A Second Try

The last month has run as smoothly as it possibly could. Kristofen is healthy, food and water are stocked, no run-ins with Peacekeepers, limited contact with anyone from town. You're all very careful to cover any tracks and limit recognition with those you do come in contact with. And, while it's an old cabin with old foundations, it's sturdy and mostly without damage. You couldn't possibly think of what could be wrong.

And then Gylan started to get sick. It was nothing at first, a headache, fatigue. You assumed all the travel and lookout was just exhausting him—you were all exhausted. You were dead set on fixing it until something bad happened. They were reluctant to let you take care of it at first—there's the risk of the baby's exposure, after all. Gylan insisted he was fine, he'd be fine.

And then he was. He started getting better. The splitting headaches turned into something easier, your enforced naps eased some of the exhaustion. In no time, he was joining Volivia in on her patrols or helping Vincent collect firewood as the winter grew closer and closer. You'll have to move again before winter sets in and it's too cold to go anywhere out in that weather with a baby so small.

Even with his improvement though, he was a little more irritable than he was before. He's got a lot on his mind though, so he can't exactly be blamed. Part of you, though, thinks he might be faking the whole “getting better” part. He's got a talent for not worrying people. He doesn't want to be a liability. So he smiles and laughs and keeps his kindness because he made a promise.

“Gylan, honey. You have to eat or drink something,” you insist, sitting with him for lunch while the twins kept Kristofen company in the other room.

“No, I'm fine. I swear,” he says, a smile on his face. “Not hungry, I'm still good from breakfast.”

You huff gently, though not without some humor. “You didn't even eat that much this morning. Just eat a little bit.”

He shakes his head and continues to refuse. “I don't need to eat right now. Besides, we can save it for later—we might need it.” His voice gets a little softer, nudging your side just a bit.

“How about you eat the bread and have some water, at least. The bread will mold if you don't, and we can find water easy. It's nothing on our supply.”

He scoffs. “I'm fine. I swear.” He raises a hand to his damp brow, still a little hot from his run with Vincent.

You're huffing again, his refusal starting to strike a nerve. He's usually a lot more compliant. While you're not saying you liked him better when he listened to whatever you said, you can't say it didn't help in times especially like this.

“You're still getting better from being sick, Gyl. You're not fine yet.” You move your stuff out of the way, turning to face him on your bed as you try to get him to put something in his belly. “The only way you'll get better is by letting me help you.”

His patience has worn thin already. Your insistence is, quite frankly, pissing him off and he feels like he's two seconds away from completely exploding.

“I said I'm fine!” he shouts suddenly, turning his gaze on you with pupils shrunk down to the size of a pea.

Kristofen’s cries rip through the air just then, that familiar feeling of a throbbing in the back of your head returning after having spent too long after Vincent first left on his run with Gylan calming him down.

Your shock at Gylan’s behavior and exhaustion at the crying has you narrowing your eyes at him, mixing into a more irritated feeling than anything else. It must be going around.

“What's wrong with you?” you ask, trying not to bite too much. “Why are you acting like this?” You reach for his arm, and he stands faster than you can touch him.

“Just leave me alone.”

The sudden distress has Vincent coming into the room, stopping by the door with brows furrowed in confusion and alarm. “What's going on in here?”

You stand, too, your skeptical gaze pinned on Gylan. “He won't let me help him.”

Vincent looks at him, still sweaty, now angry, shuffling on his feet like he's itching to run. “Gyl, you're sick.” He says it like it settles the whole situation (as you believe it should).

“I'm not. Sick.” His lips twitch. There's a foreign fury in his eyes.

“Yeah? Prove it.” You grab the cup from where it'd sat on the bed next to his food. You thrust it toward him, your gaze fixed. “Drink.”

He curls his lip. “Why is this so important to you?”

You huff. “Because you're important to me, Gylan. Now drink the damn water before I make you.”

You step decisively forward, ready to do it anyway as his rejection just keeps bubbling in your bones.

You watch a surge of fear flash behind his eyes as his hand is suddenly shooting out. Without any ounce of kindness, he smacks the cup from your hand and lets it clatter to the floor, water sloshing in waves all over the wood beneath your feet. The movement was so unexpected, you hadn't even thought about moving back.

“Get that away from me!” He's breathing so heavily now, fast and loud and with an adrenaline that scares you.

You stare at the ground, your jaw tight and your eyes clouded with a thought that haunts you, with memories that make your blood run colder than the winter winds quickly blowing in.

“What's your problem, man?” Vincent nearly shouts, grabbing his arm quickly. He loves Gylan but make no mistake, if he needs to smack some sense into him, he'll do it in a heartbeat.

“Don't touch me!” Gylan shouts, his voice low and rough. You've never heard him speak like this before, never seen him act like this before. It's like he's a completely different person, he's behaving so strangely.

Vincent clenches his jaw, turns to you. “Go to Kris. I'll deal with this.”

You shake your head, your hands shaking at your sides as you keep your eyes down to the ground. “No. Hold him down.”

Gylan immediately starts trying to break free, before Vincent has even begun to listen to your command and do so—which just makes him more resolved to do it. Without a second thought, Vincent gets his giant arms wrapped around Gylan’s body, taking the fight as he kicks and screams and tries to get free. It's not entirely hard for him to get Gylan on the floor, holding him down with more strength than he thought he'd need.

You join them on the floor, holding your breath before breathing right now feels like splinters in your lungs. He fights as you lift his shirt up to check his belly, his chest. When that's clear, you make Vincent turn him over onto his back.

He's shouting so much. Kristofen is screaming in the other room—you can hear Volivia desperately trying to calm him.

When you pull his shirt over his back, you look for hardly a second before you're tearing your gaze away and trying (failingly) not to break down.

You turn away from him, covering your face in your hands to try and catch your breath.

Vincent startles at the sight, pulling his shirt up again to see the bite at Gylan’s lower back, ugly and poorly scabbed and bruised. “What is that?”

You go to breathe in to speak, but just end up gasping and choking on your own attempt to get the words out. It had come so fast, you didn't even have time to process the fact that your tears were already blinding you.

Your breath stutters a few more times before you're able to speak through it. “It's rabies,” you sputter, still struggling to compose yourself.

Gylan is shouting, his anger visceral in every way. Vincent has to focus on keeping him down just so he doesn't lash out again, but it's hard to focus on that and the deafening realization that's making it hard to move. “I'm fine!” He kicks and shoves, desperate to be set free.

Meanwhile, you're hunched on the floor, swiping at your face to clear it just to find more tears taking their places. You can't think past the throbbing in your head, past the shouting and the screaming and the crying and this sharp, aching feeling like you're literally being eaten away at.

You can't see. It's like you're half blind, like your vision has tunneled. Everything feels like it's spinning. You feel like you're going to die.

Slapping a hand over your mouth, you squeeze your nose tight and keep your lips sealed as you force yourself not to breathe. You hold it and you hold it and you hold it until you can't anymore. As you let go to gasp a breath too deep, the relief of these cruel breaths are too sharp to fall back into your panicked state.

“Go get the gun.”

Vincent's eyes go wide. He stops breathing. He doesn't blink. He stares at you like maybe you've gone crazy, but then he just becomes pleading. His voice goes dry as dirt, and when he speaks, it's so quiet that you can hardly hear him. “What?”

You can't look at him, or Gylan spasming under him. Your voice breaks with every other word, so choked up that you don't even know how much of your words are intelligible. “I've seen rabies. I know what—what it does to a person. There's n-no cure, there's no w-way to help him.” You don't get to finish your sentence before a new wave of panic clouds your head. You cry, “Letting him live would be a punishment, not a plan.”

Gylan is shouting like he's trying to carry his voice all the way to the next District. Kristofen’s screams are similar, though born more out of distress than the fear and anger powering Gylan’s roars and objections.

Vincent's hands shake, his hold on Gylan slowly becoming compromised. “We can't just—We can't—You don't–!”

Volivia comes rushing in, your baby in her arms with his head pressed securely between her chest and her arm to try to protect his ears from all the noise. She shouts over his screams, raw fear in her eyes at the sight before her.

“What's going on?” she insists.

You sob, all the commotion nothing short of sandpaper on your brain and against your lungs. “Gylan has rabies.”

She staggers, her voice the same as Vincent's had been when she mutters a broken, “What?”

“We can't kill him!” Her twin yells, his vocal chords nearly ripping apart from the strength behind it.

Yours is just the same. “We have to!”

Kristofen gets louder.

Via’s gaze finds Gylan, too many emotions there than can be named. “Why didn't you say anything?” she demands with all the pain she can manage.

His howling is still harsh and furious. “Get away, get away, get away!” He repeats it over and over and over again. He spits it out like poison, he gets so upset he cries from the overwhelming rage. Any kindness, any warmth, any care you once heard in his voice—always kind and warm and caring—has been completely erased. There's not a single trace of him left there.

“Get Kristofen out of here!” you shout.

Vincent shakes his head. “You can't!”

“Do you want him to suffer?”

“There has to be another way,” Via pleads.

“There isn't.”

Your cries are so loud, the both of them fall silent. Kristofen cries with you, Gylan continues to fight, but you watch it slowly die down as the realization of you mourning him really begins to set in.

There's nothing pretty to be found about the way you cry. Your face is covered in your grief, your entire body is shaking, you feel like you're going to die.

“This is it. This is all there is.”

Via holds Kristofen closer, despite his crying, despite his wailing. She kisses his head and tries not to get her tears on him.

“Get my baby out of here.”

Everyone goes still, with the exception of Kristofen. Even Gylan stops fighting, lays limply on the ground like an animal that's given up, like an animal that's already been shot.

Vincent watches you, looks down at Gylan, looks away. He shakes his head and chokes back a weeping sound, standing to his feet and leaving him there.

He stops in front of Volivia, scoops the screaming child into his arms and carries him away from the pain and the fear and one of the only things in this world that truly, truly frightens him to the very core of his being.

Via stands frozen in the doorway, lost. She can't move, paralyzed with her fear. As you watch her, the aching just gets worse.

Before you can think too long, you shove yourself to your feet and storm out of the room.

In the other room, you tear open the weak drawer by the bed and stare blankly at the gun tucked away inside. At the sight of it…you feel helpless. You can't move, can't breathe. Hell, you can't even see it with the way your vision goes in and out, shaky.

When you hear the shouting, something snaps.

Suddenly you're in the doorway watching Gylan attack Volivia. She's on her back, grasping his wrists tight where his hands are fixed around her throat, his face red with the force it takes to strangle her.

A sound you don't hear and hardly feel rips from your throat. He looks up. And then the sound of thunder shakes the house.

Everything goes still. There's nothing but the high-pitched ringing of numbness is felt as you note something clatter to the floor near your feet. You don't even notice when you drop to the floor, scrambling over to the heap on the floor next to Volivia. The shaking in your hands is all you feel as you're pulling Gylan into your lap.

“Gylan?” you murmur, sounding like you're underwater. You brush some hair from his face, hardly registering the warm, sticky feeling coating your fingers when you do so. His head lay on your lap, his hair a mess, his skin paling, his freckles somehow frightening. He doesn't move—just stares up at you with wide, red eyes that you can't make look at you. He stares blankly at the ceiling like he's got no choice.

“Gylan.” You shake him gently, still not registering the heat spreading over your lap, staining your clothes, seeping onto the floor. “Please, please look at me. Gyl, look at me.”

You shake him again, violent now when he doesn't respond. “Stop it. Stop it. This isn't funny! Just fucking look at me. Gylan!”

Volivia’s hands set over yours. When you look at her, the first thing you see is the fact that her face is drenched in tears and twisted in pain, her eyes red and puffing. “He's gone—Stop, he's gone. Leave him.”

She grabs your hands so tight, like that's the only way to get you to stop shaking him. You must not have been listening very well, because she cries louder this time, “Look at him!”

You do. When you see him this time, it's impossible that you didn't notice the gaping hole in his forehead, the blood soaking you in a way you haven't been in years. You go deaf when you try to scream. All you feel is the heat in your throat followed by something crackling.

When everything comes back to you, you wish you'd stayed numb. Kristofen cries in the distance like he's in danger. Volivia is on her knees in front of you, weeping as you do. You can hear the sound of Vincent's pain just under your son's descant.

You were never supposed to feel this kind of pain ever again. And now, here you are, being torn apart by it piece by piece. It feels like being eaten alive by mutts.

Damn it. Damn it all.

You finally found something good, and it's been taken away from you again. And you, so foolishly, let yourself believe that this was unbreakable. You let yourself believe that as long as he wasn't here, he couldn't hurt you or the ones you loved.

Damn it. Damn him. Damn you.

You're losing it all. And you're not sure how much more you can take. Your Gylan. Your poor Gylan. The one person you'd been able to keep safe was still taken from you by your own fucking hands. When does it end?

Kristofen’s cries continue to rise. You continue to weep. The world around you splinters and breaks apart until it's taken more from you than you'll ever come to realize until even then it's too late.

You just want to breathe.

~

PART FIVE: Reckoning

The winter air freezes your lungs until it's naught but frost in your chest. You wrap your coat tighter around you as a gust of wind has you shivering bone deep. Winter has finally reached you, though still in the early days as you try to gather what you can of the plant life around you that can be used to sustain the four of you, even if it's just herbs for tea.

You have to sneak out of the house these days just to get some time alone. Vincent watches you like you're constantly two seconds away from walking into the lake if he doesn't keep you from it.

You've gotten colder—there's a chill somewhere inside you that you can't reach. It mingles with the uncomfortable warmth born out of the insistent urge to cry every time you see an animal that he would have fawned over or a flower he would have picked just to give to you or think of a joke you'd found so wonderfully stupid before that now just hurts.

It feels like Kristofen cries more. It's harder to find sleep, especially when he wakes in the middle of the night almost choking on his own tears. And poor Vincent, if that wasn't enough, you've been waking just the same with nightmares of your own.

This never would have happened if you didn't leave. You should have stayed in the Capitol all that time ago—not attempt this ambitious feat as a person who never had any kind of ambition. If you'd stayed, you could have just ended this from the beginning. No one would have died. They never would have met you and put themselves in such peril. It would have been easier.

Now two are dead and there are three left to lose.

You decide you can wait to go to the lake another day. Crouched on the ground, you shove the last of the weeds you'd been picking into your bag and sling that over your shoulder as you get ready to head back.

“It took a long time to find you.”

Your heart stops. You're frozen on the ground.

You hadn't even heard him. How did you not hear him—How did you not feel him the moment he stepped foot in the District?

You can't breathe very well. It feels like your lungs have been stuffed with cotton. Your head and your skin and your throat prickles with this raw feeling that you think you can only describe as terror.

You can feel the smugness in the piercing air. What was once a painful bite is now a dull ache in comparison to the cut of his presence.

“How long has it been? Eleven months? Almost a year?”

You swallow thickly, hoping he's not real, hoping it's just some vivid hallucination that you'd expect from your traitorous mind. But the chill remains the longer you wait, growing and growing until you feel like you're naked in a blizzard.

Your voice is quiet when you speak, like acknowledging him will make him more real than he already feels.

“Eleven months and two weeks.”

It's like second nature when you involuntarily sink into a rhythm so familiar, it boils your blood and deepens the aching. Your fists clench tight, your jaw ticks every time you feel your breath syncing with his in his native air.

You hear him sigh gently, his gaze burning into your back until your boiling blood is fighting to avoid being frozen over at his will alone.

“Why don't you look at me?” He hums, “I want to see how you've changed.”

You take a while to ease the trembling before you even attempt to stand, planting your feet firmly in the ground. You scan the path in front of you. Maybe you can run?

You don't even know why you'd entertain the idea. He probably has people down in the trees ready to catch you. Or he came by himself, and he intends to shoot you himself just because you've pissed him off enough. Whatever you try to do, he's probably six steps ahead of you and ready to take the next at any moment.

You turn slowly, shuffling your feet and staring sharply at the ground as you do.

You can't do it. You can't look at him. Staring at his shoes, something curls inside of you at the thought of seeing him after such a long time without. It feels like…like looking at him is some kind of surrender. It feels like him being here is enough to herald your inevitable failure to do anything right, not a single thing. Everything you worked so hard for, for the first time in your life when you've found something good, it's crumbling down around you, and you can do nothing but watch it fall.

Look at me.

You flinch at the voice in your head, a tone you hadn't heard so clearly in months, one that had been slowly whittled away bit by bit until all that was left was a distant whisper beneath the warmth that had taken its place.

Against your own volition, your eyes snap up to his, and you know you've lost.

It's a consuming feeling, the way his icy eyes strike you.

Every bone in your body is breaking apart and reforming itself into an old shape. It shatters with the cold the consuming brings, until all the pain you feel is too familiar to scream. It twists and molds into something you used to crave, something that used to bring you the solace you'd known.

He stares at you like he's won.

He looks the same. If your disappearance had affected him in any way, you can't see it. He stands just as tall as ever, his pristine costume uncompromised by the winter or the Districts he so adamantly calls dirty. His coat is long and red, the crisp white of his shirt is like the snow that's bound to set winter in stone soon. His hair, in all its white-gold glory, is pristine and bright. He's clean, perfected, undisturbed.

And when that devilish smirk curls his pink lips with a glint in his eyes that can only be described as evil, your frown deepens and a hopeless breath escapes you.

“My little pet.”

You steel your jaw, trying not to clench it too hard as you dart your eyes down to his tie. Looking at him…it hurts too much to do. You ball your fists, clench them tight, try to remind yourself, ‘You don't belong to him. You are not an animal. You are more.’

You swallow thickly, your voice small and strained but still there, still simmering where he means to rip it out of you once more.

“I'm not…” Your voice trembles, you take a breath to steady it. “Not your pet, Snow.” You shake your head, finding the strength to speak but still struggling with the strength to look him in the eyes. “Not anymore.”

His lip twitches. It's a small movement you'd have missed if you hadn't been trained so long ago to learn him, his words, his face, his body. The irritation prickles, but nothing more. You're not worth much more than a prickle.

“Snow.” His jaw ticks. “You're calling me ‘Snow’ now?” Any inkling of frustration that may have slipped past is promptly put away and destroyed. He glances away briefly, dismissively, looks back at you like it's nothing—like you're nothing.

And you are. You've always known it. As the years go by, you learn more and more just how much nothing you are. This past year has been the only time you ever felt like just a drop more than that, and here he is to remind you of the truth.

He sees that—the will crackling so easily just below the surface. He smiles. You'll never recover. He can see that clear as day now. You never stood a chance after him.

“No matter,” he says. “You're always going to be my pet. You'll always belong to me.”

His words slot so seamlessly with the whispers that have come alive once more in your head. Every murmur or echo or passing thought fights for a place in reality that you can't quite give or take. It's so hard to tell now, with all the swarming whispers.

You cover your face with your cold palms, the burning of tears you're trying to keep locked away begging to be released. Your heavy breaths are held thinly back, and you try, at least, not to sound so defeated when you cry.

“I was so sure I'd have more time.” The air is still with silence. There's no sun to bring warmth, just a breeze to chill you until you feel like your limbs will fall clean off, smallest to largest, ears to head.

You think of your boy, your lover, your family. You think of the life you could have had if you hadn't killed him, if you hadn't killed her. You think of the lives they could have had if you never met in the first place.

“I was so close.” Your breath stutters when you speak, and you smack your palm over your mouth to silence the already quiet weeping.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Coriolanus takes a step forward. You stumble backward, a hand out toward him in a useless warning. Either way, he stays. “You could never have escaped me.” He says it with the closeness of his lips on yours and his thumb on your chin, though he's plenty of feet away and his hands are in his pockets. He smiles when you shudder.

He sighs, glancing around the trees surrounding you. A great number of them are barren, the rest on their way as another cold breeze makes you tremble and leaves him completely unaffected.

For the first time in a very long time within your span of work with this man, you see the smallest crack in his shell as he takes in the area around you. It's so simple, his nostrils flaring, his brows nearly pulling together in a way that was nothing if not contemplative at the least.

It's gone before it can be more than noticed.

“Funny I find you here.” His eyes find you again.

Something in you sours in a way you can never explain. You scoff. “In the home of your old toy.”

District Twelve was somewhere you were hesitant to go from the beginning. Seven was risky enough (and had proven itself to be more than dangerous), but Twelve was something you dreaded from the moment they marked it a future destination.

But it was the only place you had left to go. And now, look at you. Lured and caught like nothing more than prey.

Coriolanus hums, tilts his head as he regards you. You fight to look back at him, to tame the vicious fear in you at being here, with him, after everything. You'd done so well. You'd been good.

“Why did you run away?” he wonders, taking a step forward. You can't think to step back right now.

Fear, white-hot and angry, shoots up your spine and makes you feel like you're going to slump to the ground, like your spine has been ripped out and you're fighting gravity.

It's in this moment that you remember what you need to do, what you've been trying to do since the very beginning. Keep him safe. After all, you have some of the advantage here, you hope. He doesn't know about Kristofen.

“I wanted to be free of you.” You clench your jaw and your fists. It's not a lie—freedom is something you had yet to taste in a very long time. Even bound in his chains, aware of the hoax that it truly is, you yearned for it. And then you had it. Somewhere along the way, safe in your hands, safe in his arms, you had it.

Why couldn't you keep it?

Snow remains unconvinced. “You had plenty of time to be free of me. Why did you choose now?” He continues to slowly advance, stalking you like a predator with its sharp teeth bared. “It's been seven years, and you've behaved.”

You hate the way he says it, like nothing happened. Like you never escaped. Like you never got away. Like you've always been trapped right where he wants you, under his thumb as nothing more than a grape he means to pop.

Your tone is more stern than you could have ever hoped for. “Things change.”

“What changed with us?”

You purse your lips. “Just realized a few things.”

So cryptic.” His tone lilts, like he's having fun. Like this is all just a fucking game to him and nothing more. His eyes narrow, he steps forward like he's assessing you, trying to find your slip up. “What are you hiding from me?”

You tilt your head just a bit. “Myself.”

He inclines his chin at your response, a sour smirk taking over. It's the first real thing he's given you since he made himself known.

“You're not as smart as you think you are.”

“I never said I was.”

Coriolanus sighs. He removes his hands from his pockets as he stares at his shoes, lets the silence settle into something unbearable. When he lifts his head to you again, he does it with a smile.

“I am going to ask you one more time,” he says gently. “Then I'm going to burn that little cottage you've been staying at to the ground with your little fugitive friends trapped inside.”

This is a feeling you've never felt before. It's more than fear, more than anger. It claws its way up your spine and threatens to tear you apart from the inside out. But the worst part is the fact that you can't do a single thing to stop him from hurting your family but submit.

“No! Please, I'm begging you.” You come to him now, your hands clasped in a desperate plea and your knees threatening to give out and fall before him. Your throat burns, everything hurts in the face of his threat.

Your reaction garners more from him than mere satisfaction. The look he gives you is suspecting, it's a cold analysis that you can feel taking you apart, piece by piece, until he gets to the barest part of you once more to reinstate his claim.

He speaks with more than easy demand this time. There's something more than a warning about the bite in his words. “What are you hiding from me?”

You don't notice the single tear that's slipped over your waterline until it's running in a single, cold stream down your cheek. It's just the one, but it's enough to have his blood boiling when you beg, “Please don't hurt him.”

You hadn't meant to let it slip. That alone is enough to confirm his suspicions. His hands clench into balled fists. He stares at you like you've betrayed him beyond measure.

“Him?” he nearly growls. It's not jealousy. He doesn't have the capacity to be jealous of anything that involves you. No, this is nothing more than possession, than a sick need to own anything and everything he wants without exception.

“Were you stupid enough to fall in love with something, my flower?” He mocks you with his stupid pet name. My flower, like you're something precious, like you're something beautiful to be admired. It's amazing, his ability to turn something as sweet as a name into something sick and cruel and twisted with nothing but a tone of voice. “It's like you learned nothing.”

A visceral feeling rises to the surface, leaving nothing but heat and pain and the need to hurt something that can't be touched by you. You want him to feel as much pain as he inflicts upon you and everyone you've ever loved, and the simple knowledge that you will never achieve that is enough to make words you weren't aware existed in you hurt more as they force themselves from your throat like bile.

“So you can't love me, but the moment I love someone else, they have to die?”

He shrugs like it means nothing. “If it suits me, then yes.”

If it suits him. That's all it's ever been, a matter of convenience, of satisfaction. Nothing more than what interests him.

It's something you learned a long time ago. You don't have any dignity left—you haven't for a very long time—to keep you from clasping your hands together and taking a step forward.

“I'll do anything.” A sick smile spreads across his face. “Just please, don't hurt him.”

His eyes scan over you as he decides whether or not your plea was good enough to warrant his concession.

He hums, emotion gone, his tone once again easy and uncaring. “No matter… I'll just have to teach you another lesson. You loved your lessons, didn't you?”

Coriolanus tilts his head, takes the last couple of steps toward you until your toe to toe. Your eyes go no higher than his neck. He's too close. You can feel his breath, contrastingly warm to his very nature, just barely trying to graze your cheeks.

“Come now,” he says in a low voice. His hand comes to snake around your body, and you startle at the raw feeling that lights up inside of you like a bomb. Something in you nearly gives out. It's this automatic, pure instinct feeling that makes you weaker than you've ever been. Your knees twitch, your will trembles.

You try to shove him away, unsettled, but he's far too strong for you, too determined to get everything he desires to let a mere shoving stop him from getting his hands on you. He traps your arms, pulls your body flush against his and keeps you pinned there with his hand on your back and his eyes locked on yours where he forces you to watch him.

“Don't you miss it?” He's less than breathless, watching you with eyes grown dark with intent and something even more sinister. “My hands on your body, my cock inside of you? You've been without me for so long, but I'm here now.”

Your breath is shallow, struggling to find itself when his is right there. How easy it would be to just give in to him, to sink back into the rhythm you had hoped you'd lost count of when his whispers muffled to something you couldn't hear below the gentle flame you’d grown used to.

“Stop this foolishness, and come back to me,” he purrs, his lips coming down to tease your skin with his breath alone.

He feels so warm. It's a deceiving warmth, but a warmth all the same when his body is pressed against yours and it's just familiar enough to be so temptingly calming. What you wouldn't give for this to be easier, to be able to give in to this feeling without the consequence of losing everything you built out here where you almost belong.

You feel another cold tear on your cheek, neither pulling away or pushing forward. “I just wanted to be happy.” Your voice is no more than croak, a weak crackling. “He makes me happy. You never did.”

Vincent. Your love. His summer and his care, a saccharin thing in you that would make you giddy if it weren't for the sobering cold.

Kristofen. Your boy, your heart. His promise and his life, something you swore to protect with your own life. They brought you so much on their own. And you're going to lose them.

He sighs, pulling back enough to look at your face again. “I suppose I'll just have to remind you of who you belong to.”

His words make you shiver. He doesn't pull away, doesn't raise his voice or growl or anything when he speaks. He talks to you like he always does, a condescending seduction that shakes the resolve deep inside you.

“First,” he purrs, pinching your chin between two fingers, “I'm going to fuck you right here on the ground to help you remember the animal you are. After that, I'm going to drag you back to that cottage and make you watch as I burn it down with your little ‘lover’ inside. And then…”

He grins, the sight of evil. “Then I'm going to take you back to the Capitol and make sure you never forget what I've taught you again.”

You can't breathe. It's too much, him, all of it. You feel like you're going to die. You feel like you’re going to fall apart into something unrecognizable and then become even less than that. Vincent, Volivia, Kristofen. The only ones you have left, and he's going to make you watch as he destroys them?

You can't let that happen.

“You're a monster,” you spit, breath heavy and thick. “That's why I left. That's why I took him from you. You could never love anyone but your fucking self.”

“Wait.”

Ice is what you feel in your veins in the next second. You freeze, and you watch him watch you catch up to what you've admitted.

You shake your head, willing the movement to reverse time and let you undo what you've done, to let you fix what you continue to fail to do.

“Took who from me?” This time, he does sound upset. He doesn't purr, he doesn't murmur, he grunts and growls as he pieces together everything you tried to hide.

“Coryo–”

“Who did you take from me?” He shoves you away from him, watches you with eyes that shoot daggers straight through you, quick but no more painless than if he'd taken his time with you.

You raise a hand to your throat, like that will take the words back. “I can't–”

“Answer me,” he huffs, patience lost and replaced with nothing but an unadulterated rage. “Now.”

You can't. You can't speak, can't breathe, can't move. You feel like you're being ripped apart all over again. All of that pain, all of that death, all of that life for nothing. Not a single fucking thing.

You cradle your throat, the heat from the unshed tears intense and throbbing, every attempt to swallow it down failed like everything else you ever tried to do.

You stare at his shoes, sullied with some dirt and a scuff mark that could easily be reversed. They'll be thrown out as soon as he arrives home. He has no time for ruined things. Not unless it suits him.

You take a deep, shaky breath. “Let me go back to him,” you whisper.

Silence settles over the woods. No snapping of twigs can be heard, no rustling leaves. Not even the creek somewhere close can be distinguished from the rest of the quiet.

You watch the layers peel back, revealing more and more of the very thing you hoped to keep from him—revelation.

“Of course,” he breathes. You watch a smile slowly begin to spread once more. “It makes sense now.”

Your lip trembles. “Coryo, please.”

“You were pregnant.”

You cover your mouth, try to keep yourself from completely breaking down.

“That’s why you fled, that's why Tigris didn't know where you were.” He turns his gaze to you. “She wasn't just protecting you, she was protecting a fucking child.”

Tigris. Fuck, what had he done to her? What did she let herself endure just to keep you and your baby safe?

Something is shriveling inside of you. You just want to go home, with Vincent and Volivia and Kristofen. You just want to sleep. You just want freedom. “Please.”

Coriolanus takes a taunting step toward you, furrowing his brow as he shakes his head at the sight of you. A small scoff leaves him. “You took a son from me.”

“He doesn't need to be like you.” You'd be ashamed of how desperate you sound if it mattered. But it doesn't. If anything, the pathetic cadence of your pleas would serve in your favor. “That boy needs a life with people who love him.”

His smile is sour. “You think I can't love him?”

“You can't love anything.”

When his hand wraps around your throat at a speed too fast to give time for your instincts, you startle immediately as you gasp and wrap your hands quickly around his wrist. He's squeezing roughly, and you can barely suck in enough air to breathe around his slender fingers clasping tightly around the column of your neck.

Something washes over him then as he suddenly lets you go, just drops his hand and takes a step back. He focuses on a spot on the ground. You cough around the sharpness of the breath you take, looking at him with wild eyes.

“I'm sorry,” he says, sounding and looking entirely without remorse. His eyes find you again, a new clarity there that you find more disturbing than before. “What's his name?”

You don't answer, your lips sealed. He rolls his eyes at the effort.

“I already know he exists. You should be glad I don't kill you for leaving with him. What is his name?” He says it all in one breath and without any care for the fear each of his words brings.

You swallow thickly, every syllable like pulling teeth. “Kristofen.”

You watch him consider that. He inclines his head, rolling the name over in his head. “Kristofen.” He smiles slowly. “Kristofen Snow.”

“He's not Snow.”

He looks at you like you're an idiot, like every word you say is complete and utter nonsense and you aren't worth his time.

“He's mine. Of course he is.” He watches you purse your lips, the frustration palpable. He would love nothing more than to make it worse.

“Does he look like me?”

Heat rises in your throat. “He's nothing like you.”

He grins wide. “So he does.” He shakes his head, looking away again with a deeper consideration. “Kristofen Snow.”

Silence stretches once more. Every instinct in your body is telling you to just run. Run and keep running and go find your baby and then run some more. Don't stop moving for even a moment. Go now and accept the fact that you will never be free again.

But you know it's stupid. You know it's suicide. If you run, you'll likely be dead before you can reach the lake.

You're useless. You're less than useless. You can't protect one boy from one man. You couldn't protect one boy from one sickness. You couldn't even protect yourself from anything that has ever come your way. The only thing you're good at is destroying every little thing you've ever loved. The only thing you can do right is rip people apart and get drunk off whatever it was that he injected into your blood, into your brain, into the very basis of your being. You're pathetic.

Coriolanus has always known this. You never got it through your thick skull.

“I'll make you a deal.”

“No.”

“You can stay here and live out your days as a filthy District animal with your filthy District friends. I won't come for you, I won't put your name in the raffle, and I'll leave you alone.” He placed his hands back into his pockets with a shrug. “In exchange… I keep the boy.”

You can't see past the anger flaring in your vision and making you dizzy. “Over my dead body.”

He smirks. “That can also be arranged.”

“I am not letting you take my son from me.” You raise your voice to something a little stronger, though the near sob that comes with it makes it crackle and break, you refuse to let that seal your son's fate. “He's the only good thing you've ever given me, and I am never going to give him up. Especially not to you.”

You can see an inkling of a chord you'd struck. It feels glorious to finally deal a worthy enough blow. You huff decidedly.

“You won't let me have my son?”

“No.” You shake your head, all the threat in the world channeled into your voice. “He's mine.”

Coriolanus sighs, brings his hand to his chin and strokes his bottom lip thoughtfully. His jaw ticks once, and then he's smoothing it out easily. He looks at you again, walks back to you and raises a hand. You swat it away, and you're only successful because he lets you.

The shadow of a smirk can be seen beneath the surface of his consideration. He hums deeply. “I missed your fight. I really did.” He lets out a hefty sigh. “How about a different deal?”

“You cannot have him.”

Coriolanus shrugs. “That’s fine.” He clasps his hands cordially. “Kristofen can stay here.”

Your brow furrows. “What?” It's a trick, it's got to be. He would never let his heir go, just like that. He'd kill you with his bare hands before he let you have your way, before he let you keep his future from him.

“Kristofen can stay in the Districts with your friends. I'll keep the Grunts away, and he can live peacefully here—as peacefully as he can, at least.”

Your brain is working tirelessly to find his angle, to figure out what his plan is. Why would he ever even consider this? What's the fucking catch?

“You'll put his name in the raffle.”

He shakes his head. “I would never. His name will never be entered.” His gaze is unyielding. “He can grow up here, safe and secure. No one will know who he is, and he'll be taken care of.”

Your mouth goes dry. “In return?”

The way his lip curls is slow, meticulous. It makes you want to sink into the ground.

“You.” He steps closer. “I want you.”

A breeze rushes past you just as he's closing the distance again. He stands before you, hand raised to your cheek with a stroking thumb. He sighs almost longingly.

“We used to have such fun together, darling,” he murmurs. You think maybe this alone will kill you. “I know you miss it. I know you miss me.” His other hand holds your waist, knuckles grazing up your heavily clothed side to tease. “He can stay…and we can be together again.”

You forget for a moment, as you often had, that nothing about this is good. He is not good. Choosing him means losing everything, and you can't live with yourself if you lost everything. You can hardly live with yourself now.

Your voice is hardly heard beneath the touch of his hands. It lacks the bite you need, but offers enough silent malice to be of valuable protest.

“No.”

His thumb continues to stroke. He doesn't move away, doesn't let his breath change. He just keeps caressing the cold of your cheek until it’s burning beneath his skin.

“It's either that,” he says, “or I take him and make sure he never sees you again.” Your breath stops. “I won't even tell him who you are. I'll keep him away from you, I'll even find some other woman for him to call mother.”

It's not like you weren't already aware of his bargain the moment he proposed it. You just didn't expect this kind of cruelty from him. Taking your son from you, sure. You expected him to kill you along the way, to punish you with something you couldn't fight against, something completely helpless to you.

But this? He doesn't want to kill you, he wants to erase you. He wants to take him to the Capitol, unburden him of District blood, of District memory. He wants to defile him into the snobbish rot of the rich, away from any heart he may have inherited from your home and make you watch as he does it. He wants to turn your son into a successor, the next President Snow.

You'd rather die than see that happen.

You startle when you hear his voice in your ear, brushing the rim and blowing gentle, chilling breath against it. “You'll be completely forgotten. Is that what you want?”

The tears stream down your cheeks too quickly to chill down your skin. They're silent as your lips tremble, your breath shuddering with the weight of the decision that has to be made. You never thought it'd be so difficult and so simple at the same time, and the thought of having to go through with it all is something that pulls from the inside out until everything hurts in a way you can't shake.

“I'm begging you not to do this,” you whisper shakily.

Coriolanus lingers, tilts his chin up to press his lips to your temple, long and soft and undoing. “Choose.”

What would have happened if you never met Coriolanus Snow? What would have happened if you'd stayed holed up in your lonely house in District Seven all those years ago instead of signing your life away to a man who couldn't care less about it?

Maybe you eventually would have met someone—perhaps even Vincent, or just someone like him. Maybe you would have eventually been loved by someone. Maybe you would have had a child actually born of some love, rather than this boy who will have to grow up knowing his father doesn't care and his mother can't protect him. Or maybe you would have had no child, at all, and you'd have been spared all the pain and heartache that comes with it. Maybe you would have found a place in this awful world that was something like what you felt months ago at Seven, on your birthday, with all those people free for one night.

Or maybe you would have stayed alone. Maybe you would have died alone. Maybe you would have been left behind, unremarked and unloved. Maybe this world would have gladly buried you, been spared the torment you bring with your choices.

Maybe for once you can make the right choice. The twins can do a better job than you ever could. They'd raise him right. Kristofen would grow up with District blood, District rage, District hope. He'd grow up looking at Snow as the enemy, and perhaps he'd help to take him down. Maybe he'd even save you sometime along the way. He could do good where all you've ever done is fuck up. He could be better.

All you have to do is finally make the right choice.

“Can I say goodbye to them?”

He smiles, something sly, something evil. He holds a crooked finger beneath your chin and tips it up, just to frustrate you with compliance.

“Of course,” he says, so close his lips are almost on you. “I'm a kind man.”

You scoff, jerking your chin from his hold with a sneer. The idea would be laughable if you weren't feeling this anger bubbling inside of you like lava. “You're a monster,” you echo, darker this time.

He shrugs a shoulder, smug. “Two things can be true.”

You huff, shoving your shoulder into his as you move past him. He spins and catches you with ease, his hand firm around your arm. You look up at him as the frustration continues to build.

There's something dark in his gaze. The familiarity stirs in your gut. “Promise me first,” he says.

You want to rip your arm from his grip, but all your muscles do is tense beneath it and try to pretend to hate it. You grind your teeth. “I promise…” you say, your voice brittle, “I'll go with you if you never attempt to know him again.”

His lip twitches lightly, like he was almost upset enough to scowl at your request (it isn't a request or a “bargain” at all, but he physically cannot entertain the idea of you making an order to him when he so obviously holds all the cards).

“You know what kind of promises I take.”

The stirring continues, this deep, familiar knot inside of you that wants to snap, shatter into a million tiny pieces that cannot be put back together. You shudder at the thought, unsure if this feeling is born of discomfort or something traitorous, although unwelcome all the same.

He tugs you closer, your shoes catching in the dirt but steadying yourself before you could tumble. Your bodies are nearly touching again, and the slim distance makes you antsy.

“Promise me first,” you demand instead. He starts to grin, leaning in slowly as his eyes drop down to your chilly lips. You pull back, almost too hasty as a brief panic rises within you. If you let him do that, you're not sure how much you can hold back from that needy part of you that had never had your back. “That’s not the kind of promise I take anymore.”

He scoffs lowly, shaking his head so slightly that the movement is nearly imperceptible. “Those fucking rebels,” he mumbles to himself. His fingers squeeze briefly where he's still holding onto your arm. Stronger now, he tilts his head at you. “It will be a joy taming you again.”

“Promise me, Snow.” You watch him steadily, perhaps the most steady you've been since he made himself known. “You owe me that.”

You see it on his face, his urge to throw his head back and laugh, then rub his power in your face and say “I don't owe you anything.”

But here and now? In this moment with this deal? Coriolanus Snow owes you everything. And this is the only time you will ever believe that. Because that's what you're giving up for him.

He sees that. It's clear and it's indisputable on your face. And perhaps the only courtesy he has ever given you lies in the lack of mocking he gives you when he says, “I promise. If you go with me, I will never attempt to know my son again.”

You blink up at him, realizing now that it's time, and you can't stall any longer. For so long now you've been without, you've settled for other vices, you've explored a gentleness that warms you instead of leaving you to burn alone. You've had a care and a pleasure that lasts because you've finally had someone who cares about you too much to leave you alone outside of his own passion.

And now you're breaking your sobriety. The anticipation of it, the crumbling of your being clean slipping through your fingers and falling around your feet just as you're tapping to your knees.

You raise your trembling hands to his belt, refusing to look up at him as you focus on every notch, every clack, every slip of leather through his belt loops.

Coriolanus watches you intently. He watches that aching in you like it's gold. He watches it slip through the strain until there's nothing left but what he wills there to be.

When his pants are down and his underwear is left, you press your lips together as you try not to let the emotion in your throat take over. You pull those down slowly, watching him come free from his confines as he waits expectantly for you.

At this moment, you decide that there's nothing you can do. You made a promise, you made a choice. Now you have to seal it and then live with it. In the face of the alternative, this is easy.

With one last breath of grief, you lean in slowly and press your lips to the swollen tip of his cock. The salty taste of him greets you like an old friend. One taste, and it's over.

Your lips part, mouthing at the length of him like second nature. Coriolanus watches you, takes one of your hands and holds it just to keep you right here in this moment with him.

You let your tongue fall out, licking along the underside of him and sighing at the heaviness you're greeted with. You could never have admitted it out loud, but it feels good. It's familiar, and it's sure, and it's something you can't fuck up.

“Come now,” he purrs. “It's cold. Won't you keep me warm?”

You close your eyes and welcome him into your mouth. He fits like he's meant to be there, filling the space of your mouth with the gentle rhythm of in and out until the tip of his cock is pressing teasingly at the back of your throat. You push forward, letting your tongue lap lazily along the length of him, letting your lips suckle around the base, letting your brain let go of the last slip of reluctance you feel until all you want to do is your job, the one thing you can do right.

Coriolanus’ hand presses against the back of your head, impatience in the tips of his fingers as he pushes you down greedily. A rush shoots through you at the feeling of his tip beginning to squeeze down your throat.

“I missed you,” he sighs, his head tipping back and his eyes fluttering shut. He grinds his hips forward, pushing you down to meet each roll until the heat of breathlessness catches up too quickly and you are frantically tapping his side in the hopes he'd show enough mercy to give you breath.

And eventually he does. You desperately catch your breath, sucking it down into your grateful breast and squirming at the sensation washing over you like a wave. The dizziness is pleasantly numbing, the grace of something as simple as breath just as much so.

He bends down, snatching your chin up in his hand to look at you. He squishes your cheeks, pushes them into a pucker with a sneer that makes you squirm. Tears had gathered in the corner of your eyes, now easing down your cheeks and onto his fingers as it mixes with the breathlessness to make you look like the cock-drunk whore he's trained you to be.

He hums wordlessly, and still without words, he pushes you back onto his cock with a rough groan that reverberates in his chest. You suck him down like you crave it, like you need it more than breath. And Coriolanus watches you with a face that can only be described as satisfied.

You wish you had fought it more. There are so many reasons why this is wrong, but this is something that should make you sick with rage and hatred and a sense of betrayal that's more for yourself than anything else. But right now, in this moment, on your knees with your hands in your lap and his cock in your mouth, all you feel is bliss. It's like succumbing to a drug you'd abandoned so long ago that made life feel easier, like giving in to the need that you'd built and were aching for in every way possible.

Coriolanus thrusts into your mouth like no time has passed. He shoves his cock down your throat and cradles it so he can feel the slight stretch it creates.

“Perfect fucking mouth,” he huffs lowly. “Missed this mouth, even when it talked back to me.” A rough thrust makes you gag. “You've been needing this.” The way he says it makes it clear that he doesn't just mean for the pleasure he assumes you take in it (ignoring the fact that there is pleasure being taken beyond the twist in your gut).

He stays like that for a while. He waits until you get sloppy. He waits until there's dribble slipping out of the corners of your mouth, until your eyes are heavy and lidded, until you're breathless and licking at his cock like the precum he leaks is an elixir that will make you clean.

He waits until you chase him when he pulls out of your mouth, your tongue lazy in your mouth and your lips swollen from the exertion.

Then he takes your chin again and looks upon your face. A sinister kind of grin spreads over his lips at the wrecked look you give him, and he knows he's won.

“There she is.”

You swallow thickly, pulling lungfuls of air into your depleted body as you blink up at him droopily.

“Now that we're being honest about what we are,” he says slowly, taunting you with his thumb stroking your spit-and-pre-slick lips, “what do you want?”

You don't know how to answer that. There are a million thoughts rushing through your head, yet it feels like there's nothing at all.

Truthfully? You want him to fuck you. You want him to destroy your body the same way he'd been doing for years. You want him to pin you to the ground where you kneel, push your face into the dirt like that's all you are, and fuck you dumb, until there's nothing left in your brain but the word “Coryo, Coryo, Coryo!”

But you can't let that happen. You can't succumb so quickly. You can't let him win that easily.

You've got so much to lose, and you refuse to hand it over just like that. It doesn't matter if you've already made a fool of yourself choking on his dick and slobbering all over him like it's all you know. It's not like you had any dignity left to begin with—he'd beaten that out of you so long ago.

You try to clear your mind, blinking away the haze and focusing on the thing you need to get back to—the family that's waiting for you.

This can't have all been for nothing.

Coriolanus watches the fog clear in your eyes, and his smile falters. It twists almost imperceptibly into something made of disgust. His fingers tight around your cheeks until it hurts. You barely wince.

“I want…”

He huffs almost silently, warning you to make the right choice before you condemn yourself all on your own.

“I want to go home,” you whisper. Home. With your new sister, with the man who loves you, with the baby who needs you. The home you'll be leaving behind to save them from you and the choices you made. Quieter this time, but with more intent than you can manage, “I want you to leave us alone.”

He hadn't anticipated the degree to which they'd ruined you. You were so good before, maybe still a bit headstrong, but you were obedient. You'd learned so quickly that he is your master, and you are his slave, and that was the truth of the world. You did as you were told, sometimes without ever even being told. You pleased him, and soon it became your own pleasure, whether you would ever admit to that or not.

Now, in your eyes he can see a kind of defiance that you'd lacked even before, before when you were still new, before when you were still so freshly haunted, before when he was still teaching you. There's a dim, ever-dying light there that he thought he'd squashed forever ago. They ruined you.

He would just have to make it all better again.

You see the decision being made. You see the flare of his nostrils taming into something more dangerous until he's watching you like there's no anger left in him to be found.

“That’s alright.” His voice is too level, too “kind”. He lets go of your face, drops it like you're nothing.

Coriolanus shrugs off his jacket, draping it over his arm in slow, measured movements and moving to hang it over a tree branch looming low. You watch on your knees, brimming with the need to bolt, to get out of there as soon as you could before the real danger can be shown with bared teeth and white-knuckled fists.

His shirt comes off next. He takes care in pulling it from where it's tucked into his pants, undoing each button with a careful precision, and then draping that atop his jacket.

The crisp white of his undershirt practically shines in the backdrop of winter’s beginning. He fully removes his belt, tosses that aside rather than hanging it with the others.

And you watch, a certain unease paralyzing you.

“After I'm through with you,” he finally speaks, “you're going to remember what home is.”

In that moment, a decision is made that you know will ultimately be a mistake. You should stay out, deal with him and his cruelty and make it easier on yourself.

But you don't want easy. You can't have easy.

Just as he's taking the first step toward you, you run.

You're on your feet in no time, nearly slipping on dirt and leaves and large twigs that roll under your shoes. You can't hear anything but your blood pumping in your ears, your heart pounding in your chest.

And you don't realize that he's already prepared for this. You don't get far before you're tripping over a fucking cord that you'd foolishly left unseen in your urgency to escape.

No sooner had you fallen is he in front of you, standing over your body like he means to destroy it. And he does. You know he does. You know it in your heart, your head, the way he looks at you, the way he kneels with a slowly spreading grin that makes you feel like nothing more than a rabbit that's been hunted down by a wolf with razor sharp teeth.

Before you can even think to try and run again, he's on you. He straddles your hips with ease, holding you down with his body as he counters your flailing arms and bucking hips. He cages your wrists in his hands, squeezes them tight until you're crying out at the pain it brings. Gathering them in one large hand, he pins them above your head and looms over your body with a predatory gaze.

His face comes close to yours, and you can feel his breath ghosting over your skin when he hovers over your lips. But it's when he kisses you that the dizziness returns and your better judgment mixes with the returning addiction to wash away an inkling of your fight.

He bites your lips until they're swollen and nearly bleeding. His free hand strokes your side, dips under your jacket and your shirt to scrap nasty lines down your body. You cry out into his mouth, and he laps it up like blood.

When he pulls away, his hand comes to cradle your throat, shoving your chin up to give him all the access he needs to your neck. The stretch of your head being pushed away so much is uncomfortable, straining. His mouth coming down to your throat and continuing its staggering assault just makes it harder to think of fighting him.

You hate what he's done to you, what you let him do to you. It's this bone-deep complacency that you can't fight with all the will you have left in your body. You want to fight—there's nothing you want more than to fight—but you just feel so weak against it. You feel like you're under a control that forces you to take pleasure in all that he does to you, however horrific.

He strips you, bare and freezing in the new winter air. The cold raises your goosebumps, peaks your nipples, makes you shudder from the inside out as he pins you firmly down beneath him with one hand on the back of your neck and one hand tight at your hip.

In a last ditch effort, you gather all the strength you have left to form two useless words, “Coryo, please.”

He smiles, shushes you gently as he presses your neck a little firmer into the ground, until you're breathing shallow and coughing at the strain. “I am going to make you feel good. And then I'm going to rip you apart.”

You hear the fleshy sound of his hand wrapping around his cock and pumping in two rough strokes. When he pokes at your entrance, you're squeezing already, silent tears falling down your cheeks as you ball your fists tightly around dirt and frosty grass.

The sensation that ravages you when his cock pushes inside of you, his hips snapping sharply to get it deep, is devastating. You choke on a sound you refuse to call a moan, squeezing your eyes tight at every inch of intrusion he fills you with.

This was never supposed to happen again.

But here you are, shoved in the dirt with Coriolanus forcing his cock into the regretful confines of your cunt, cries silent but aching to breathe air as every part of you is violated in the most and least pleasurable way possible.

“Fuck, I've missed you.” He lingers there, buried deep inside of you where he can feel your every heartbeat, every deep breath you take, every breath you refuse to take.

Something has his eyes fluttering when you wriggle your hips and find your mind repeating the same words, “I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.”

His hips, flush against you, trying to push farther in; his hand, now gripping your hair, tightening until you cry from the pain; his voice, deep and dangerous in your ear, growling this content sound. You think you might die from the failure of it all: the failure to protect your family, your friends, yourself. Part of you thinks, “Good. If I can't protect the ones I love, I deserve to be abused. If I can't keep them safe, why should I fight what I had coming?”

Tears build in your eyes until you can't see, taking every thrust he gives with a moan that makes you feel awful. Because it does feel good, and you do want more, and you have missed this. Fuck, you miss so badly when you used to be fucked every day, used by a man who didn't love you back, reduced to nothing but a pet and a whore. At least you were doing something right. At least you were needed (in a loose sense of the word). You learned how to make it work, you learned to love it. You learned to need the abuse and the hate and the worthlessness and the dehumanization.

You love being loved here with your new family, but you'd be nothing but a liar if you ever said that you were glad you left the Capitol. Because, the truth was…

You've always needed this.

Now, with your cheeks messy with wet dirt and Coriolanus’ hips snapping into your home, you feel like you're finally familiar with everything. He fucks you like you deserve to be fucked like this, helpless and small and weak, because you do and you are.

“C-Coryo, please,” you beg, whining horribly when he hits that spot in you that makes your head spin and your lungs gasp. “I-I, I can't.”

His hips just continue to snap into yours. The sound of it echoes through the woods, it must. His growls on your ear, his teeth inches from your neck, his hands clawing at your skin and hair to keep you prey beneath him—it's the perfect display for the hunter and the hunted. You've never been good at hunting.

“I know, my flower,” he huffs. “You just feel so good. You haven't been fucked properly since you left.”

You love Vincent. You love Vincent. You love Vincent. And he loves you. The times he has ever touched you, he was nothing but loving. His fingers were gentle on your skin, his lips even gentler. He kissed your neck like it was something precious. He pressed his fingers to your clit like it was a pearl in his hand. He rocked his lips into you like there was a song in his head and all it sang was your name, ever afraid to hurt you for even a second. He loves you.

But the space Coriolanus is filling in you is making you melt. It's making your head light and fuzzy and your tongue heavy as lead. You want to go stupid, you want to cry his name, you want to let your tongue fall from your mouth like you're nothing but a fucking dog.

But you put all your effort in avoiding that, in staying strong for the love that loves you back. It takes so much, but you do.

Until he pulls your hair at the particular spot, with that particular force, and that particular thrust. Until that same hand travels down from your scalp to your neck, wrapping around your throat and squeezing until your head is hot. Until he pulls you up with your back flush against his chest and his teeth biting cruelly at your neck so you can't breathe and don't care to.

“You know what? I'm glad you left,” he huffs. “Because this wouldn't feel half as good if you hadn't made me wait.” He thrusts his hips up like he means to hurt you (he does). “Of course, you didn't have to wait so long, but the chase was fun.” His hand tightens slightly around your throat, until your mouth is gaping like a fish begging for water. “We're going to spend so much time catching up together.”

Your eyes droop, your hands grasping at his arm going a little limp. “C-Coryo–!”

He laughs evilly. “I know. I know, pet. Just shut up and feel it, how much better this feels.”

You tighten around him, clenching like a vice. He takes your earlobe between his teeth, biting down a little too hard. “You did let him fuck you, didn't you? But he wasn't like me, huh? He didn't know how to handle you.”

Suddenly, you're being shoved back into the ground. You go a little dizzy from the force of your cheek being knocked back into the dying soil. His hands are a heavy force on your back, keeping you effectively pinned as he continues to rut into you from behind.

“He doesn't know…that you like to be manhandled. That you like to be hurt.” He smacks your bottom so hard that you shout. “He tried to be all nice and sweet, but you don't want sweet. You can't have it. You don't deserve it.”

Somewhere between the fucking and the degrading and the neverending onslaught of terrible thoughts, you go a bit numb. You don't know what it's from—the abuse, the familiarity, the pain. It doesn't matter. Something snaps, and you open yourself up for him, and you take everything he gives you with a moan so desperate that you have no choice but to agree with every ugly word that falls from his lips.

You let the pleasure grow because you can't possibly make it diminish. You let the sense wane because there's no place for it here, between you. You let yourself submit because it just feels so much more natural than whatever you've been doing to resist the shit he puts you through.

And it feels so good.

His cock pistons inside of you with a strength that's a little hard to see in his physique. His pants are surely being stained from the dirt, but he hardly cares between fucking you and killing you. He feels better than he has in so long just because he has you here to use. You were always meant for this, always meant to serve him and no one else. He's going to make sure you remember that next time.

“Your thighs are shaking so much for someone who doesn't want this.” A harsh thrusts makes you cry out his name.

“I can't—Please—I can't–!” You grip the dirt until it's stuck under your fingernails.

“You can't what, hm? You can't take it? You can't take all this pleasure after fucking someone who couldn't do it right?” He gets a little rougher, one of his hands pressing against the base of your skull as the other claws at your hip. “You should have thought about that before you abandoned me.”

He makes it seem like he was the one abused. He makes it seem like he's the one who was betrayed, hurt. He makes it seem like you were the villain in all of this.

And what if you were?

If you had stayed out, Josephine would not have died. Gylan would not have died. The whole group of them would have been alive and happy together. The twins would not have been affected by you, an unwelcome third party. Your son would not have come into a hateful word such as this. He wouldn't have the potential to suffer in the Districts or destroy lives from the Capitol. Tigris would be safe. You would be spared the foolishness of hope for a “second chance”.

This is all your fault. It always has been. And he is simply telling you the truth.

“Coryo,” you breathe between whimpers.

“Take it,” he says instead. “Just take it. Spread those legs, shut your mouth, and let me remind you of who you belong to.”

You do as you're told. Because in the face of all your wrong, all your crimes, all your failures, this familiarity is a much better choice. You let your moans fall, and you let him do as he pleases with all the pleasure you remember taking in it before.

You go blind with it.

He thrusts so deep, so cruel. He makes you whine and whimper when it's just too deep and you think you might die. But then you don't. Then you keep living for him to do it again and again and again until you can do nothing but remind yourself that this is what you wanted. This is what you deserve. Shut up and take it like the good little pet that you are.

You feel his fingers prodding at your pussy, gathering the slick there on them with a deep groan. “Look at this,” he says, showing you the white, creamy arousal sticking to his fingers. “This is how I know you love it.”

Then he's rubbing his fingers over your lips until you open your mouth and take him inside like candy. Without being told—you swear you heard him say to do it—you suck them down and lap at them with a heavy tongue. He fucks your mouth with his fingers just the same way he fucks your pussy with his unrelenting cock.

You want to say, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, but let's be honest with ourselves…

You love him.

Since the moment he plucked you from your District, showed you the riches of the Capitol, told you to get on your knees and suck his cock, you've loved him. You don't know why, perhaps you'll never know why, but it's something that you know you're going to die alone with. You love him. And that was your decision.

You reach back behind you, hoping you're going to try and smack at him, but instead finding yourself carding your fingers through his hair and grasping. That little grunt that slips past his lips reminds you of something that you don't quite remember. A fleeting thought. A forgotten moment. Something that you're not sure ever existed but think may have, after all.

Your walls flutter around him, and he laughs between awful breaths. “Are you gonna cum, my flower?” He slams his hips into you. “You're gonna cum from me fucking you like this?”

There's something truly unhinged about the Coryo above you right now. You never thought he'd be capable of this—physical force. He never needed to be. He made people do things for him, he made you do it for him. All he ever had to do was use some firm words here, maybe a threat there, and he got what he wanted.

But here he is, shoving you into the dirt and slamming his hips into you and holding you down like he means to crush your skull. And you let him. By now, you know that you let him. He only uses as much force as he needs to, and you give him the grace to use as much as he likes.

The hand on the back of your head moves back to your throat. He holds you there at first, keeping you down by your back but lifting your head up against his shoulder as he presses his body against yours.

He squeezes your throat, and you feel your body go sort of limp. It tingles in places you wish it wouldn't, but the pressure feels strangely good, a heat in your head and your body that makes your eyelids heavy.

But the longer he chokes you, the longer he denies you something as basic as human breath, the longer he sends you spiraling in a panicked state, the tighter your muscles become as one of your hands reaches up to grasp at his wrist in a feeble attempt to loosen his hold.

It's when everything sharpens that you think you've truly lost it. You struggle for air for a while before your vision blurs around the edges. Your lungs tremble in your chest as they try to suck in air they can't reach. And when you think the pleasure is going to disappear, it floods you in biting sensations that would have you gasping, has you had the liberty. Your limbs kick loosely, your eyes roll, and Coriolanus watches you like he's seconds away from exploding.

He tuts, makes a face like he truly is disgusted with you. “Of course you'd like this,” he says. “Clenching around me like you are. You think you're trying to fight me, but you're just tightening my hand.”

You are? You are. You hadn't even realized it until he said it, your fingers wrapping around his wrist and holding him there. You could have sworn you were pulling. To be fair, it's hard to think straight when your brain lacks the oxygen to do so.

When he loosens his hold around your neck, you breathe in deep with a blinding desperation. It feels so good. The air fills your lungs and has you trembling. Your body is brimming with energy, your clit pulsing and begging to be properly touched.

He wraps his arms tighter around you, keeping you pinned beneath him as his thrusts continue. His breath is getting so heavy now. The depths of it swooped down in a way that tells you just how little he's holding on. He's getting off on this with an enthusiasm that would frighten you, had you not already known what he is.

“I'm gonna fuck you now, but I'm gonna fuck you for me,” he says in your ear, hands teasing at your neck. “If you want to cum, you'll have to figure that out on your own.”

He doesn't give you a moment to reply—not that you'd know what to reply with. His hips start pistoning into you like a man starved of pleasure. He fucks you like he doesn't care—he does, not about you at least. You cry out and try to stifle any whimpers that slip through from the not-so-subtle pain of his sharp thrusts.

Somewhere down the line, he's gripping your throat again like he actually means to suffocate you. The sensations come quicker this time—it doesn't help that you’re already breathless. Without thinking, you reach your hand down between your legs, finding your clit with ashamed fingers and rubbing harshly as each of his thrusts accentuates your need.

His thrusts mixed with your ministrations mixed with the situation mixed with the lack of air is a deadly combo. Your vision goes awry, the pleasure goes sharp, and you have no time to think before you're hurling over the edge of pleasure at a speed that has you stumbling.

Coriolanus lets go of your throat just as you're shattering beneath him. The tight squeeze of your cunt that you give has him following closely behind you, and you choke on air and on his name as you feel his mean hips stalling, pushing against your ass and still pushing like he's trying to be deeper inside of you than was even possible. Coriolanus spills inside you with a dangerous sound, holding you tight and down and making sure you understand that every gasping breath you take in the middle of this mind-numbing, long-awaited pleasure is his. It belongs to him—your pleasure, your breath, your body, your mind, your very soul is his to command and to do with as he pleases.

“You're nothing,” he grunts between hasty thrusts. “Nothing, you hear me? You belong to me and no one else, and you're nothing.”

And you feel that with every spark and every wave of arousal crashing down on you and making you utterly useless. He fills you up to bursting and then watches it leak out of your poor, spent body like he's created some sort of masterpiece.

“Fuck,” he huffs to himself. When he smacks your ass, your response comes in a numb jolt as your hands grasp lazily at the dead soil beneath you, trying to find something to cling to as all the things you worked so hard to keep locked away came rushing back in a moment.

You are an animal.

One last, cruel thrust rocks your body.

You're my pet.

He pulls out of you, discarding you on the ground to stand.

You're my whore.

Coriolanus dusts off his clothes, tucking himself back into his pants before he retrieves his clothes to redress.

You're nothing.

Something cold touches your cheek. You look up.

You belong to me.

Snow falls gently from the sky as the first, truly confirming proof that winter is here. You lay naked on the ground, watching it descend and stick to your skin and the earth beneath you. Snow lands on top of you with the intent of washing you of everything that makes you wrong, without cleansing you from the inside like you wish it would.

Coriolanus finishes getting dressed, turning to you as he's fixing the collar of his jacket. “Get up, and get dressed. We have things to do,”

You linger there for a moment before you push your bare body up from the ground. With sluggish limbs, you reach for your clothes and pull them on, pushing past the haze and the numbness and the pleasure that lingers unwelcomingly in your body. He watches you do as you're told, like muscle memory, and smiles.

When you stand, fully clothed again, he holds a hand out toward you. You look down at it, feeling something visceral in your throat that you cannot tell the origin of, can't tell the emotion of. You push past him instead, walking away from him in the direction of the cottage and pushing through every step with every fiber of your being.

As you hand deliver a wolf right back to the herd with the words, “This is for our own good,” waiting on your lips.

~

You feel suffocated when you reach the cabin with Coriolanus’ presence burning into your side. The closer you get, the tighter it coils around your throat until you feel like you're stumbling.

Volivia is the one to come out first. She's ready armed to the teeth with a rage that's boiling over until her eyes practically shine with it. You can see the way her fists twitch, one lifting like she's wanting so badly to pull you away and behind her. It hurts you, her willingness to save you when you're the one putting her family in so much danger.

Coriolanus stays glued to your side, so you stop as far from her as you can.

You stand in silence for a stretch too long. It sticks to your skin like the snow falling from the sky.

Volivia’s voice is raw when she finally breaks the silence. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

You swallow thickly, taking a step forward and stopping short when Coriolanus follows immediately.

You close your eyes shut, clenching your fists at your side and wishing it would hurt more. Your voice breaks when you try to speak. You clear it briefly. “Where is Kristofen?”

Volivia watches you. You watch a portion of the rage melt away into something regrettable, into something sad. You hate causing these people such pain. They deserve nothing but good.

“Inside,” she says, a little quieter, a little more hurt. Like she knows what's going to happen. “With Vincent.”

You chew on your bottom lip, trying to gather the courage—the strength—to walk into that house and confront him with your goodbye.

You should be more relieved. Leaving them would take a burden off their shoulders. Leaving would make their lives easier, safer. You're doing them a favor, and all you feel is rot in your veins.

Your jaw ticks a little when you tilt your head toward Coriolanus, your eyes viciously turned away from him. “Can I go?” Your words bite with pain, a forceful shove of words you wish could hurt him.

He shrugs like it's nothing. “Of course.” The sound of his voice has Volivia raising her haunches, ready to attack him with no rhyme or reason or restraint. She wants to do it so badly but she knows better. She's smarter than that. He's always prepared. So she stays on her guard and watches for any excuse to rip his throat out, even if it means dying in the process. She could get to him before they got to her. She could. One good punch, a hit, a scratch. She could.

Your movement brings her out of it as you take a step forward. Coriolanus moves in time. You pause, sigh, and continue on with him practically breathing down your neck.

The front door creaks a bit when you push it farther open. The smell of something close to home hits you as soon as you're past the threshold, Volivia following after the two of you in a wary stalk.

Vincent's voice is like a salve to a freezing burn on your skin. It soothes you. How strange it is to be soothed after something so…vile.

“Love?” Love! “What's going on–?”

When he comes out of the room and sees you there next to him, the baby in his arms and held to his chest, his little face spared the sight of it, Vincent visibly tenses before you with a look you can only describe as dreaded.

He holds Kristofen closer, focuses a steady glare on the man at your flank, who watches him back with a gaze that glints.

Coriolanus just stares, eyes hooded with something akin to anger but not quite right.

That same rawness you heard in Volivia’s voice before has taken up residence in his own. “Why is he here?”

You take a step. Coriolanus goes to follow, and you fully turn to face him. The look you give him must have meant something for once, must have actually reached someplace he can feel, because he stays put when you turn again and find your way to the ones who love you.

Vincent's hand is already reaching for you when you get close. It comes to your hand, pulls you in and holds you by your waist as he keeps you close. He looks over you frantically, raises his free hand up to hold your cheek and brush off the dirt he finds leftover on your skin, in your hair. His brows knit so tightly, more pain.

He kisses your forehead and hugs you to his body as much as he can with your baby nearly squished between you. Something in you feels like it's breaking from that alone, the tenderness he stills gives even after you've fully come to terms with the fact that you don't deserve it.

“I made a deal,” you say it so quietly, like saying it out loud somehow makes it more real than coming to the house to say goodbye.

Vincent stills, muscles tensing where you hold him. He pulls back enough to see your face, and he realizes just how bad it is.

“With him?”

He doesn't even sound betrayed! That would make it so much easier, if he'd felt betrayed by you and wanted you to leave. But no, still he's worried for you. He doesn't ask like he means, How could you? He says it with a voice that says, Why would he?

You don't realize the tears have betrayed your steady decision until they're already attempting to blind you. Vincent catches the quick, wipes them tenderly away where he would have smeared them.

You nearly hiccup. “If I don't do this, he'll kill you and take Kris.” Your hand falls to the back of your baby's head, cradling him when he begins to stir unhappily. He makes a sound, and you kiss his head without even thinking about it.

Vincent's gaze is steadily on you, limp and blurry. “What did you do?”

Your free hand wraps itself greedily around the back of his neck, your thumb stroking and forehead resting on his cheek. “You're going to protect him.” You look at him. “You have to. You and Via will raise him and keep him safe…”

Your contact breaks when you close your eyes tight, uselessly trying to swallow back your tears. Your sob comes out as a brief hum, pursing your lips to keep it that way.

“But,” your voice fails you. There's not enough courage in the world to muscle through this, so you just let yourself say it as weakly as you are. “But I have to go. And I can never come back.”

His hand tightens again when he pulls you in closer. You catch his tear before it falls. “You can't.”

“I don't have a choice.”

You look away from him quickly. Seeing him is doing something to the will you have left that you know cannot be undone if you let it work. You turn your head instead to Kristofen, taking a deep breath to steady yourself and letting it calm you enough to take him into your arms.

He's still so small. Just a bundle of blankets in your arms, it feels like. He fusses a bit from the movement, immediately missing Vincent's warmth but happy to feel yours once you've got him cradled so carefully.

He looks up at you, eyes wide and blue. He coos quietly, his little limbs unsteady in the air, he faces moving like he's trying to figure out what's where.

And then he smiles. Just like that. He looks at you, his lips turn up, and he smiles like he's been doing it forever.

It's the first time he's ever smiled.

Not crying is a very hard thing to do. You're just happy you can still see him as he reaches his soft, grabby hands up to your face and onto your cheek. His nails are long, sharper than they should be as they scratch clumsily at your chin.

“Hey,” you sniffle, smile so wide that he makes a giggling sound that melts you. “Hey, baby.” You kiss his forehead empathetically.

“Mama's gotta go away,” you get choked up fast, “but Auntie Via and Daddy are going to protect you. Mama loves you, okay? She loves you so much.” You kiss him again, and again, and again. Each kiss makes your cheeks wetter with tears. You wipe them messily on your shoulder.

You know he doesn't understand, but his smile does fade a bit the longer he looks at you. You wish you could stay here forever.

“Let me see him.”

Ice crackles in every inch of vein in your body. You go rigid, glaring at him like he's asked to throw him. You hold him tighter, feeling a bit greedy in your pursuits. “Coriolanus.” The tone in your voice is almost enough to make him rethink his demand.

Almost.

“Let me see him.”

You clench your jaw, looking past him to Volivia, who's seconds away from losing all control. She's steady with rage, but you can see the slightest trembling in her fists, in her mouth, from the pain in knowing that things are changing.

You swallow hard, taking steps that barely pass the other foot as you practically shuffle over to the man who wants to take your son away from you. The closer you get, the more Kristofen fusses. He doesn't cry or scream, he just makes noise, moving his feet and his hands like he's trying to grasp onto something.

When you're just barely close enough, you stop. Coriolanus’ gaze remains solely on you as he takes the last step. You step back, but he just widens his stride. He peers over your arms and into the bundle. It takes everything in you not to hide him away.

When Coriolanus lays his eyes on the boy, you watch his lips part just the slightest. A  breath, nearly a scoff, rushes past his lips so quietly that you almost think you imagined it. He doesn't say anything, doesn't move, doesn't try to touch him. He just stands there and stares.

Kristofen stares back, his fist shoved in his mouth as he remains as silent as him. Every moment that goes by makes you feel more and more paralyzed.

Coriolanus tilts his head. “Kristofen Snow.”

You turn him into your arms and step back, your voice stern but still a bit shaky. “That’s enough.”

You hide your baby away, glaring at Coriolanus a moment longer before ultimately retreating. Vincent takes you back easily, his arms at your sides like he's trying to shield you from him.

“There's nothing we can do?” he murmurs into your hairline.

You shake your head. You let out a tiny breath and purse your lips to avoid their trembling. “I've done all I can.”

Quite frankly, Coriolanus is sick of the display. With his arms behind his back and his chin held high, he bids you, “It's time to go, my flower.”

The haste is felt immediately as you deposit your boy quickly into Vincent's arms. “Please don't let him forget me,” you beg quietly, holding your breath in hopes of holding back the tears.

He shakes his head, a protest in every ache of his bones but only one sound coming of it, “I won't.”

You go to step away. His free hand reaches out, holds the back of your head warmly, and he kisses you. You feel the fire like a blaze in your soul. You feel that battle against ice raging within you once more, and you think that maybe you can live with this. Maybe this is the right decision, after all.

Coriolanus grabs your hand. It's abrupt, it's shocking. He doesn't pull or tug, he just grabs it, and that's all you need to feel the force of you being torn apart from him.

Kristofen starts to cry. It fills the space of the cottage like a siren, an alarm heralding a terrible end.

“I love you, okay?” Vincent rushes, speaking over the cries, over the hurt. “I do.”

You nod, stumbling backward and Coriolanus walks you away and out of the door.

Volivia grabs your other hand urgently. “Don't go,” she pleads. You can see the tears she'd worked so hard trying to mask, but they come heavy now.

You swallow it back. “Goodbye, Via.”

Your hand slips from hers, and you feel cold again.

Outside of the cottage, there are Peacekeepers waiting by the door, more ready with a truck you never heard arrive. The twins rush to the door to watch as you're boarded up into the truck with Snow at your side, his face cold and uncaring amongst all the crying, the guns, the nod he gives to the grunts as he passes.

The truck pulls away. Every foot of distance makes you colder. Then when you're both transferred to a train, you catch sight of smoke rising in the distance, and your stomach twists with something vile.

~

PART SIX: Becoming

It's been a full day.

You've asked no questions. You've caused no trouble. You do only as you're told and nothing more. The rest of your time is spent locked away in your room, trying and failing not to cry at the memory of leaving, the memory of being ripped away.

You have yet to see Tigris. Charlotta, by some miracle, is still here. She must have been spared the punishment of losing you. Small victories, at least—even if, in the end, none of it ever mattered.

There's a hole in the space of your arms. You feel it with every movement, every familiar soreness of your muscles from holding one position for so long.

Coriolanus has given you space to grieve. Although something in you knows it's more to feel the ache of absence more than anything else. You're alone. You're alone and the only one you have left is him. That's what he wants.

The memory of smoke kept you awake all night. It haunts you—the implications and the dread and everything that has been left unsaid and unconfirmed. You're too scared to confirm anything.

Had you been stronger…

You don't know.

You genuinely don't know what you would have done. What you could have done. You're completely and utterly helpless, and you always have been. Wondering what you could or could not have done if you did or did not have something has gotten you nowhere, and you don't have the means of getting yourself anywhere with or without it.

You're just so tired. You just want peace and quiet. You want to be home, with your son and your lover and your dear friend and your boy and your leader. You want to be home where you can smell the pine trees, where you can go through the motions of crushing walnuts and deciding how you'll eat them. You want to smell the smell of burning wood around a great fire surrounded by the people who love you, dancing and singing and laughing.

You want to be home, where you sort of belong. Where you were beginning to belong. Why can't you have that? Why can't you cherish that for longer than a second? Why is every memory sullied by the things you've done and couldn't do?

It's in the middle of your stewing that you're interrupted by a soft voice. You look up slowly to see Charlotta at the door, a pile of clothes in her arms as she shifts nervously from foot to foot.

“Ma'am?” she asks, like she's repeating it. You don't really know how long she's been standing there.

“Hey,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Hi,” she responds. She offers what little comfort she can with a smile. “Um…he wants you to put these on and meet him in the main room.”

You glance at the clothes once more, unimpressed and simply exhausted. You sigh, nodding gently.

She comes forward, deposits them silently onto the bed. As she turns to go, she pauses once more. Charlotta turns back around, finds you once more.

“I'm sorry it didn't work…that you're back here.” Her voice is so very soft. It wouldn't move a feather if you raised it to her lips. “But I missed you.”

Charlotta, you think, you don't know how much you're loved.

You offer her the smallest ghost of a smile. She sees it either way, returns it before giving you her curtsy. She's gone the next moment.

You stare at the clothes, some white thing you have no interest in. You get dressed unceremoniously, you slip your shoes on unceremoniously, and you walk out of your room, still, unceremoniously.

The walk through the winding halls of the Snow Mansion is long, mostly because you don't move with any kind of haste. If he wants to call you out of your room after having just returned and left your home behind, he can wait for you to reach him while waits in the lavish hall of his large, unfeeling house.

Eventually you reach him, lounging back on his bronze chaise with an ease that would upset you if you cared.

He doesn't look up from the newspaper open before him. He sips his tea, hums at something he reads, and then lets out a long sigh.

He sets the paper down with an unnecessary flair and stands, his hands sweeping over his clothes like they were capable of contracting lint.

He looks at you and smiles. “You look lovely,” he says, taking in your garments and fabrics with a smile. Like it's nice to see you back in something civilized. You don't respond.

He doesn't mind your silence. It's better that than any kind of blatant disrespect that he was expecting from you. He approaches you nonchalantly, taking your hand in his and uncaring when you pull it away.

“Come with me,” he says. His smile curls at the end. “I want to show you something.”

You sigh, your tone flat and unfeeling. “Yes, Coryo.”

You walk with him to be escorted into the limousine. Once the door is shut, you feel a deeper ache rising in your gut. It's a visceral feeling that suddenly makes you want to cry. You don't.

Outside, you watch the people on the streets in their exaggerated outfits, formal and pompous and flashy. Children are among the crowd with a childlike wonder you can't hate them for, but still makes you uneasy with the thought of what they're going to grow to turn into.

The sky is white, fluffy clouds wherever you go full of snow ready to fall but likely building up to a more climactic moment. People pull your coats tight, unaware that the chill they feel now is nothing compared to the cold you've endured.

You see the great statue of Lady Justice coming up ahead. You've seen it a million times before, and it's never meant less and more to you than it does now in this moment.

When you come through the roundabout, you see a giant platform built of wood. Lumber is piled on top of it taller than the crowd that has begun to form around it out of the curiosity of what it might bring. You glance at Coriolanus. He remains unfazed.

You reach the main building, walk through it with an unusual amount of Peacekeepers surrounding you, their guns held tight within their grip like they intend to use them. Without anywhere else to go, you walk closer to Coriolanus. He remains unfazed.

You're led out near the balcony, where the crowd has pulled their attention at the sight of their president standing before them. They cheer immediately, shouting their praise and their wonder at the blessing of his presence.

You stay behind, kept there by grunts that don't let you pass by orders you're unaware of. Your lip twitches at the unnecessary force they use to keep you back, but they do nothing.

Coriolanus comes out among them. You watch him stand there, smug as a cat, as tall and as proud as he would be if he actually deserved the praise. And when he raises his hand to the sky, silence sweeps across the audience like a plague. The remnants of raucous cheers stick to your skin like the snow had at Twelve.

“People of Panem.” His voice carries almost unnaturally. It wills everyone into apt attention, feeding off the show they're guaranteed to receive.

“It was nearly a year ago that I came to you with devastating news.” He places his hand to his heart like it means anything. “This proud nation has faced many hardships since the disappearance of a tribute turned Capitol.”

A hum of agreement is scattered among the congregation. The irony is sickening.

“But,” he smiles, “I am very, very glad to announce…that those hardships are now coming to an end. I can now, proudly, welcome home…your future First Lady of Panem.”

The cheers are deafening as Coriolanus turns and holds a hand out for you to enter. The Peacekeepers shove you forward when you stand there, frozen in shock at what he's just announced to you with little warning for you to even begin to prepare for. He wants to marry you? Why in all the world would he ever propose such a thing in front of everyone here? And why in all the world would the Capitol be cheering for it?

You move to take your place at his flank, looking for something familiar among the chaos that is simply the madness of the Capitol and their simpering and their apathy. You hate being here, surrounded by them and their passion for being entertained.

Coriolanus’ hand comes to the small of your back, effectively stopping you and guiding you back to his side. You're tense as you reluctantly obey.

You don't know what to do. You're stiff and scared, and you are beyond knowing what to expect from all of this madness.

Coriolanus bends down, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers over the applause, “Smile, darling. They love you.”

Love you? Not a year ago they despised you. You're sure they still do beneath this mindless, roaring chatter. Even now, their applause smacks you, their screaming spits at you. You feel more like an animal in a cage than you did when you were actually an animal in a cage.

The longer you stand there, the louder the noise grows until Coriolanus’ hand is rising once more to silence it, like a light switch.

He doesn't speak right away. He makes them sit in the silence until it's almost uncomfortable. Then…

“Thank you for your support. She and I are very happy to be here in front of all of you to share…” he turns to you, his eyes weeping your face, “our undying love for one another.”

You fight the urge to stamp his foot or spit in his face. He raises a hand to your chin, and you brace yourself as he comes forward at a taunting pace. His lips meet yours, and you fight everything you feel from the addiction to the withdrawal.

They coo, fawning and praising like sheep do.

“And we are also happy to announce to you…a new addition to the Snow family.”

Your heart stops where it beats. It stalls in your chest in an instant, until you're sure you've died and have truly reached whatever hell has been awaiting you.

People are making noise, but you can't hear the murmuring through the high-pitched ringing in your ears.

Coriolanus turns away from you, addresses his subjects with a smile that makes your blood cold and vile.

“Please help me in welcoming our new son, Kristofen Snow!”

“What?”

The door behind you opens, and you watch Tigris walk through with a look on her face plagued by grief. Her eyes are rimmed in red, covered just enough not to be seen by the audience below. In her arms, a bundle stirs.

The amount of cheers that screams into the air is louder than the ones that came before it. Still, you can't hear it. All you see is Kristofen’s face being revealed to you as Tigris comes closer. You reach for him, and she hands him over with a heavy heart.

“I am so sorry,” she whispers to you, her voice shaky with tears.

You don't realize you'd started crying until you feel the tears chilling on your cheeks. The pain comes second—second nature. You hold him close to you, covering his ears with his blankets to shield them from the pandemonium below.

He peers up at you, fussing but otherwise happy to see someone he recognizes. His little hands reach for your face, and a little sob racks through you when he wets them with your tears.

If he's here…

“What is he doing here?” you ask, the question practically tearing from your throat. You can't breathe, can't see steady. Coriolanus watches you with a pleasure that makes you sick to your stomach. “Coryo, what the fuck if he doing here? What did you do? Where are they?”

His arm wraps around you, tucks you into his side despite all your protest. “All in good time, my dear,” he shushed you. “Look at them. All those happy faces. They love him.”

You hold him closer.

He lets the laudation ring out until you're sure your ears are ringing from that alone. You turn your baby into your chest to hide his face away. You just need a way out. You need to get him away from here now. You look to Tigris, but all she can give you are tears and a shaking head.

Once again, he silences the clamoring with nothing but a hand.

“I know I've thrown a lot at you in one afternoon.” They giggle happily. “But today is a day of celebration. A day of love and reunion.”

He turns to you, takes one of your hands in his and cradles it like you mean something to him. But his eyes…in those cold eyes all you see is amusement and something more putrid just shining there.

“A day of reckoning,” he stresses, “where we are to remind the people of the Districts who we are…”

No, please, no.

“Coryo.”

“Bring them out.”

You hear the contempt in their voices before you see where it's aimed. Peacekeepers surround a line of chained captives with sacks over their heads keeping them blind and stumbling as they're shoved like ragdolls. Your heart drops, it feels toxic in your chest.

You really can't breathe.

People boo them. They shout and spit and condemn them without even knowing who they are. You feel so sick.

They're walked onto the platform, one by one by one until all five stand there with heads hung in defeat. A Peacemaker stands behind each of them, hefty sticks in hand. They each lock their shackles down onto hooks in the log beneath their feet and rip the sacks from their heads with not an ounce of kindness to be seen.

The world stops spinning.

Vincent and Volivia stand among the prisoners, looking frantic and angry. The other three, you recognize from the Districts you had stayed behind in. Friends. Old acquaintances you were never supposed to see again.

Vincent finds you first. Then his sister. Horror flashes across their faces, stunned into silence at the sight of you standing there reflecting your own. You hold Kristofen so close, you're scared you'll suffocate him.

Vincent shouts your name. At the same time, he's smacked in the head with the butt of a gun that makes him grunt hard, grabbed and hoisted to his feet before he can even stumble. Volivia’s rage is instant as she shouts back, earning a smack of her own with the back of a heavy, gloved hand as the Peacekeepers orders then quiet.

“Coryo,” you plead, too frozen to drop to your knees and beg properly like he wants you to do. Your breath is shaky, your lungs feeling like they're shuddering in your chest as you struggle to get words out. “Please. Please don't–don't do this. I did what you asked. I came with you, I-I left them behind. Please don't–”

“Enough.”

The crowd is too distracted by District “sullying” their grounds to notice what's happening between the “love-stricken couple” arguing on the balcony.

“You betrayed me, my flower,” His voice is softer than it should be. “I warned you what would happen. You didn't listen… I need to make sure you never forget.” His hand cups your cheek, but you're too focused on holding your baby upright to be able to shove him away from you. He leans in close to your face, whispering under his breath for your ears and your ears alone. “Once he is gone, you will understand.”

He holds your gaze until you're forced to forfeit—not that you had much of a choice; your eyes are blurred with tears that have yet to fall down your cheeks to join the others.

“People of Panem.”

A hush scours the crowd.

“These are the District rogues who snuck into the Capitol and stole her from us, stole our child from us while she was still carrying him.”

Their heckles grow fiercer with every lie that falls from his lips. They drink it like wine, starved for something to hear, something to see.

You wish your heart would stop beyond mere dramatics and fallacy. You wish you could drop where you stand, fall to the floor in a heap of body and blood and bone.

You thought you'd done the right thing. You thought, for once, that the decision you had made would keep them alive, keep Kristofen safe, keep Coriolanus sated until you had to inevitably fight for them all over again.

But you were wrong. You were always going to be wrong. Why would you ever believe that he would let them go unpunished—that he would let you go unpunished?

How foolish.

“But all is well.” He smiles. “Like I said, it is a day of reckoning. And we will bring ourselves to justice.”

You watch the twins struggle in their bonds. Every move they make brings a gun pointed to their heads. You choke every single time and hold your breath for what you're too afraid to see.

Coriolanus nods.

The guards holster their guns, and your breath catches. Someone lights a torch, and you watch as fire is passed around among the rest of the grunts until every one is lit up high and ready to set the whole platform ablaze.

“No. No, no, no, no. Please,” you cry, too afraid to look away and lose them. “I'm begging you, Coriolanus. Please don't do this. I'll do whatever you want. Just please.”

“What I want,” he says, “is your complete dependence and submission.”

“Done,” you cry. “You have it. Just let them go.”

He gives you a smirk that kills you. “Not yet, I don't.”

Vincent locks eyes with you once more. They're welling with tears, the same as yours. He's choking on fear and anger and something in his eyes that should not be present when he's face to face with his own death.

He raises his hand, stopped short by his chains before he gets too far above his waist. Three fingers salute you, trembling hard and fast. Volivia does the same. The rest follow.

The Peacekeepers clear the platform. Vincent's eyes never waver. His mouth moves slowly, deliberately.

“I love you.”

Fire is thrown and the flames catch quickly. You stagger, a louder sob breaking out of you as you watch these new tributes of the Game try to lurch away from the flames that mean to consume them whole and without mercy.

All except for them. They stand still. They stand tall. And though there are tears in their eyes, they don't blink.

Not until the fire reaches their feet, and you're too desperately stunned to scream. The others scream, but they try to hold it in as long as they possibly can.

Which isn't long.

You sob horribly as you try to turn away. Coriolanus’ hand is strong on your arm, keeping you right where you are as the other finds your chin and grips it with as much kindness as the fire is showing.

“Look at him.” You shake your head, trying to pull away to no avail. “Look.”

He forces you to listen as their screams fill the air with so much force that the air shakes with it, to watch skin melt from muscle melt, veins snapping and curling, hair sizzling. The pain and the cruelty is so great that even the crowd is silent. This is what they wanted. This is what they've been waiting for, and they're silent.

“This is what happens when you betray me.” His voice is low and rough, and it holds more emotion than he's shown all day. You tremble with it, down to the very center of your being. “I want you to remember this moment and never forget what I'm about to tell you.”

His lips ghost over the shell of your ear. He speaks above the ringing.

“Snow lands on top.”

Something disrupts your view beyond the tears. As one falls and clears your vision for just a moment, you see two more following suit. And then five. And then twelve. And more and more until you realize what it is.

“Do you understand?”

The screams are snuffed out before long. They've stopped, but you can still hear them. It's like cotton was shoved in your brain and all you know is the haziness of fear and, now…dread.

“Do you understand, my flower?”

The tears that fall now do so of their own accord, not that they were ever listening to you. There's something coursing in your veins you had hoped to have flushed out months ago. The pain is gone. The fear has dissolved. You can't feel anything but that and the heaviness in your arms that writes unhappily. You hadn't even realized Kristofen had begun to cry.

Coriolanus’ grip on your chin tightens until he's sure it's hurting you. You think it hurts, but you're not sure anymore. You can't feel it.

Your eyes find Lady Justice, her swords high in the air, crossed and so ready to cut down anything that stands against her. Even she will slowly, flake by flake, layer by layer, be buried underneath it.

Snow.

“Yes, Coryo,” you say. You turn to him then, the tears slowed to a halt and your eyes clear. No—not clear. Empty. “I understand.”

He's almost startled by the look in your eyes. This was not something he expected, but he'd be damned if he didn't welcome it either way (even if he will miss the game, just a bit).

“Good.” He lets go of you.

The flames continue to rage on. Soon, applause rips through the air that had been filled with nothing but falling snow that covers jackets and coats and shoes and more. All their riches and their joy, and they're still covered in it.

You stand there for a long time, watching. A chill has begun to breeze through the air. Where some people wrap themselves tighter and others retreat to find shelter from the cold, you do nothing but stand there. When Kristofen shudders, you pull him closer.

“Come on, honey,” you whisper, looking down at the baby fussing in your arms. You press your lips to his forehead. “It's time for your nap.”

You bring one hand to your face carefully, wiping it clean as you turn away from the balcony. You glance at Tigris, her tears as shed as your own, and look away.

Coriolanus stands there, watches you go with little regard to the cheers of the dwindling crowd or the flames still roaring behind you.

He's done it. He's broken you. He won.

Peacekeepers flank you, more to be ready to catch you if they need. You have no intention of running. You have nowhere to go. Even if you did, it wouldn't be safe. And it doesn't matter.

None of it even matters.

Coriolanus joins your side a moment later, walking with a hand on your back that you don't shrug off. You walk through the building, rocking Kristofen the whole way, down until you reach the ground floor. And then out the door, the limo is still waiting eagerly to collect you.

Your door is opened, and you step inside. “Daddy's gone,” you whisper to the sweet boy. Close to sleep, his eyes droop and he makes a little sound. “But you and I are going to stick together.”

You kiss his forehead, brushing your fingers over his head and pulling his blanket closer around his face. “Mama's always going to protect you. I promise.”

And you will. You have to. You're going to give your life to this boy, even if you have to give it for him. He's all you have left, and you're not going to lose him to the cold.

Coriolanus joins you on the other side, the door shutting after he's slid inside. He reaches a hand to hold Kristofen’s head in his palm. You let him.

“Are you ready?”

You look up at him for a long time, your face as fallen as it had been before.

And then you smile.

“Yes, my love.” Coriolanus startles like you've never seen him before. “We're ready.”

My story's gonna end with me dead from your poison.

Coriolanus Snow taglist: @the-nerdy-goddess @secretsicanthideanymore @tvparty18 @nowitsmissing @vi0lentb3rry @hiireadstuff @feyresqueen @edb954 @astarborntowrite @my-heart-beat-for-anime @electraphyng @miureiz @stevendenkiswhore @joonbread

That is, when you were not hunched over the piano, playing Appassionata with a furious fervour instead of what your mother deemed proper, like some dull Hummel or Clementi. How utterly boring and soulless they seemed, that you could almost hear your night self scolding you each time your fingers reluctantly touched the keys to play one of those Sonatinas.

Running was also a thing you had to avoid, for the most part. Eating a whole apple was strictly vulgar. As for a whole egg—well, that was something to be done in the strict privacy of the kitchens, once you’d managed to filch one without the cooks noticing. Yanking your skirts up while sitting on the grass and scribbling was also one of those moments when, if your mother had caught you, she would have been most displeased, to say the least. All in all, you had precious little time to let your night self emerge during the waking hours. She was continually suppressed by the version of you that took small, delicate bites, drank tea from a tiny cup, and sat upright while playing agreeable tunes.

Today, of all days, it is imperative that your night self remain firmly in check, while your day self does her utmost to impress the very man you have already deemed beyond salvation—without so much as laying eyes on him. A rare occasion indeed, where both versions of you are in agreement.

He has but one benefit of the doubt, and that is Jayce Talis. A brilliant inventor you once encountered when you slipped away from your mother and sisters while running errands in town. Back then, he had been mocked and overlooked as he tried to preach his discoveries from a modest tent set up on the way to the pharmacy. Someone particularly unkind had flung a fistful of mud in his direction, which Jayce avoided with such grace that your eyes had lit up.

You had been so young then, perched atop a crate of peaches, listening from afar, watching him wave his hands about, utterly bewitching.

"Is this truth you are speaking? Absolutely fascinating," you had said, once you had mustered the courage to approach him and give voice to the questions grinding in your hungry mind.

"It’s all possible, Miss," he had replied with a brilliant smile. "Take a pamphlet. I am here every Thursday."

But before you could so much as tell him your name, your mother had seized you by the ear and dragged you—nearly by force—into the nearest perfumery. Huffing and sighing in disapproval, she had straightened your dress, grumbled about the mud on your shoes, and scolded you for indulging the poor man’s delusions.

Little did she know.

Five years later, Jayce Talis is one of the most sought-after and highly regarded inventors and scientists in the entire region. Yet it is not he whom your family desires—not exactly. His research and the opportunity to invest in it—now that is what truly entices them.

And standing beside Jayce is his partner, Viktor. A stray, adopted by House Talis as though he were its own son. Apparently just as brilliant, undoubtedly just as sought-after.

"A good match," your mother says with a firm tone.

"A bright future for you and your sisters," your father says, his voice tinged with sadness and apology.

Of all men, you had thought him the one who would never betray you. And you tell yourself it is only one part of you that he has betrayed. Yet it wounds you so deeply because it is the part he always claimed to love most of all.

The real part of you.

You push her aside as you tuck a loose lock back into your bun. Fill your lungs with as much air as your short stay allows—nearly not enough. Then you answer your mother’s call with a rehearsed, “I will be right there, Maman!”

One last glance in the mirror—oh, no. You forgot a smile.

So you plaster it back onto your face, let the stale air escape your chest, and run—no, walk—downstairs. And the noise is already there as they all exchange their exaggerated good afternoons—your sweet father, your benevolent mother, your silly younger sisters, Jayce and Viktor. You hear their voices, your mother chuckling politely at Jayce’s remarks about bumpy roads, Viktor’s reserved greeting with a lilt of an accent that makes your ears perk up. Pretty.

Your eyes land on Jayce first—his frame broader than you remember—and something swells within you. Not sultry, just pleased to see this once-boy now a full-grown man, taking up the space he was always meant to claim.

And next to him—oh.

Emerging from your father’s embrace is Viktor, visibly startled by the stark contrast between your official mother and your matey father, who claps him on the back, smiling with flushed cheeks. Happy, relieved, because the boy who will marry his daughter is a slender, gentle man with kind hands and bright eyes. Your father breathes deeply, granting himself absolution for sending his eldest away into the arms of a stranger.

And the man at the bottom of the staircase looks nothing like the monster you painted in your mind. His frame is lithe yet full of quiet strength, supported by a cane. His face, all sharp angles, is touched by shifting light and shadow with every expression he tries to suppress. Lips small and tender, nose a work of the most skilled sculptor, eyes the colour of your father’s favourite bourbon—and your favourite honey, the one from summer flowers. His leg is hugged by a strange contraption of a brace, and you feel a weird sense of camaraderie—both of you constricted in some way.

"Hello," you say in your rehearsed voice, though it wavers slightly at the touch of his hand on yours. Your heart stumbles between beats when his lips press to your glove, his thumb steady on your knuckles.

"I am so glad to finally have met you, Miss. I have heard so much about you," says Viktor, holding your gaze. His composure settles back into place, his eyes drilling into you. And beneath his voice, a hint—suggesting he has heard more than just that you are a sweet young lady.

"Only good things, I hope?" you ask. And truly, the hope lingers in your tone, even though you know Jayce has told him what a wild thing you are when nobody is watching.

Briefly, you wonder—what would it be like to be asked by this man to marry him, had your families not decided your fate for you? Would you say yes, tears in your eyes? Or would you smile gently and tell him a polite maybe? Would you challenge him or take him in without compromise, had you met and known him before everything was resolved for you?

"Only good things," Viktor says with a false, polite smile as he releases your hand. And the falseness of it stirs something within you—a worry, a flicker of fear.

What is this man like when no one is watching?

You have heard almost nothing—only mentions of his brilliance and good behaviour. But if they are as much half-truths as the mentions of your brilliance and good behaviour, then this arrangement could be either a blessing or a curse.

Not that it matters. If you ever wanted to be married, which you still do not. You merely accept your fate for the sake of…

For the sake of your family. Of course.

The exchange of pleasantries has barely settled when the butler steps forward, his voice measured and precise. "My lord, my lady, refreshments are prepared in the drawing room."

"Ah, excellent!" Father claps Jayce’s shoulder in a display of easy camaraderie. "We have much to discuss, Mister Talis. Shall we?"

Mother inclines her head gracefully, extending a gloved hand toward the open doorway. "Come, gentlemen. We shall not let business keep us from our tea."

The procession to the drawing room is orderly, Father leading Jayce in enthusiastic conversation about the boundless opportunities ahead. "A partnership of this nature is unprecedented, of course. An investment in the future—our shared future."

Jayce responds with the confidence of a man accustomed to admiration. "Precisely, my lord. With the right support, we could revolutionise industry as we know it."

You follow with measured steps, Viktor at your side. He has not spoken since the introduction, his expression composed, though his eyes—deep, contemplative—move with interest over the fine furnishings of the room.

As everyone settles, tea is poured, the gentle clink of porcelain filling the brief lull in conversation. You accept your cup, watching as Viktor does the same, his fingers long and careful around the delicate handle. A man of precision, no doubt.

You lower yourself onto one of the chairs as a maid pours the tea, your hands folding neatly in your lap as you watch your father and Jayce fall into an easy rhythm of discussion. They speak of investments, of Hextech’s promise, of the ways in which your family’s patronage will shape the future. You hear none of it.

“You must find this arrangement rather inconvenient,” you say to Viktor, keeping your voice light as you turn toward him.

His eyes sharpen, though his smile remains polite. “How so?” His hand playing with the cane stills, long fingers extend idly toward its wooden pole.

You tilt your head. “To be bound to a wife you do not know. And for science, no less.”

Viktor exhales a quiet chuckle, setting his tea down. “Science is a noble cause, Miss. Perhaps even nobler than marriage.”

A test. You recognise it as easily as you recognise your own reflection.

"Then I suppose you have the better end of the bargain," you say, knowing it’s in fact, the exact opposite.

What Viktor doesn’t know, is that your mother has ensured the bargain benefits your family far more than it does the inventors. And looking at both of them—Jayce, hardly containing the beam on his face, and Viktor, observing everything reverently—you feel a pang of guilt, followed by a flicker of anger at the injustice.

A plan formulates in your wicked brain faster than you can blink.

Viktor’s lips press together, but amusement flickers in his gaze. “Perhaps we both do.”

Whatever he means by that, you don’t get the chance to find out. Your mother’s voice cuts through the conversation, her smile as polished as the silverware. “My dear, do spare Mister Viktor the interrogation.”

You return her smile, though yours is sharper. “I was only ensuring he is as clever as they say.”

Your mother’s eyes narrow slightly before she turns back to Viktor, seamlessly redirecting the conversation to something safer. "Dearest, I do believe Mister Talis was about to ask your thoughts on Clementi’s compositions. Such refined taste in music is most becoming."

A deliberate redirection. A warning.

You inhale, curbing the temptation to press further. "Indeed, my lady Mother." Turning to Jayce, you summon a practiced smile. "I do believe his sonatinas have their merits. Though, some find them rather—predictable."

Viktor’s gaze lingers a moment longer, unreadable. You have tested him, and he has not recoiled. A curiosity, then. A mystery yet to unfold.

You spend the rest of the afternoon refreshments chatting to Jayce about mediocre music, wondering if he is as bored as you are. He is ever the gentleman, offering the occasional enthusiastic nod or agreeable remark, though you catch the way his gaze strays toward the conversation between your Father and Viktor. You, on the other hand, attempt to suppress yawns, stuffing your face with biscuits only to receive a sharp, silent scolding from your mother—her ever-composed expression unchanging, yet her message perfectly clear in the slight arch of her brow and the subtle narrowing of her eyes.

Jayce, for his part, is far less burdened by such silent reprimands, complimenting the food with an easy charm that has even the servants standing a little straighter. "Absolutely delightful," he declares after a bite of pastry. "Your cooks must be geniuses, my lady."

Mother responds with a gracious nod, her practiced smile unwavering. "We do strive for excellence."

Meanwhile, across the room, Viktor exchanges politeness with your father, and—intriguingly—seems to warm to the conversation. While his initial responses are careful, measured, there is a spark of genuine enthusiasm as the subject shifts to research. Your father, less constipated than your mother in matters of etiquette, easily shakes off formality, allowing his hand to linger on Viktor’s shoulder longer than necessary—a gesture of camaraderie and gratitude.

As the discussion unfolds, Viktor’s composure loosens. He leans in slightly, his hands moving as he speaks, his eyes lighting up with the excitement of a man entirely lost in his own world of ideas. His voice, once restrained, now carries a lilt of passion as he explains the intricacies of Hextech and its boundless potential. You watch, fascinated, as the façade slips away—just a little—revealing something softer beneath. And how lovely he looks when he forgets himself.

Dinner proceeds without any great disturbances, save, again, for your mother’s silent rebukes whenever you take too large a bite or drink too greedily. Conversation flows between the three men, animated and full of promise—the future, progress, the shape of the world yet to come. All three desire it in their own way, though you suspect Viktor’s hunger for it is of a different nature than the others’.

And then, of course, comes your turn to be put on display. After dinner, Mother’s hand lands lightly on your wrist, her voice smooth as silk yet firm beneath the surface. "Dearest, why don’t you show our guests the depths of your talents? A sonatina, perhaps? Something refined."

Refined, meaning dull. Predictable. A test, as everything always is.

You rise, crossing the room with measured steps, already feeling Viktor’s gaze on you. He has seen something of you in conversation—but now, he will listen.

And so—you play the godforsaken Sonatina, your skin pulled tight over your face, eyes hooded, fingers moving with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner serving a sentence. Your back aches from keeping your spine stiffly straight, and despite your best efforts, your brows begin to furrow in ironic frustration. You only realise it when your mother clears her throat—pointedly, just a touch too loud.

You correct yourself immediately, smoothing your expression, though you swear you hear the ghost of a chuckle slip past Viktor’s lips. How dare he.

"How lovely," Jayce says, his smile wide and honest. You return it with one of your own—entirely dishonest—as you offer an insincere, "Thank you, Mister Talis," and bow politely. Viktor nods and swallows, and for some reason, you catch the way his throat bobs.

"Gentlemen, I believe it is time to discuss business. Let us move to the smoking room," Father announces, beaming. You can't suppress the sigh that escapes you. Soon—very soon—your night self will be free. She has been clawing at the edges of your skin for hours.

"Goodnight, my dearest girls," Father says warmly, pressing a kiss to both your forehead and your mother’s—a gesture so private, so natural, it earns him a scoff from his wife and a kiss on the cheek from his daughter.

Pleasantries are exchanged, and as soon as the men are out of sight, you bolt toward your bedroom. Your mind is already racing, gears grinding. Your feet slip from your heels, and you clasp them in your hands as you take the stairs two at a time. Every step sheds another layer of constriction—the short stay, the chemise, the pins biting into your scalp, the suffocating weight of your skirts. Off, off, off. The blush, the powder, the pretence. Her watch has ended for today.

You shake your hair loose from its updo before you even reach your door, already calling for your maid the moment you step inside, clawing at the laces of your gown in desperation.

“Miss, why the dramatics?” she teases, catching up with you in the corridor.

“Peggy don’t test me. I can’t breathe,” you whine, slumping onto your vanity chair, hands pressing against your ribs to emphasize the urgency. “I am convinced that in hell, everyone wears a short stay.”

Peggy chuckles but says nothing more as her fingers work deftly at the laces, loosening them with a care that speaks of years spent tending to you. You feel the tension ease, your ribs finally expanding without resistance.

“Well?” she prompts, her voice light but expectant. “How was the evening?”

You hesitate. The words sit heavy on your tongue, as though speaking them aloud would solidify them, make them real. And you are not quite ready for that. Instead, you exhale slowly, composing yourself before replying, “He is… nice.” That is all you can manage.

Peggy hums knowingly. “From what I managed to spy, he’s also rather handsome.”

You scoff, turning your head away. “Is that all that matters?”

“It certainly doesn’t hurt,” she says with a grin, but she does not press further.

At last, the constriction gives way, and you take an exaggerated breath, filling your lungs like a drowning woman reaching the surface. Then, without ceremony, you slide off the chair and sprawl flat on the floor, half-dressed, limbs flung out like a marionette with its strings cut.

Peggy, unfazed, picks up your nightgown and drapes it over you as though covering a corpse. “God, grant rest upon my poor mistress’s soul and let her eternity be free of the constriction of breast support,” she intones in mock solemnity.

Laughter bubbles up from your chest, unrestrained and real. You lift an arm weakly and wave it in her general direction. “Saint Peggy, patron of weary ladies, I thank you.”

She curtsies dramatically. “As ever, at your service. Call on me if you need anything.”

“I expect I shall sleep like a log.”

“Good. You’ve earned it, I think.” With that, she takes her leave, pulling the door shut behind her.

Silence settles over the room, thick and absolute. You are alone.

For the first time since the day began, the weight of it all presses down on you. The evening, the introductions, the expectations—your mother’s sharp gaze, your father’s quiet resignation, the way Viktor’s eyes had searched yours with something unreadable. It is real now. You are betrothed.

You swallow. A part of you wants to dwell on it, to trace every moment back and find meaning in the way Viktor’s lips had pressed to your glove, or how he had looked when he spoke of his work, his façade slipping just enough to let something genuine through. But you stop yourself before you go too far.

No. There is still one more thing to do tonight.

You push yourself up from the floor, shaking away the thoughts. The night is not over yet.

Barefoot and silent, you slip from your chambers, the corridor dimly lit by the soft glow of sconces. The house is quiet, the faint crackle of a dying hearth the only sound accompanying your careful steps. You know this path well—the precise places to avoid so the floorboards won’t betray you, the door handle that needs an extra nudge before it turns smoothly.

Inside, your father’s study smells of ink, aged paper, and a lingering trace of cigar smoke. The large mahogany desk dominates the space, neat and orderly, save for the glass of brandy he left half-finished. You move swiftly, rifling through the stack of documents until you find it—your contract, tucked within a leather folder. The paper is thick beneath your fingers, the ink crisp and unwavering in its certainty.

You sit at his desk, candle alit, quill and ink poised above parchment. The contract lies before you, its neat, formal script a reminder of how little say you had in its creation. Pushed through by your father but shaped by your mother’s precise demands, it is, at its core, a transaction. A business arrangement designed to favour your family above all else.

Your eyes skim over the terms, and irritation prickles beneath your skin. The imbalance is glaring. The investment into Hextech is substantial, but in return, the Talises and your future husband receive only what your mother deems “reasonable compensation.” No direct ownership, no authority over the funds. Your family retains the power, and Viktor and Jayce are little more than beneficiaries at your parents’ discretion. A gilded leash.

You press your lips together. No. This will not do.

Dipping your quill into the ink, you begin to amend.

First, the finances—your father’s control over the investment is reduced. Instead of an allowance doled out at his leisure, the funds will be released in agreed-upon increments, ensuring neither Jayce nor Viktor are forced to beg for what is already promised to them. They will have the freedom to allocate resources as needed, without interference from your family.

Next, ownership. The contract had positioned your father as a silent but permanent stakeholder, yet he has no knowledge of Hextech, no hand in its creation. You strike that out, altering it so that once their research yields results, patents and profits remain in the hands of their rightful creators. Your family will receive a generous return, but not at the expense of their autonomy.

Then, Viktor himself. The terms outlining your marriage are, predictably, cold. Your mother’s hand is evident in every word. You are to be an asset to your husband, a guiding influence, ensuring that he remains focused and socially presentable. It is not about companionship—it is about control.

You set your quill down, flexing your fingers before taking it up again. You cannot undo the engagement, but you can redefine it. The clauses regarding expectations of your role are softened, turned into vague suggestions rather than obligations. Where once it stated that your husband must be “encouraged” to attend events and maintain appearances, you adjust it to read that he may do so at his discretion. No doubt your mother will notice this change, but you will cross that bridge when you must.

By the time you finish, the candle has burned low. You lean back, studying your work. The contract remains an arrangement, a tether you cannot sever, but at least now, it is fairer. A step closer to something tolerable.

You blot the ink, letting the parchment dry. The night stretches on, silent save for the scratching of your quill as you forge your own small rebellion in ink.

Once you deem it ready, you sneak back out, guiding your footsteps toward the guest bedrooms. An unthinkable mésalliance, your mother would say, but you feel that both Jayce and Viktor should be made aware—if your plan is to work. You step carefully, your bare feet growing dirty from crossing the house without slippers.

Muffled conversation filters through the door your mother assigned to Jayce. His voice is slightly raised, Viktor’s quieter, edged with irony. They are discussing the evening.

One proper breath, and then a knock on the door.

The hum of conversation ceases instantly as heavy footsteps approach. The door cracks open, and Jayce’s eyes widen—because there you stand, in nothing but your nightdress and a loose cape that does little to conceal your state of undress.

His mouth falls open, and only a small, startled sound escapes his lips.

“Let me in!” you whisper sharply, glancing down the corridor with nervous urgency.

“Oh, Miss, forgive me, but this… is very inappropriate,” Jayce says weakly, though he makes no move to stop you as you push past him and step into the room.

The air is thick with the remnants of their earlier conversation, the scent of brandy lingering. Viktor sits slouched in an armchair, one elbow propped on the armrest, fingers pressed against his temple as if warding off a headache. He watches you, silent, unreadable.

Jayce, on the other hand, is all frantic gestures and hushed protests. “You must go back to your room. If anyone—God, if your mother—” He exhales sharply, rubbing his jaw. “This is madness.”

You cross your arms, standing your ground. “Fuck the polite society, Jayce. Do you want to be a slave to my mother, or will you read what I brought you?”

At that, Viktor’s lips quirk—barely. “Quite a mouth you have there, Miss.” His voice is smooth, carrying none of Jayce’s flustered panic. He rises from his chair, extending a hand.

It’s only then that you truly take him in. His shirt is undone at the neck, the cravat abandoned somewhere, his hair tousled prettily as if he’s raked his fingers through it too many times. A flush warms his cheeks—alcohol, no doubt, courtesy of your father.

You hesitate for a fraction of a second before placing the document in his outstretched hand. Your fingers brush, and you retreat too quickly, as if the touch burned.

Silence. Viktor’s eyes flick across the page, reading with quiet intensity. Jayce, peeking over his shoulder, mutters under his breath, “Oh, my.”

Viktor lets out a quiet scoff, the amusement avoiding his eyes. “And to what do we owe this mercy of yours, pray tell?” His gaze lingers on the last lines of your text, his tone devoid of the warmth he carried earlier. Now, it is sharp, cold, measured—kindness stripped away as if it had only ever been a mask to wear in polite company. He swallows and lifts his eyes to you, utterly unamused, borderline bored. “I loathe charity.”

Heat rises to your cheeks before you can stop it, a tangled mess of emotions forming beneath your ribs, but anger is among them. You exhale sharply, crossing your arms over your chest, suddenly very aware of how exposed you are. “And I loathe injustice and trickery. This—” you gesture vaguely at the parchment. “Is fair. If I am to be sold to a man I do not know, let it be on terms that are humanely acceptable.”

“How kind,” he says, smiling—mocking. “And how do you expect us to accept this? Who do you think is stupid, me and Mister Talis or your own father?” He steps closer, ignoring the way Jayce’s hand presses against his shoulder as if to restrain him. His weight wavers without a cane, and for a moment, you think he might have to steady himself on you.

“My father is not an unkind man. He simply loves my mother too much for his own good. My mother…” You tilt your head, letting the words settle between you. “Well, she’s a woman.”

The corner of Viktor’s mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. “Charming.”

“But my father will not read this upon signing, of that I am certain. We will be long bound before anyone notices.”

Viktor exhales, a sound of something between disbelief and amusement. “And who are you doing this for, my merciful Lady?” His voice shifts, the sharpness still there, but beneath it—a spark of something else. The same fervour he held when speaking of his machines, now laced with something darker.

“Myself, my Lord.” You meet his gaze without hesitation. “You just happen to be a casualty of my mercy.”

And something stirs in your chest—a swelling, an exhilaration. The night version of you, the real you, speaking bluntly to the man who is to be your husband. And he does not recoil. He accepts the challenge. Infuriatingly so, but beneath your irritation, something sparks under your skin that you cannot chase away. Excitement.

Viktor blinks, slowly. Then, he turns to Jayce, whose face has gone chalk white during your exchange. “What do you think of this?”

Jayce swallows hard. “What if he notices? Your father, that is,” he asks wearily, clearly tempted by your terms yet frightened of what it might cost your families' alliance.

“He won’t. And if, by some unholy joke, he does—I will take the blame. Tonight never happened,” you state firmly, bravely. You do not let your voice betray the truth: that you have no idea what you would do if your mother ever found out. She would probably cut your hair and throw you in a convent.

They both nod, and you allow yourself a breath. Then, Viktor extends his hand for a handshake.

You stare at it briefly before accepting—his palm is calloused, warm. Bigger than yours, his fingers so long they nearly brush your wrist. His grip is firm, unwavering.

For the briefest moment, his gaze flickers downward—to your chest. It’s so quick you might have missed it. But you didn’t. And neither did he miss the way heat rushes to your cheeks.

His eyes meet yours again, glinting with an unreadable taunt. “I think it’s best you return to your chambers, my Lady,” he says at last. To that, you can only nod.

You slip back into your father’s office under the cover of darkness, placing the altered contract precisely where it needs to be—where it will be signed without a second glance. Then, just as carefully, you retreat to your chambers, slipping past every creaking floorboard with the expertise of someone who has done this many times before.

Once inside, you bolt the door, shrugging off your cape before sinking onto the mattress. The night version of you refuses to rest. She tosses and turns, replaying every moment of the evening—the music, the dinner, the conversation, the challenge in Viktor’s eyes, the brush of his fingers against yours.

And yet, despite all of it, he is still a stranger.

Morning invades you with harsh light pouring through the abruptly opened curtains and Peggy’s voice urging you to get up.

“Miss? You’ve overslept! Up! Up!” she whisper shouts, pulling the covers down from the bed.

You groan and press your palms to your eyes, curling up into a bean. “Peggy, have mercy, I beg of you.”

“Sorry, Miss, no mercy today. Our guests are leaving soon, and you can’t miss breakfast, not today,” Peggy says with a kind smile that disarms you. You roll out of your bed, feet dragging across the floor before you slump down in front of the vanity. You watch as Peggy chases away the night self, pins your hair up, wipes the night drool of your face to make you at least vaguely presentable. She’s merciful with the short stay though­—picks a looser one, from the time before you lost your baby fat.

Your heels clack on the staircase and you can already hear voices coming from downstairs. As you approach the drawing room, a glimpse of the scene within stops you in your tracks. Lurking in the doorframe, you watch as Jayce and Viktor hunch over a parchment, feigning deep concentration as they pretend to read it thoroughly before signing. They do so, exchanging pats on the shoulder—conspirators sealing a silent agreement.

Then, it is your father’s turn. He catches sight of you lingering in the doorway and flashes you a warm smile. “Good morning, love.”

His eyes drop back to the document. He gives it one last cursory sweep, his quill hovering just above the space left to sign.

You hold your breath.

And he... hesitates. A small hmm escapes him. His brows knit together in fleeting consideration, and then—oh.

He looks straight at you.

Heat flares in your cheeks, but you do not waver. You hold his gaze, steady, unflinching. And for whatever reason—be it the bond of blood or simply the fact that he has known you all your life—his expression softens. A knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

And oh.

He signs.

You exhale, breathless, weightless. Laughter erupts between them—hugs, handshakes, pats on the back. Jayce beams, his happiness unguarded. Viktor wears a smile that, for once, looks almost honest. Your father looks content.

It is signed. Done. Sealed.

Your father steps forward and pulls you into a firm embrace. “You’ve done well. I’m proud of you,” he murmurs against your hair. Then, in a quieter, amused tone, he adds, “Now, let us pray your mother doesn’t notice until the wedding.” He chuckles softly.

Oh. Right. You are getting married.

***

A few days have passed since the contract was signed, and to your relief, your mother has not noticed the adjustments you made. She remains blissfully consumed by wedding preparations, entirely unaware that the original terms—so starkly in favour of your family—have been tempered to grant House Talis a fairer standing.

However, your father called you to his study, his expression unreadable as he regarded you across his desk. His words were firm, yet not unkind. He did not scold, nor did he praise, only ensured you understood the weight of your actions.

"You have done them a service," he admitted at last, after a measured silence. "One I hope they will not forget." And though he said nothing further, though his approval was never voiced, something in his tone—something almost like respect—settled in your chest, easing the uncertainty that had lingered since you first put pen to paper.

Now, with a storm in your mind, your fingers fly over the keys, the sharp, cascading notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata (Presto Agitato) filling the room with thunderous urgency. It drowns out everything—the ticking of the clock, the creak of the floorboards, even the faint rustle of the curtains shifting in the afternoon breeze.

You have not thought about it until now. Not truly. Not beyond the abstraction of ink on parchment and the murmured discussions over tea and candlelight. But now, with only days left before you are no longer just yourself but someone’s wife, it hits you. A shift. A point of no return.

How strange, to know that the house you grew up in, the one you have played in, dreamt in, stormed through in childhood fits of temper, will no longer be yours. That soon, your place at this very piano, in this very room, will be an absence rather than a presence. The thought unsettles you.

So you play harder. Louder. Until the force of it rings in your chest, keeping you from thinking too much. You curl forward, biting your lip absentmindedly, your face twisted with emotion, your torso nearly hovering over the keys like a hunchback.

You do not hear the front door open, nor the sound of measured footsteps in the hall. You do not see the maid, Peggy, curtsy as she leads your visitor inside. You do not even notice when she hesitates, turning to announce him—because before she can, a voice stops her.

"It’s alright, Peggy. Please, allow me."

It is a quiet request, yet it holds the weight of something decisive. Viktor stands in the doorway, smiles for Peggy, but his eyes are fixed on you, considering. The way your body moves with the music, the tension in your shoulders, the way you lose yourself in the notes.

Peggy looks up at him, blinking in momentary surprise, before a small, approving smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. He is not appalled. Not by the passion, the volume, the unladylike ferocity with which you play. And that, she thinks, is a good sign.

So she gives him a knowing look, inclines her head, and quietly slips away—leaving him alone to watch you. And you, still unaware of his presence, continue to play.

He spies your reflection in the window—your face shifting from one expression to another with each rise and fall of the music. Your brows knit in concentration, your eyes clamp shut with feeling, your mouth parts slightly, forming an unconscious little o. Strands of hair have slipped free from their updo, framing your cheeks in wild disarray.

Viktor inches closer, careful to avoid the floorboards that might creak beneath his step. He drinks in the scene—the unguarded display, the sheer abandon with which you play. A thought takes root. Perhaps this arrangement will not be the terrible imprisonment he once feared. Surely, you—with your tempestuous fingers and flagrant disregard for propriety—will agree that freedom is the highest privilege, worth protecting above all else.

He tells himself the feeling in his chest is not admiration but hope. Hope that the two of you might reach an understanding, one that will allow you both to remain unshackled even within the binds of matrimony. He tells himself that your parted mouth is merely amusing, nothing more.

The piece crashes to an end, and with a frustrated groan, you collapse forward, resting your forehead and elbows on the keyboard. A discordant wail echoes through the room. Viktor chuckles and finally breaks the silence.

"Are you not happy with your play, Miss?"

You jolt upright with a sharp gasp, spinning around so quickly that you nearly stumble in your haste to stand.

"Dear God, my Lord!"

You attempt a curtsy, but the motion is so hurried and clumsy that you almost topple over. Viktor steps forward instinctively, his hands finding your forearms to steady you, cane clattering to the floor. His grip is light, his touch like a feather, amusement flickering in his gaze.

"Forgive me, I did not mean to startle," he murmurs, breath quickening despite himself at the warmth and tension in your arms. He holds you wondering whether his fingertips would meet had he closed them around you. The thought gets chased away as soon as it enters his mind.

You swallow hard, your heart still racing from the shock. The room suddenly feels much smaller, the space between you too charged. You are keenly aware of your appearance—loosened hair, flushed cheeks, a dress slightly rumpled from sitting too long at the piano. You feel exposed. He does not seem to mind, still holding your elbows.

"I do not know as much about music as Jayce," Viktor continues, tilting his head slightly, "but this sounded rather… challenging, no?"

"I’m so sorry—you weren’t meant to hear this," you blurt out, lowering your gaze.

"I enjoyed it thoroughly," he replies without hesitation. "It’s rather different to what I heard last time."

Your fingers twitch on his arms. Different was one way to put it.

"Oh, it’s quite different," you admit. Then, lowering your voice, "Also, quite forbidden. Please don’t tell my mother—she will burn my sheet music and make me play that measly Clementi until my fingers bleed."

Viktor smirks, his fingers wrapping just a notch tighter around your arms. "I shall keep your secret, Miss. What’s another one shared between betrothed? I imagine there will be more."

For the briefest moment, you wonder if he is flirting. Your pulse quickens at the notion, but you quickly clear your throat and step back, disentangling yourself from his grasp. You smooth your skirts, willing the heat in your cheeks to fade.

"What brings you here, if you don’t mind my asking?"

He leans to pick up the cane and you wonder momentarily if you should help, before he says, "Oh, I was announced to call upon you today. Have you forgotten?"

You press your lips together, mortified. "Forgive me. It completely slipped my mind—I got lost in thought."

Viktor hums, nodding in understanding. "That’s quite alright. I think I am familiar with the feeling." Then, arching a brow, "Also, why are we whispering?"

Your shoulders stiffen. "Because if my benevolent mother finds us here without a chaperone, hell will open its mouth and swallow me whole."

Viktor huffs a quiet laugh, unbothered. "I was told your mother went to town with your sisters, Miss. No need to fret. Or whisper, as much as I like the sound of it."

His voice is steady, indifferent to the scandalous implication of being alone together. You, however, remain acutely aware of it, your hands smoothing over your skirts once more as if to will yourself into some semblance of propriety. So odd to meet another who cares not about the binding of the rules made up by God knows who. Absolutely peculiar to be the one who leans toward the constriction on instinct, being presented with someone who doesn’t obey. The night self has cackled within you ludicrously.

“What is the reason for your calling, then?” you ask, forcing your voice to remain steady.

“I was told by Jayce’s sweet mother that such is a custom between courting couples,” Viktor replies, his tone unreadable.

Courting. Couple. Be still, your stupid heart. You press your lips together before speaking. “I thought I was considered to be courted by now.”

Viktor tilts his head slightly, watching you as though deciphering a puzzle. “If you do not wish me to visit, do tell. I don’t mean to impose upon you, Miss.”

“Oh no, my Lord, forgive my bluntness,” you say quickly, feeling a warmth creep up your neck. “I am merely not sure if I am able to entertain you in the way you desire.”

Something shifts in Viktor’s expression—his gaze darkens slightly, and his fingers twitch at his cane before he hesitates, swallowing as if choosing his words carefully. “I meant to invite you for a stroll later this week,” he says at last, voice softer, but still carrying that enigmatic lilt. “Apparently, it is good were we to be seen in public together. I thought we could kill two birds with one stone and have an unsupervised conversation while being regarded.”

There’s something about the way he says it—an almost playful contradiction in the idea of a private moment under the scrutiny of others—that makes you pause. He is studying you again, and though you should feel wary, you find yourself intrigued instead.

“Well, I would lie if I said you didn’t grasp my attention. I shall indulge you, my Lord,” you say after taking a long inhale, steadying yourself. The moment of unguarded reaction is gone—you slip back into the polished version of yourself, the one who knows how to navigate these waters. Calm, composed, hands resting gently on your abdomen, back straight, chin held high.

Viktor only smiles, his eyes flickering with something unreadable before he inclines his head. “I am no Lord, just a man. Please, call me Viktor.”

Your fingers twitch where they rest. He is dismantling barriers you had placed with such ease it’s infuriating. “I will be there, Viktor.” The name feels unfamiliar yet strangely natural on your tongue.

In response, he whispers your name softly, like a secret meant only for him to know. A shiver curls up your spine, and before you can stop yourself, your arms move—grasping at your elbows in a defensive clutch. The instinct to shield yourself is immediate, but you smother it, replacing it with a placid smile. If Viktor notices, he does not call attention to it, though something in his gaze flickers. He looks as though he is about to say something, but then he hesitates. Withdraws.

For a moment, you simply stare at each other, the air thick with something unspoken. It feels strange—utterly so. As if you are being assessed, studied with a precision that leaves you feeling exposed. And the duel is not fair. He has some sort of weapon, some unseen advantage, while you stand bare, vulnerable. Like a deer in the forest, ears pricked, waiting for the shot to ring out.

“I shan’t disturb you further,” he finally says, turning toward the door. “I will send a note as to when and where we will meet.”

On cue, the door creaks, and Peggy peeks through the crack.

“Miss, the Lady will be back soon. Shall I make some tea for you and your caller?”

You exhale sharply, regaining your bearings. “Mister Viktor is leaving, but thank you. We should, probably—” You catch yourself before you say too much, before you admit that you need to look as though you have been dutifully engaged in proper, ladylike pastimes rather than playing scandalous music behind closed doors. You glance at Peggy, willing her to understand.

She does. “Of course, Miss! I will be with you in a few moments.”

The door clicks shut behind Viktor.

You release a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding, pressing a hand against your ribs as though it could steady the frantic beat of your heart.

Save for your father, this was the first time you had been alone in a room with a man. The realisation settles over you like a weight, and the two halves of yourself clash within your chest.

The day you—the dutiful daughter—cannot help but acknowledge the impropriety of it all. She knows what is expected, what lines should not be crossed. And yet… she hesitates. Because the unease doesn’t stem solely from being alone with a man. It stems from being alone with Viktor, a man whose manners slip free of societal constraints the moment he is given the chance.

The night you, however, does not hesitate. She roars in satisfaction. This was thrilling. The push and pull of conversation, the glances, the knowing looks. And to do so while basking in daylight, without shadows to obscure the truth of it?