. Priority then shifted to caring for the mistress who was pregnant; you were even more relieved to have his attention diverted from you for a bit longer.

Your brother-in-law had returned to his territory six months prior to your son's birth, with only your sister and her children remaining. Helene sent them back to her husband while she stayed for another handful of weeks to care for your weary self. 

"It pains me to have to soon take my leave, sister," she said regretfully, rocking your newborn son back and forth in her arms as you took a moment to rest. "I should really remain here to help you for at least another year, but…" Helene glanced tentatively up at you, gesturing her head towards the door. "I know your husband wouldn't have that, and neither would my own."

"It isn't an issue, Helene." You smiled appreciatively at her, eyes dropping to the babe in her hold. "I understand. You have your own children and household to manage—you can't run around after me forever."

"I'll be sure to visit when you send word of your next pregnancy," she assured, rising to approach and gently hand the infant back to you. Your little son stirred and then relaxed into your chest, mouth working in his sleep. Helene smiled softly down at him. "Oh, sister, he looks just like you. Same skin and eyes. What a handsome lad he will be!"

Laughing quietly, you brushed back the few tuffs of hair on his scalp and gazed at his slumbering little face fondly. "Hm. I agree. You know, I can't say I was very excited to have a child, but I really can't help but cherish him."

"As you should." Helene took a seat next to you and busied herself with the tray of drinks and food at your side, previously brought in by Helga, the head maid. "You have been blessed with a healthy baby boy. Who knows what boons the gods have in store for you yet!"

One week later, Helene finally set off, the farewells exchanged between you tearful and lengthy. She continously assured you that she would write often and send envoys to check in on you in person. With a tight, parting embrace, Helene stepped onto the wagon, waved a final goodbye, and departed with her assembly of guards.

Her concerns for you and the baby's wellbeing were mostly unfounded; the servants bustling about the longhouse and estate took excellent care of you and your son, alongside the various concubines with whom you had formed amiable relationships with. Most of the women now residing here alongside you were not brought to the estate out of their own volition—they are bounty, trophies, spoils of war and conquest, as are you, in essence. There only for display and pleasure, never for their humanity and being.

You had been taught from a young age, however, that your circumstances and situation are not something you should complain about—how lucky and blessed and fortunate were you to be the lady of such a great house? The wife of such a mighty lord? The mother of such a man's son? Even if all of that came at the cost of your own identity, and how your worth was not truly rooted and found in the labels slapped onto a woman upon her selling away and marriage and entry into motherhood?

You often stared out the window of your chambers, where the panes overlooked the expanse of the tribe's widest meadow, to the cattle peacefully grazing throughout its verdant reach. Are you not like them? Those humble cows and meek ewes, content with the environment of the pens they are herded into, for they know naught else? For they were born and raised in such confines, never to know of the liberty to be had just within their reach, just beyond the fenceline, if only they were aware of it? 

The odd animal would stray along the edge of their pens and find an opening—they would taste the briefest, most fleetings drops of the wine freedom spills, know its sweetness and weightlessness, before the farmhand alerts his staff and rushes to toss that rope around its neck, and coax it back in. It can resist as much as it pleases; it means nothing once the gate behind it creaks and locks shut. 

For a woman like you, in your situation, there is no freedom to be had. But if you were loved, and treated kindly, and doted upon by a man who took you as his wife, then perhaps these confines wouldn't be quite so stifling. Perhaps you wouldn't be quite so disenchanted with your prison and the lack of escape from it. Then, perhaps, you would be a little more content with your pen.

Your husband has brought home another five hundred slaves. 

It is hardly something you have a say in. The port some leagues away is booming with the trade. The estate's status and wealth is increasing; the people still never have enough. Although you cannot concern yourself with the trafficking, despite your discomfort with it, you can make attempts at assuring the welfare of your husband's subjects, who fall under your jurisdiction, also. 

"This past year has yielded great financial growth here, milord," you remark, during a rare dinner with him. The wine in your chalice is the liquor of one of his many pillaged vineyards—a recent excursion. The vignerons were slaughtered on sight. "We are hardly lacking in resources. Are the people not due a decrease in taxes?" 

"A decrease?" He cuts and eats the rump of a felled stag, killed in the hunting grounds of a vanquished chief a fortnight ago. Its bust now sits, shadowed and stately, behind the head of the table, above the fireplace, antlers high and varnished and proud. "Why?" 

"We ought to usher in the new year with celebrations of your feats, not a further demand of levy." You do not enjoy being blunt, but the man only hears what he wants to hear, and when one is explicit, he cannot skirt around the topic—even if it means stoking his ire. But when is he ever not in a temper?"The people should have a share in the wherewithal." 

His mistresses, also seated at the table, exchange unsure glances, and peek looks at you. You stare straight ahead, gazing the man straight in the eye, as he remains silent for a long pause. The air is tense and thick enough to cut through it with a knife; to apply just enough pressure to ensure it snaps. You have always been one to get beneath his skin—one of the many reasons he dislikes you. Over a decade of tolerating this man has reaped these sour fruits.

"The people are content," he finally says, calmly continuing with his meal. It appears he is not going to be as reactionary as usual to my prodding tonight. "With the share I have long indulged them so generously. We have far more pressing matters at hand at present than whatever you're concerned with." 

"Such pressing matters supercede the welfare of your citizens?" 

A sharp click of his knife to his plate as he sets it down. "You put words in my mouth." 

"Not at all," you serenely reply, setting your own utensils aside. "I am merely recapitulating." 

"Ha! And just what is it you are recapitulating, wife?" 

"Your dismissal of your own people. Winter is a mere month away, and they are already feeling the cold. Have your conquests not yielded more than enough resources for the coming season to provide them all they need?" 

"They already have more than they need." 

"They do not. Why must we debate on this? The facts are, milord, your people will starve throughout the duration of winter if you do not heed my entreaty—as the lady of those same citizens, just as you are their lord." 

"What does it matter?" Still, your husband manages to curb his temper, and maintain his placidity. "The majority of them are slaves, either way." 

He says right in front of his many concubines of whom he vanquished the homes of, killed the people of, stole the freedom of. Has he not also stolen yours? Is this place not a cage you all share equally, allocated your own space, fenced in nonetheless? 

Ropes about our necks. Coaxing us in. Their tugging is cruel, though, and the twine of the noose digs and burns into our skin.

Your hands are on your lap, beneath the table, clutching your frock in an iron grip. But we, women of this household, are not the only ones so firmly fenced in, are we? "…You truly have no care?" 

"If it will help cease your nagging, wife," the man begins, draining his goblet of drink, setting it down, "then you may take what you need to give to those slaves and commoners you are so concerned for." 

"Who else would toil your farmland, crops, and cattle, if not those same slaves and commoners?" 

"Careful, now." No—your husband has never been fond of correction, of challenge, of negation. All who dare to cross his warpath will meet the edge of his axe descending upon their neck. "You shall find yourself in their company in those same fields they are only obligated to toil." 

Wretched man. To think he sired such a kindly boy as your son, his heir. An heir whose young ears are not, mercifully, present to hearken this dismal exchange. But how will you keep young Finn from the influence of his father, who will soon seek to oversee his education and training—thus exposing him to the veiled wickedness of the chieftain's nature and bloodlust? When he will order the boy to battle, once aged twelve? It is only four years away. Will your husband force your hand? 

To force the hand of a mother is no small feat. And it is no proud achievement. Man always underestimates the iron will of woman. Especially when it comes to their children, or loved ones, and that same dear kith and kin's wellbeing. 

You have borne no more children since the age of nineteen; your father, on his deathbed, did not entirely consider you a failure of a wife, mother, daugther, and woman, but he was not exactly impressed, either. One child is something, but they are still one child—and they need siblings, a line of successors, to ensure the survival of a house, and the survival of the alliance brought about by marriage. The survival of both houses. 

It's nothing short of a miracle, really, that little Finn has not taken ill to a fatal degree thus far. One of your husband's mistresses' children died of fever at only age two—it was a mournful affair, and the woman, alongside the weight of her sorrow, had to endure the coldness of the chief, for he blamed her for one of his heirs' deaths. 

Never had the women once known jealousy or malice from you; each newcomer is wary of the lady of the house at first, of course, but it isn't as if many of them are particularly endeared by the man either. They have relatively luxurious lives, so long as they warm his bed as often as he desires, and bear as many offspring they can to solidify his bloodline. 

It became apparent, even early on in your marriage to this man, that your ability to bear children was limited. At first, it was a relief; now, with the joy you know from your son, and your love for the concubines' sons and daughters, all you grown to long for now is a baby girl of your own. 

But that is a pipe dream. You would be shunned by the man for bearing a daughter, anyway. And your fear of her facing a life much like your own is more than enough of a deterrent. You cannot bring her into a world where only misery and servitude awaits her. 

"Things must truly be awry for you to even overlook the lives of those in your care." Never have you cowered before the notion of defending yourself and those around you before this man. To hell with your status as a wife and woman—his carelessness is too detestable to let slide. "I'd like to be informed of what it is that could have my husband so preoccupied and too busy to spare a thought for the livelihoods of his citizens."

"Shall I have your tongue cut out for your insolence? Wife or not, it makes no difference to me!"

"I merely asked a question, and you frame my words as insolence?" It isn't often you lose your own temper. This man makes such occasions frequent, however. "You go too far."

"Too far? You dare to speak to me of what is too far?" It is with a rattle of the table and the tipping of the water pitcher that he rises to his feet, incensed. One of the women lets out a muted squeak as the water sloshes right into her front. "I like you best when you're a meek and silent little thing, like you once were! Have I grown too lenient? Too merciful? Was it a mistake you grant you such freedom and a son?"

"A son is not yours to grant, not when it is duty." You remain calmly seated. "And this is not a matter of freedom. This is a matter of your wife approaching you with the mere request of aiding the people in the impending winter season, and you deny them and I even that."

"It matters not," is your husband's low answer, voice cold and rumbling, "for truly I tell you, woman, the citizens will not be in need this coming winter. Considering the pressing matters I emphasised before, not even you will have the means!"

"Then I advise you to tell me what these pressing matters you so insist on are." The food on each of your plates have long grown cold now. "And how I may be of assistance."

"The only assistance you can be of is keeping a leash on that tongue of yours." He sharply turns to take his leave, cutting you a malicious glare. "Your title as lady of the house is an empty label, I assure you. I would advise you to refrain from meddling in my affairs any further henceforth. Do not display such impudence in my presence again, or you shall find yourself swiftly bereft of the ability to speak!" 

The doors slam shut behind him. Many of the women flinch at its sharp bang. You, now alone with them, allow yourself to let loose a tense breath, before turning to the mistress who was doused in water. "Thyra. Are you alright? Shall we get you a towel?" 

"Oh—um." She herself is still dabbing at her front with the cloth just handed to her by a servant. "I—I should be alright, my lady, it's just water. But, what of you? Are you alright? That was…quite the…" 

You heave another sigh. "It was nothing new. I shall approach him about this matter again later in the week." Getting to your feet, you accept the fresh towel handed to you by Helga, and approach Thyra to assist her with it. "But you should go and change before you catch a chill. Dinner has ended, either way. Wasn't that just a merry affair?" 

"I sometimes fear for you, my lady," one of the other women softly comment. Aina is your age, one of the first concubines to have arrived here upon your husband's initial great conquests, and likely your closest friend. Never have you succeeded in convincing her to drop the honorifics, however, much to your chagrin. "You were…careless tonight. Courage and temerity are two very different things." 

"There's hardly a better way to bring up such a topic to him," you reply, shaking your head. "I do not fear him, so you needn't fear for me in return. He risks my brother's ire should he harm me to the point of death." 

"That is hardly the point," says another. Gunda is by far the most foolhardy of the harem, and, by extension, not exactly a favourite of your husband—much to her relief. "The fact of the matter is, you put your neck on the line nonetheless. You have done so countless times for our sake and earned yourself severe punishments. When will you learn?" 

"Gunda," hisses Sigrid, fixing the woman with a sharp look. 

"What? I only speak the truth! Out of care for our lady!" 

"Regardless! She is to be spoken to with respect!" 

You cast a look at the women from over your shoulder as you help wipe up the table and right the pitcher. "You know I hardly care for such formalities when it is just us, Sigrid." 

"Casual talk should not become a habit," she sagely replies, "for fear it slipping through when in the wrong place at the wrong time, my lady." 

You huff a laugh, gently waving Helga away as she insists on you leaving the cleaning-up to her. "You all underestimate me, which is the true disrespect." 

"Not at all!" The poor girl appears to believe you are being serious. "That is not what I meant at all, my lady, do forgive me—" 

"She speaks in jest," Aina sighs, placing a hand to Sigrid's shoulder. "Be calm. My lady, must ask, though—just how do you intend to persuade the man when he long possesses history of little care for his people?" 

"I've done it before," you answer, nodding to Thyra as she bobs a bow and departs to bathe and change, "and succeeded. And I'll do it again. The trick is to haggle with him." 

"We know," says Gunda, shaking her head. "Many a time has it earned you a flogging, too." 

"A flogging well worth it," is your breezy reply, unconcerned. "I will convince him, trust me. I will not permit the starving and freezing of the people like he is so comfortable with allowing. I shall employ my brother's help, too, should the need arise." 

"Again." Aina gets to her feet with an exhale and weary look your way. "You are too reckless for your own good." 

"Where has lying down and rolling over got anyone in the past?" You fold the damp towel you had used to soak up the puddle on the table and turn to hand it to Helga. "Other than nowhere?" 

"It has kept them alive, that's what." Gunda finishes the wine in her cup. "But, it matters not. You're simply doing your duty as this land's lady. It is just lamentable it should come with such harm on your part." 

"Such is life." You smile at her and squeeze her shoulder as she moves to pass. "There is only so much one can do." 

"You can ask us for aid," offers Sigrid, her brow upturned. 

"I thank you, but there is no need." You step back to allow the servants to come forward and clear the table upon the ladies' rise from their seats. "I have handled far worse than this before, I assure you." 

It becomes clear, not long after, that your husband was telling the truth regarding the 'pressing matters' he so insisted on. His men are on edge. When you query as to their visible disquiet, they comment on the 'recent rampages' in the north. Rampages that are not of your husband's, your brother's, or any nearby unallied tribes', doing. 

"And this man has already felled the Asvards?" Incertitude bleeds into your tone now, also—long has the Asvard Clan posed a threat to your husband, an adversary he has, at length, sought to defeat and return triumphant over, the plunder he would cart home worth tenfold the wealth already in his storehouses. Not only would their now-apparent subduement and fall land as a great shock to him, but also something of great cause for anger and, most of all, fear. An emotion that is nothing unnatural to know, either, for just who on this green earth could be formidable enough to lay waste to one of the mightiest, eldest, most bloodthirsty tribes of this land—in a matter of mere days? 

"He has claimed the north, from all four borders, already," replies your husband's most-trusted subordinate. "Reports have stated that the amount of blood he has spilled is enough to smell from even Beinir Harbour." 

Gods above, you think, dread sinking low in your stomach. Beinir Harbour is the the southernmost port of this land, a week and a half's trip from these clan grounds to its sea-soaked gates—thrice as long should the weather prove bleak. And you know such claims are no word of a lie, either—carrion birds have been seen migrating north when it is not the cold season just yet; one month too early for it to be natural, thus, leaving only one explanation. "And…And he is swiftly making his way…south?" 

"Southeast, at present," grunts your husband, in too dark and spiritless of a mood to bother complaining at your presence. "It is only a matter of time." 

You take the reins, as per usual, of the estate and its management whilst the chieftain is concerned with gathering and preparing his men for inevitable battle. Southeast means this newfangled foe is presently heading in the opposite direction of these tribe lands—but it is also where three of your sisters reside, spiking your anxiety from mild apprehension to overwhelming dread. If this man truly is storming throughout the lands with the intent to raze and vanquish everything in his path, be it man, woman, child, or animal, then your family will be no exception—and, as your husband said, it is only a matter of time. Before he and his army arrive on your front doorstep. 

The servants and citizens have caught word, too. Gunda muttered that everyone was sitting ducks. You gently reminded her that your husband and his men would do all they can to protect the clan. 

The look she gave you was borderline withering. Even you could taste the bitterness of a lie and the truth on your tongue as those reassuring words exited your mouth. 

"Will I have to go out and fight?" asked your son, Finn, upon you sitting him down and giving him a sanitised summary of the situation at hand. You, with immense relief that he was not yet anywhere near old enough to have to pick up a blade and ride to battle, brushed his hair from his forehead and affectionately rubbed his cheek. "No, you shall not, my dear, you needn't worry about that. Your father will do his utmost in your stead, I tell you." 

"But I want to fight." Eyes like yours peered up, wide and apprehensive—yet never lacking in courage. "I won't let some other horrible chieftain come here and hurt you! I'll protect Auntie Sigrid and Auntie Aina and Ms. Helga, too!" 

The laugh you elicited was somewhat genuine, somewhat amused, largely forced, as you immediately moved to put that idea out of his head. "No, you don't, Finn. Believe me, no fighting on your part will be necessary. I will be doing the protecting here—and the very one who needs protection the most is you." 

"But I'm a big ki—" 

"Not quite yet." Finn was your sun and moon, the world, your greatest treasure. Should he perish, so would half of your soul. "Getting there, but not quite yet. Give it another few years, my love, when this bad man is defeated and gone, and then you can ride out into the fields and fight off the monsters for me." 

"Will it make father proud?" 

You hadn't immediately replied that, unsure of how to answer. The boy and his father were distant, despite Finn being his only true heir—he had, understandably, always wished to form a bond with his second parent all children would want, but, sadly, your son did not understand just who and what your husband was. He was too young. Far too young to truly comprehend just what the line of succession he was in was, what his duties would eventually be and demand, and just the sheer amount of blood he would inevitably spill as a man someday, yet another chieftain overseeing a life and house of pillaging and murder and conquest. 

Someday, his eyes will no longer hold the bright innocence of an eight-year-old boy. You wish to keep him, shield him, protect him from the horrors of the world he is destined to face—but you worry that those very horrors had come too early, too soon, to collect their due. 

For now, however, for as long as you can, you will clutch him to your chest and take the arrows to your back for him. If you had your way, you would do it for all his life, but you know that can't be so. You just hope it won't happen now, when your son is still so young and merry and good. 

"I think…" Your eyes had shifted from his face to the windows overlooking the meadows on the east wing of the estate, where the pastures were green and the cattle grazed in their paddocks. Within the fenceline. Penned in. Sitting ducks. It's only a matter of time. "I think we shall just have to wait and see. But, either way, you make me proud, and don't you think that's all that matters?" 

Finn was such a smart boy. Sometimes, you thought he was a bit too smart for his own good—for the hope in his eyes had dimmed upon your vague answer, and he never brought the topic up again. 

How you hoped your husband would succeed on his quest to quell the warlord in the north; they now called him the Imperator, or the Blood-Eyed Viking. The drottin. Whispers of his unending, unbowed triumphs echoed about the streets and walls and wood of the people's residences, the fear so palpable and so audible in their voices. And so many monikers, spoken so often with varying inflections of awe, wonder—greatest of all, apprehension and dread. Even you were are a large loss as for what to do. What was there to do? Other than pray for the safety of your family members? Who were soon to fall prey to this "Blood-Eyed Viking"'s conquests regardless? You eased Finn's worries with empty assurances, only at peace with yourself knowing it still helped him sleep at night. You assisted the concubines in lulling their own fitful children to sleep; such luxury eluded you. The ceiling of your chambers became the most familiar sight. Your eyes strained and ached from the staring; your head throbbed from the overthinking and fretting and worrying. Sitting ducks. I, the concubines, the people, and the children are all sitting ducks. It was only a matter of time. And there was nothing you could do, because the fence you were confined to only allowed you so much—and it brought about another realisation: your husband is just as penned-in as you, only in a different form, a fence erected by a greater foe than he has ever known, where the rope has been tossed about his neck, and, now, it is only a matter of time.

"He has allied himself," your husband states, allowing his armour to be fixed to him, "with the Kolbeins." The Kolbeins. The clan your youngest sister married into, and the land nearest to the north, directly in the drottin's warpath. Yet, now, apparently, that is no longer so. For he has allied himself with them. Just what is this? "Is there any…" you falter, words eluding you. You're unsure how to go about this, how to approach this matter. It is as if all your previous, learned articulation throughout the past thirteen years of marriage to this man has gone out the window. "Particular reason why he has aligned himself with the Kolbeins specifically…?" "How are we to know?" Never has he enjoyed, either, sharing such intel with you—even if it has very much to do with you. "But they are now safe from his truculence. It is bizarre. Just who will he integrate with or raze to the ground next?" 

Who could tell? He was right, even if it went largely unsaid—everyone was at a loss, and there was nothing left to do other than wait.

When you suggested taking the first step and forging an alliance as way of protecting the clan and the people, you received a face full of wine and a split forehead from the chalice. 

"Away with your female inanity!" To have pushed him from the brink of his temper so easily, in so few words—it was more than telling of his present state, both inward and outward. You stood there, unflinching, letting the burgundy liquid drip from your chin and stain your front. Your husband fiercely thrust a hand in the direction of the door. "Out! I don't want to see your face!" Just what were you going to do? With him? With all of this? When calamity was so very nearly on your doorstep? This 'blood-eyed viking' was well on his way in this direction—who could possibly say whether he will align himself, or flatten this land to its very foundations? 

You hadn't a clue. You hardly had any idea of what to expect now. All you did know now was apprehension—especially when you looked at your son, and his half-siblings, and the same fear in your fellow women's eyes whenever the topic was carefully skirted around. "You truly have no care for your own self, do you, my lady?" Aina clicked her tongue as she applied stitches to your forehead, the numbing salve working wonders against the vague sting of the needle. Even without it, you would not have felt much pain. She then dabbed a damp cloth to the wound, and proceeded to wrap a bandage around your head. "You just let him throw it at you. Is there no line he can cross with you?" "If he were to have injured Finn instead," was your quiet reply, eyes closed as you let her work, "then that would have been a trangression I really would have taken to him with a knife for." "I wish you weren't so forbearing sometimes." She tied the bandage secure, you opened your eyes, and she took a seat before you, clasping your hands in hers. Her gaze was tender and earnest. "I really don't know how you put up with him. I don't know how any of us do!" "It is just something that has to be done," you sighed, shaking your head, lowering your eyes to your lap. "You know our circumstances. There isn't much we can really do." "You could stand up for yourself for once." "I have before. And I have ended up in a far worse state than this." You rubbed her knuckles with your thumb comfortingly. "I thank you for your concern, Aina. But these matters really must be left to me, as I have said before. Even if it results in harm. What can be done about that?" "Slipping poison into his wine, for one." The woman exhaled in vexation at the sight of your now-soiled dress draped across a nearby chair, pursing her lips. "And he ruined one of your best frocks. Helga spent a good half a year weaving that thing!" "It will all be fine." It won't be. Not with just what is steadily making its way toward these lands right this moment. But you must keep everyone calm and content, for fear they fly into a panic, and are met with the reality of just what is at stake here. "I assure you. Trust me, alright? I'm not bedridden or dead yet." The long look Aina gave you was enough to have you averting your eyes, inwardly troubled. She was perceptive, that woman, knowing and ever unable to be fooled—and perhaps that is what endeared you to her so thoroughly. Gunda was the same, just far more brusque about it. But none of that mattered, when one is so completely helpless.

With what you did have, and what you could work with, you made the most you possibly could from it. That meant aiding the concubines as they soothed their fearful children and wiped their tears, easing the workload of the servants best you could as they longed to see their families, and working with your fellow women as you all put aside wheat and milk and food to supply the citizens in these trying times—all behind your husband's back, against his word.

Everyone was preparing for the killing blow to be landed by the angel of death making his swift way across the territories. Some clans had apparently made it out by the skin of their teeth with his unexpected aligning with their chiefs—primarily ones you would soon received word of, from your sisters, that they are now safe. 

No one could say who was next, or if they'd be so lucky.

It was on a bright early-winter morning that your husband made the announcement—the following day, he and his men would ride out to meet the warlord in battle, fell him in combat, and return with his severed head in trophy. Finn was present for the declaration—his first, inadvertent exposure to the ugliness of such widespread warfare, and the nature of his father's duties. 

The boy was to be subjected to it sooner or later, either way. It wasn't something you could ever help. Just, why like this?

The halo of clouds streaking the sun denoted impending poor weather the day your husband and his men readied their mounts, sharpened their hatchets and blades, and polished their breastplates in seasoned preparation for war; you, and his mistresses, including young Finn and his half-siblings, all stood at the clan gates as the troops trotted for the exit, fur-lined coats and armour pulled tight about their necks to ward off the chill. Your husband rode at the front, lifted high on his steed, sparing his wives and his children barely a glance as he cantered past. You expected to feel hope for his return, or that darker, more secret desire for him to never return at all. You were torn between both, at that moment, to the point of total uncertainty, where you did not know what you felt at all.

Gunda voiced her thoughts in a low tone, for your fellow women's ears only, as they rode by. "Want to place any bets on whose head will truly end up getting lopped off?" "Considering what we've heard about this other warlord…" Sigrid kept her voice lower. "It'll be our dearest master." "There are young ears present," hissed Aina, cutting them a warning look, "you two." "As if you don't agree," Gunda huffed, yielding nonetheless. Her own child, Mia, a young girl of four, stood at her side with huge, awed eyes at all the horses and men trekking past. She grasped her mother's hand tightly, hair like her father's braided back into a neat plait. Gunda cared for her daughter deeply, and you considered the girl, and the rest of her siblings, save your own son, nieces and nephews of sort.  You remained silent, Aina having uttered your notions for you. But Gunda's words buried themselves deep, nonetheless—what were you hoping for? His death? His victory? Was there an in-between? Best case scenario, an alliance between this province and the warlord would be forged. It was so unlikely, however, it was hardly anything you or your fellow women, the servants, and the people, ever even considered.  If your husband is defeated, it would mean inevitable destruction to this clan, and death to everything that you have known for the past twelve, thirteen years. On the other hand, if he were triumphant, he would return with greater wealth, a greater ego, and things would return to normal. To the miserable, vapid, mundane normal. Back to having wine thrown on you over the smallest disagreements. Further scorn for not yet bearing another child, having been eight years since your first and last, long high time. More slaves. More wealth, but unrelented taxes. Unhappy citizens. All of it. You're tired of being the mediator for everything.

Your husband is not a good man. Neither he nor you ever liked one another. Both a boon and a bane to your existence here.

And then there was Finn, and the adulthood that awaited him. Would he, under your father's increased influence once the boy was of age, come to spurn you too, his own mother? What would you do then? What would you have to live for then? Caged, confined, penned in. Maybe this battle the chieftain is proudly journeying out to will blow a hole in the fence wide enough to slip through, and out, and away. A pipe dream, for you and the mistresses—and, in result, their own children. Your son. The citizens. The repercussions will hit each and every person residing in this land, hard. You watch as the war party fades into the distance, and then you turn away with a sigh. Your fellow women trail after you as you begin to make the way back to the estate, murmuring amongst themselves, your son keeping stride with you at your left. He clings onto the edge of your skirts, perceptive as ever—for Finn appears to take one look at your face, and every question he was bursting with earlier seem to die on his tongue. You smile down at him in affection and apology. "Are you sad to see them go, my darling?" "Oh, I don't know." The boy's expression becomes thoughtful, and you slow your steps so his shorter strides pair with yours. "I just thought…I was just thinking about how much I'd like to get on a big, strong horse and wear armour and wield an axe and protect my clan." You brush a gentle hand through his hair, inwardly disillusioned with his aspiration, with the reality of what he must learn and see and mature into to achieve such a thing. May the need for it never come to pass. Greatest of all, may nothing like this, of this magnitude, of this peril, afflict this earth again. But, knowing what you know, and knowing these lands, and knowing human nature, such is blithe, foolish wishful thinking. Befitting of a child—never befitting of a grown woman like you. "Maybe…one day." I should not encourage it, but how can I do that? When it will be an inevitable, unavoidable path? He is the heir. It is destined. "First, however, you must grow into a strong, healthy young man, who will never wield that axe to harm." He tilts his head in puzzlement, in question. "But I have to kill to protect, right?" "Not necessarily." The right words elude you again, as usual. So young a boy should not know the meaning of 'kill'. He should not know the meaning of anything his father does—but, yet again, despite your greatest attempts to shield him, you're still ever so helpless. "Sometimes, you have to. Most times, it's preventable."

The mystification in his wide gaze does not abate. Finn blinks. "How?" You cast your gaze aside, ahead, to the estate entrance, unseeing. How? Huh. You hold out your hand for him to hold. His small palm grasps yours immediately. Yes, my son. How, indeed. "…Perhaps someday, Finn, I will tell you how, when you can understand." Now, all you can do is wait. Wait all the weeks or months or however long it will take until word of victory is sent back, or word of defeat. Either way, you all still remain as sitting ducks. Woe will still befall these fields and this paddock and this pen nonetheless; sooner or later. Until then, you will do what you can, however small and trifling it may be. For the best thing to do is to take all of it on the nose. What else can be done? Such is life. What will be, will be. Only that mantra can comfort you now. Even if it is no true comfort at all.

One of your sisters, the last to lie powerless in the way and face of the drottin's excursions, sends you a letter, which arrives two days following your husband's departure. It is not uncommon that you receive word or news from your siblings—but, in these turbulent times, such communication has been stalled. Hence, your relief at the sight of her seal on the envelope is great; you waste no time in tearing it open.

Sister,

You and the rest of our family are all filled with apprehension at present, doubtlessly. It is no secret of just who this warlord is and what he's doing—but no one is able to decipher just what his goal is here. Even more so with his strange allegiances with certain clans, most, mercifully, involving our sisters—but complete bloodshed upon others. I write this to inform you, and our other siblings, that this man has arrived here with only himself, two escorts, and an envoy, to arrange an alignment with us. Therefore, we are safe. No calamity has stricken our border. Unfathomable, and unexpected, but nonetheless welcome. Such positive tidings I inform you of should bring you some cheer.  You have my thoughts and prayers. I beseech the gods each day to look upon you and who remain yet unaligned with him with favour, and to provide you their protection. I know you don't put much stock in the divine, sister, which I do understand, but it is no less a shame. Perhaps this recent boon will restore some of your faith. Be safe. Do keep in touch. Your niece misses you. If it weren't for this warlord and his escapades, I would have paid you a visit by now. Write back and tell me how little Finn is doing. I am weaving him a winter scarf. Yours, Astrid.

You read it aloud to the mistresses; they are both relieved on your behalf, and also befuddled. Just what is this fellow getting at here? was the general, shared question, and not one of you had a definitive answer, or even a guess. It is just as you are sealing the envelope of your own reply, several days later when the head maid urgently knocks and hurries in. You rise from your desk in immediate concern. "Helga? Is everything alright? You look flus—"

"An emmisary, my lady," she breathes, hardly even composed enough to excuse her inadvertent interruption. "From his lordship."

You do not dawdle with questions or any of such like—you immediately follow after her as the woman leads you through the halls and to the estate entrance; Aina and other mistresses arrive soon after. The former approaches, visibly worried, as you stand and await the emmisary. "What in the world is happening?"

"I am unsure," is your reply, as you bite down on the inside of your bottom lip. "To have received word back so soon…" 

Aina gazes at you sidelong. "Do you think…?"

You release a breath, slowly shaking your head back and forth. "I don't know. Perhaps. I…I hope not, Aina—I really don't know."

The messenger is ushered in; his face is flushed red with the bite of the wind against his face in his hasty gallop here, and the dazed look about his eyes has you both faltering in uncertainty and anticipation—good news? Bad news? Are we defeated and now reduced to nothing but trophies and slaves? Will this land be wiped clean and rebuilt under another yet another tyrant's rule?

"My lady," he manages out, still catching his breath, barely accepting the cup of water held out to him by a nearby maidservant. "I bring word from his lordship presently in the southern reaches."

"Speak," you reply, stepping forward, hardly of sound mind enough to tell him to take a moment and have a breather. "What tidings of victory do you bear?"

"Not—Not victory per se, your ladyship," the man responds, finally accepting the water. The maidservant bobs a bow before departing; the envoy takes a greedy sip, and then wastes no further time in relaying the news: "The warlord, he—he ordered for a meeting in his tent upon the chieftain's arrival—and—"

"They brokered an allegiance?" Aina finishes, breathless, her hands up over her mouth. The oxygen has, similarly, been whipped from your lungs. A quivering hand lifts from where they are clasped before you to rest atop your chest. It takes a beat—your throat has gone dry, and you swallow, regathering your wits. Allegiance. An allegiance. Are we…saved?

And so soon? Last you heard, the journey would take at least a fortnight before the two factions would encounter one another—it's been barely a week. Did the warlord meet them on the way? Did either of them engage in combat, at all? My husband will return…everything will go back to normal…and I will remain fenced in…

You don't quite know how to feel—but everyone else around shares one opinion: joy. No bloodshed would meet and soak into the earth of this land. The innocent lives of the citizens would continue on as is customary. There is no longer anything to fear.

No longer anything to fear?

"Yes. And his lordship is set to travel and return here with the warlord in tow, as an honourary guest."

"A guest?" you echo, and apprehension inundates you tenfold. He is visiting? Like he did with my sister's clan—yet, he won't be here temporarily, but for a while, presumably?

A feast would be prepared, without a doubt. Celebrations would ensue. The best of the best would be readied for the chieftain and his new ally's entertainment. Meat, mead, women. All of it. 

"Yes, my lady. The chief sends word that you are to begin making preparations immediately. They shall arrive seven days hence."

"A week…" You exchange a look with Aina—she, elated; you, troubled. No one else appears to share your dread. Am I the only one here who…is not entirely convinced by this? Or delighted by it?

Yes. You are. What could you do? Tell your husband no? Incur not just his wrath, but the wrath of that berserker, also? 

You still haven't figured out what you think of your sister's letter—and then this is sprung upon you. What can I do?

Nothing else, other than do as told, as usual. Make preparations. Organise lodging and gifts for the warlord's arrival. Send a seemingly joyous letter to your siblings, annoucing your own exemption from the calamity, also. Assure them that you are safe and sound and that it is not yet time to address and accept death, despite brushing shoulders with it.

"…Very well," you eventually answer, lowering your head, squeezing your eyes shut. "Return to his lordship and inform him the news has been well-received here, and the finest of food and drink and accomodation shall be long ready for them upon their arrival."

"Understood, my lady." The emissary bows, finishes his cup of water, and takes his immediate leave. Excited, rushed murmuring echoes throughout the entrance hall as servants and onlookers alike share sighs and the joy of relief. We are saved, they say, bright-eyed. The gods have taken mercy on us!

Have they? Or, maybe, you're being pessimistic about this. A killjoy. But, who will be the devil's advocate in this situtation, when everyone is blinded by the triumph of so boldly skirting adversity? Will no one gaze at it from the sidelines, through the eyes of a cynic?

Perhaps that is your job. Has always been your job. And, now, more than ever, you will have swallow down your pride, bite back your tongue, and just make do.

What will be, will be. Is this not the preferred, ideal outcome? 

Are you not cattle that have been so narrowly spared the cleave of the slaughterhouse?

And when will that fortune, this luck, run out, and the gods turn their backs again?

You turn, masking your dread and secret disappointment, and immediately set about readying the estate for the month or so of festivities ahead.

Penned in. The fence has been reenforced. It's suddenly gotten taller. And you're only livestock that can look its cage in the face, will a gap in it to form, and hope to slip through unseen. 

What a fool you are, to have so patiently and eagerly awaited and trusted such a windfall to ever appear. You know your situation. And, now, not only has the fence been enlarged, but so have you been tied to it, and now, there truly is no hope to flee.

What will be, will be. You must hold onto that, despite the little faith you now have—even if it means a rope about your neck, and a coaxing tug towards the stockyard.

part one ⟢ part two ⟢ series masterlist

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“On your left!” you yell, giving your partner ample time to dodge. A smoke bomb is launched into the sky, pouring down an onslaught of suffocating grey.

Of course he doesn’t move immediately, only just dissolving into a flurry of mist at the last second. Does he want to give you a heart attack? He lands to your right, with that devilish grin of his.

“Thanks, sweetie.” he coos. You huff. Weirdo. Sylus chuckles to himself, warmth in his heart. To watch his beloved in action, dripping in his choices, dazzling in red—truly a blessing. Adoration has its setbacks, though.

One bullet grazes your shoulder and he feels your pain in every nerve of his. A small yelp leaves you as you stumble, but you press on, imbalanced and unsteady. But still, remarkably graceful. Reloads come to you like breathing, shuffles and dodges like a dance. You take out another three vermin.

Sylus watches with nothing short of wonder. He’s poised to strike, yet awed to stillness. But despite your determination, someone has still scratched his treasure. Though merely a nick, the wound in his soul tells a different story.

Crimson horror slithers its way up the assailant’s spine, a tickle turning deadly as the very skull is penetrated with Evol. In seconds, a sharp burst of flesh can be heard, blood pooling out the bastard’s ears as he succumbs to gravity—no longer wasting useful oxygen.

The smoke clears, and the job is done.

“Sylus!” you exclaim. “I could’ve handled it. You didn’t need to squash his cranium.”

You’ve seen your fair share of gore so Sylus’... methods aren’t really news to you. But the sheer danger he radiates, holding so much destruction at the flick of his wrist—it’s invigorating.

“I know you could’ve,” Sylus’ eyes are on you immediately, narrowing upon the graze marring your skin. “are you alright?”

“Sylus…” you groan, fingers at your temple. Suddenly, an idea comes to mind. A gasp leaves you—far too exaggerated—but you’ve been blessed with a man who indulges your every whim. Might as well make the most of it. Your legs are tired and your toes are cramping. Perhaps stilettos weren’t the best choice for this.

Unfortunately, you’re weak to Sylus’ stare. He loved them on you. Not that he wouldn’t love you in anything else. But your ankles don’t love you right now.

“Ah, um— actually, I might–” Another hyperbolic wince. Sylus raises an eyebrow, lips turning up in a knowing smirk.

“Oh?” Fortunately for you, he doesn’t let you embarrass yourself further, sweeping you off your aching feet and brushing your foreheads together. “Don’t tell me my darling’s met her match?” That notion leaves a sour taste in your mouth. Sylus smiles, understanding.

“No…” He begins his walk back to base, you still hoisted onto his arm.

“Beloved, if you just wanted to be carried, you could have just asked.”

You scoff and meet his gaze, mild annoyance seeing softness. “What kind of hunter gets shot and then gives up, because her feet hurt?” you groan.

“Not this one.” Sylus cocks his head towards the carmine mess you two left behind. “No survivors, sweetheart.”

“I suppose.”

Sylus breathes a small laugh and kisses your cheek. “You don’t have to pretend for me, sweetie.” He readjusts you, upraising your hips—hand sitting at your waist. “If your ankles hurt, tell me.”

He always sets something fuzzy off in your chest. There’s so much you could say to him right now, but the words catch.

You hadn’t been dating Sylus for all that long. After however-many times he’d made his feelings known, you’d finally realized he meant it.

So now much of your routine was the same, with the added knowledge that he could - and would - show up whenever and wherever if he thought he’d be able to get even a few minutes of your time.

Which he did frequently.

The first few times you’d gone out as a couple, it had been in Linkon. You’d gone to the mall, gone to the claw machine, a few restaurants, anything he could think of squishing into your busy days and his equally busy nights.

And of course, when you were able to, you went to him.

The N109 zone had almost become a second home faster than you even realized it. Sylus was ever the gentleman, and you’d quickly found yourself leaving things in his home, until eventually you realized you had enough at his that visiting for a few days didn’t even require packing a bag.

Sylus, of course, loved this.

He loved seeing you walk around his home completely at ease, perfectly content to remain here with him until work called you back.

He felt no reason to hide how happy this made him.

Which is exactly how this conversation had started.

“Don’t you have a big bad boss reputation to uphold?”

Sylus smirks down at you, amused even as your confused frown grew.

Sylus was clingy. Amazingly so. And he was happy to show it by showering you with anything he could - his time, his money, his anything. He willingly deferred everything to you.

He knew you could handle yourself, he wasn’t worried. So he made no effort to hide how he worshiped you. No matter who was watching.

Your frown shifted into a halfhearted glare, “Sylus.”

“Kitten.”

You huff and roll your eyes, disengaging yourself from his hold and walking away. Leaving him to trail after you, quite happy to follow behind.

The base was quiet for the moment, the twins out taking care of some business or another, mephiso resting somewhere out of earshot. You walked towards the kitchen, not really hungry but needing to do something with your hands. Or else you’d probably throw something at him.

“We talked about this.”

“We did. However, I never said I agreed.”

You give him a sharp look, “I seem to recall you saying something about a target on my back.”

He crowds you into the counter, your back to his chest as you prepare a meal, his arms wrapping around your waist as he leans down to rest his chin on your shoulder.

“Which is possible. But I also know that anyone who tries anything will have to deal with you first. And you can be very scary, sweetie.”

“Don’t sweetie me. And what about you? Onychinous and your livelihood rely on your reputation.”

He shrugs. Your eyes narrow.

“Sylus.”

He sighs, finally pulling away from your back and leaning against the counter next to you. You look up at him and see his eyes soften when he meets your gaze. His hand comes up and cups the side of your head, thumb rubbing softly on your cheek.

“Sweetie, I promise. I am in no more danger than I was before. Onychinous doesn’t rely on my reputation, it relies on me. They can come for me as much as they want, it won’t change anything.”

You huff, “That doesn’t make me feel better.”

His brow creases and his hand drops, “You know the kind of man I am. I am not one to run from a threat, you know that. If it comes to it, it will be dealt with. But I will not stop showing you what you deserve.”

You stare at him a moment longer, his gaze just as unrelenting as your own.

But in the end you know he’s right. He wouldn’t let threats like that bother him, and certainly not threats that weren’t even made yet. And you really didn’t want him to stop, either.

Your finger raises as you point at him, “If something happens, I’m blaming you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Stop that.”

His grin just widens, “Not even in private now? How will I survive?”

You roll your eyes, “As if you’d listen in the first place.”

He laughs, “Now you’re getting it.”

You shake your head, trying and failing to hide the pout on your face. You choose instead to focus your attention on the vegetables in front of you, chopping with a bit more force than truly necessary.

Sylus watches you for a moment, then plucks the knife from your hand.

“Hey-”

He shakes the knife dangling in his fingers, “Violence against innocent vegetables is a crime of the highest order, kitten.”

You give him a half hearted glare, jumping to your tip-toes to try and take the knife back.

He raises his hand higher and clearly out of your reach. His lips twitch as he looks down at your annoyed pout, then wrapping his other arm around you again, pulling you to his chest.

You go easily, your arms wrapping around his neck even as you continue to give him a stern look.

“Still worried?”

You hesitate, then sigh, “...yes.”

He sets the knife down, fully enveloping you in his arms. Your head falls to his chest as you relax. His hand rubs little circles on your back, further encouraging you to relax.

“For the record,” he murmurs in your ear, “Anyone who thinks to underestimate you will learn quickly. You’re no threat to my reputation…unless you plan on overtaking it.”

You snort, “You are unbelievable.”

“The option is always on the table.”

You roll your eyes, smile finally coming back. When you look back up at him, his own smile matches yours. A soft look in his eyes that has you completely forgetting you’d been worried - and trying to make food.

—

Your next day-off was only a few days later, and Sylus had sent you a text to be ready for him to pick you up late that afternoon. He didn’t specify what you were doing, but the attire he’d somehow gotten to your front door had you assuming a nice dinner or another auction.

Turns out it was both. After a lovely dinner - where you refuse to look at the prices for your own sanity - and to finish the evening off Sylus surprises you with an auction.

You questioned his choice of surprise until he mentioned a high-end protocore he thought you’d like, and what better way to get it to you than having you by his side in the first place?

The auction was located deep within the Charon Market, an unassuming building with the only thing giving away its use being the armed security standing outside the doors.

They give you both a nod in greeting as Sylus guides you into the lobby, one hand on your back. He moves you through the crowd with ease, people quickly shifting to the sides to avoid being the one to block his path.

For a majority of the auction, this is how it goes. He walks the two of you from item to item, eventually sitting down in the auction hall, never once stepping more than a few feet from you. It makes you find the comm he had you put in your ear a bit useless.

The entire time, you felt the eyes of what felt like hundreds follow you. The sensation never felt threatening per say, but like usual when standing next to Sylus, people noticed him.

And thus, you as well.

You needed a break. And preferably a drink.

Sylus frowns up at you as you stand, “Do you need something?”

You shake your head as he goes to stand with you, “Just going to grab a drink. I’ll be right back.”

He hesitates, like he wants to follow, but you know that the next few protocores were ones he’d been interested in. Besides, like he said, you could handle yourself.

So in the end he squeezes your hand, giving it a quick kiss, “Keep your eyes open.”

You squeeze back, giving him a smile before turning back to the lobby. If you remember right the bar had been on the far side, near the door.

The room is now mostly empty, most of the clients seated in the auction room now, so you could clearly see the few people left watching you as you walked.

You hoped you looked more confident than you felt.

The bartender looks down at you, recognition hitting immediately as you order a glass of red wine. He doesn’t ask for any payment so you assume Sylus has a tab open. Or that this was hosted by Onychinous, so billing you - and thus the boss - would be a bit backwards.

Either way, you turned back to head the way you came.

And slammed directly into a taller man, who you didn’t recognize. His back was to you, but he’d stepped back from the person he’d been discussing with, stepping practically onto you as you tried to step away from the bar.

The red wine, not even a sip tasted, immediately covered the entirety of the front of the dress.

Not a huge deal. Sylus could easily have it cleaned, or just buy a new one, but damn it, you’d been tense for awhile now and that wine had looked really good.

You let out an aggravated sigh, and the man finally turns to look at you. He opens his mouth, and judging from his expression it wouldn’t have been an apology.

Your expression immediately drops further, and then the man behind him suddenly pulls him away, whispering quickly into his ear.

You watch the color drain from his face, his gaze drop to the brooch pinned to your dress, then back to your face. In a split second he seemed to go through multiple emotions, finally landing on something between panic and horror.

The other man is steadily pulling him away from you, not nearly as panicked, but still clearly not trusting the non-violence to last.

A quick glance at the auction room’s door confirms that Sylus hadn’t suddenly appeared.

These men were terrified. Of you.

Surprise hit you first, then a sense of satisfaction you 100% blamed Sylus for.

You slip into this character almost too easily, a pout forming that did nothing to hide the annoyance still in your eyes. A drenched dress was very uncomfortable.

“You ruined my dress.”

The men start talking over themselves, to the point you aren’t even quite sure what they are saying. You are pretty sure one offers to buy you a whole bottle - which merely gets an eyebrow raised from you in response (why take a bottle they can afford when you could ask Sylus for any bottle). There are multiple apologies, and then at one point they start talking about paying for your dress - or cleaning fees, whichever works.

You let them continue to ramble, turning back to the bar, setting the empty glass on the counter. The bartender immediately hands you a fresh glass and repours the wine. You turn back to them, expression calm.

Which, in hindsight, might have frightened them more. You know that calm Sylus, when you think he’s angry, is a terrifying sight to behold.

Attractive, but most don’t see it that way.

A smile lifts the sides of your lips, the comm now feeling like a welcome addition. Your hand moves to your ear, “Sylus, do you mind coming out for a moment? I’d rather not walk back in with a ruined dress.”

The men stiffen further, but your gaze watches the door and within seconds Sylus is pushing the door open and walking quickly into the lobby. His concern quickly shifts to curiosity when he sees the men frozen in front of you, and the wine staining your dress.

“What happened here, kitten?”

You give a halfhearted glare at the petname, rolling your eyes as he approaches. You open your mouth to explain, but the one who bumped into you is already bowing his head to Sylus, apologizing profusely.

Sylus ignores him, instead walking directly to you, checking to make sure you were okay. You give him a smile to let him know you were completely fine.

Sylus’ gaze drops into a professional expression as he turns back to the men. They both remain still, gazes on the ground. For a moment you wonder if they truly think Sylus would kill them for splashing wine on you.

You honestly weren’t quite sure either, and for that reason you placed a hand on his shoulder, effectively holding him back without much effort at all.

He sighs, looking down at you, then back to the men, “Leave. Now.”

The men stumble back, but not before thanking you profusely.

Not Sylus. You.

By the time they are gone, you’ve turned to Sylus who looks far too satisfied for a man who’d apparently been ready to spill blood over some spilled wine.

“Why do you look so smug?”

His grin widens, “I don’t believe you need to worry about my reputation, sweetie.”

Your brows crease, about to ask for clarification, when you figured out the logic he’d followed.

The men had panicked the second they’d realized who you were, they’d become even more afraid when you’d called Sylus, then they’d thanked you when Sylus had let them go.

“Oh my god.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow, his arm wrapping around you as his

evol glides across the front of your dress, cleaning the fabric, “Yes?”

“They think you’re like my attack dog or something.”

An amused chuckle comes from above you, “Do they?”

“Like if I told you to do something,” You look up at him, surprise and disbelief blending together, “you’d just…do it.”

He hums a soft sound, sounding a bit too close to agreement, but other than that he says nothing.

“Sylus,” a slight warning in your tone.

He just smiles, “Perhaps they were smarter than I initially gave them credit for.”

Your gaze snaps back to his, “Sylus.”

He pulls you close as he opens the door, leaning down into your ear, “Now imagine how they’d react when they see how you fight.”

Your mouth drops open, ready to argue back, but he’s already pulling you into the hall once again.

But you couldn’t exactly deny it.

You mutter a soft, “Unbelievable,” under your breath. The only indication he heard you is the answering chuckle you feel subtly shaking his chest.

“My lady?” A rough voice from outside called out. One of them maids ushers towards the door, swinging it open. Two guards stand outside your door, eerily similar faces and builds. They bow slightly before speaking, 

“His Highness sends a gift. He hopes you will accept it.” The one on the right pulls out a slim box from his robe, holding it in the palm of his hands. You retrieve it from him, your fingers gliding over the wooden box. You glance up at them, then your ladies-in-waiting. They smile at you softly, encouraging you to open it. 

You open the box, sliding the top open. Wrapped in a silk cloth is a beautiful hairpin. Datura flowers and vines are wrapped around the end, dangling with rubies. It’s beautiful. And definitely expensive. 

This sovereign definitely has money. You’re somewhat comforted by the fact that you will live at least comfortably. You look up at your ladies-in-waiting. One of them squeals with excitement, standing beside you. Her eyes twinkle with joy as she admires the hairpin, 

“My Lady! This is wonderful! His Highness has sent you a hairpin!” You don’t understand what the excitement is about. It is a hairpin. Albeit, it’s beautiful. There’s no denying that, but why are they all squealing and giggling. 

You place it back in the box, carefully wrapping it back into the silk cloth. You bow your head gently towards the two guards. 

“Please relay my gratitude to His Highness. It is beautiful.” You speak, soft and elegant. The two guards leave, your ladies and you standing in the center of the room. The oldest lady who is cleaning out your dresser speaks, 

“Perhaps he isn’t as horrible as the men of the nation rumor him to be.” She lightly glares at the two youngest who were whispering earlier. She places her hand on your shoulder, smiling. Despite knowing you for a short time, she has been nothing but kind. 

“What does this mean though?” You ask, looking around as they all look at you surprised. Then, they all smile knowingly. A few giggle, the oldest lady sighing. Nobody answers your question, ushering you out of your clothes. 

They help you lotion yourself, rubbing a scented oil on your skin while another lights a multitude of incense. You wonder what he truly is like. A tyrant, you’ve heard. Harsh, irritable, cruel— These words coil in your stomach. It’s not as if you can run away now.

Perhaps it is better to be the wife of a tyrant than to be on the streets, just waiting for some unruly man to harm you once more…. 

The two of you sit across from one another, a round table between your bodies. You keep your gaze on your lap, the red veil covering your view of him. You’ve yet to get a good look at him. His piercing gaze frightening you enough. 

He holds a porcelain cup in his hand, eyeing the cold cup resting in front of you. He reaches over, pouring the cold contents of your cup into his own. He proceeds to pour you a fresh one, hot and steaming. 

“It gets cold in this area at night. It is custom to drink hot tea before you go to sleep.” He speaks casually, his voice deep and rumbling in his chest. He looks at you, resting his elbow on his raised knee. “You can remove your veil if you’d like. I can help if you so desire.” 

There’s a playful tone to his words, but your guard is still up. You gently remove your veil, still looking down at you. He does not chide you. He nudges the tea cup closer, leaning over the table. 

“Drink.” He orders, tone stern. You finally return his gaze, head raising. Your eyes widen slightly. The ladies at the pavilion did not describe just how famous the Autarch of Xuanyu truly is. His shoulders are broad even under his robes, sharp features, beautiful eyes. 

His eyes. You feel compelled to compliment him, but keep shut. You finally take the teacup into your hand, sniffing it before drinking. Something with ginger. You aren’t too knowledgeable… 

You set it back down as he clears his throat. He beckons you to sit comfortably. You finally rest your stiff posture, getting comfortable on the floor. 

“I wanted to ask you, Your Highness.” You finally speak up. He interrupts you before you can finish. 

“Sylus.” He states. You flash him a confused face. “My name is Sylus. You are my wife. You are under no obligation to call me by my title. We are of equal standing. There is no need to address me so formally.” You blink owlishly at him. Sylus chuckles, drinking the last bit of his cold tea. “Apologies. Continue.” He nods. 

“Why did you pay to marry me? If it is for political power, I regret to inform you that my father was the one who gave me away. I am of no use.” You softly sigh, preparing for him to become angry. 

“I am aware.” He replies, watching your every move. Again, you are bewildered. He is an odd man. 

“Then why…?” You mumble, quickly stopping. 

“Speak freely in my presence. You are my wife. You have that authority.” He narrows his eyes at you as if he is trying to convince you. You nod in reply. “I simply felt as if I should. There is no other reason.” 

You can’t help but think there is more to it, but you keep silent. You nod in reply, not digging deeper. 

“Then, are there any rules you have for me?” You bow your head once more. He sits straighter, reaching forward to tip your head up. 

“A few. One, do not bow your head at me. We are of equal stations. I am your husband, you, my wife. It is unnecessary.” He leans back, eyes still on your form. He raises two fingers. “Secondly, I would like to have one meal with you every day. We are married. It would be nice to get to know one another, yes?” 

You nod in return, pouring him more tea. 

“This isn’t a rule, but you are free to live in whatever way suits you. If you would like to find a job somewhere, I do not mind. Though, you are free to spend my pension with no restrictions. But if you wish to, I will not stop you. Even if you stay in my home and do nothing but lounge about, it does not bother me.” He breathes in, voice low, almost whispering. 

“All I ask is that you eat a meal with me. That is all. Whichever meal of your choice, any food of your choice. I will make time for you. You are allowed to call on me no matter what. I am your husband, I will be there.” That strikes you in the chest. It is surprising, seeing how… polite he is compared the stories you have heard. But you’re smarter than that, than to blindly believe the word of a man. But you nod, you do not object. 

“I thank you, Your Highness.” You raise your arms to bow your head, but he grabs a hold of your forearms. His grip isn’t tight, but there’s enough pressure to capture your attention. He lowers your arms, your eyes gazing into his. His face looks pained, almost uncomfortable. 

“Sylus. And do not bow to me. Lest you want me to bow to you?” His eyebrows perk up, mischief swirling in his eyes. You widen your eyes, shaking your head. The corners of his lips curl upwards as he stands on his feet. 

“Good. Then I shall go to my chambers.” He hums. You stumble to your feet. 

“Wait. Do you not…” Your words falter, seeing his smirk form as he looks over his shoulder. 

“Would you like to?” He asks, brows raised. Amused to the fullest degree. Your cheeks flush, irritated. He is far too mischievous for an official. You shake your head, clearing your throat. 

“Goodnight then, my dear.” You nod in reply, eyeing the room around you as you try to calm your racing heart. 

The Autarch of Xuanyu is not a picky eater. He doesn’t have a penchant for sweets, but he eats whatever you choose. Oftentime, the skillful merchant takes you out to eat, walk around the city. People stare, awfully so. 

A beautiful girl with a man like him… It is peculiar. What’s even more peculiar to Sylus is that you do not wear any other hairpin aside from the one he gifted you on your wedding night. As the carriage drives into the city, he leans down to whisper in your ear. 

“My dear.” His shoulder rubs against yours. You peel your eyes away from the scenery and look up at him. Your eyebrows raise softly. “Do you not like any of your other jewelry?” He asks, noting the simplicity of your outfits. You typically hone the same jewelry. Your hairstyles change, thanks to your ladies-in-waiting, but your jewelry does not alter. 

“I do not have any others, Sylus.” You reply, plainly. He’s taken aback. You speak as if that is normal, as if that suits his wife. Puzzled he leans down, 

“You do not have any others?” He parrots, voice tilting in confusion. You nod. “My dear,” He sighs, exasperated. He pinches the bridge of his nose, huffing a laugh. “If you needed— or wanted more— I’d be willing to buy it for you. I have told you before, no? My pension is yours to spend.” 

You keep your eyes on your lap, twisting your fingers nervously. The carriage comes to a stop, followed by Sylus stepping out. He holds open the door with one hand, the other reaching out for you. 

“Come. Let us eat. We will discuss this later.” You take it hand, carefully exiting the carriage. 

Perhaps you’ve become a bit spoiled with the Autarch. He isn’t anything like the rumors. Sure, perhaps you’ve overheard a few conversations while passing by his office room that you most definitely shouldn’t have. He’s straightforward, blunt about his wants and offers. When insulted, he retaliates. 

With you though, he’s kind and warm. He holds an arm out for you whenever you go, he gives in to any of your desires, nor does he restrict you in any matter. You’re free to spend as much money as you would like. You may go anywhere, converse with anyone. 

Being the Autarch’s wife allows the world to become your oyster. 

He’s attentive and dutiful as well. Despite being married for over six months, he has not pressured you about fulfilling your marital duties. In fact, he defends you. When your father came to visit you, he remarked that you were not yet pregnant. He scolded you, telling you that you were letting a grand opportunity slip from your fingers because of your stubbornness. Your comfort. 

You mentioned this conversation to Sylus. Albiet, it was after a very uncomfortable and sudden attempt to fulfill your ‘duties’ as a wife. Nothing had happened. But Sylus wasn’t pleased. And that’s saying it lightly. 

He was furious, demanding your father to explain himself. You are his wife, no longer that man’s daughter. Sure, he cannot erase the blood connection you have, but your father severed any ties he had with you when he sold you off. 

You’re one of the lucky ones, to say the least. Hearing the stories of other women during functions or balls certainly isn’t helping either. You do not think Sylus would be a beast, nor force you into fulfilling your duties, but he is a man after all. He too has desires. Perhaps he may need them fulfilled… 

“Sweetheart,” Sylus calls out to you, noticing you’ve spaced out. You blink up at him, feeling his fingers brush your bangs out of the way. He smiles, ushering you into the restaurant. He doesn’t smile at others, reserving it only for you. The staff are slightly comforted by the fact that the Autrach’s lady is with him. He tends to be more harmonious with you around. 

He isn’t cruel to them, more destructive. But he pays handsomely for his misbehaviour, so the boss doesn’t dare complain. You take a sit across from Sylus, allowing him to serve you a cup of tea. You’ve noticed he quite likes the tea they serve here, opting to drink multiple cups. 

“What were you thinking about?” He asks, resting his chin in his palm. He’s teasing you, his lips curled up. You chuckle, breathing out. 

“Nothing of importance.” You reply, raising the cup to your lips. You don’t dare bring up the conversation of his needs in public. But you cannot help but wonder: Has he ever thought of it? 

You don’t think you would mind. It’s not as if you are in love with him. You like him, you’ll admit. He is kind, nurturing, everything you have longed for after dealing with a multitude of arrogant, abusive men. He is a breath of fresh air.

But if the ladies at the balls and functions are correct, then you cannot abstain from your duties forever. It must happen eventually. Whether you like it or not. You're uneasy for the remainder of lunch. If Sylus notices, he doesn't say so. But you know it will come up eventually. 

The market is bustling as usual. Even more so when the locals are aware that the Autrach is here. You've learned that people are more partial to speaking to you than him. You're kinder, softer. Sylus is well… Himself. 

You stop at multiple stands, admiring the handwork and trinkets that are on display. You find a few pieces of jewelry you like. Paid by Sylus, of course. You look back to see him looking around at the people. You take a gander as well. There are many beautiful girls in sight. Your stomach churns once again. This time though, you feel like you may puke. 

For your image's sake, you request to go back home. Sylus does not question you, but his hand is firm on your lower back. The ride back isn't peaceful by any means. Sylus allows you to lean on him, but that doesn't help you either. You whimper into your own palms, sick with worry. 

It's a blur, getting back to his estate. When you come to consciousness, one of your ladies-in-waiting is pressing a cold towel to your forehead. She quivers because behind her is your husband, arms crossed and brows furrowed. You blearily blink as you open your eyes, groaning. Everything hurts, your head, your stomach, and especially your throat. You cough, violently sitting up. Your lady-in-waiting gasps, rubbing your back. 

"Your Highness!" She comforts you. She's nudged aside by Sylus who kneels by your bedside. She brings a cup of warm water to your lips. You swallow down the water, the ache in your throat easing slightly. He pulls it away from you, silently placing it on the table. 

Soon, a doctor comes into the room. You can't hear his conversation with Sylus, but his body language only frightens you further. You weakly reach out your arm to him, tugging on the sleeve of his robe. You feel horrible. You whimper a sob, his head turning around swiftly. He clutches your hand in his, smoothing a hand over your sweaty head. 

It's summer, there's no reason you should be catching a cold. His face is the epitome of worry. You know the doctor's still talking, but you keep your eyes on Sylus's gaze. His beautiful eyes. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, rubbing your cheek. 

"I don't understand." He states, speaking to the doctor. The doctor cowers behind Sylus, eyes on his sock-clad feet. 

"Perhaps Her Highness isn't adjusting well to a new environment. Stress can do unimaginable things to the body, Your Highness. Ample rest will do her well." He writes a prescription and hands it to the lady in the corner of the room. She nods as the doctor turns back to Sylus who is still looking at you. 

"She will recover, Your Highness." He bows before exiting the room. The lady also takes an initiative to go retrieve your prescription, leaving Sylus and you alone in the room. He's perplexed. What could you possibly be stressed about? He's provided everything you have asked for. Is there something he is missing? Is he lacking in a department? 

"My dear," He whispers, thumb brushing over your forehead. Your eyes flutter shut. The corners of your eyes burn the longer you try to keep them open. Sylus shushes you softly, rubbing over your eyebrow. "Rest. We will speak later." 

You do not get the opportunity to speak to him later. In fact, you do not see your husband until winter. Monthly, you receive a letter from him. He's stuck in a neighboring nation, having to stay until the end of the summer festival. However, the date for his return keeps getting pushed back by unseen circumstances. He still sends money weekly though, handed to you through one of the guards you met on your wedding day. Occasionally, he sends you presents. Custom-made hairpins, necklaces, earrings-- You name it, he has bought it. He has also sent a tailor to your home, requesting that you get some new clothes for yourself.

You sit in the house all day, replying to his letters with simple replies. You do not have much to say in return. He ends every letter with blessings and the same message, 

"I truly hope you are resting well, my dear. When I return home, let us sit down and talk. I am still concerned about you. If there is anything you wish for, please voice it. Even if it is a complaint. I will do better. Take care, my dear." 

You are still riddled with worry. Your father's words still haunt you after multiple months. How can you comfort yourself when every story you have heard has ended the same? You've heard it happen again and again. Perhaps you just need to swallow your pride and do as you are told. You cannot run away from your fate. 

If it is meant to happen, it will. 

Despite all your anxieties, you still miss Sylus. He made you grow accustomed to eating together once a day. It is painful to see only one plate, one teacup set at the table. It hurts to see that his bedchamber no longer has his scent. You long to hear him call you "my dear" once more. You long to feel his ruffle your hair when you make him smile, or when you pout at his jokes. 

Despite everything, you do love spending time with him. You love being with him. You've come to love Sylus. Sylus, who despite everything, is the complete opposite of the rumors that caused you to have nightmares. You do not live in fear of the man who sleeps down the hall from you. You are willing to let your guard down. You, for the first time, are willing to love. You want to love, but you do not have anything to offer. And that is the most painful part of it all. 

How can you love this man when you are not ready to love him in the way every man wants? However, winter must pass. Spring will always bloom. 

New Year's has arrived in the time Sylus has been away. In his latest letter, he writes: 

"My dear, I'm pleased to say I am going to depart tonight. I apologize it has taken me this long to return. I long to return home to you. How have you been? What is different this time of year? The daturas in the garden should be blooming around this time. Ask Luke and Kieran to take you out to the market, fetch yourself any sweets you enjoy. You have been through a rough year. I hope that this year will be better for us both. I also hope that you have fun at the lantern festival this year. I had wanted to be the first person to take you, but it seems the stars have not aligned for us, have they, my dear? Enjoy your time with your ladies. Luke and Kieran will guide you to a terrace I had reserved for us. I hope that you will enjoy the view." 

With the letter is a red packet, stuffed with cash. Your eyes bulge at the sheer weight of it. You glance back at Kieran and Luke who bow, smiling softly. You are bummed though. You had wished that he would return before the end of the year. However, you are the wife of a merchant. This is simply part of it, is it not?

You are ushered by your ladies-in-waiting to get dressed. The lantern festival is tonight. Despite Sylus's absence, you are still attending the festival nonetheless. Fan in hand, you walk down the streets, trying to follow Luke and Kieran's confusing directions. If you're being honest, you're partially irritated. Why couldn't they just take you? 

You grumble, going down a path of taverns. It is beautiful out tonight. The wind is blowing softly, the glow of the night lights are gorgeous. Not to mention how alive the city is tonight. As you scoot between people, murmuring apologies, you spot a flash of white in the corner of your eye. You do not know what has compelled you to look up, but you do. You're glad you did. 

Returning your gaze is a certain white-haired man. Someone you are intimately familiar with. Your eyes widen as he smiles, sipping on his drink. But your irritation slowly seeps back in. He is gone for months and shows up in the most casual way possible. You shoot him a glare, hiding your face behind your fan. You see him chuckle before you turn your head and keep walking. 

But Sylus has never let you stray far from him. Somehow, he manages to get a ribbon tied around you. You're flung into the air, a loud scream escaping your lips. You squeeze your eyes, heart racing. He also has never let you fall. Sylus takes a hold of you, pressing you to his chest before seating you on the railing.

You peek up from his body, your fan still hiding your face. His hair has grown longer, his build stronger. Your cheeks flush being so close to him as your eyes dart away. 

"Husbands don't typically kidnap their wives off the street, you know?" You mumble, pouting. Sylus rumbles a laugh, turning himself to stand beside you. He leans on the railing, tucking your hair behind your ear. 

"I missed you too, kitten." He snickers, tapping at the car ears on your head. Your eyes widen as you smack his hand away. 

"That was… I didn't ask for such a hairstyle!" He's already teasing you despite not seeing you for over six months. You huff, swinging your legs. Sylus smiles beside you, resting his head on your shoulder. He presses his nose into your skin, inhaling your scent. You stiffen, allowing him to touch you as he pleases. Sylus hums into your skin. 

"Truly, I have missed you, sweetheart." His eyes flutter shut, melting into your side. He pulls away, guiding you to the small table and chair set on the balcony. From here, the view is amazing. You can see the entire city and its beautiful lights. Your eyes dilate with wonder, the lights glowing on your face. 

Sylus takes a seat across from you, pouring the clear liquid into the cup he was previously drinking from. He smiles, standing. He stands between your legs, placing the rim of the cup at your lips. 

"We never did have a drink together, did we?" His eyes glow with sincerity. The bags under his eyes are deeper as well. You lean forward, sipping from the cup. Being so close to him after being apart for so long, you take initiative to press forward. His brows raise, but Sylus does not back away from your touch. Your arms loop around his neck, pulling him down. He kneels by your feet, tilting his head up to yours. 

You finally press your lips over his, sighing into him. He opens his mouth, allowing some of the alcohol to slip into his own mouth. It burns down both your throats, but you do not mind it. You want to kiss him, want him to understand how deeply you have missed him. 

It is private up here, there's no need to worry about onlookers or gossipers. However, you're sure someone will say something about your indecency. Sylus, always thinking ahead, pulls away. His eyes flutter open, gaze dragging up from your lap to your eyes. You've looked away from him, your face red. He chuckles, taking your hand in his. He presses a kiss to your knuckles, whispering. 

"I have missed you terribly, my dear." He presses another kiss to your wrist, inhaling your scent. "However, I am still worried. You never elaborated on your worries. Let us air your grievances, release your heart of your stress and worries before the New Year, hm?" He tilts his head to the side, nuzzling into your palm as it cups his cheek. You inhale deeply, voice shaky. He comforts you, rubbing your hands with his. 

"I was afraid you would…" You take a moment, pausing to articulate yourself properly. Sylus is patient, giving you the floor. "I was afraid you would become impatient with me one day. Come to resent me for failing to perform my duties as a wife." You keep your eyes glued to his hands rubbing yours. He doesn't speak, allowing you ample time to speak your mind. "If you wished to fulfill your needs with another woman, I would permit it. It isn't as if I could stop you." 

Finally, Sylus intervenes. 

"What?" He replies, brows tugged down in confusion. "My dear." He shifts on his knees, fully kneeling on his knees. He dips his head down, trying to catch your gaze. He pushes up your chin, eyes swirling with compassion. "Why would you think such a thing? Have I said anything to warrant such a thought? If so, I sincerely apologize." 

Sylus takes your hands and places them on his heart, allowing you to feel the way his heart is racing beneath his chest. Your eyes well with tears. If your ears were real, Sylus is certain they would be tilted down. 

"My father…." Sylus groans at the mention of his name. "And the stories I've heard from ladies. It is a normal thing to desire one's partner. I just-- I just was never ready. And I do not know when I will be." 

Sylus sighs, chuckling softly. He cups your face, pressing a kiss to your cheek and forehead. He looks at you as if you've hung the moon and stars, lips turned into a soft smile. 

"You do not ever have to be ready. You do not owe me a thing. You only need to accept my love. I have loved you from the moment I saw you in town. You never needed to prove a thing to me." You stared at him, bewildered. Sylus chuckles at your realization. "You haggled with me." He snickered, shaking his head. "You called me a low-life for having such a high price on sweets. When I saw you again when I returned to Xuanyu, seeing you in such a state, I did what I could to help you." He clears his throat, ears reddening. 

"Is that why you…" You say under your breath, only for Sylus's ears to hear. He grins, nodding.

"Yes. You have never needed to prove yourself to me. I have loved you since I saw you." Love at first sight. That was not what you were expecting. He brushes your bangs away from your face. "Do not allow people, let alone a man like your father, to get into your head like this. Drive you sick with worry." He bumps his head against yours, wincing softly. Sylus chuckles, kissing you once more. 

He finally stands to sit across from you. You turn your body, finally noticing the lantern on the table. You take a hold of it, revealing a paint brush and dish behind it. As you twirl it around, a painting of a cat is illustrated on. 

"I drew it." Sylus says, amused. He pours another drink, swallowing it down cleanly. You frown, looking at him. You narrow your eyes. As you point to your head you speak, 

"This was your doing." You state plainly, not even questioning his involvement. He laughs across from you, his shoulders and body shaking. 

"Yes. And I think it suits you quite well, kitten." He jokes, pouring another cup. This time, he pushes it in your direction. "Drink. Then I will take you somewhere else to see the lights. We may light ours as well." 

You take the cup in your hands, copying his movements. You regret it instantly, sputtering a cough. Sylus chuckles, using his sleeve to wipe the liquid that drips down your mouth. You clear your throat, glaring at him. 

"You drank it like it was water… It wasn't that bad earlier." You huff, placing the cup back down. Sylus stands, watching as you draw your arms out. He tilts his head, admiring you softly before scooping you into his arms. 

"Distance truly makes the heart grow fonder. Wouldn't you agree?" You nod against his shoulder, looping your arms around his neck. He holds you with one arm, allowing you to rest on the bend of his arm. His hand splays over your thigh, squeezing it slightly before standing on the railing. "I hope you aren't afraid of heights." 

In a flash, he jumps off the railing. You grip onto him, afraid he may lead you to your death. However, you begin to feel light, as if you're floating in the air. Sylus drifts around the tavern, bringing you to the rooftop. You stand on the ridge, gripping his hands for dear life. You whimper softly. legs trembling at the sheer height. You look at Sylus, brows knit with worry. He grins, chuckling. 

"It's alright. I won't let you fall, my dear." He flashes you a toothy grin seeing you tremble softly. In his other hand, he holds the lantern with his free hand stretched out. "Come, we may light it together." You're quick to pull into his embrace, arms wound around his waist. You press your cheek into the side of his chest and bring your hand under the lantern. His hand cups yours, encapsulating you. 

The lantern softly lights up, a golden-orange hue shimmering over your faces. You gasp, giggling as you watch it float. Behind it are hundreds, if not thousands, of other lanterns. They float in the night sky, flying high. You watch in awe as the sky is practically lit up. Your eyes travel to Sylus's face, who is already looking at you. 

"To a better year." He softly whispers, leaning down. His nose brushes against yours as his lips graze your forehead. He presses a kiss to your temple, eyes fluttering shut. You squeeze your arm around him, cheerfully smiling. 

It takes you a while to get comfortable to Sylus's touches. He starts small, kissing your knuckles and cheeks. He allows you ample time to back away, to let the hesitation slip in. It never does though. You're certain in him. The Autrach is clingy though, always having an arm around you. The sheer weight of him is something you may get used to. Nor the heat that radiates off his body. 

His touches are never rough though, soft and patient. He's quick to pick up on your cues. A hand on his chest as you stand on your toes means you want a kiss. You stare at his face long enough, perhaps you also want a kiss. You simply exist in his presence? A kiss! 

The kisses never lead to anything much. The furthest you've gone is sitting on his lap. It's become your new home, your throne. 

His kisses aren't rushed, even if he is leaving for the day. Soft and mellow. His hands aren't either. They're gentle, thumbs brushing against your ribs over your robes. They're big enough to cover most of your waist. You do enjoy looking at them. Your mind wanders from time to time. Even staring at him tends to have your mind wandering. 

The first time you go further with the Autrach is on a late evening. You had just been invited by a high ranking official for dinner. The dinner was also a business meeting, the official requesting something from Sylus. The two of you stumble into your shared bedroom, fingers through each other's hair. For the first time, Sylus's kisses are rushed. As if he cannot get enough. 

Your back hits the wall, Sylus's legs sliding between yours. It rides up your dress, a moan pulled out of your lips. That was the first crack in his resolve: your noises. Next is your touch. Your hands drag down his chest, nails curling into his shoulders as you try to push yourself up. The final is you saying his name:

"Sylus," You breathe out, hands clutching onto his robes as you tug him lower. He practically melts into your touch, humming into your mouth. Sylus's hands reach under your outer robes, tugging on the belt around your waist. It falls by your feet with a thump, his fingers massaging your waist and hips. You moan into him again, his tongue gliding between your lips. Your hands pull off his robes. It pools by his feet before he pulls you closer.

Sylus takes a few steps back, the back of his calves.hitting the bed. He pulls you down with him, bunching your clothing around your hips when you kneel around his hips. Sylus lays below you as you crawl over him. He takes a moment to admire you. Lips swollen, eyes dilated as you pant. You're so beautiful he might die right then and there. 

"My beloved." He calls out to you, cupping your cheek. You rub your cheek into his hand, humming. He huffs a laugh, drawing you closer. Your entire weight on his body, Sylus keeps one hand over your ass, the other tangled in your hair. 

You sigh into him, kissing him once more. Sylus’s hand kneads your ass, breathing out your name. He manages to roll you under him, pinning down your hips so you can’t run away. You lock your ankles around his tailbone, rubbing yourself over him. 

It’s maddening, the pure spikes of pleasure you get from simply rubbing on him. Sylus encourages this, hands around your hips as he grinds you harder onto him. He mutters soft praises, kissing down your neck. He manages to tug off your final layer of clothing, leaving you in your undergarments. You shy away under his gaze, looking at the curtains that canopy your shared bed. 

“You’re beautiful, my beloved.” Sylus praises, nipping the junction where your neck and shoulders meet. You gasp softly, smacking him on the shoulder. He had a knack for biting. 

“Stop that, you dog!” You hiss as Sylus laps at your wound. He lifts his head up with teasing eyes. 

“Woof.” You roll your eyes, allowing your head to smack against the bed. You groan as his teeth bite down on more of your exposed skin. It feels nice though, especially when he laps and sucks at it. He brings a hand up from your hips, massaging your breast. 

He uses the sides of his fingers to pinch and roll your nipples softly, allowing you to get used to the sensation. You’re awfully sensitive though, writhing under the smallest of touches. Sylus keeps his eyes on your expressions, watching for any sign of discomfort. 

Your eyes are squeezing shut, brows knitted, but the wanton moans escaping your lips hint that you’re enjoying yourself. Sylus snickers, leaning down to once again nip at your skin. He laps at your sensitive nipples, blowing cold air over them. Your back arches into him, hands smacking at his bare shoulders. 

He laughs, finally committing. His lips wrap around your nipples, suckling at the sensitive peaks as they fully harden in his mouth. His hand reaches out, intertwining his fingers with yours. You dig your nails into his knuckles, back bowing harshly the more he sucks. 

Sylus pulls away, spoiling your other breast with the same attention. His free hand slides down your torso, followed by his lips. He kisses down your stomach and ribs, reaching your undergarments. He tugs them down with his teeth, letting them pool at your ankles and inevitably slide off. 

He slides off the bed, kneeling by the edge. Sylus wraps his hands around your ankles, tugging you off the edge. Your ass hangs over the edge, putting pressure on your tailbone, but Sylus alleviates it by having a hand under you. Your legs dangle over his broad shoulders, a field of white hair between your legs. 

His eyes darken, pulling apart your lower lips with his fingers. You’re swollen and dripping, body tensing the longer he looks. You whine from above, 

“Sylus,” You cry out, nudging him with your foot. “Stop staring, it’s embarrassing…” It isn’t the first time he’s seen you bare. There’s been a handful of times the Autrach has snuck his way under your robes and lapped at your cunt. He’s gotten a face full many times, but this time it’s different. 

He’s seeing you in the light, in a space where he can truly hear you whine and cry out for him. He hums, still staring. 

“I know, kitten. But you’re so beautiful. How could I not?” He smirks from between your legs, watching as your head hits the pillow again with a scoff. He’s always been one for flattery, showering you with praises and flowery words. 

He doesn’t waste anymore time, gliding a finger up and down your slit until you’re bucking your hips. Sylus concedes, gently sliding his finger into your heat. Your walls clench around his intruding finger that goes straight to your sweet spot. Having mapped out your body, Sylus knows where to prods and poke, what to tease and lick. He’s thrilled watching you react to his ministrations. 

His finger curls into your cunt, pulling a pitchy moan from you. You inhale, his thumb coming down to press on your clit. He watches as your walls constrict around his finger, soaking his digit. Your slick smears around your inner thighs, down to the base of Sylus’s palm. 

He adds another finger, your cunt spasming at the stretch. You whine, narrowing your eyes at him. He doesn’t return your gaze, but chuckles. 

“I need to make sure you’re stretched out, my beloved. Or else it will hurt.” Your huff is cut short when his thumb starts circling your clit, smearing your slick over it. It heightens your sensitivity, hips bucking into his palm. Your moans never stop, a mantra of Sylus’s name the closer you get to your peak. 

“I know, beloved. It feels good, hm?” Sylus grins, admiring your face from where he’s kneeling under you. He stands, his fingers still fucking your cunt to see your face. He uses his free hand to squeeze your cheeks, allowing you to scoot higher on the bed to support your back. “I want to see your face.” He whispers, hovering over you. 

Your legs lock around his hips loosely, slowly nodding. You enjoy his attention, being pinned under his gaze. It’s exhilarating, heart ramming against your chest. It leaves you breathless and flustered. His gaze is so sharp, so strong and mind-numbing. You want to succumb to all your desires, blurt out every want and feeling you have to him when he looks at you like that. 

Your stomach begins to tighten, breathing in heavier. Sylus watches your face contort, lips forming into an o-shape as your back arches forward. Your hips stutter, hands clawing at Sylus's back. 

"Sylus," You moan out, head rolling back against the sheets and you writhe. He hums in return, too enamoured with the sight of you about to cum. You grip his wrist, nails digging into his skin, but Sylus does not stop. He presses harder, keeping the same rhythm. He ups the intensity, rolling your clit side to side. You finally succumb to your desires, a hot gush of slick flooding Sylus's fingers and wrist as you cum on his hand. You cry out far louder than intended, his name on the tip of your tongue as you press your forehead to his shoulder.

"My beloved." Sylus purrs, kissing your cheeks and swollen lips. You whimper against his lips, curling into him as you come down from your high. "So beautiful. All for me. My beautiful wife." He presses a flurry of kisses over your skin, lapping at the sweat the drips down your neck. 

Sylus is able to pull multiple orgasms out of you, not once tugging down his pants. Boneless and hazed, you reach out for Sylus who's lapping at your cunt as if his life depends on it. You push on your elbows, tugging at his strands. He lets you pull his head back, guide him over your body. You slot yourself into his arms, pinning him under you. He's pliant to your touch, allowing you to move him however he pleases. 

As you mount his hips, your greedy fingers tug at the string keeping them around his hips. You roughly pull the fabric down, unintentionally soaking Sylus's thigh. He feels your heat soak through his pants, sending his head reeling. He's been holding onto a thread of patience the entire time, prioritizing your comfort over his own pleasure. 

You dip your hand down, gently holding his cock in your hand at the base. Sylus sighs, relieved at your hand wrapped around him. Your hands are softer, much warmer than his palm. He shudders as you pump him once or twice. You mutter his name, throat hoarse. 

"Yes, dear?" He groans, hands settling on your bare hips. You're quiet, staring at his cock as it throbs in your hand. 

"I don't think it will fit…" Your voice trembles slightly, dragging your eyes up his well-toned torso to his face. Sylus's brows crease before he chuckles. He leans up, pressing a kiss on your lips. 

"It will, trust me." You crawl backwards, laying flat as Sylus crawls over you once more. He presses kisses to your skin, soothing your tense body. His hand kneads your hip as he whispers, low and soft, "We'll take it slow." 

It comforts you slightly. You look away when he brings your sore thighs up to rest on his shoulder. Your ankle dangles over his frame, Sylus's free hand coming down to align himself with your entrance. He slides the tip of his cock over your swollen lips, moaning as your heat envelops him. 

"Sweetie," Sylus calls out. You turn to look at him, his eyes warm. He smiles, tilting his head down to kiss you once more. "Slow. We take it slow." You nod in return, eyes glued to his cock between your thighs. You watch as his hips push forward, the tip disappearing past your entrance. The stretch is there, but it isn't intense. Sylus groans, your wet walls instantly clenching down on him. He sputters, gasping. 

"Beloved." He squeezes your hip, strained. "Relax, relax." He runs a hand up and down your side, feeling your body melt into the mattress. Your cunt gently relaxes, allowing him to push in deeper. Sylus sighs in relief, his cock sinking deeper into you. You pulse around him, eyes on his face. His eyebrows are creased together, the tips of his ears flushed red. 

It feels like an eternity before Sylus fully pushes himself inside of you. By then, you're chest to chest as Sylus shallowly grinds himself into your cunt. You clench and gush around him, moaning out his name into his lips. Your nails track marks down his arms and back, certain they will bruise by morning. But that's neither here nor there.

You have your fair share of marks as well. Sylus's bites litter your body. One you're sure you ladies-in-waiting will giggle about as they help you bathe tomorrow. But again, that's neither here nor there. You indulge in the long awaited moment with your lover. Your husband. 

"My wife." Sylus groans, kissing you once more before he retracts his hips. He pushes back in, the two of you moaning in unison. It's beautiful, how in tune the two of you are. Sylus pulls away from your lips, whispering against your skin. "Do you know how irresistible you look when you succumb to your desires?" He looks ravenous, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. 

You flush, kissing him once more, hands cupping his cheeks. Sylus nuzzles into your palm, gently biting down on the meat of your palm. 

"I want to devour you, one bite at a time." He leans closer, noses brushing. "May I? Please, my beloved. I want nothing more than to have you. Be one with you. Will you allow me that?" He's borderline needy, pleading against your lips. He's giving you one last opportunity to back out, despite everything that has transpired in your shared bed tonight. 

You know if you said no Sylus would back off. But you do not want to. You want him to devour you, consume you until you become one-- Body and soul. You nod, 

"Yes, my husband. Please," You pant against his lips. Sylus's patience has snapped, his hips fucking into you. The tip of his cock abuses your sweet spot, your stomach feels sore as it clenches around him. Your chest pushes into his, nails scarring down his back. Sylus groans at the pain, but it only makes his orgasm grow faster. 

You're not too far behind him, blubbering and babbling against his lips. His thrust grows sloppy, but with your legs locked around him, he opts to keep grinding his cock into you. You mewl, keeling when his pelvis rubs against your clit. You're long gone, cumming on Sylus's cock with a shout. You screech, throat aching as you sob into him, pussy spasming around his cock.

 Sylus cranes his neck back to look at your face as you cum. He doesn't mind the neck pain he'll deal with tomorrow as the sight of your face is the sole reason he cums instantly. It's a quick rush of heat inside of you, spilling out between your inner thighs. Sylus's body gives out, his entire weight pressing down on you. He noses your neck, inhaling your scent as he mutters praises. 

"My beloved wife. Beautiful, soft. Thank you, my love. Thank you." He's babbling, pussydrunk. "I love you." Sylus weakly pushes himself up on his elbows to kiss your lips once more. "Thank you. I love you, my wife. My beloved." 

dragon!sylus watched your stiff movements. the muscles on your back tight, fingers tightly curled around furs before you practically slammed them onto the ground–something that made his body still. he never liked you standing in your nest with that look on your face

dragon!sylus could feel the frustration roll off of you in crashing waves. that heat that slowly builds and encompasses your body. the skin between your brows furrowed, his sharp eyes watch as your eye lightly twitches

he knows humans have big feelings and that they tend to keep them inside, much to his chagrin. he waits for you to speak first, waits for you to express yourself on your own time, for you to come to him. so he hovers near the edge of the nest, tail stiff and still behind his back, his body isn’t hunched but he’s not standing tall

it was a silly argument, nothing serious enough for raised voices or terse words but one that feels like the icing on the cake. that hot streak of misplaced irritation about something small, something you can’t even remember right now. maybe you stubbed your toe on a stray crown, woke up feeling too smothered by the furnace you call a mate

it didn’t matter, you would come to talk it out soon enough and the weight would leave your chest. you’d come to him and he’d listen to your issues while nuzzling against your face, a soothing purr would leave his chest, maybe you’d feel dampness across your cheek from him licking you

so when you abruptly turned around to face him and made your way towards him with sure steps, he was ready. body loosening and back curving down to match your height, his dragon brain buzzing in excitement, waiting to make up with you

what dragon!sylus didn’t expect was for you to grab his horns and bash your forehead against his. surprise and shock shot through his body, slitted eyes widening as he stared into your determined gaze. it wasn’t as harsh or aggressive as dragons normally would be but it left his forehead warm (in a weird way). your forehead came back onto his and your hands shook his head lightly, a little grunt leaving your lips

When you got the third anonymous tip of the month about nefarious activity going on downtown, you should have known it was him. Sylus kept pulling shit like this to get your attention, and it was all because of that one night. After a long week, you went out with a couple of friends for drinks at a club that was on the dodgy side of town. While you danced, you felt him watching you, sizing you up, long before you saw him. The heat of his gaze seemed to brush against your skin and left you with a lightheaded buzz that alcohol could never replicate. When he slid in behind you, your friend gave you a less-than-subtle wink and shimmied away, leaving you alone with him. 

Then…well, you prefer not to recount the rest of the night in detail.  

The morning of, you had told Sylus that you were too drunk to remember anything, but the truth was, not only had you been stone cold sober that night, but you were terribly embarrassed. The image of you unabashedly backing your ass into him on the dance floor, then doing it again in his bed hours later, still made you wince. Sylus, unfortunately, didn’t share the sentiment. He had been hounding you for the last few months, asking for a ‘do over’ in that aggravatingly sexy voice of his. 

You thought he would be mortified, the same way you were, when he found out the two of you were at opposite ends of the law, but if anything, it was like finding out you were a policewoman made him want you more.

Admittedly, you should have been more upset that he kept calling in fake reports to get your attention; he was wasting your time and the force’s resources after all, but something was thrilling about his determination when it came to you. It sent a frenzied flurry of butterflies in your belly, and you crossed your arms as if that would still them.  

“And whose fault is that, Sylus?” You arched an accusing brow at him, to which he only shrugged.

“If you answered my calls, there'd be no need for theatrics.” He stood up from his chair and started walking towards you, hands held out and wrists exposed in mock surrender. “Yet, here we are.”

You rolled your eyes at him and closed the distance in a few steps. 

“What’s the point of having me arrest you if you’re just gonna have Luke and Kieran bail you out?” You muttered that half to him but mostly to yourself as you reached to your side for handcuffs. “It’s like you get off to being in jail for a couple of hours or something.”

“Actually, I get off to the face you make when you put those cuffs on me.” Your face heated as if it had been set alight, and you circled a hand around his wrist, while he chuckled in delight, obviously seeing that his words affected you. 

“Shut up.” You snapped, and his shoulders shook even more. You tightened your hold on his wrist, then rounded on him, going to his back and pulling his arm at an odd angle as you clicked the first cuff into place. You smiled when his laughter cut off into a pain-filled groan and secured his other wrist too. You tightened the handcuffs until they were snug, then, for extra measure, and for payback because he always had a way of getting under your skin, you tightened them even more, until just one click remained before it would cut off his circulation.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will—“ A long, exasperated sigh interrupted you, and you narrowed your eyes at the back of his head. “I’m sorry, am I boring you?”

“No,” Sylus tilted his head back to look at you. “It’s just that last time was so much better, don’t you think? You threw me against a wall and everything. It was so hot.” 

There was a nostalgic lilt to his voice as he recalled his arrest two weeks prior, and it was enough for you to forgo reading him his rights as you pushed him out of the building and towards the patrol car. It was quiet for all of 30 seconds before Sylus spoke up again, “A little birdie told me you’re working the Amadeo case.”

You faltered. 

You remembered the day you had gotten the file so vividly that you could practically feel all the blood drain from your face again. Amadeo was an arms dealer who had been at large for longer than you could remember. He distributed to everyone, from the petty thief who used guns to intimidate shopkeepers to longstanding, transgenerational crime organisations. Rumours went around that he was the best there ever was at evading the authorities, even better than Sylus, but you knew the truth. 

Corrupt cops were a dime a dozen, and Amadeo had a good handful at his disposal. And because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, those rats were after you. They assigned you this dead-end case on purpose, so they could sit back and watch you fail. 

Just as many had before you. 

“I’m guessing you’re not talking about Mephisto?” You asked after you found your footing again. As always, Sylus was practically walking himself to the van, and you barely had to use a modicum of force.

“I’m afraid not, sweetie. But for you to be given a case that hasn’t been cracked in the last 20 years and all without a partner to help you?” He glanced over his shoulder, but you averted your eyes. He always read you too well. “I’m starting to think the boys in blue don’t like you very much.”

You bared your teeth and shoved at his shoulder to urge him to walk to the car faster. “So what?” Sylus barely moved at the push, and you tried to ignore the bruise that was delivered to your ego. 

“So…I could help you.” You scoffed out a laugh before he even finished talking.

“I don’t need your help.” You informed him as you finally made it to the car. You unlocked it and moved him towards the backseat.

“You’re probably right.” Sylus hummed lowly as your hand touched the door handle. “I bet the fact that he bought a new warehouse is old news to you.” 

You stopped and like a bloodhound, Sylus caught the scent of your moment of weakness when he added, “You did know that, right?”

He knew you didn’t have any intel. Not only because of other officers' subtlety and outwardly sabotaging the investigation, but also because all information in relation to Amadeo was airtight. No one wanted their weapons supplier behind bars, so they cleaned up after him and doused everything in bleach for good measure.

But it seemed Sylus had something. 

It could have been a morsel of intel, but it didn’t stop you from salivating at the thought. Having something, having anything, would be better than what you had now, which was fuck all. 

You looked up at him when he bowed his head, a beastly glimmer reflected in his eyes as he saw that he was slowly reeling you in. “I could be persuaded to share the warehouse’s location.”

“And what would persuade you, I wonder?” 

You asked with your eyes narrowed to slits, and he tipped his head. You let go of him as he turned around to face you. It wasn’t fair that with his hands bound behind his back, and standing at his full height, his shoulders seemed broader than usual. The fabric of his button-up shirt stretched until it grew taut over his chest, muscles slightly bulging underneath. When you realised you were staring at his pecs for a little too long, your eyes flickered up to his face again. A canine glinted as he smiled, and you knew you had been caught. He resembled a viper, poised and lying in wait for you to give in. Then he would latch on and smother you into sweet abyss. 

“I’m a fair man, sweetheart. It wouldn’t be anything you haven’t already given me.” Sylus replied as his eyes roved over your form, and you allowed it, just this once, because you had been ogling him a few seconds before. A hungry look flashed in his eyes, but you couldn’t imagine why. You were wearing your police uniform, and it was hardly the most flattering outfit you owned. That didn’t seem to matter to him, though. His eyes met yours once he finished following the length of your body, and what he was implying was obvious. 

“I’m on the clock.”

Even as the words left your mouth, you wanted to kick yourself. You were supposed to say no. Because you were not going to sleep with him just to get information. You gave yourself a pass for having sex with him before you knew who he was, when you had moaned his name into the quiet of his room, wondering why it sounded so familiar but too enraptured to think clearly. Now, however, you had no excuse. You knew that if you gave in to his offer, you would be no better than those corrupt officers who aligned with criminals. 

But god, did you want to.

Sylus pursed his lips in thought and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Then, as if a gear clicked into place, he perked up and glanced over his shoulder, right at the patrol car that was assigned to you. You followed his gaze, and your eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets when you caught on. 

“No.” You deadpanned. 

No. Never. There was absolutely no way on this great green earth that you were going to have car sex with a criminal. 

***

Oh, who were you kidding? You were a hundred percent having car sex with him. 

The two of you shared a long look before you tipped your chin up a little defiantly and pulled the door open, “The cuffs are staying on.” You said half-conceding, half-hopeful he would be the one to go back on his word because you certainly weren’t thinking clearly enough to stop. 

But the two of you never made things easy for each other, so he ducked into the car with a grin, barely missing a step as he murmured, “I really hope that wasn’t meant to dissuade me, sweetheart.”

You climbed into the car after him, and because his large frame took over most of the space, you immediately found yourself propped on his lap. Sylus’s hands stayed bound, now trapped between the car seat and the base of his back, while yours traced over the firm expanse of his muscular chest. 

“Ten minutes.” You said as you felt his shiver under your palms. Sylus nodded, his breath hitching when your thumb grazed over his nipple through the fabric of his shirt. 

“Hm, I can work with that.”

Sylus swallowed his words after you removed your clothes in a flurry of movement. You threw your pants and dress shirt behind you, and they landed on the passenger seat. You knew that you looked awkward as you shifted to roll your panties down your legs, but the look in his eyes said otherwise. They greedily ate away at every inch of skin they landed on, as if he was trying his best to get his fill but still came up short. 

His chest vibrated with a grumble when he realised you weren’t taking your bra off, a sound he quickly bit back when your hands went to his belt, unbuckling it, then lowering his zipper. Sylus lifted his hips, and you huffed as you pushed his pants down until they were just past his knees. How did people enjoy having sex in such a closed space? Getting undressed was a whole workout by itself. 

You ignored how his cock smacked against his lower abdomen as you focused on unbuttoning his shirt; you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you gawk at it, no matter how much you wanted to. You pushed the button-up just over his shoulders, not bothering to take it off completely, not that you would have been able to with handcuffs still on. You moved forward, repositioning yourself again, and Sylus shifted under you, spreading his legs a little wider. He looked so smug as you hovered over him. Too smug. And you wanted to wipe the look clean off his face. So you brought your knee down to rest in the area between his legs and positioned the other at his hip, straddling his thigh instead.

Sylus groaned, in equal parts arousal and frustration, as the silky softness of your pussy settled on his thigh. “My god…you’re a cruel woman.” He threw his head back when wetness dribbled onto his thigh, and you couldn’t help but giggle, hips already rocking against him.

“Mhm, but you like me this way, don’t you, Sy?” You murmured as you ground down onto him, moaning at the sweet drag of your clit against his skin.

“I love you this way.” Sylus jerked his leg up and pressed the thickness of his meaty thigh harder against your pussy. It was the statement, more than the action, that made your breath hitch, but you knew he didn’t mean it that way. You were probably reading into it too much, and if you had time to overthink right now, then you were doing something wrong. 

So you finally allowed yourself to look down at his cock, taking in the reddened flush of the length and the precum welling at his tip. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips as you looked down at him, and as if drawn in by an invisible force, you wrapped a hand around him. The touch elicited a soft sound from him. Something between a moan and a whimper and so unlike the usual gravel of his voice that a fresh gush of heat coated his thigh involuntarily.

Your thumb passed over his tip, smearing his precum over it, and he hissed out a sharp breath. “Oh…shit. Just like that, baby.” 

Your hand bopped up and down the thickness of his cock, and you were rutting against him, feeling yourself on the brink in a matter of seconds.

You loved how vocal he was. 

“You’re gonna make me cum.” He said, voice strained against the column of your neck. 

“I’m fuck—” Your voice broke off as you beat him to it, mewling with your release and feeling his cock twitch in your hand. Once, twice, then you readjusted. With your cunt still quivering from cumming, you straddled him, bearing down on his cock so suddenly that he choked.

You had slipped him inside you, just barely past the crown of his tip, when he came. Sylus’s cum pulsed into you and spilt down to the base of his cock, tricking onto the light dusting of hair there as he buried his face into your neck. “F-Fuck. Too good.” 

Your hand clutched hard at the leather seat as you sank all the way down. You took him in with a harsh exhale, and overstimulation had both of you delirious. Your head canted back when he thrust his hips upwards, smashing against a spot that had you seeing white. His name was a hushed prayer on your lips, and he grunted into your ear in response. 

“Take your bra off.” The command was met with a laugh, and he whined. “Please, baby, wanna see you.”

You pulled back to look down at him, and you squeezed around his cock when you saw the light pink tint over his cheeks. To have a man like him flustered and begging under you did irreparable damage to you. It corrupted you. 

“Please.” He implored when you didn’t respond fast enough, hips shuttering for a moment before meeting your thighs with a loud slap. “I’ll do anything.” 

Now that was more like it. 

“Anything?” You grazed your nose against his, and he nodded earnestly. You hummed, as if you were actually considering his question, but you already knew what you wanted. “Tell me where the new warehouse is.”

Sylus rattled out the location so quickly that it sent goosebumps all over your body. You weren’t sure why, but the ease with which he said it made you believe that he would have given it to you even without his earlier proposition. 

“And you wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?” Sylus groaned in anguish at the question and buried his face between your tits like he hoped they would engulf him and pull him under the intoxicating undercurrent that was you. 

“Never.” He was shaking now. Massive thighs trembling under yours. “Never.”

Sylus’s teeth snagged into the lace of your bra and pulled before he lightly bit into the curve of your supple breast. His wrists strained against the weak confines of the metal cuffs. You meant to give in to his request, but the sight of his head against you while he groaned into you, snowy hair growing damp as he scraped his teeth over your skin, was enough to make you lose your bearings. Belatedly, you heard a soft click, and by the time you registered that it was the mechanism of the handcuffs unlocking, it was too late. 

Thick arms banded around you, and you squealed as he squashed you against him and frantically thrust up into you. “Hah…fuck. There it is.” He intoned and had you gasping out in shock when he manoeuvred your body as if you were as light as a feather.

Your back met the cool leather of the car seat, and you barely had time to blink before his body covered yours again. Sylus didn’t bother holding himself up; he bore all his weight into you, and his hand closed around the material of your bra.

‘Riiiiiiiippppp’

Your eyes widened at the sound, at the sight of the tattered undergarment being thrown to the side, and you were more than ready to tear him a new one. But then he inclined his head, sinful lips latching onto your nipple with a ferocity that had your back bowing. 

“Mmph! Sylus, slow down—” It was like your words only egged him on. His hand went to the back of your thigh, just above your knee, and he raised your leg, so high the stretch made you hiss. 

“Ten minutes are up.” He said after popping your tit out of his mouth. His harsh breath cooled over the bud, at complete odds with the heat his mouth offered when he sucked it. The change in sensation had it hardening, and you moaned incoherently. “Cum on my cock.”

The command was whispered so darkly, as if it came from the deepest, hottest pits of hell, then the heel of his palm kneaded over your clit, and your body convulsed. You had a moment of panic when, instead of moaning out your release, your breath caught. The sound you made was a something of a soundless broken sob, and it made Sylus’s hips smack against you faster.

Harder.

Until he spilt into you and moaned long and loud when your pussy squeezed him through it, milking him dry. You were shaking even long after your release, and as your soul dizzily settled back into your body, your muscles became limp. 

Sylus lifted himself onto his elbows so he didn’t accidentally smother you and lowered his gaze to yours. Your eyebrows pinched when your eyes met, and that familiar buzzy flutter in your belly returned.

Butterflies.

“Oh, I am so losing my job.”

Sylus laughed at your whine, and you hated how good it sounded. How good he felt. 

“Then you can come join me. There’s always space open for you.”

Yeah right. 

A/N: Wasn’t feeling this one as much but I hope you liked it. Editing cred to @rambld come gimme a kiss mama.

You're not sure where to look first, which stall to visit. Each sound and smell beckons to you, a new sight to delight in. Strangers who smile when you pass, offering samplings of sweets and blooms instead of barbed words and threats. Even the wind seems happy, softly swirling loose flower petals around your feet.

For the first time, you feel free.

"Where should we start?" Your skin hums pleasantly with the buzz of the crowd, twisting to look at each fabric covered stall.

Sylus trails closely behind, arms crossed and casting a critical glance at the trinkets at nearby vendor. "You truly want to stay for this?"

A nearby ale tent erupts into a chorus of cheers and boisterous laughter, the sound of clinking glasses like wind chimes in the dusky evening.

"You don't partake in a bit of revelry?" you hum, turning on your heel to poke his shoulder. "Even fiends should enjoy a festival."

He softly scoffs, lacking any real bite or brimstone. "Why would a fiend want to buy cheap trinkets and drink watered down ale?"

"It isn't really about what's being sold," you press closer, ghosting a hand over his chest."It's what you feel here."

"A dragon has no need for human celebrations."

"Are all fiends this heated then?" It's a challenge you offer, holding his stare with your own. "Or is that unique to you?"

The crowd moves around you in a blur, as you stand nearly toe to toe — eyes locked on each other, the hint of a smirk playing on Sylus' lips.

"If it's spice you want," his clawed hand spins you around, guiding you through the town square with the press of his palm on your lower back. "Then perhaps this will sate you."

You're brought to a small tent tucked near the back alleyway, the sounds of sizzling meat welcoming you as you approach. Skewered beef lines their makeshift grill, the coals glowing red as the vendor fans the coals with a small ornate fan. Another chops red peppers and tosses them in a large pot. They hiss when they hit the oil. It's a form of art, watching the chef shake the pan, the sauce almost dancing in the air before pooling in the pan again. The aroma of it both sweet and spiced.

Sylus orders for you in a low voice, exchanging gold pieces for two skewers.

When they hand them to you, the sauce drips down your hand — red and sticky. Sylus drags you around the corner as you lick the stray drops, caging you both between the tent and alley.

Your chest blooms with a new heat as he watches you eat, his lazy smirk when the spice hit your tongue.

Sylus does a lot of watching that evening.

Observing, if he had to assign a word to it.

How you close your eyes and sigh appreciatively over the spiced meat, pluck the pieces off his and savor them with each bite.

You flit from each booth like a small dove — hands smoothing over woven tapestries, fingers dipping into perfumed beeswax and anointing your inner wrists. Bow your head to children who adorn you with scarlet blooms, tucked gently behind your ears. You move so freely among the crowd it's like you've always lived here. Like you've always belonged.

Bits and baubles catch your eye at each turn, flashy jewels that would never pass his discerning eye. But you still cast subtle glances at him for each displayed item, like perhaps you cared what he thought.

At a particularly garish stand, your eyes linger too long on a beaded bracelet. the dark obsidian glass glints red in the flickering lights. Your fingers delicately trace the glass as the merchant spins tales of passion and protection, how they blend together within each bead. Sylus presses the gold coins in their palm before the story ends.

You still smooth your fingers over the beads after he pays, holding it up to the light to catch the swirl of red within the glass.

"Shall I put your treasure on you?" he hums as you turn the bracelet over again. "Or is it destined to become a sun catcher?"

You huff yet offer it to him, holding your wrist out. His palm cradles it as he pulls you closer, catching the perfume you dabbed there, the vanilla warmed by your skin. A sweetness that, in turn, warms his chest. He drinks it in as he slowly links the chain together.

The moon passes in the sky, the crowds slowly dissipating until only the ale tents and musicians linger. Couples still savoring the night press close together as they sway. It stokes something in chest.

You're pressed against him too, your arm resting against his as you idly twist the bracelet between your fingers, lazily humming a song that's no longer being played.

It would be simpler to fly you home back to the lair. To slough off the frantic energy of the night and slink back into the depths.

But being here has been different, with you. A taste of what it feels like to simply belong, one he knew could never be fully sated. And he was selfish, a new desire to cling to this feeling festering deep in his chest.

"Are you tired?" he whispers against your ear, chuckling when you stifle a yawn.

"I want stay longer," your body leans into his more, looking up at the bright moon. "The night's not over."

The stalls are closed, the last of the lantern light is blown out, yet he can't bring himself to disagree. "I know somewhere we can go."

It's not much, a small inn on the outskirts of a town. A sleepy innkeeper, who mumbles through pleasantries without a second glance, exchanges a key with Sylus.

Amber incense curls throughout the room, the room darkened from the nearly extinguished fire. A singular bed faces the curtained window, which you immediately collapse into, kicking your boots off with a shake of your feet.

Sylus settles in a chair by the window, fiddling with the gold tassels of the curtain. A few more hours of pretending until he returned to whatever strings of fate he lies tangled in.

"Aren't you tired?" your voice is muffled by the blanket, your head turned to peek at him.

"Not at this hour," his body still bristles with the chaotic energy of so many souls, the confusion of a new ache that picks at his chest. "Rest," he adds softly.

"It's too cold," you sniff, pinching the fabric between your fingers.

"You could lie under the blanket," he arches a brow, "or shall I stoke the fire?"

"It's a big bed…" you yawn again, propping yourself up on your elbows.

Sylus thinks you might be the one who pulls his red thread. How just a look has him pulled to you, crossing creaky wood floors to kneel beside you. Tangling it around him with your soft smile.

"Dangerous, don't you think little dove?" He drapes the blanket across your shoulders, smooths the velvet of it down the length of your arm, your hand darting out to grab his.

"Stay," it's a request, not a command, but he feels compelled to follow. Slipping in beside you and hovering at the edge of the bed, tail trailing on the floor.

You hum with appreciation, coax him closer with a small smile.

Delicate threads of pale yellow slip beneath the curtain, pulling at the flimsy veneer of safety. Sunlight always did have a way of making things more honest, brutally so, the bright light exposing things for what they truly are. It threatens to spill into the room, despite the thick velvet that shields you now.

It's safe here, for now — beneath cool sheets, burrowed in darkness. The questions of 'how long' and 'are you sure' soothed by your gaze on his crimson eyes.

"Perhaps we should stay a bit longer," his low voice is made soft beneath the silk sheets, claws flexing against the fabric between you. Another thinly veiled barrier between here and the looming sun.

For you, he could pretend. Walk the streets in this form if it meant staying this close to you, to watch your eyes blink slowly with sleep.

You don't offer an answer. Instead, you sigh softly, and slide your hand over his, threading fingers with claws. He twists the glass beads of your charm bracelet with his other hand, and he considers how delicate they are against his hard claws, how soft your hand feels in his.

postscript. biggest squeeze to you lovely, thank you so much for your request! and thank you for reading <333