The ladies wear their best brocade and silks. Your own dress is a delicate faded teal with simple ivory embroidery. Your mother is not fond of the courtly styles and their risque trims exposing the top of soft shoulders. She sewed you a round collar with a length of lace woven through for effect.

As the competitors ride out, the courtly audience calls to them and throws flowers. Marcella and Audrey cry out to the valiant William Russo in his dark black armour trimmed in silver and he catches their woven wreaths of roses and lilies on his jousting staff. The princes, twins, preen in the cheers as they’re rained with petals and ribbons, and a few kerchiefs, as the king, Wilson I, sits proudly on his balcony in the stands and smirks.

You look down at your handful of daisies and daffodils. You don’t know which knight to rain down your favour. You don’t know many of them. Not many see you for the boldness of the other ladies.

Nervously, you stop yourself from twisting the stems to nothing. You notice one knight, stiff and staunch in his saddle. He wears beaten iron armour without decoration. The other competitors sport golden roses or etched doves and lions in their chestplates. He stares ahead from beneath his open helm, his staff pointed at the sky as his horse remains as still as he is.

You think you recognise him though you can’t place a name. You look up and down the row of fawning ladies. You heave up your armful and watch them scatter over the plain knight in his grey armour. 

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t even flinch. Oh…

Bridget cackles and chuckles a headless stem your way. “Silly girl, why bother with him?”

You look at her, confusion furrowed above your eyes.

“She’s always been an odd one,” Lora teases. “Her and her nun’s habit!”

You pout. “I was only…” You shake your head and shrug. “They’re my flowers, I will do with them as I will.”

“Weeds.” Lora rebukes. “Don’t you know who that knight is?”

“If you would call him a knight!” Bridget scolds.

You stare and scrunch up your nose. “But he… is in the tournament. He must be–”

“A mercenary. So he was. Won his title in a battle. Just a soldier who found fortune.” Lora sniffs.

“But… don’t most knights win their honour?”

“Most knights are already titled before they do so.” Bridget sneers. “As it were, title or not, that man has no interest. Lord Castle is as stony as the fortress he’s named for.”

“I swear, he’d break a lady’s fingers as quickly as a lord’s.” Lora tuts. “Those kind, they can’t do more than wear the title. It can’t hide what they really are.”

Your mouth slants. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with being quiet or unsociable. You’d prefer it yourself if the other ladies weren’t so incessant. You peek over at the iron knight. Castle, they call him. He grips his staff tight and stays rigid, unbothered by the sudden blast of horns announcing the tournament’s start.

You suppose he’s faced worse than a shower of petals. You won’t worry for the misstep. He likely won’t either.

⚔️

The tournament unfolds in a series of contests. You’ve never seen anything like it. You gasp as the knights battle in a test of dagger throwing, archery, and most clamourously, the joust. Shattered lances and dented armour bring your heart to your throat, especially as you watch a younger earl-to-be carried off unmoving. How dreadful.

Sir Russo, a duke, wins at the feat of aiming daggers at a target; the king’s son is victor in the arrow, and in the joust, to a rather silent crowd, Sir, Castle claims triumph though he hardly seems to notice that himself. Where petals and scarves rained down on the others, he is met with a murmur and whispers, riding off without acknowledgement of any of it.

On the final day, a challenge of sword and spear against a dummy stuffed with straw. The king’s son once more is crowned for his skill. His father proudly cheers and congratulates his son with a mantle of ermine.

The next, ring-tilting. Another event on horseback though much less brutal than the joust. The challenge, to aim the launch through a series of golden rings, each progressively smaller than the last. Riders come forth to make their best attempt to hook all seven.

Russo counts five, the prince the same, and another earl meets that number; each presents their rings to their chosen maiden in the crowd. Bridget accepts Duke Russo’s lot and a leer from beneath his visor, the prince gives his to his betrothed, sat in the balcony with his father, and the lesser earl gifts his new wife as she rubs her growing stomach.

The final contender, Castle, takes his mark. The crowd is silent again. You notice how Lora makes a gesture to Bridget and they grin. The grey knight tilts his head as he lowers his staff. He rides, sure and steady. One, two, three, four, five… six! Six rings, the sixth in order missed but the last hooked.

He raises the tip of his lance and rides around. He ignores the audience and dumps the rings on the ground. He hands off the staff to his attendants as they approach and rides back to the stalls to dismount.

“Even he knows no maiden would have him,” Bridget snickers. Lora joins in. You frown.

You lean over the wall of the stands and watch the knight as he removes his helmet. You can see him just past the banners hung around the horses’ stabling. For a moment, you feel as if he’s looking back at you but he promptly stalks off, tugging at his shanks of black hair.

You stand back as Bridget spins her ring. “Do you think Lord Russo will dance with me at the feast?”

“You might get a canter after his other ladies.” Lora retorts.

“Careful, Bri,” Lady Maureen intercedes. “You will not like to be one of his conquests. Women are not so valiant as battlefields.”

“You are detestable!” Bridget retorts. “I have virtue!”

“No one would guess it at a glance.”

You tune out their banter. There is still one contest to be had. The last; the decider of the champion. The foot combat. The will come on the final day of four that have stretched out this event.

⚔️

The last day, the last contest. Bridget fans herself in the stolid sunlight as Lora droops in her sleeves. Your fast is slick and sticky with sweat. You can only imagine what the contenders must feel.

There are several rounds. A melee to begin, to pluck out those who will go face to face. A second round with spears to choose who might test their skill with sword.

The prince is to face Lord Russo the final round; Poindexter to compete with Lord Castle. The first match is a narrow defeat for the prince. He gracefully holds up his opponent's hand to the crowd, bowing out before the finale. The latter is long and contemptuous; neither sports a shield and meet each other with a furor that makes you gasp. Castle prevails but not without blood under his visor.

In the last, Russo and Castle meet. Their battle is lively despite the day’s dimming. They push back and forth, ducking under blows only to take others. Where Russo is swift, Castle is strong. A falcon against the bull. It is the bull that finds triumph.

Castle’s hand is raised as he favours his other shoulder. He tears his gauntlet away from the arbiter and stomps away from the stunned crowd. Only the king voices his delight at the surprise, his subjects reluctantly following. 

You join in with a bit more glee as the knight in grey nears, rubbing his helm. You feel bad for his dejection though it seems to affect him little. His head turns slightly as he passes. You wince and pause in place. He continues on.

“Ugh, how dreary!” Bridget clucks. “What an upstart dog he is!”

“But he won.” You counter.

“He should not have. He was underhanded.” Lora argues.

“How so?” You wonder.

“How little you do know.” Bridget snorts. “So young, so droll. So… you.”

You frown. She’s right. You don’t understand this court and all its rules. They hardly make any sense. 

⚔️

The feast is a great relief from the sunny stands. The castle walls are cool, the jugs are flowing with honeywine and ale, and trays glisten with roasted vegetables and venison. The warmth is not so intense as that of the naked sky. It thrums and clouds, but does not sear.

There is an eagerness, an anticipation that unfurls around you. Skirts flood onto the boards as partners claim each other. You remain at the table and pick at a plate of sugared apples.

More cryptic than the ladies and their manners and unsaid rules, are the lords and their stoic veneers. Their eyes don’t fall on you. They do not say the same sweet things they do to Bridget or Lora.

There is a lull in the dancing as the king stands and clanks on his cup with a knife. All go silent and watch him as he gestures for attention. You wipe your fingers on the table cloth.

“I must take this occasion to give praise to all those combatants that fought so gloriously these past days. Most notably my own son who showed himself to be a mighty warrior!” King Wilson proclaims.

There is an uproar of cheers as the Prince steps out from among the crowd of dancers and bows.

“And I cannot be shamed at the victor. Sir Castle is the only I would see prevail over my own blood.” The king’s voice sharpens. “A seasoned soldier and honourable earl.”

Castle remains seated. You’d not noticed him before that. He nods but nothing more. His eyes stare straight ahead as if no one else exists.

“So let us be merry and drink and dance!” The king exclaims with a shake of his large fists. “Go forth and rejoice!”

The music plucks up again. The king stands and offers his hand to his wife, a tall and skinny woman who contrasts his rounder figure. You tap your fingers on the trestle’s edge and your eyes skim the large hall.

They fall on Castle. Is he looking at you? You can’t help but stare back. It is the first you’ve seen him clearly. Black hair, black beard, dark eyes, and thick bent nose. His attire is black and unadorned.

You slowly lift your hand and tilt your palm at him in recognition. He looks down and his hands turn to fists on the table. He grabs his goblet and drains it before he stands and marches out. Oh…

You sigh and look back to the dancers. They look happy. They are swept up in the excess. You are bored of it.

As the candles burn lower and the dancers slow, you rise to retire. No one would know whether you were there until the dawn. As they never care for your presence or not.

You enter the corridor and bask in the coolness. There are lanterns lit along the walls, though shadows crawl over the corners and edges. You near the first turn and cry out as suddenly you’re seized. Or try to.

A callused palm smothers your fright. A dark figure shrouds you in his silhouette. You bat your lashes up at the outline of Sir Castle.

“Stop playing with me.” He snarls.

You quiver as he keeps you pinned to the wall, one hand over your mouth and chin, the other on your waist. You squirm and shiver. He leans in and burrows his nose in your hair, brushing along the trim of your cap.

“Why are you looking at me?” He growls.

You whine into his roughened hand and touch his wrist. He squeezes your jaw tighter.

“What do you want with me, lamb?”

He exhales over you as he drags his nose down your temple and cheek.

You brush your hand up his sleeve and tug on the black wool. He inhales, his breath gritting like that of a hungry wolf. He bends and nuzzles into your neck, then nips with his teeth.

“Do you know what beasts do with lambs like you?” He rasps.

You quake and writhe, unable to escape his grasp. You latch onto the seam along his shoulder and try to turn your head. His hand slips down and his wide fingertips graze the other side of your throat. 

He presses his thumb behind your ear as his fingers wrap around your nape. He bites down harder and sucks until your flesh throbs. You whimper and dig your nails into his overcoat.

“Please, I’m sorry, Sir.” You grovel. “I was only–”

He hushes you as his other hand creeps around to the small of your back and he crushes you into the stone. He bites again, harder than before. Your eyes prick with tears. You push on his chest and wriggle.

He lifts his head slowly, his breath tickling you until it plumes in your ear. “You don’t look a wolf in the eye unless you wanna get bit, little lamb.”

He shudders and trails his hand up your side. His other slaps on the stone and he pushes away from you. He leers at you as he breathes slowly, heavily. He tilts his head until his neck cracks.

“I’ll be watching,” he whispers and turns on his heel.

You shake against the stone as he struts off. You sink down until you’re on the cold floor and feel the moisture along your throat and the indents of his teeth. The promise he left in your flesh is raw and pulsing.

"No. If I go to sleep, you'll be gone." He pouts.

"Well 'see each other again." You promise. "But it won't do to lose anymore sleep. Me either. And your father."

He harrumphs and crosses his arms emphatically. You gently pat his shoulder. "How about a bedtime story, then? If Papa permits?"

Shelby shifts, and shrugs. "Course. He's not very fond of mine." He moves closer, brushing against you as he picks up his some. "Come, Charlie Boy, listen to the kind woman and sleep."

Shelby turns to you and gestures you ahead of him. He carries Charlie as he directs you from behind, into the corridor, through to the foyer, and up the grand staircase. Another corridor and several doors, and you reach the boy's room. You stand by the door as he enters and takes Charlie to the bed. It's bigger than your own.

He lays down the boy as he yawns again. You near from the other side. "What would you like to hear? The story of Lancelot or the princess and her kitten?"

"I like kittens." Charlie says.

"Alright, then. But when I'm done, you must sleep." You sit and pull the blanket over him.

"I will." He nods eagerly.

Shelby hovers across from you then slowly sits. You begin. "There was a princess who lived in the forest. Not many knew she was a princess for she'd been hidden there for many years..." You pluck deep into your mind to recall the story of the kitten that leads the princess to the truth. But before you can get to the end, you pause and smile at the sleeping child.

"You have a soothing voice," Shelby intones quietly. "You've almost put me to sleep."

You laugh softly. "Dull, I suppose."

"Musical," he assures. "Like poetry. I'm rather fond of a verse or two."

"Well, I should hate to wake him," you stand cautiously. "And I should be back home. In case Stuart has returned."

Shelby dips his head and exhales. He rises rigidly. "Yes, I suppose, a wife errant so late into the night might worry a man." He bends his arm and tugs his sleeve back to check his very modern wrist watch. "I'll have the car readied."

🖤

You wait at the door with your jacket and hat on, purse in the crook of your elbow. You shield a yawn in your palm and lean forward to peek through the dark slate of window next to the door. It's late. Later than you think you've ever been out. Though, you're not exactly living the high life of the flapper. You're only doing what needs done to keep house and home.

"Right then, I hate to keep you waiting longer." Mr. Shelby appears from behind the grand staircase. "I think you've had quite the day as it were."

"Sir. I... Was expecting Benjamin." You push the tired slump from your shoulders.

"I'm a disappointment?" He teases.

"Not what I meant. Or said." You assure him. "I do appreciate the trouble to take me home."

"No trouble. Not so much as you've gone to." He adjusts his coat.

"Hm. Well, I cannot say that I am not in need of the compensation." You muse.

"But I never offered any for tending my son." He returns.

"He's a good boy. I don't mind." You sway slightly, impatiently.

"Mm, I suppose then we should go. Or it'll be morning and you'll be due back at the kitchen."

"Yes, another busy day." You agree.

You go out to his car. He opens the door for you. You get in and patiently watch him stride in front of the long hood. This isntisthe same car as Benjamin. It's nicer. Luxurious with its leather and wood finish.

He gets in the driver's side and turns the engine through a series of twists and flicks. The headlights cast two yellow beams across the midnight gloom. Fog mists in their aura.

He sets off quietly. You sense the haze of fatigue over you both. Your content in the silence.

You watch the road ahead, sensing as he slows with the thickening condensation of the English eve. You fight to keep from slouching, to keep from drifting. For once, you don't fear a struggle in bed. You could sleep then and there.

The night stirs in the arcs of the headlights. You pass dormant windows and shadowy archways through the city. When he stops on your street, you take a moment to realise.

"Thank you," you make certain you have your purse. "I very much appreciate, Mr. Shelby."

"Not at all." His voice his raspy.

"I do hope you have a safe return." You say.

"And I hope you get a restful sleep." He drawls and leans across the seat to peer past you. "Shall I escort you to the door?"

"Sir, you've done enough. Please. Go be with Charlie."

"As you wish," he relents and sits back.

You sidle across the seat. He reaches over and taps your knee.

"Ah."

You pause and he points up. He lets himself out and swiftly struts around to open your door. He offers his hand to help you onto the cobblestones.

You thank him again. You face him.

"Good night, Mr. Shelby."

"Good night, ma'am." His hand slips off yours. "Until the morning."

🖤

You sleep so heavily, you feel and think nothing. So lost in your unconscious that the buzz of the door chime jars you like a ship on storming tides. You grunt and open your eyes, disoriented with drowsiness.

You blink several times to clear the glaze from your eyes. The buzz comes once more. You sit up. It's still early. You can't slept long at all. The windows are still grim.

You get up and stumble into the hallway. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hands. It could be Mary Lynn, drunk again. You've never judged her for her indulgence but she's never spared you the same.

You get to the door and hide behind it as you unlock it. You pull it open just a little. Your eyes round and you're awake at just the sight of Tommy Shelby.

"Sir?"

"I've a phone call, ma'am. Important business. You'll need to come. Now." He says urgently.

You see the lack of sleep lined around his eyes, shadowed in the deep sockets.

"What is it?" You let go of the door and it falls a bit wider.

"I think..." His eyes skim you. "You should dress."

You blanch and look down. You're in your shift and nothing else. The linen is worn enough that some parts are starting to turn sheer.

"Apologies. Let me... Sir, come in." You beckon him inside and quickly flit away.

His soles click onto the scratched hardwood. The door shuts with a snap. You retreat to find a proper dress and set yourself right.

You hide in the bedroom and put on the brown dress with the flattened pleats. You sit to roll up your stockings. You take only seconds to battle your reflection.

You come out, apologising again. Then you stop short. It can only be one thing.

"Stuart?" You gulp.

"Ma'am. I've got a call from the station."

"The station?" You eke out.

"Perhaps it is best we go down and hear it straight from them," he suggests.

"Perhaps," you agree uneasily.

You search for a semblance of certainty in yourself. It takes a moment before you can figure what to do next. Cost. Shoes.

He lingers close as you dress for the weather. You pull on a wool cap. You face him and clap your hands down to your side.

"Ready... I think."

"Yes, ma'am. This way."

He opens the door and let you out first. The world around you is foggy for more than the rainy aftermath. Your ears pound and your heartbeat radiates to your fingertips.

It could be alright. Maybe they found Stuart doing something foolish. Gambling as he does. It might be he just needs a night in a cell to sober up.

You're sat in the car before you can even register getting in. You wring your hands as Shelby drives. It'll be fine. It has to be.

He cranks the gears and the car halts. You jerk and look up. You glance over at the precinct. You've never been in one though you always feared it. With the husband you have...

Mr. Shelby walks you in the front door. He's like your shadow. He greets an officer in a helmet with a club on his waist.

“This is her.” Shelby says and you wince. You look at him.

“Ma’am, I’m Corporal Hensen. So sorry ta bring ya here like this. We believe we’ve found your husband.” He says.

“My… Husband?”

“Not sure yet but we’d appreciate if ya might have a look and let us know.”

“A look?” All you can do is repeat his words as your head refuses to accept them.

You nod. Corporal Hensen tells you to go with him but your feet don’t move. There’s a weight on your back urging you forward. Mr. Shelby’s hand.

You follow the officer through the corridors. There are others in uniforms, men in shackles scowling in chairs or held by their arms.  On and on you go until you’re taken into a desolate room.

There you’re faced with a shrouded slab. A figure hidden behind a sheet. An unmoving lump once full of life. A man in a white coat awaits you and nods to Shelby and Hensen.

“Ma’am, we… have found a body and hoped you might be able to identify him.” He prompts.

You frown. “How could I…” you begin. You know what they mean, but you want so badly not to understand.

Again, Mr. Shelby urges you forward with that small touch on your back. As you near the table, the doctor pulls the sheet back. You stare down at the grey face unveiled from beneath the cotton.

You can’t move. You can’t think. You have to be asleep still. You move your hand to your wrist and pinch. Wake up.

How many times did you curse your husband? How many times did you wish him gone? You should feel bad for his fate and yet, you don’t feel anything at all. You only feel bad for that.

“That is Stuart Wilbur Cress.” You state. “My husband.”

🖤

“Ma’am,” Mr. Shelby says as he escorts you once more to his car. “I’ll take you home now.”

“Home? No. I believe we’re overdue at The Garrison–”

“Ma’am. Don’t you worry about service. We can–”

“I am worried, sir.” You insist plainly. “I’ve a job to do.”

He watches you. He’s hard to read. “I could walk. Or find a tram–”

“No, ma’am, it is only that… Stuart–”

“You found him. What else is there to worry for?” You say.

“He’s dead–”

“So he is.” You utter. “It means I must work my way on my own now. So, let us go and do so.”

He hesitates but acquiesces. He opens the door and gently holds your elbow as you get in. You sit and stare at the road; the people crossing back and forth, the tires spinning by, the horses clomping over the stones. So much life all around; it never stops, not even for death.

The ride is quick. You think. Time doesn’t mean much to you.

You enter The Garrison ahead of Mr. Shelby. Ruth has already begun on the sausage rolls and Dierdre is showing the early birds to their tables. You put on the kettle and ready a pot for brew. Shelby lingers at the edge of the kitchen.

You go through it without a thought. Toasted buns; sizzling back bacon; eggs flipped one after the other. You wipe your face with your sleeve as the timer erupts. You open the stove and take out the hot pan of rolls.

It isn’t until you put them down that you feel the burn. That you realise you’ve not used a cloth to do so. You stop and stare at your smoldering palms. You shake but don’t make a noise.

“Dammit,” Shelby startles you as he grabs your wrist and tugs you away from the counter. He turns you around to the sink as he turns the faucet. Water sprays out and he guides your hand beneath the cooling stream. “Are you alright?”

You watch the water as it spreads over your burnt skin. So what? You’re hurt but still alive. Just a burn. Could be worse. Could be dead like Stuart.

“Ma’am, ma’am,” Shelby grits. “I think you should go home.”

You look at him. “I don’t. I think I should wrap my hands and get back to my job.”

“Ma’am.” He snips. “I won’t allow that.”

“Why not? It’s not serious–”

“I am your boss, yes? Go. Home.”

“Mr. Shelby–”

“It’s all they want.” She chuckles. “Think you’ve found gold.”

“Eh,” the door swings open behind her. Arthur Shelby skids to a stop and smirks at Ruth. “Oi, lass, anymore of ‘em rolls?”

“In the oven, Art,” she playful swings a hand towel at him. “Don’t be gettin’ in the way.”

“And who says you’re the boss.” He retorts.

“Out!” Ruth barks.

You glance over at them. Arthur catches your eyes. “Not meanin’ to be in the way,” he shows his palm and backs out of the door. “Don’t tell Tommy, eh.”

Ruth follows him out. You go back to your pastry. You didn’t prep enough. Diedre comes in with empty trays, Benjamin lets her dump the dishes in the deep sink, and sprays them with the hose. His sleeves are rolled up as he scours away the grease and crumbs.

You switch between the rolls and the pan of eggs. You scoop out the poached whites delicately clouded around yolk onto the toasted biscuits and ring the bell. Deirdre and Ruth come to load up their trays and go out.

You lose yourself in the hectic flurry of orders, tearing up tickets as you make your way through them. You turn and elbow a wall you don’t expect. It isn’t a spontaneously appearing bit of plaster but rather Mr. Shelby.

“What can I help with, love?” He asks.

“Mr. Shelby? Oh, I think I’ve got it in hand.” You assure him as you turn put more biscuits in to toast. He takes the rack from you.

“Tell me. I have two hands.” He insists.

“Mr. Shelby, this is my job–”

“It seems it might be more than I pay you for.” He nods to the oven. “Think I’ll need to invest in more help.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby.” You open the left stove and let him slide in the rack of biscuits.

“I’ve heard lovely things about the sausage roll,” he backs up and takes off his jacket. He folds it over the stool at the end of the counter and places his cap on top.

“Still baking,” you say as you grab some brown eggs and crack them into the boiling water.

You double-check the ticket. Porridge. Right, you’ve got a pot warmed and ready to go.

You scoop up oats into the bowl and add cinnamon and milk. Two bowls up. Ruth sweeps them away.

As Mr. Shelby approaches, he rolls up his sleeve.

“Boss lady, tell me what to do.”

You scoff. “Sir.”

“Eh, you almost smiled,” he says.

“You can help with the rolls. Seems everyone wants one.”

You beckon him along the counter. “I’ve rolled out the pastry. It’ll need to be cut up.” You take a knife. “As such.” You point to the dish of sausage. “Then line it as thus.” You use a spoon to scoop onto the pastry. “Roll. Baste with egg.” You work as you explain. “Then a few slices in the top.”

“Ah, Stuart is a lucky man,” Shelby japes. You flinch and look at him. His brows draw together. “Apologies, ma’am, I only–”

“Nothing?” You ask. He shakes his head. You nod and set the roll onto the waiting pan. “No, I never had the fixings at home for this. Mincemeat, stew, beans. That’s most of it.”

“And even that must’ve been delicious.”

“Mm,” you hum dully. 

“I didn’t mean–”

“No, no, it’s… I’m only… two weeks.” You sigh and take out the biscuits.

“I’ve got all my people watchin’ for him,” Shelby assures.

“I know. You’ve done more than you should.” You scoop the eggs out of the water.

He’s silent, you are too. He watches you then turns away. “I’ll wash up first and get started on this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Shelby…” you murmur. “For everything.”

🖤

You untie your apron and fold it up over your arm. You wipe your forehead with your sleeve. You need to stop at the bank and be sure to deposit your cheque.

“On your way out?” Mr. Shelby surprises you as he enters from the back door. He picks up his cap and jacket. You can smell the tobacco wafting in with him.

“I think I’ve everything cleaned up. I set aside some leftovers for Charlie.” You bend to take your handbag from under the counter. Mr. Shelby nears as you head for the door. You stop as you meet him there. “Unless… I’m forgetting something.”

“No, I’ve a question.” He pulls on his jacket. “More a favour to ask. Though you will be compensated.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve some guests coming over. Very important ones. I thought you might be able to offer your skills this evening. For supper.” He says.

You’re taken aback by the suggestion. It’s not as though you have anyone waiting for you. Or any sort of responsibility outside of this.

“I suppose I could.” You say.

“Very well. I would need a list, you see. Ingredients, to be sure you’re equipped.”

“Right, er…”

“If you don’t mind. I’ll fetch you a pen and paper before you’re off.” He says.

“Certainly. I can do that.” You say. It’ll be a good distraction. You notice Stuart’s absence most at night.

He nods and sets off. You linger in the kitchen. You put your bag on the counter and slide out the cookbook you bought with your first pay. Shelby returns and hands you a ledger and pen.

You flutter through the pages. “Was there a set number of courses? It must be a fancy dinner?” 

He taps his fingers as he stands close. His gaze weighs on you.

“What’s this, then?” He taps the corner of the page.

“Study.” You say. “Recipe book. I’m afraid I’ve only experience cooking for one man.”

“Ah, clever woman.” He praises.

You shrug. “I always wanted a proper one. I’d cut the ones out of the paper and keep them in the drawer. Never had all I needed to try them.”

You pause and read the dish description. “A salad to start, I think?”

“Mm. I leave it within your judgement.” He drags his hand away from the book. “I’ll send a car.”

“Oh, no, I could take the tram.”

“I live quite a ways off the route.” He sniffs. “And I’ll not have you wanderin’ in the dark. Benny will pick you up.”

You don’t argue. You take the pen and jot in the ledger. His eyes follow your hand.

“Anything you don’t prefer, sir?” You ask.

You don’t get an answer. You peek up and find him staring. Your brow lowers and you touch your chin then cheek. “I’ve got some flour on me?”

He blinks and clears his throat. “No, no.” He lifts his chin and looks away. “No, I was only thinking.” He leans on the counter. “I’m easy to please. I’ll eat it all just the same.” He looks at the ledger. “You know, you have one taste of field rations and even rancid rat meat’ll have you slavering.”

You don’t say anything to that. Most men these days are veterans. Stuart was called up but never went beyond the channel. He was kept at home in a mine.

“Dessert… chocolate? Citrus? Preferences?” You prompt.

“Chocolate. Ah, that was a wonder over in France.” He purrs. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll get that, just put it on the bar.” He backs up. “I’ll have Benny wait out front for you.”

“Sir–”

“No arguments.” He turns and points over his shoulder. “You worked a hard day. You earned it.”

🖤

Benjamin gets you to Mr. Shelby’s around four. You thank him and step out, hiding your awe at the immense mansion before you. Of course, you assumed it would be a nice home, but you could not have imagined anything so ornate and daunting.

It’s clearer to you now how out of your element you truly are. Something else tugs in your mind. There’s more to Mr. Shelby than you’ve seen. Not just money, something more. It’s not a secret who he is; he has men at his disposal in their notable caps, he was concerned with back alley gambling, he never truly asks but tells. Details are better left unsaid.

You go to the front door and lift the heavy brass knocker, a falcon’s head above it. It thunders through the dark oak. You wait but not long. A maid in black and white answers. Of course he has ‘help’. Well, isn’t that what you are?

Her name is Margeret. She leads you inside. Mr. Shelby told her you were coming instead of someone called Louise. She takes you to a large kitchen and tells you to ring a bell in case you need anything.

You walk around the large kitchen. The counters are dark wood, the furnishings in a coppery brass, and the stove and fridge look right out of the shop. You stop as you see the folded note with your name on it.

‘All is in order. If you need anything, ring the bell and ask for me. Thomas.’

It’s kind. You think you might figure it out. Margaret reappears.

“These are Ellie and Mildred. They’ll be helping you.” She explains. The girls are young and skinny; one has string black hair trailing out in a braid from under her cap, the other shows straw-coloured roots but much of it is tucked under the white linen.

“Ellie, Mildred, I’m…” you introduce yourself. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too, ma’am.” They say in unison.

“I think it’ll be rather easy. Shall we start?”

They nod. “What do we do?” Ellie, the black-haired girl asks.

You hesitate then reach into your bag. You take out the notes you made at home from the cook book. You go to the girls and show them.

“Alright, we’ll start with the main. It’ll take the longest to cook and the salad will be simple enough.” You explain. “If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to help. If I’m honest, I’m still learning myself, yeah?”

The girls look at each other and back to you. “Yes, ma’am,” they say in unison.

“And you promise, if I need help, you’ll do the same?”

The tension drains from their posture. They nod again, less stiffly. “Good, good. I think we’ll make a rather good team, ladies.”

Once you start, the task isn’t so intimidating. You work between Ellie and Mildred, then set them to chop potatoes together. You go down your list and organise everything so you can move from step to step. 

You stand at the stove, melting the dark chocolate for the cake. The girls titter as they peel and pare. Then all at once, they’re silent.

“Mr. Shelby,” Mildred utters.

You glance over. Your employer barely looks at the girls before he nears you. You stir the chocolate away from the sides to keep it from burning.

“Evenin’, ma’am.” He greets. He’s wearing a nicer suit; with a bow tie and silk vest. “Things are well?”

“Yes, sir. I think we’ve figured it all out.” You say. “The ladies are a great help.”

“Mm. Anything you need?” He asks.

“No, sir. You?”

His brow arches. “Mm, no. Margaret is putting Charlie down. Guests will be here shortly.”

“Ah, well then, don’t let us keep you.”

He stares for a moment. “Rather, don’t let me keep you.”

He turns halfway, raises his finger as his lip twitches, then thinks better of it. He leaves you as the girls sigh in unison. You take the chocolate off the burner and look at them.

“You girls need a break?”

“No, ma’am.” Ellie says. “Potatoes are almost done.”

The night goes by with the mixing of batter, the boil of pots, and the dusting of seasoning over poultry, fish, and beef. Ellie and Mildred are diligent and polite. They leave you now and again to help clear away the previous course.

You send out dessert and tell Ellie and Mildred you’ll clean up. They argue but you convince them to call it a night. They’ve worked hard.

As you move a stack of plates to the sink, you hear a footstep behind you. “I told you, you’re done for the night.”

Your name comes in a higher pitch than you expect. You look over at Charlie as he stares at you bright-eyed, a stuffed rabbit in his hands as he wears a pair of linen pajamas. You pull your hands from the sink and dry them on your apron.

“Charles,” you say. “What on earth? Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

“I can’t.” He pouts. “I told papa I wanted to come down but he said no. He won’t even let me help you!”

“You should be getting your sleep,” you chide.

“But I don’t wanna.” He whines.

You harrumph and grip your hips. “Alright, Charles, you want to help?”

“Yes, ma’am!” He says.

You hush him. “Not so loud. You’ll bother the guests.”

He sticks out his tongue. You laugh at him. You wave him over and lift him up onto the counter. You pull a bowl over and scoop in some flour and put a cup of water next to it. You hate to waste it but it’ll keep him busy.

“Take this.” You gently move his stuffed rabbit against the wall then hand him the cup. “Only add a little at a time, alright?” You show him a whisk. “Stir with this.” You motion over the flour. “Remember, little bit at a time.” You put your hand around his and show him how to pour. “Stir.” You stir in the moisture. “More.”

You let go and he pours. You hand him the whisk and he puts the cup down. He uses both hands to stir.

You wash the dishes as he goes about his task. As you dry off a saucer, he says your name. “Is that good?”

You look in the bowl. “No, no, you want it smooth.” You gird.

“Oh…” he frowns and adds more water.

“Good job, Charles.” You praise.

“Yes, Charles,” a deeper voice gives you a start. “Good job.”

“Papa,” Charles drops the whisk and claps.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Shelby asks.

“He’s only helping,” you defend the boy.

“Helping?”

“Certainly. Keeping me company.”

“The maids are supposed to help.” He insists.

“I let them off. I can do it.” You assure.

“I didn’t pay you to clean.”

“Mr. Shelby, I messed the plates, I’ll tidy them,” you counter calmly. “Charles, more water.”

Charlie bounces and picks up the cup. He pours water in then stirs. Shelby approaches and watches him then peers over at you. You put another saucer in the cupboard.

“You know, I can never make him sit still.” He drawls.

“Children, so full of energy.” You say.

He leans a hand on the counter. “You never had any?”

“No. It… never happened.” You answer. “Sometimes, it doesn’t.”

He’s quiet. “Ah, I suppose it’s up to chance.”

“I’ve never had much good fortune,” you say. “But I do what I can with what I’ve got.”

“You do much and more than many. Hard work’s far more valuable than fortune.” He girds.

“Suppose.” You agree. 

Unfortunately, Stuart never had either. Perhaps that’s what got him into trouble. When he comes back, you’re going to tell him to get a real job. Back to the mines or factory. No more of those back streets and shady men.

“I smell a light roast,” he sits backs and props his elbow on the arm rest.

You sniff and step into his sight of his reflection. He watches you in the mirror as you set down Peter’s smoothie on the long vanity then turn to put down the steaming cup of coffee. Bucky reaches for it, leaning forward again. He doesn’t grip the cup but your hand.

“Look at me.” He snips.

You wince as the cup bobbles onto the vanity. You tug on his grasp and look him in the face. His blue eyes storm at you as the lines of his face deepen.

“These girls don’t know what the fuck they’re doing. Look.” He gestures with his other hand. “No brightening under my eyes. Didn’t even bother to shave my neck.” He growls. “It wouldn’t be this way if someone wasn’t playing scaredy cat.”

“Let go of me,” you say calmly. His grip tightens before you can wrench away.

“Why are you playing this game?” He lowers his voice.

“You got no problem speaking up for yourself, so why don’t you tell them to redo it?” You challenge and put your other hand on his knuckles, trying to push him off.

“Because it’s not my job.” He snarls. “Girl, that boy is an idiot. I’m sure he’s a lot more work than I ever was. Come on. Come back. I’ll give you a raise.”

“I have a job.”

“Fuck off.” He growls and stands up. “It was one drunken night–”

You whine as his hold on you grows unbearable. Your bones feel ready to snap. You fidget and slap his hand.

“Let go.” You plead.

“Don’t you get it.” He backs you up until you nearly trip on Peter’s empty chair. “I can’t let go. I won’t.”

You grimace and jerk your arm helplessly. “Why?”

He takes a deep breath through his nose and lets it out slow. His tongue pokes out and wets his lips. His eyes darken as he leans in, looming over you.

“Because you’re goddamn mine.” He grits.

“No–”

“Ugh, I hate screen tests.” Peter cheeps as he comes around the corner.

All at once, the crushing weight relents. Bucky lets you go and quickly turns to pick up his coffee. You watch the tension cord in his neck and your gaze trails down the bulging muscles in his arm, the memory of his strength still thrumming in your tendons.

“‘Specially with Fowler. Man’s a tight ass.” Bucky says above his coffee.

“Oh sweet! My smoothie.” Peter exults cluelessly. “Choco banana?”

You back up slowly and turn to look between the men, “That’s it.” You confirm. “Uh, Peter, I’m just going to confirm a few things with the hotel. Make sure everything’s in order.”

“Right, uh… makes sense. Oh. When was that interview with Vogue Ital- tal– i–a-no?” He struggles to enunciate with a very Mario-like accent.

“It’s in your itinerary but I’ll make sure you get there.”

“And the stylist? She has an outfit for me?” He asks hopefully as he plays with his straw.

“Sure, Peter. That’s why she’s here.”

“Ah, she’s great, isn’t she?” Bucky steps forward and puts his arm over your shoulders. “Efficient.”

“A life-saver!” Peter agrees. “Uh. where’s your assistant? Or do you have seven like Mr. Fowler?”

Bucky laughs and squeezes you closer. You chafe in his embrace. “She’s a hard act to follow. I had a few replacements but not of them could make it here so… I’m raw dogging this one. Getting my own coffee, booking my own flights…”

“Oh jeez! I could never.” Peter pouts. “Well, if you need anything, I’m sure she can help you too. We’ll mostly be at the same places, right?”

“Presser, tonight.” Bucky points and snaps his fingers. “Don’t know why they book this shit on the first day but it’s why we’re paid the big time.” His hand grazes down your arm. “Why we can pay others to look after us, right?”

“Ha, sure.” Peter slurps his smoothie and pulls out his phone. He chews on the tip. “Um… are you sure she got off her flight, okay?”

The stylist. Again.

“I’m sure she’s sleeping it off.” You reassure him. For the fifth time. “Anyway, I should go. I’m sure Fowler will need you up front soon.”

🎥

“Did she answer you?” Peter asks as you nudge him off the elevator.

“She’ll be waiting for us there. She said she labeled the outfit before you packed.” You point him down the hallway. “Really, we don’t have a lot of time.”

“I know but… my hair–”

“She can do it there.” You insist as you check your phone. “Look, you need to wash off the stuff from set anyway.”

“I know but…” He huffs. “I’m sorry, I’m just so nervous! This is like a real movie.”

“And you’re a real movie star, Peter. You’re good at what you do so just let me do my part and get you where you need to be.”

He drops his shoulders and tips his head back. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just… Everything feels so official now with you around.”

“You miss your aunt?”

“Kinda,” he sniffs.

“Ah, I think that’s your room.” You point ahead. “Got he key?”

“What? Key?” He babbles.

“Peter.”

He chuckles and digs in his pocket. “I’m kidding.” He steps ahead of you and flicks his hair out of his face. “Venice is not nice to my hair.”

“Humid, yeah,” you agree.

As the card elicits a green flash from the lock, another door clicks and startles you. A whistle draws your attention from Peter’s back. He spins around and leans on the door to open it an inch.

“Pete! What are the odds?” Bucky pokes his head out of a nearby suite. He’s shirtless and his hair is damp. You sidle closer to Peter.

“Hey, Buck. Uh Bucky. Sorry.” Peter cringes. “Yeah, uh… I thought you’d have a full villa.”

“Nah, too big for just me.” He shrugs. “Plus, I had to do this all last minute.”

You frown. Before you quit, you’d booked his trip and rooms. It wasn’t here… You try not to show your concern as you look at your phone.

“Peter, we should get ready–”

“Hey,” Bucky snaps his fingers. “We’re headed to the same place. How about we share a ride?”

“Gee, really? That’d be awesome!” Peter chimes.

You bite down and stare at the wall. You know what Bucky is doing. You just want him to stop. Give up. Whatever chip you took out of his ego, you wish he’d just find another way to fill it.

“Sure. I mean, no cars in Venice right? We’ll probably end up on the same tram anyway.” Bucky shrugs. “And it’s easy to get lost in a city like this…”

Bucky glances at you and your eyes catch for just a minute. Your brows twitch and his lips slightly curve. You look at Peter as his eyes round in admiration. Christ.

“Well, it seems you’re already well ahead of him so better get cleaned up, huh, Peter?” You prompt.

“Hmm,” Bucky hums. “She help you shower too? Never did that for me.”

“Wh-at?” Peter’s voice cracks. “N-no!”

“Kidding, kid,” Bucky winks as he lets his door open to expose more of his body, only a towel around his waist. “I know her better than anyone, she runs a strict ship.”

“None at all?” He asks, swallowing visibly, his eyes burning, dark circles marring his otherwise perfect complexion. You grip his wrist gently, shaking your head.

“None at all, Toru,” he exhales in relief, though he doesn’t want to get too excited – you still had been poisoned, even with Mao’s quick work of it. “I am going to get checked in a bit, I just… wanted to know about… her.”

“Lola?” He says it like a curse word – it is one, truly. You nod. “She’s locked up for the moment, but she won’t live to see the week.”

“Toru, should you truly-”

“I will kill her,” he cuts you off, ever so quiet, tilting your chin. “For everything she fucking did. Don’t you try to talk me out of it.”

“And… Sir Geto?”

He sighs, shaking his head. “I need his testimony, so I offered a deal – you can decide his fate. I’m sure you’d be a little more kind to that man than I would be.”

You go to open your mouth, when the door opens, and advisor Ijichi comes in, pushing up his monocle, smiling with relief as he sees you. “My Empress, it’s so good to see you awake.”

“Ijichi,” you rush up and hug him, making the man blush. “I heard you carried me to safety, yes?”

“Of course I did, it was no bother,” he’s a flustered mess, Satoru can’t help but laugh softly at the sight of him awkwardly patting your back. “I come bearing some news for you both.”

“I’m listening,” Satoru’s hand doesn’t leave the small of your back, the warmth seeping through your layers, your silk underlayers, your pretty dress, one that Satoru’s mom had made for you.

You couldn’t help but love the little touches of home with the added lace, the billowing sleeves. You love her so very much, she had checked on you much this morning, and you hated that she was worried like that over you – though perhaps no one went through as much as Satoru that night, from what you heard.

‘It was terrible,’ she had said, sniffling – usually a formidable woman, she was vulnerable laying next to you in the bed as you’d brushed her hair back. ‘You shouldn’t be comforting me!’

‘I put you both through a fright,’ she had sighed, snuggling up, the infamous Gojo strands much like her son’s. One would almost think her as a sister, she still looked so very young and lovely, even with reddened eyes. ‘How bad was it for him? I hope he did not…’

‘Lose it completely?’ You nodded, swallowing. ‘I thought I’d lose him and you together with how he acted.’

‘Mama Gojo, do not say that,’ your heart ached then. ‘I cannot have him hurting himself over me.’

‘I was terrified,’ she had swiped her eyes, shaking her head and exhaling. ‘I am also scared of… if you’re…’

‘We weren’t sure if I was pregnant completely, yet,’ you tried to smile, but it fell flat. ‘I will get checked soon.’

‘If anything happens to that baby, I’ll kill-’

‘Mama Gojo!’

She had been very serious.

To think of what Satoru went through while you were unconscious breaks your heart, you only know a bit, likely to not upset you further. But you feel it, how tightly he’s holding you, like he can’t stand to pull away – and you don’t want him to, you want to be locked right in his embrace for as long as you could be.

“Sir Geto would like to talk to the Empress alone,” Satoru scoffs, and you can’t help but tense up. “I told him you would not allow such a thing, but even so – if you did, I would go down with her as protection.”

“Fuck him, I should put him out to be hung,” he curses, holding you so tight you wince, making him pause. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“You’re all right, Toru,” you smile reassuringly. “I don’t think Geto would hurt me if I-”

“He almost killed you!?”

“That was Lola,” you mumble, Satoru laughs again, a psychotic sound, as if he was actively losing it, brushing a hand through his hair until it’s a mess. “I’m not saying he isn’t to blame, but there are a couple questions I need answered before you throw him out of a tower window.”

“He’ll splatter so lovely,” Satoru says, longingly – you giggle a little, shaking your head at him. “No?”

“I have some things I really need to know…” He knows what you mean, the past you had shared and just how much of that was questionable, how much did Suguru lie to you over the years?

He got the note when they confiscated everything Suguru had, but he has not brought it up to you, not yet. Not realizing how horrible he made you feel when you first got there, how lonely and hopeless – he’d read it several times just this morning as you slept, restless, tossing and turning in the bed as he sat at that desk.

He doesn’t know how to bring it up, to apologize – you surely must think he’d be furious about it, but he is not.

Of course you missed home during that time, and the perceived ‘perfection’ of Suguru and the comforts of a place you grew up in.

“Then I shall allow you to have your moments alone,” you hug him tightly, letting him brush back your hair. “Kiyo will stay close to the door.”

“You may as well, Toru… I just…”

“No, I realize there is much to be said,” he sighs now, chin resting on your head. “I’m so very exhausted.”

“As am I, I just wish we could…”

“Yes,” he grimaces now. “I also must speak to the little murderous harlot.”

“You’re going to kill her!”

“I am.”

“You must let it go to the council,” you chide, staring into narrowed blue eyes. “It’s our best chance to rid ourselves of the concubines altogether.”

“She is correct,” Ijichi chides, and Satoru looks at him over your head. “The royal advisor Jinshi has offered his advice to you, your excellence.”

“No calling me that when it’s just us,” Satoru waves his hand, Ijichi can’t stop his blush, you giggle at how cute it is.

“Master Gojo, then.”

“Call him Toru!”

“I didn’t say that familiar!?”

“Toru is cute,” you pinch his cheek, he snorts and smacks your hand off his cheek playfully. “I hear this advisor is very important, and from what I can tell, versed in politics very much. He would be good to convene with, yes?”

“Indeed,” Satoru sighs a little dramatically, though. “I never get enough time alone with my bride.”

“We shall have much time, very soon. Hmm?” You’re running your hands up his chest, his voice drops to a murmur.

“Not until you’re all better, you bratty empress.”

You pout up at him.

“You were just poisoned.”

“I know! A little bit.”

“A little!?”

“Ahem,” Ijichi reminds you both of his presence, waving his hand again at the two of you. “We have much to do, you two. I will not leave her alone for a moment, I promise you this time.”

“Oh Ijichi,” you walk over to him, taking his hand. “You did nothing wrong that night, I was in my room.”

“I still…”

“You helped save me,” you smile reassuringly, watching him relax his shoulders just a little bit at your words. You look back at your husband, leaned against the wall with his arms crossed under those gold silk robes. “We will make sure to have dinner tonight, alone, and take a bath together. Won’t we, Toru?”

“I can’t handle a bath like…” He doesn’t say it all – but you grin, as if you know he’d be tortured, unable to not have his cock buried inside of you.

It’s been weeks.

Yet you just had a terrible thing happen, and he must be careful.

“Stop being so slutty in front of Ijichi.”

“Your Excellence! Do not speak of the Empress this way!?”

“Indeed, do not!?” You stick out your tongue as you hook your arm through Ijichi’s, earning his glare. “Dinner, and then the bathhouse.”

“Go on, then,” you both walk together, but you can’t help but tense, as you look back at Satoru, turning and walking the opposite direction in the courtyard.

You never do get enough time with the man you love, and there is still so much to learn about each other, so much you must do together, speak of, work on. Yet all you want is to be in his arms, on his lap, kissing him until your head spins, and you’re dizzy, resting in the comfort you had missed so much.

When he turns a corner, his eyes catch yours, and you feel that weight in his gaze, that sad little smile, as if he’s dreading the day, too.

Yet, there is much hope for the two of you.

First, however? There was much to discuss with a couple of infiltrators.

******

The dungeons Satoru has Suguru locked up in are chilled, it’s utterly dark, every step down the spiraling stairs echoing with your heels clicking against them. Your heart is pounding, as Ijichi walks behind you, heading down first, holding his hand up for you to take with a nervous smile.

“Are you all right, my lady?”

“I am,” you assure him, but his concern lingers. “Say it, then.”

He sighs. “You’re doing too much for just having been poisoned, the state you were in was…”

“I swear I feel fine, whatever the pretty girl Maomao gave me worked wonders,” you try again to calm him, but you see his judgement even in the dark, with the little lanterns hanging on the walls. “Truly!”

“Mmm,” you both keep walking. “You are stubborn like the Emperor.”

“That stubborn?”

“Mhm,” your lips quirk up. “It’s not funny, my lady. You know you both age me beyond my years!?”

“He did that before I came, and you’re most handsome, all mature,” he blushes even in the dark, guiding you down the hall now.

“Don’t use your charms, they won’t work today.”

“They always do.”

“Hmph,” your mood sobers up a bit as you catch sight of Suguru's cell at the end of the corridor, the only one bathed in the small lighting.

“Is Lola elsewhere?” You ask softly.

“She is.” Kiyotaka says nothing else, stopping then at the bars that block Suguru’s cell, taking a key and unlocking it.

Suguru sees the action immediately, and stands as your footsteps approach – the heavy chains around his wrists and ankles rattling just a bit. His fine knightly gear is all gone, replaced by a basic white tunic, that dark hair – usually so perfect, is thrown up in a messy pony tail. Those eyes that were the last thing you saw before you fainted, have dark circles underneath them, like he hasn’t slept.

"Princess..." he begins, seeing Kiyotaka and clearing his throat, correcting himself with a ghost of a smile. "Empress, I mean.”

“Indeed…” You let Kiyotaka open the door now, stepping inside, peeking back at him. “I will be all right, Kiyo. Promise.”

“One touch on her hair,” Ijichi warns, Suguru sighs.

“I would not hurt her,” the tension is palpable when he steps back, giving you some privacy alone in the cell, when so many emotions rush through, you’re shaking, hands trembling. 

“I don’t know whether to speak or smack you,” you admit, laughing without any real humor, as he frowns. “Or punch you. Or kick your dick.”

“Kick my dick?” He raises a brow, and you shove at him, tears already forming in your eyes, but he lets you. He lets you shove him, stumbling back when a big man like him never would, taking your hand on his chest to pause you. “I suppose I deserve much worse.”

“You deserve the worst, and Satoru will give you no mercy unless I ask,” you shut your eyes, feeling the tears slip from your eyes. “I should not, either.”

 “I never imagined..." Suguru trails off, his voice breaking in the middle, hand hovering like he might cup your face.

Your jaw sets. "Never imagined what, Suguru? That I'd see you here? Or that you'd help try to kill me?"

He falters now, stepping back a bit as if slapped, but he doesn’t release your wrists until you yank them back, clutching your hands into fists, pulse racing so quickly you feel dizzy. 

"Never that.” That dark amethyst gaze locks onto yours – so exhausted, so beyond dark, the intensity making you tense up. 

“Oh, never that, hmm?”

"I started under false pretenses,” you scoff at that. “Yes, I did initially – try to be everything and anything you could love.”

The pain hits so hard you can’t breathe.

Though you were in love with Satoru – so fucking in love, it didn’t erase the years of being ‘with’ Suguru, your knight by your side, promising to be with you even as you were just a young child. The hurt knowing that you were just a part of some bigger scheme didn’t go away, and you need that closure, truly.

Even if it’s painful.

“I’d like to know about it more, just exactly your plan – would you be honest with me?” He nods, tugging out one of the old wooden chairs in the cell, where there lay parchment paper and pens.

“Please sit.”

“Fine,” you mumble, seeing your name scrawled on several crumbled sheets of paper, making your eyes burn with tears. “Will you even tell the truth?”

“I won't lie to you again.”

“How long?”

He sits across from you, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes shutting. In the darkness, he does not look as imposing as you’re used to.

He looks tired.

“I was put there when I met you, to slowly gather intel against the royal family -”

“My family!”

“Your family made how many people starve?” His words are sharp, he appears to regret them when you jerk back as if slapped. “I mean not you – the royals in general, they care not for anyone but themselves.”

“I cared, I was just… not in power. How often did I take the unfortunate food, clothing? How often did I sneak out for you to find me?”

“You’re different,” he cups your face, sighing now. “I knew you were different, even more so to try to get you to my side. You were the perfect pawn.”

A pawn.

You knew it, but it didn’t lessen the blow.

“But then..." He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Then I watched you, got to really know you. Intimately.”

“Indeed,” you blush furiously, gripping your gown so tightly the fabric crumples underneath your touch. “In ways you should have never been in such falsehood.”

“My desire for you was not false,” you hate Suguru in that moment, even if he’s being truthful, the pain is bitter as it washes through you until you’re sick. “You think I didn’t want you?”

“To get some sick revenge on my parents, perhaps.” His jaw locks as you lower his hand from your face. “You should not have stolen my first kiss, touched me … you should not have.”

“I know that, I was supposed to do worse.”

“Worse!?” You practically hiss the damn word. “Worse?”

“Much worse, to you and many others,” he leans back now, shaking his head. “It was not just you that I have had to play to get intel, to try to take over.”

“I see, one of many? That’s what those kisses meant, those fucking words?”

His brows draw together, pain written on his face. “I’ll never forgive myself for it… but I did want you. None of that was pretend, how I touched you, kissed you… I fell in love with you.”

“What lies, hah,” you feel bile rise in your throat.

“Truly. I still am in love, fuck even more than before."

Tears prick at your eyes and begin to swim, until his very image is utterly blurred. "You loved me enough to let Lola poison me? To use me as a weapon in your pathetic war against royals?"

“I wanted you by my side.”

“And with Satoru, hmm?”

"I was an idiot," he whispers, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they brush a stray tear from your cheek, you tremble with your anger. "Jealous, dumb fucking idiot.. I hated him for having you so easily, for forgetting me.”

“I did not, I kept… I kept that necklace, I kept the pin, I cared so much I did not even let myself feel anything. For what!? For a fake love.”

“It was not.”

“Then you so easily just let Lola in? You truly had no inkling she would try to harm me?”

“I don't know what I thought, but I never imagined she'd go this far. I swear it." He leans his forehead against yours, his breath against your skin, in a familiar way he should have never done with you. “I never wanted you at risk. I wanted to bring you back with me.”

“And do what to my parents, Suguru?”

He’s quiet again.

That tells you all you need to know.

“I get that royalty has its problems, I know I’m naive about the state of the world, but to use me after knowing me so long…” Your tears fall freely now. “I was worthy of some respect.”

“You were worth much more than I could ever give,” you take a breath and lean back again, hands clutching and unclutching once more, his eyes darting to the action. “You always did that when you were nervous.”

“Stop acting so familiar,” you stand now, shaking.

"Kill me now if you must… I'd die by your hand," you look at him now, feeling the emotions hitting so hard.

Even though he had done something so dangerous, so foolish…

You could not kill him.

“That would be your easy way out,” you say instead, shaking your head as he tugs you to him, taking one of your hands and putting it on his chest. A stream of memories hit, but they’re different now.

There isn’t that longing anymore, and there’s hardly any anger, no yearning for the girl that you were, and how simple things ‘were’. No, you are not that young Princess now, even though it’s been a short time, under Satoru you have grown much – you are completely different, in fact, with him.

In the best and worst ways.

You are different because of Satoru, a part of you that loved Suguru is in there somewhere, but she is in your past, left with a girl who can’t help but feel somewhat terrible for what he’s in. It’s not truly his own doing, and you understand the cause, but he had so callously and coldly not cared for you enough to even let you in on it.

“Would you have understood?” He asks now. “You, a young princess?”

“I may have if you gave me a chance,” he leans down and presses his kiss against your brow, a farewell that you allow him.

“He got that letter even though I did not give it to him,” you suck in a breath, gaze matching his. “I did not want to cause discourse, but they took it all from me.”

“He saw it…” Your eyes close. “I will speak to him.”

“He is so in love with you,” Suguru laughs, shaking his head. “I almost like that pretentious man, fuck him.”

“Well in another life, if you weren’t so terrible, maybe you’d have been friends,” you whisper, letting him press another kiss on your temple, lingering for a moment. “I shall not have you killed.”

“You should, by all means, have me killed. I already told everything about your parents, there is no-”

“I will not,” you correct, firmer this time – and Suguru sees you then.

Chin up, stubborn set to it, your hands little fists at your sides as you eye him.

You’re every bit an Empress now.

“Why?” He asks softly, watching your face and wishing he could fix it – fix everything, but he knows this kindness is already more than he deserves.

His letters that he keeps writing come out wrong, but mostly, all he can think over and over, is that you’ll be his biggest regret, yet in ways he is glad you have your emperor, that you two found love. A bittersweet taste left in his mouth as he studies you even more seriously, exhaling.

“You should have me killed for what I did, or could have done,” his eyes can’t help but flicker to your stomach. “No, I don’t want to live with what I may have done to you.”

“Well I do not know yet what has happened,” you touch your stomach, praying that the news will be good. “You don’t get the easy way out, Suguru Geto. You’ll pay back in service to the Emperor, and you’ll gladly do it.”

“You really think he’ll ever want me to?”

“Shitty service, the most dangerous situations – I’ll send you off to the ends of the bloody Earth for a flower if I want,” his lips twitched. “You’ll be in full service to the Emperor, and mean your damn vows this time. If things work out, and those girls can leave, I would be appreciative enough not to kill you.”

“He only wants you.”

You blush now. “I know.”

“As he should,” you step back, and he steps forward. “I am so, so fucking sorry I put you in danger.”

“I’m more mad you wanted to hurt my husband,” you admit. “Not me.”

“But I-”

“I cannot live in a world where he doesn't exist,” he pauses, and says nothing else, as Kiyotaka comes and unlocks the heavy iron gates, and you look back at him. “If you succeeded, you would have truly killed me.”

His hands grip the bars, head leaning against the cool metal.

He watches you walk off, going back over to his table, grabbing the pen and dipping it in the ink.

He thinks he knows the words to say, now.

*****

"Your Majesty," Jin Shi begins, his lavender hair damn near glittering as he sits in front of Emperor Gojo’s desk.

“Why is your hair so damn pretty!?”

He laughs now, shrugging a shoulder, his voice much like the Emperor’s – Satoru saw everyone fucking swooning over him. “I suppose it’s the shampoo bars I use.”

“I’ll have them imported,” Satoru grumbles, sighing then. “Forgive me, I know we are here for serious matters.”

“Indeed we are,” he smiles then. “Mao Mao tells me your Empress is still very much with child.”

“She…”

“You did not…” He trails off, frowning then, but Satoru puts his head in his hands for a moment, sighing. “I thought you knew.”

“I haven’t gotten to see my wife most of the day,” he admits. “With Lola, the council, the barrister… you. I have not had a moment.”

“I see…”

“No, no, that makes me…” Satoru grins, all dopey now. “So fucking happy.”

Jin Shi laughs softly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs, Miwa comes in and damn near has her eyes pop out of their sockets, almost dropping the tea tray. “Hi there.”

“H-hello!?”

“As if you don’t see a gorgeous man daily, tch,” Satoru crosses his arms, watching Jin Shi smile at her, and he swears the girl almost falls.

What sort of effect was he having on Satoru’s subjects!?

Wasn’t he a eunuch?

“S-sorry, your excellence! I… do you require anything…”

“This is great, thank you,” she giggles and prances away, Jin Shi and Satoru sip the tea, sighing at the same time. "With the empress carrying your heir, the threat has never been more real.”

“It’s very true,” Satoru says quietly, the thoughts that life still flutters in your tummy making him ache to hold you.

Kiss you.

All over.

Fuck, imagining you in the baths later has him…

Focus.

“The council is reeling, news has even spread,” Jin Shi continues. “Lola's actions have proven that the concubines, in your case, are a threat to the empire, considering what she could have done. No matter how high ranking, she does not compete with the standing of the Empress.”

“So you think I’ll have a chance to get rid of all of them?” Satoru asks hopefully, Jin Shi nods.

“I do. The people will support it after this attempt on their Empress' life, and the council will have no choice but to agree. They will see it as necessary for stability and the safety of the royal line, though I can’t say the practice altogether would cease in your future heirs."

“I want daughters,” Satoru admits, grinning again and swirling the tea in the pretty cup around. “I want many, many little mini Empress’ running about.”

“You are so in love I’m sickened,” comes MaoMao, leaning in the doorway with her arms crossed, with you behind her. “Ew.”

“You lack romance, tch,” Jin Shi tells her, she rolls her green eyes, shaking her head and crossing her arms, walking alongside you as you both enter the office, shutting the door behind you.

Your eyes meet his, and he can feel that mix – the pain, the worry, the happiness, the love.

He feels all of it – all of you.

“Satoru,” you rush to him without thinking of the audience, and he tugs you right on his lap, kissing you deeply, the other two blushing at the sight of such blatant affection.

“My Empress,” he murmurs, inhaling your scent and burying his face against your neck. “I have no patience for formalities, I miss you too badly.”

“I miss you so badly,” you whisper back, hugging him tightly, letting him put a hand on your tummy. “I am still…”

“I heard,” his grin is huge and bright, melting you. “I am so fucking excited.”

“I am too!” Jin Shi and Mao Mao stand now, and your eyes catch theirs, seeing their smiles on their faces.

“I’ll help as much as I can while I’m here,” Jin Shi says with a bow. Mao Mao inclines her head as well.

“As will I.”

“I have no way to thank you enough for saving her,” Satoru’s hand grips your waist tightly, the emotion rushing in his voice.

“I am glad to see such love,” she says, and clearly the advisor agrees, leaving the two of you alone. It’s moments before Satoru’s kissing you, having you sitting right across his lap, fingers mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

“I fucking missed you,” he murmurs. “I hate not seeing you all day.”

“I know, soon things will calm down. I hope,” your hand sits over his, a pretty grin on your face. “A baby.”

“A baby,” he kisses down your neck, and your lashes flutter, shifting in a way that has him throbbing. “Don’t move like that, mngh…”

“C-can’t help it,” you admit, your hand entangling in his silky white locks, tugging ever so gently, he practically purrs, earning your giggle. “We have much to speak of, I believe, before we get to really enjoy ourselves.”

Satoru leans back a bit, his eyes that pretty clear blue, nodding now. “We do have much to speak of, sweetheart. But first? I’d like more kisses.”

His lips descend back on yours, stealing your breath – with much left to worry for – Lola, Suguru, the council, a healthy pregnancy – the most important thing was right here. Being in Satoru’s arms, and enjoying every little kiss, before more serious talks had to occur, before you got to just enjoy your husband in the baths, enjoy him all to yourself soon.

Yet for now, this kiss steals every thought in both your minds.