Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Chapter 27: The Wedding
Lila stood behind you, fastening the last row of tiny covered buttons while you held still in front of the mirror.
Ivory silk fell around you, softer than you expected but not fragile. The skirt moved when you breathed. The train lay behind you across the carpet.
Lila finished the final button and stepped back.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then she said, softly, “Oh.”
You looked at her in the mirror. “That bad?”
Her eyes shone.
“No,” she said. “Not bad.”
You looked back at yourself.
You looked like a bride.
Not a girl in borrowed silk. Not a tavern waitress dressed by someone else’s hand. Not a woman being corrected into shape.
A bride.
Your throat tightened.
“Do not cry,” you said.
Lila blinked. “Me?”
“Either of us.”
Her mouth trembled into a smile.
Madam Solenne entered shortly after and inspected you.
Your shoulders.
Your sleeves.
Your veil.
She adjusted one fold near your wrist, stepped back, and gave a single nod.
“Acceptable,” she said.
Lila looked offended on your behalf.
You nearly smiled.
From Madam Solenne, that was probably a love song.
The ride to Saint Aurens Hall was quiet.
Lady Marise sat across from you, dressed in pale gold. Your father sat beside her in formal black.
Saint Aurens Hall waited at the top of broad white steps. Guests were already inside. You could hear them, faintly, the low shift of voices behaving themselves beneath painted ceilings.
Lila helped arrange your train in the entry chamber.
Lady Marise adjusted your veil.
Madam Ruelle appeared at the doorway. “It is time.”
You breathed in once.
Then the doors opened.
The hall rose in front of you.
White columns. Gold ceiling. Rows of faces turned toward you.
Two hundred and forty people.
Not one of them mattered when you saw Shamrock.
He stood at the front of the hall in formal black, red hair loose over his shoulders, his face severe enough for ceremony.
Then his eyes found you.
Everything in him changed by almost nothing.
His posture held.
His expression did not break.
But his gaze moved over you once, slowly enough that your pulse stumbled under the veil.
Not politely.
Not publicly.
Not the way a groom was supposed to look at a bride in front of half of Mary Geoise.
He looked at you like the dress was an inconvenience he intended to remove later.
Your fingers tightened around the flowers.
Terrible man.
You were going to trip.
You did not.
Your father offered his arm. You placed your hand on it because ceremony demanded it, not because he had earned the right.
The walk down the aisle felt endless.
You kept your head high.
Madam Solenne would find no fault with your spine today.
When you reached the front, your father lifted your hand from his sleeve.
Then Shamrock stepped forward.
His hand closed around yours.
You stood beside Shamrock, and for the first time all morning, breathing became easier.
His thumb moved once against your hand. No one else could have seen.
You felt it everywhere.
The officiant began.
You heard some of it.
Old words.
House words.
Bloodline words.
Duty. Alliance. Continuance. Honor.
Mary Geoise loved words that made ownership sound graceful.
You looked straight ahead and let them pass over you.
Then Shamrock turned slightly toward you.
The vows were shorter than you expected.
The officiant pronounced the marriage with less emotion than most people used to order tea.
Then Shamrock lifted your veil. His fingers brushed the edge of it back slowly, carefully, as if the entire hall was not watching.
His eyes lowered to your mouth.
Your stomach tightened.
This man was going to ruin you in front of two hundred and forty people by looking at you.
He leaned in.
The kiss was restrained.
But his thumb brushed once beneath your jaw as he drew back.
A private promise.
Applause filled the hall.
You turned with him to face the room as Lady Figarland.
The title felt strange.
Heavy.
Not as unbearable as you had feared.
Not with his hand still holding yours.
The reception terrace was beautiful at sunset.
That was also irritating.
White flowers stood in tall arrangements. The garden below had been lit in clean lines, each path glowing.
Guests approached in waves.
Congratulations.
Blessings.
Assessments disguised as compliments.
Shamrock remained at your side through most of it, his hand appearing at your back whenever the crowd shifted too close.
Lady Nerissa congratulated you with bright eyes and a smile.
Coraline clasped your hands and whispered, “You did not stumble once.”
“Thank you. I trained under threat.”
“I could tell.”
Seraphina curtsied softly. Her eyes were a little sad, but kind. “You looked beautiful.”
That one landed strangely.
Because she meant it.
“Thank you,” you said, gentler than you had been with the others.
Adrien and Lucien approached together after Seraphina moved away.
Adrien bowed correctly. Lucien remembered halfway through and made a smaller, less convincing version of it.
“Lady Figarland,” Adrien said.
You looked at him. “That sounded practiced.”
“It was.”
“How touching.”
Lucien stared at your dress. “It is larger up close.”
“That is also touching.”
Adrien gave him a look.
Lucien frowned. “I meant impressive.”
“No,” Adrien said, “you meant large.”
You nearly smiled.
“You did well,” Adrien said.
That landed strangely.
“Lady Marise will be relieved.”
“I was not speaking for my mother.”
Lucien looked between you both, then said, “Does this mean we have to be polite to you forever?”
Adrien closed his eyes briefly.
You looked at Lucien. “Yes.”
He sighed. “That seems excessive.”
“It is a wedding. Everything is excessive.”
Adrien’s mouth moved faintly. Then he bowed again. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” you said.
This time, you meant it.
Archibald appeared a few minutes later. “My lady,” he said, bowing. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” you said.
Archibald glanced once toward Shamrock, then back to you.
“I admit, I did not expect this outcome.”
“You mean the wedding?”
“I mean the first time you met him, you threw flour at him.”
Your face warmed.
“That was a reasonable response, Digs.”
His mouth barely moved.
“To flour the commander of the Holy Knights?”
“It was what I had.”
“Yes,” he said mildly. “That seemed to be your policy at the time.”
You narrowed your eyes.
His expression remained perfectly bland.
“But your aim was respectable.”
“That sounded like praise.”
Archibald looked faintly alarmed.
“That was not my intention.”
“To praise me?”
“To be obvious about it.”
You smiled.
He bowed again, recovering his dignity by force. “Congratulations again, my lady.”
Then he stepped away before you could make the mistake of arguing with a man who had clearly been saving that for months.
He did not go far.
Lady Coraline intercepted him near the edge of the terrace with two glasses in hand. She offered him one.
Archibald accepted it with a bow that was far too formal for receiving a drink.
Whatever she said next made him pause.
Then his mouth moved.
Barely.
Coraline laughed. Not politely. Not because the room expected it.
Really.
You narrowed your eyes.
Still suspicious.
Then Melusine approached with Saint Theodore Aven beside her.
Melusine looked perfect. “Lady Figarland,” she said.
“Lady Arco,” you said.
Melusine looked you over once. “You survived the aisle.”
“Barely.”
“You appeared composed.”
“Madam Solenne would accept nothing less.”
Melusine leaned closer, just enough for the words to belong to you. “He has not stopped looking at you since the doors opened.”
Your face warmed.
“You are terrible.”
“No,” she said. “Observant.” Then her gaze moved over your shoulder.
Melusine’s eyes returned to yours. “Try not to look so pleased. Belladonna is watching.”
You smiled into your glass.
“Is she?”
“Yes.”
“Tragic.”
“Deeply.”
Saint Theodore offered Melusine his arm. Then she allowed him to lead her away.
Lady Nerissa returned once to inform you that Belladonna had complimented the flowers.
“She did?” you asked.
“She used the word adequate.”
“That counts as a compliment?”
“From Belladonna? Practically an embrace.”
You nearly choked on your drink.
Shamrock came to stand beside you again.
“You look flushed,” he said.
Your eyes cut to his.
“That is your fault.”
“How?”
“You have been looking at me.”
“I am your husband.”
“That is not a defense for looking as if you are deciding where to bite me.”
His gaze held yours.
“I already know where.”
“Shamrock.”
His expression remained controlled.
His eyes did not.
“Dance with me,” he said.
“That is an escape.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The first toast was brief because Garling gave it.
The ceremonial cake knife was blessed, presented, and used with a level of seriousness you refused to respect.
You did not comment.
That was your wedding gift to everyone.
When the reception finally thinned, your feet hurt, your cheeks ached from polite smiling, and your patience had been dead for at least an hour.
Shamrock leaned close enough for only you to hear.
“We are leaving.”
Those were the most beautiful words spoken all day.
The departure was formal.
Guests lined the terrace steps. Your father stood with Lady Marise near the lower path, his face arranged into something resembling satisfaction. Garling stood apart, severe and watchful.
Shamrock guided you down the steps with one hand at your back and the other holding yours.
The vehicle waited at the base of the hall steps. Shamrock helped you inside before following.
For the first time all day, no one was looking at you.
The silence inside the vehicle felt immediate.
You sat across from him because the dress demanded half the vehicle for itself. Ivory silk spilled around your legs, heavy and unhelpful.
Shamrock leaned back against the opposite seat.
He looked at you. Slowly.
You lifted your chin. “You have been doing that all day.”
“Yes.”
“At least now there are no witnesses.”
“That is not helping.”
Your mouth went dry.
Shamrock’s eyes dropped to the row of covered buttons at your back, visible where the train had moved against the seat.
“I counted those during the reception,” he said.
You stared at him. “The buttons?”
“Yes.”
“That is deranged.”
“It was either that or leave early.”
Heat moved through you.
“You behaved very well.”
“I know.”
You looked out the window before your face could betray you. When you looked back, Shamrock had not stopped watching you. His voice lowered. “When we arrive, I am going to help you out of this vehicle.”
“That sounds manageable.”
“Then I am going to walk you through the entrance hall.”
“Also manageable.”
“Veyne will be there.”
“He always is.”
“Yes.” Shamrock looked directly at you. “So you will need to look composed.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“I am enjoying knowing you are not.”
“That is cruel.”
“Yes.”
The estate lights appeared ahead.
The vehicle slowed.
Shamrock sat back slowly. “You should breathe before the door opens,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “You are the reason I forgot.”
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‣‣ Synopsis: A tale of how the Shogun's daughter ends up in the maw of one of the most fierce curse users to ever exist.
‣‣ Cross-posted on AO3
‣‣ Final Word Count: 221,263
‣‣ Status: Completed
‣‣ Pairing: Sukuna x Reader
‣‣ Warnings: Blank blogs & Minors DNI. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Cannibalism, set in Early-Heian Period, trueform!Sukuna, mentions of Buddhism/religion in general, sexism, eventual smut, slowburn, dead bodies, descriptions of wounds, era-specific violence & views, dismemberment, female reader, reader is not a pushover, reader is the Shogun's daughter, reader knows how to use a sword, Sukuna is at the start of his reign as King of Curses, cursed spirits, body horror, each chapter will have its own warnings, warnings to be updated/added, not beta-read, no happy ending.
‣‣ Part ONE — Tsukuyomi 月読
‣‣ Part TWO — Susanoo スサノオ
‣‣ Part THREE — Izanami イザナミ
‣‣ Part FOUR — Izanagi 伊邪那岐命
‣‣ Part FIVE — Kuraokami 闇龗
‣‣ Part SIX — Kuebiko 久延毘古
‣‣ Part SEVEN — Hachiman 八幡神
‣‣ Part EIGHT — Kagutsuchi カグツチ
‣‣ Part NINE — Kangiten 歓喜天
‣‣ Part TEN — Shinigami 死神
‣‣ Part ELEVEN — Tamonten 毘沙門天
‣‣ Part TWELVE — Daikokuten 大黒天
‣‣ Part THIRTEEN — Inari Ōkami 稲荷大神
‣‣ Part FOURTEEN — Yuki Onna 雪女
‣‣ Part FIFTEEN — Sugawara no Michizane 菅原道真
‣‣ Part SIXTEEN — Suijin 水神
‣‣ Part SEVENTEEN — Yomi 黄泉
‣‣ Part EIGHTEEN — Kōjin 三宝荒神
‣‣ Part NINETEEN — Toyouke 豊岡姫
‣‣ Part TWENTY — Amanozako 天逆毎
‣‣ Part TWENTY-ONE — Sarutahiko Ōkami 猿田彦大神
‣‣ Part TWENTY-TWO — Homusubi 火産霊
‣‣ Part TWENTY-THREE — Hanami 花見
‣‣ Part TWENTY-FOUR — Bishamonten 毘沙門
‣‣ Part TWENTY-FIVE — The Final Chapter
‣‣ Part TWENTY-SIX — The Epilogue
‣‣ WHAT-IF — Takemikazuchi 建御雷
The Victorian-style house looked a bit creepy, but rather cute. Very pinkish. Perfectly serene for your remote job and longing for silence. And everything would be wonderful if not for this little weird doll that looks like you and a small door in the living room, leading to... nowhere? And what about those two guys who lived here sixty years ago?
˖𖦹 ݁˖ pairing: Satosugu x F!Reader
˖𖦹 ݁˖ content/warnigs for this chapter: ꒰ Coraline AU :: reader slowly falls for their trap :: dark and eerie atmosphere :: victorian house :: oral sex:: masturbation :: fingering :: Satoru is just a housewife :: reader is so naive and horny :: Sukuna is still a dickhead :: 5.8k words ꒱
˖𖦹 ݁˖ notes: sex sex sex sex...
masterlist ˖𖦹 ݁˖
──── chapter three 🗝
Over the next week, you visited them every evening.
During the day, you sat down and wrote your novel, spurred by a sudden spark of inspiration from a dolly and two strange men. In the evening, with your belly growling from hunger and the fridge still rather empty – a loaf of mouldy bread, a few packed cheeses and a bunch of radishes – you slipped through the tiny door, drawn by the delicious smell of freshly baked food.
Sometimes it was a mouth-watering lasagne Satoru prepared especially for you. Another time, a different roast, some pasta, or something lighter, as he made a little special something for dessert. You approached them like a naive child, tempted by the kindness and gentleness they offered your starving belly and by devilish curiosity every single day.
Always mostly welcoming, always caring for your wellbeing as if whoever, whatever, they were had no importance. And so, you didn’t ask any further, but instead kept yourself at a distance while they clearly tried to get closer.
A certain, special feeling was bubbling beneath your chest whenever you crawled through the tunnel each evening. A warmth, rather impossible to describe, and a strange curiosity that pulled you and pushed you away in such a bizarre manner.
They reminded you of snakes, slowly coiling around your body to devour you whole when the time came. Or rather, demons, who they surely were, and your mind seemed to accept it quite openly. As what could be more interesting for a horror writer than meeting a creature from her stories in real life?
So you didn’t tell Shoko about it. When she called a week later, while you were getting ready for dinner, you replied, "Is everything okay?" With a simple:
"Of course, why wouldn’t it be?"
Her low hum came from the other side of the phone as you pressed it closer to your ear. In the meantime, applying a soft blush to your cheeks and smearing a gentle gloss on your lips. As if you were going to a restaurant, rather than a dinner with the weird neighbours on the other side of the house, in a world of awe and wickedness, you felt yourself getting pulled to.
"Just asking," she said, chewing on something. "You weren’t texting me for the past few days. I started to worry."
This time you hummed, putting on a set of lovely earrings. "Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been sort of busy…" getting myself acquainted with new, weird neighbours you surely wouldn’t be happy with.
"Did you get the idea of a new story?"
You looked at yourself in the mirror – dark flats, long skirt and a crimson sweater joining the warmth of your lips.
"Sort of, yeah. I’m scribbling something, but maybe of no good," you said, smoothing down your skirt. "It’s actually set in this house. A horror for children."
Shoko scoffed, and you imagined her scrunched nose. "That sure sounds interesting. Let me know when you’ll finish it, and I’ll send a copy to some of my friends at work with children."
There was a minute of silence before she took a deep sigh.
You knew something had happened. And so could almost see her lower lip trapped between teeth and fingers curling the lock of chestnut hair nervously.
You walked down the stairs, strolling slowly towards the living room.
The old house closed in around you, its dark walls almost wrapping you in a cushion embrace. The evening had fallen deep, and the darkness that always gathered around the Pink Palace Apartment was mostly spooky. Pitch black, letting no light pass through the veiled fog and murmurs from the wind-swooshed forest trees.
And so you could see nothing outside the living room’s tall windows, and a deep dusk was interrupted solely by the warm light of your house.
"What is it?" You asked, sitting down on a sofa.
You would need to leave your phone here, as the other side was cut off from any signal. You’ve noticed your dolly, sitting calmly in the corner, leaning against the crimson cushions.
"Sukuna came to me," Shoko almost whispered, as if not wishing for the information to fully spill past her lips.
Your brows furrowed. "What do you mean? To the hospital?"
"To my home."
"What?!" You shouted, before a low, interrupted scoff escaped your throat. "I can’t believe him. He’s been texting me every single day."
Shoko didn’t say anything for a while, yet somehow you could tell what was bubbling deep within her mind. Something she didn’t want to admit out loud, as it wasn’t advice a friend should offer.
"You think I should talk to him?" You allowed the thoughts to spill through the phone.
Shoko sighed. "I didn’t say it."
"But you wanted to."
A thread of silence once again fell between the two of you, broken only by the soft crackle of the fireplace. It was a minute before it felt as if she nodded, trying to justify her choice.
"I know what he did was absolutely horrible, but maybe you could try to resonate with him. You know how he is. He won’t let you go unless you let him talk to you."
You knew she was right. After all, Sukuna had long been a part of your college group, the one you formed back in the day. During the time when he was madly in love with you, and the thought of cheating would never have crossed your mind.
And still, he turned out to be nothing but scum. A type of man who pledged his devotion while fucking raw in the backseat of his car, yet all this time loving you crazily. With a craving and passion seeping through his blood, as if the whole sense of the universe was hidden somewhere deep within the twinkle of your eyes.
But he was never of the gentlemanly kind. The one who would cook and clean for you. Listen to the worries and aches, with a soft voice that dug deep into your wretched heart and peppered it with tender kisses of comfort.
He didn’t do those things, but you knew who did.
And so, after allowing yourself to get gently spoiled by the two strange men on the other side of the house,
"I don’t know," you admitted, sinking deeper into the sofa. "I don’t want to look at him, but if he keeps pestering you, I’m going to meet with him."
It seemed that Shoko felt relieved upon hearing that you, in fact, were not angry with her suggestion.
"Meet somewhere in the nearby city. Don’t give him your address or he might go crazy, you know?"
You nodded, as if she could see you. "Yeah, I won’t." Your eyes fell onto the dolly, fingers brushing her button eyes. "I kinda miss sex tho."
Shoko chuckled, a low acknowledging hum bouncing on the other side of the phone. "No handsome gentlemen in the village of yours?"
"I wouldn't say so. The only man I have met by far is my crazy old neighbour who speaks to me in riddles and secrets."
"Well, do what our parents did and go visit a local pub. I'm sure some beauty of a lumberjack will be waiting for you there," Shoko said, but in your mind, her eyebrows jumped up and down and lips curled into a playful smile.
Five minutes later, you were already crawling out of the warm tunnel. Stepping into the familiar living room, which here still seemed a bit different from yours. Warmer, more alive, with the fire burning a brighter red and the sofa sinking softer beneath your body.
The usual smell drew you straight towards the kitchen, yet when you walked in, a sudden oh slipped past your lips.
Both Suguru and Satoru looked more gentlemanly than usual, in a certain kind of way. Dressed in suits that clung to their muscular bodies, their hair neatly brushed back. With a single white lock hanging over his forehead, a handsome jaw sharp yet softened with kindness, as he whistled an unknown melody.
Suguru was a beauty with raven hair spilling down his back, a single bun sitting tight on his head. Lavender eyes, as always, looked up at you with a smile, mellowing the moment they met your lovely face.
"Early as always," he said, bringing Satoru’s attention.
The look of him, dressed in a suit with an apron still clinging to his waist, seemed rather lovely, and so you giggled when he turned with a frown.
"What part of six p.m. sharp don’t you understand, sweetheart?" He pouted, yet you caught a flicker of amusement in his blue, button-shaped eyes.
You sat by the table, glancing at the fruit, sweets, and freshly cooked mashed potatoes, with saliva trickling down your chin. Suguru placed a glass of the usual wine in front of your plate, and you thanked him, stuffing your mouth with little blocks of cheese and grapes.
"Don’t stuff yourself before dinner," Satoru reminded, pushing another giggle out of your and Suguru’s throats.
"Sorry, Dad," you said, resting your chin on a hand and watching them swirl around the kitchen.
Almost like two dolls, they worked in perfect harmony, chatting and moving as if being together, in each other’s company, were the most natural thing in the world. When Satoru was cooking, Suguru set the table. When Suguru was putting the cake in the fridge, Satoru quickly cleaned the kitchen counter so the raven-haired man could prepare something else.
"What’s the occasion?" you asked, perking your chin at their suits.
Suguru smiled softly, joining you at the round table. "We’re going to the theatre, darling. Right after dinner."
Your eyes bulged, and the little block of cheese lodged in your throat. You coughed a few times before Suguru’s big hand patted your back.
"Thank you," slipped out muffled, and you caught Satoru's squinted gaze as your fingers still reached for the cheese and grape. "What theatre?"
Suguru relaxed in the chair, propping one leg against the other.
"The girls from the apartment below are preparing for the championship. We’ve got special early access with an invitation," he winked, watching the soft gasp escape your throat.
Your forehead furrowed, as if a bickering thought had haunted your senses and a hum filled the kitchen. Before you could push another grape into your agape lips, Satoru snatched it and popped it into his mouth.
Apologising, innocent smile twisted your lips, before you looked back at Suguru. "Girls? Aren’t they almost eighty?"
His head tilted, yet Satoru replied instead. Placing a steak with gravy on the table and joining you too.
"Oh, why would they be? They’re barely fifteen from what I remember."
Are they?
Or maybe the world here stopped the moment both of them died? Maybe the other side of the house, whatever it truly was, never left the moment of sixty years ago, when Suguru and Satoru were still the owners.
It always brought you the greatest restraint in not prying into the sense of their being. As it seemed, they not only didn’t wish to speak of it but also avoided your questions as if whatever you tried to inquire about were the most bizarre thing they’d heard of.
A few days ago, sitting all three on the sofa, with the soft crackle of the fireplace and glasses of wine in your hands, you asked them softly about their lives. What they do during the day. Where they work. How often they go out into town.
Yet Suguru only tilted his head, and Satoru, in a quick, casual tone, said, "We’re waiting for you."
The smile on your face froze as eyes caught the senseless, emotionless button irises that stayed fixed on your face. They almost seemed like wax figures, and if not for the warmth of the fireplace that caressed their cheeks, you would think they were indeed empty shells.
"What do you mean? All day?"
They nodded.
"What did you do before I moved in, then?"
"Wait for you."
A silence had settled back then, and the wine’s sweetness tasted putrid on your tongue. As if the wine wasn’t a wine at all, and the fire wasn’t a fire, and the house wasn’t a house, and they were nothing but a sort of wicked creatures of one mind and one aim, of which you were unfamiliar. And the world here, on the other side, was no world at all, but rather a sort of entity that lived and breathed on its own, turning the moment you slipped through the little door.
And nevertheless, they made your evening brighter and always filled you with good food that settled on your heart in a balmy manner. The easiest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, they said, yet it seemed that you were no better than a simple man.
For only good food, a few gentle words and their warmth wrapping around you was needed to feel yourself get pulled closer into their trapping hands.
And so, when Suguru wrapped his arm around the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder – you didn’t mind. When Satoru moved his chair closer, thighs brushing against yours and hand feeding you creamy cake – you accepted it gladly.
It seemed foolish and most bizarre, yet their presence, the gestures, felt almost bewitching. As if whatever they fed your starving stomach and broken heart with was also pouring a sort of enchanting hex into your mind, that made it simply impossible to resist their personas.
The rest of the dinner passed as always. There were laughs and chitchats and a warmth licking your jumper-clad neck when Suguru silently pulled your chair a bit closer, and Satoru whipped a creamy spot of your lips.
Thumb landing on his tongue as he sucked the sweetness with a hum that hit your spine in a mostly wicked way. Like something that shouldn’t sound that sensual, feel so good, even though, after all, there truly was nothing sensual about the situation you were in.
"You look beautiful today, darling," Suguru hummed, taking a sip of his wine.
A soft, tipsy giggle slipped past your lips, the warmth filling your chest. Like waves of the ocean, but burning and bubbling beneath the sizzle of the sun.
"I thought I looked pretty every day?"
Satoru hummed, refilling your glass halfway. You shouldn’t drink that much - not here, not with them. But the night was young, they were handsome, and you had felt lonely and unloved for quite some time, still trying to stitch the wounds of your heart.
Even with a wicked mind like yours and a love for all the grimey things, you never believed in the existence of something else.
The world of spectres, demons, monsters, who slipped past your fingertips onto the paper yet never settled for long in your mind.
It was not surprising, then, that nuzzling into Suguru’s side felt so refreshing. That Satoru’s eyes skimming the swell of your breasts beneath the loose jumper made your cheeks bleed rose.
"You do," Suguru chuckled, thumb slipping higher and higher, till it brushed the piece of your naked neck. "The most beautiful woman in the world."
A burning sensation filled your stomach. Suguru’s wine-sweetened breath hit your cheeks, and Satoru’s hand slipped down your thighs, crumpling the fabric of your long skirt. The kitchen suddenly felt too small, too warm, and the crackling of the fireplace in the living room licked the back of your neck with its sizzling tongues.
The world spun, beneath the sweet, careless tipsiness of your mind, and the desire you didn’t feel for such a long time suddenly filled your lower belly.
Your thighs clenched, feeling Satoru’s fingers brush the mound of your already drenched panties. Touching your folds through the thick skirt and even thicker lingerie, as you weren’t prepared to ever let yourself melt beneath the touch of… them. Of demons, creatures born of eerie wickedness. Spectres or devils, although none of the names used in your novels quite fit their personas.
Suguru drew closer, fingers now slipping up to brush your jaw, turning it gently his way.
"We still have a few minutes before the spectacle," he muttered, purplish irises now gleaming with a playful sparkle. The button-shaped structure seemed almost natural, even beautiful, perhaps even luscious, you might say. "Is there anything you'd like to do, darling?"
Satoru’s hand slid beneath the woolly jumper, feeling the softness of your belly. Moving upward, he reached the cup of your bra, sending a wave of sudden shivers down your spine. A trembling breath escaped your lips, and your head spun as if under some wicked spell.
It was warm – too warm, with Satoru’s fingers cupping your clad breasts and Suguru’s intense gaze fixed on your furrowed face.
"Tell us, darling," he insisted, another hand slipping down between your legs. Rolling the long hem of your skirt until it folded around your thighs, allowing him to tap fingers against the wet spot forming on your panties. "Is there anything you wish to do?"
You nodded.
Against all thoughts that told you it’s a bad idea, you nodded and reached for Suguru’s tie to pull him closer. Till his lips smashed against yours and his fingers finally slipped beneath the wetness of your panties, falling nastily right between your drenched folds.
He hummed, smiling slyly into your kiss, before he cupped your cheek with one hand, the other playing with the swollen clit. Massaging it in slow, mean circles, smearing the wetness of your juices all over your cunt.
Satoru swiftly unclasped your bra, letting your breast fall right into his warm hand. Nipples almost naturally fitting between his two fingers, as he rolled them gently, with kisses peppered down your neck.
Oh, it felt so wrong. So, so wrong, yet you couldn’t pull yourself away. The long-hidden lust finally burst forth, causing your pleasure-driven body to surrender to men you really shouldn’t desire that much.
But how could you not, when both of them were nearly devilishly handsome, with eyes constantly fixed on how your cheeks warmed beneath their gentle touches, fingers seemingly needing to always brush even the smallest part of your skin.
It’s been only a week since you started meeting with them, yet you couldn’t deny the fact that a few nasty, messy thoughts had slipped past your mind during the late, late nights.
When the familiar, long-gone tingling burned your inner thighs and your fingers slid unconsciously between your drenched pyjama shorts. On such nights, you thought of Suguru’s fingers accidentally brushing your waist and of Satoru’s tight hugs whenever you always said goodbye.
Of the evenings spent on their sofa, when you sat between their warm, muscular bodies and let your head fall drunkenly onto Suguru’s thighs. His fingers brushing your hair, Satoru’s massaging your calves, until a soft hum escaped your throat.
They knew how to lure you into their arms. How to coax and spoil and make you crave more of the warmth and love that you hadn’t felt since Sukuna cheated on you. They knew how to make his body hunched over some slut disappear from your mind, and they were doing it just now.
It began as something slow and gentle, with Satoru’s lips tracing the softness of your neck and Suguru drawing the loveliest moans from your throat. His mouth pressed to yours, eyes slightly lidded, a cheeky smile still on his face, as you drew him closer.
Yet soon, it changed into something more needy. Starving.
With their famished lips, tongues, and fingers all over your body, taking off your jumper and pulling down the skirt before you even registered the moment your back touched the table.
A sharp crash and crack of falling plates filled the dimmed kitchen, yet none of you truly cared about it. Not when you felt their big hands at the backs of your thighs, pushing them far until they touched your chest. Your eyes glassy, lips parted, upper body leaning against the prepped elbows as you looked at them from below, heat dancing on your cheeks.
And, oh, how handsome they looked. Two tall, muscular men dressed in suits, now sitting on the chairs right in front of your naked cunt. Hungry and possessed, with gaze fixed on your juices dripping down the mahogany table.
It seemed that they were ready to feast on the sweetest dessert that could ever be brought under their noses.
Satoru leaned closer, kissing the inside of your trembling thigh. Taking a deep, nasty breath, and rolling his eyes back, as if the fragrance of your cunt alone was making his slacks incredibly tight. Which it was, and you’ve noticed it after he zipped his pants and took out his leaking cock. The sight of it alone pushed a soft moan past your lips, and cunt clenched around nothing.
Suguru chuckled, giving a lick to your other thigh. Leaving a long stripe of wetness before slipping down and down, as he parted your drenched folds with two fingers.
"Do you think you can cum quickly, darling?" He asked, purplish eyes looking up at you from between your thighs. "Tell us, how close you already are?"
Your reply rolled together with a pitched cry, as his tongue pressed to your swollen clit. Big and trembling, a sweet button he quickly started ravishing on with his plush lips.
"It–fuck–depends on how hungry you are," biting down on a lower lip, you smiled slyly, like a wicked, demonic fox. With a cunning glimmer in your eyes and all, as if trying to challenge them. "Are you?"
Satoru looked at you for a few seconds. With something deep, something slipping into madness and craze and addiction.
"You really have no clue, sweetheart," he said, licking his two fingers clean and pushing them gently into your trembling cunt. Thrusting them slowly, to feel each softness, each wall tightly clench around them, and lock in a plush, feverish embrace. "You truly have no idea how starved we are."
You didn’t catch whatever his voice was lined with.
Not, when Suguru’s lips and tongue were working on your clit and Satoru’s fingers thrusted deep into the wetness of your cunt. Bending and curving to seek your sweet spot, while their hands kept your hips steady in one place. Not letting the thighs clamp on their heads pushed between your parted thighs, although you tried.
Oh, you tried, wriggling and squelching on the deep, woody table, as they worked you open in such a maddening, almost humiliating way. Pushing all your buttons with an exact precision, brushing each spot of your sensitive cunt with a cunning smile and sucking deep on the perked clit, leaving you fucked and senseless.
"Mhmmm, fuck, feels–ahh–s-so good," your head rolled back, eyes closed shut as you let your hips roll in rhythm with Satoru’s thrusts. Against Suguru’s tongue now plastered back again to your pussy, as he felt your need to grind yourself against it restlessly.
And he let you do it with a low, satisfied hum. A soft, "That’s our girl, use us as you wish," turning into a moan, "Fuck, you look absolutely ravishing, darling," as he watched you roll eagerly against his wet muscle.
With your head tilted back and soft tits out, heavy breaths slipping past your parted lips. Your upper body still leaning on the elbows, mind overwhelmed, spellbound, and seized by their firm hands pressing your hips to the table, while long, fat fingers stretched you open. Suguru slipped one in, joining Satoru’s restless presses against your sweet spot. His tongue rolled back again, circling against your clit, as they felt your walls clench in spasmodic rhythm.
And then, suddenly, you felt them both.
On your drenched cunt, drinking the juices pooling beneath your hips, coating their fingers and cheeks, as both Satoru and Suguru licked your folds clean. Their tongues mixing into one, lips smooching and brushing against each other. Still sitting at the table, still dressed in suits. Simply two gentleman devouring their dessert, with long fingers pumping their thick cocks and brows furrowed, as if trying to taste the sweetness spilling on their tongues.
And the view alone was enough to feel a heat fill your lower belly. Satoru looked up, carefully, fixatedly, tracing the changing expressions of your face.
"Come on, sweetheart. You’re so close, aren't you? We still have a few minutes left; you’re doing so good for us," his voice leaked lust, ocean, button eyes watching you intensely with a slyness. "I would skip on the cake if I knew how sweet you would be. Fuck, our good girl. Cum for us."
Your eyes slipped between their faces and fingers gripping cocks. Back and forth, watching the beauty of their jaws working fast on your soaked cunt, with wet cheeks and dripping chins, before slipping down to red, fat shafts, coated in pearls of precum.
Oh dearest, how much you would give to feel them stretch your cunt full, painfully, till you would feel them deep inside your throat.
"How much–nghh–how much time do we still have?" You asked, biting down on lower lip, eyes still fixed on their shafts. "I want you–oh fuck, I’m going to cum–inside. Mhmm, I want you both inside me, I want you to–ahhh, w-wait."
But it was too late. It felt too good, too pleasurable, almost euphoric, sending continuous waves of bliss down your spine until your legs trembled and a loud, lovely moan escaped. Your thighs tried to close around the heads, but they were too deep inside you to push them away even slightly.
And so you let yourself melt under their tongues and fingers. Lips sucking on your clit, as you suddenly splashed all over their faces. With back arching slutty, and eyes rolling back.
The nasty squelching and splattering filled the foggy kitchen. Their suits getting drenched all over, crystal droplets of your cum hanging off their noses, chins, as fingers still pushed your sweet button, to spill everything your pussy was ready to give.
Before you could say anything, they suddenly stood up. After a few last pumps on their cocks, a low groan escaped and something warm and creamy dripped down your belly. It coated your skin white, like splatters of sweetened milk.
You looked down at it with a pout, your squinted gaze lifting to their rosy, warm cheeks. "Such a waste," head tilted fox-like, and if someone narrowed their eyes, they might even see a pair of red ears and a long, lush tail peeking, curling around your hips.
Suguru hummed and stretched his finger to blend his cum with Satoru’s on your belly. Then scooped some up and offered it to your lips, which you opened gladly, wrapping your mouth around his long, salty finger. Pulling away with a pop, you giggled lovingly and spread your legs even wider.
"So how much time do we still have?"
And to your quite dissatisfaction, Satoru replied with an, "Not much. Let us take you out on a proper date," as he bent over, catching your lips in his.
A short, yet deep kiss, leaving you still hungry for more. Intoxicating, sweet, needy, and you felt that he craved you as much as you craved them. With heat burning deep beneath your skin and fingers itching to once again thrust into the warmth of your cunt.
"Mhm, just to let you know, then, I don’t sleep with men on the first date."
It was a simple joke.
The one, you would crack with everyone else too.
Yet you forgot they were unlike everyone else. For a moment, a few minutes, you seemed to bury all thoughts of their demon-like features at the back of your mind. Their button-shaped irises, their trained behaviours, the love, passion, and yearning that felt too strong for someone who had known you for only the past week.
You craved a quick sex, yet for them it was a promise sealed with blood.
Something flickered in Satoru’s eyes. A deep concern, almost irritation, that gave way to tenderness.
Suguru’s fingers dug deeper into your thighs, head tilting to side, till the raven hair trickled down his shoulder.
"Are there any other men?"
The air shifted. The warmth slipping past the kitchen shelves turned to cold, biting fog, seeping into the marrow of your bare body.
They looked at you without a single blink and a moment had passed before a quiet, "No, there's no one else," fell past your lips.
Satoru's face usually reminded you of a blooming garden, and you've never seen it in such a cold state.
But not a minute later, it changed back to its familiar warmth, and he chuckled, placing a soft kiss on your cheeks.
"Of course, sweetheart. There's no one else but us." It wasn't a question, or at least you didn't take it as one. "Well, I think we should get going."
You nodded, allowing him to sit you up on the table. Now that the heat had faded, you felt exposed. Too vulnerable for their hungry eyes, as they were still dressed in suits.
"Um, can I use the bathroom?" you asked shyly, crossing arms over your chest to cover the breasts. "And I need to go back and change. My clothes are…" You looked at your skirt, dirtied with your cum, and a jumper lying on the floor, alongside crashed plates.
Warmth suddenly enveloped your shivering body as Suguru draped a long, soft blanket over your shoulders. In one gentle motion, he pulled you into his arms.
"Don't worry, darling. I may have something just for you.”
He left you in the bathroom – more inviting than your house’s, cozier, filled with painted-glass windows and plants cascading down the windowsill. The warm, soft light flickered gently, like a firefly on a balmy, simmering night, casting a gentle swirl over your head.
You sighed, cleaned yourself up a little, and stepped out wrapped in a plush towel. They were waiting for you inside your… their bedroom. Sitting on the much larger bed, Satoru leaned on his elbows, Suguru staring somewhere beyond the tall trees stretching beyond the window.
You slipped inside quietly, almost shyly, still feeling quite heated after the sudden wave of hormones that suddenly filled your wine-tipsy mind.
Before they said anything, you've noticed a long, black dress laying neatly right next to Suguru.
"Is that…"
He nodded, a warm smile curling on his lips. Lifting the dress, he displayed it to you in all its splendour — showcasing the soft fabric, low-cut neckline, and spider-like sleeves reminiscent of those vampire gowns women wore in historical films. It was beautiful, shiny, embroidered with gold, and you couldn't help but let out a sudden gasp that escaped your lips.
"Do you like it?" He asked, button-shaped irises shining proudly beneath the soft flame of the nearby candle.
"I love it" You squeaked, steppping from one foot to another. The coldness of their faces suddenly faded of your memory. "Where did you get it?"
Satoru chuckled, rolling of the bed. "Suguru made it for you, sweetheart."
Your eyes left the dress, to meet their gazes. One more proud than another, leaving you staring at them senseless and shocked.
"What do you mean, made it?"
"I sewed it. For you."
He sewed a dress from scratch. Just for you.
Another wave of warmth kissed the back of your neck. Shoulders slumped, eyes slipped to look at your naked toes wetting the crimson Persian carpet.
Someone's soft finger gripped you chin, lifting it up. Satoru stood right in front of you, with a warm smile tugging on his lips.
"It's too much," you whispered.
His head shook, white wisps of hair freeing themselves from his slick, brushing the creamy forehead. Clean, white, almost porcelain-like – the one, reminding you of a doll.
"It's not, sweetheart. It's just a silly dress." His thumb brushed your lower lip before swooshing over your cheek. "That's only a tiny part of everything we've prepared for you."
In a way, it sounded lovely. Almost promising, forcing another wave of heat to bubble deep in your loins.
Yet, on the other hand, there was something rather wicked and strange in the way those words curled around your ears. Less like a sweet promise, more like a threat.
Before you could add anything else, the doorbell rang. Loud and tingling, like a bell that swung and swung, the pinching sound bouncing off each wall of the house.
Suguru furrowed his milky forehead as his eyes quickly met Satoru's gaze. They seemed displeased, unsatisfied, as if the guest hadn't been welcomed and his visit too sudden, too strange, forcing a low, quite uneasy cough past Suguru's throat.
"We'll wait for you downstairs. Join us when you're ready," Suguru smiled, kissing your temple.
Satoru followed, before both of them left the bedroom.
Leaving you alone, with thoughts battling one another and curiosity reaching its peak. Filling you whole, tickling fingertips, so you quickly put on the dress, thin tights that came in a pair, and softly, quietly, walked down the stairs.
Holding your breath, fingers clenching the wooden stair rail, foot after foot falling, one step after another, onto the plush carpet nailed to the stairs. A few muffled voices filled the hallway. You've noticed both of them standing by the wide-open doors, someone else's low tone blending with their velvet speech.
You wanted to sit on the top steps of the stairs, to steal a few glances through the bannister, but, oh, you never had any luck. As the stairs were too old and your body too heavy, one of the steps would not even make a faint creak.
Loud enough for them to quickly straighten their backs, heads shooting back to look at your slowly walking figure.
The door closed with a thud. Suddenly, you jumped in place and clutched the rail tighter, so as not to let them know you wanted to spy on their guest.
So as not to let them notice, through their always sharp gazes, that before the door fully closed, you saw a tiny bit, a peek, of the person standing behind them.
A man with sandy hair and a woollen jumper covering his chest. With chestnut eyes that caught yours for just a second, bulging in a scaredy-weird way. As if you were a ghost, or rather an uninvited guest, a creature he didn't expect.
The same man who appeared a few days ago, back there by the well.
The same one who told you to avoid the house at any cost.
And his "stay away from it. And stay away from the house. It's not a good place," suddenly flashed red in your mind like an alarm.
Sooo, there's a chance the story will be longer than five chapters because I had an epiphany today and decided I NEED to add the cat-and-mouse play from Coraline...
Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Chapter 26: The Night Before
The night before your wedding, you could not stop looking at the dress.
Lila had left it near the wardrobe after the final pressing. It was ivory, expensive, and far too large to ignore.
You stood barefoot on the carpet and stared at it.
Tomorrow, they would put you in it.
Tomorrow, you would walk through Saint Aurens Hall while two hundred and forty people watched to see whether you stumbled.
Tomorrow, Saint Harlan Veroux would place your hand in Shamrock Figarland’s and lose the right to pretend you still belonged to him.
The thought sat in your chest.
Nearly seven months ago, you had been carrying trays in a tavern, wiping spilled ale off tables, dodging hands that reached too freely, and saving berri in a jar.
Then Shamrock had walked in.
Since then, you had been dragged from your home, locked in a room, taught how to survive a ship, corrected on forks, posture, speech, correspondence, and apparently the correct distance from ceremonial cake knives.
You had learned which smiles meant insult and which insults meant invitation.
And somewhere in all of that, terribly, inconveniently, you had fallen in love with the man who had brought you here.
You looked at the dress again.
“That seems excessive,” you muttered.
The dress did not answer.
Lila had gone to bed an hour ago after making you promise not to cut anything, climb out of anything, or insult anyone important before morning.
You had promised the first two.
You missed the cottage suddenly.
Not with the sharp ache you used to carry. Not with the desperate, angry longing that had filled your first weeks in Mary Geoise. But you missed the sound of the tavern, the door that never closed properly unless you shoved it with your hip. You missed Lysa shouting over the noise that you were carrying the tray wrong, then fixing it herself before you could tell her where to put her advice.
You missed being certain that whatever life you had, it was yours.
You turned away from the dress.
The room was too quiet. Too arranged. Too ready for you to become the woman everyone had been preparing.
You reached for your robe, pulled it over your nightgown, and tied the sash.
Then you opened the door.
The corridor outside was dim and still. The Figarland estate at night no longer felt unfamiliar, which was its own kind of alarming.
You knew the way to Shamrock’s library.
You told yourself you were walking because you could not sleep.
That was true.
Incomplete, but true.
When you reached the library door, light showed beneath it.
You stopped.
Then you pushed the door open.
Shamrock looked up from the desk.
He was seated with several papers before him, though you doubted he had been reading them.
He almost smiled. “I expected you.”
“You expected me?”
“You do not sleep well before being watched.”
You stared at him.
“That was far too specific.”
You stepped inside and closed the door behind you.
You moved toward the chair near the fire, then stopped halfway when you realized sitting would make this feel like a planned conversation.
It was not planned.
At least, not by you.
“The dress is staring at me,” you said.
“That seems unlikely.”
“You have not seen it in the dark.”
“I have seen enough ceremonial garments to believe some are capable of malice.”
You looked at him.
His face gave very little away. But his eyes had softened by a fraction.
You hated how good you had become at noticing.
“The wedding is tomorrow,” you said.
“Yes.”
You folded your arms. “You could sound more concerned.”
“I am concerned.”
“You look calm.”
“I am not.”
That almost made you smile.
Shamrock rose from the desk.
The motion changed the room at once. He was very tall in daylight. At night, in firelight, with his hair loose and his collar open, he became a problem.
He did not come too close.
That was considerate.
Annoying.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
You looked toward the fire.
“No.”
He waited.
You sighed. “Somewhat.”
“That is more honest.”
“Do not praise me. I may panic.”
His gaze stayed on your face. “About the ceremony?”
“The watching. The walking. The train. The fact that two hundred and forty people are going to have opinions about my spine.”
“Your spine will survive.”
“That is easy for you to say. Yours has never been socially evaluated beneath a veil.”
The almost-smile appeared before he could quite stop it. You looked away because it had become hard to resist.
“I am not afraid of marrying you,” you said.
You had not meant to say it that plainly.
Shamrock did not move.
You kept looking at the fire. “I thought I should make that clear before I said something stupid to avoid saying it.”
His voice was lower when he answered. “It is clear.”
The laugh escaped before you could stop it. Shamrock’s expression changed at the sound, and the room shifted again, warmer now, closer.
He turned slightly, resting one hand against the back of the chair near him. “After tomorrow,” he said, “do you intend to keep sleeping in your rooms?”
You blinked.
Then blinked again.
Of all the things you had expected him to say, that had not been one of them.
“My rooms?”
“Yes.”
“I assumed I would.”
“You assumed.”
“That is where my things are.”
“Things can be moved.”
“It took three maids and Lila two days to place them.”
“They will survive the hardship.”
You looked at him. “Is this about household arrangements?”
“No,” he said.
A pause.
“It is about whether you intend to be my wife in name and sleep a corridor away from me.”
“I thought wives stayed in their rooms,” you said.
“They can.”
“Then there is your answer.”
“No,” Shamrock said. “That is the house’s answer.”
Your throat tightened.
He stepped closer.
“I asked for yours.”
You looked down to hide the warmth in your face.
A mistake.
He was closer now.
You could see the opening at his collar. The line of his throat. The faint tension in his hand where it rested against the chair.
He was not as unaffected as he looked.
That helped.
A lot.
His voice lowered. “I am trying not to cross this room.”
“Why not?” you asked. The words were barely above a whisper.
Shamrock’s jaw shifted once.
“Because I want to take my time with you.”
Heat moved through you so quickly that for one second you forgot how to answer.
His eyes stayed on yours.
“I want to undress you slowly. Touch you slowly. Put my mouth on you slowly.”
Your fingers tightened against the edge of your robe.
“And when you start asking me to hurry,” he said, voice lower, “I am not going to.”
“That,” you said, when speech finally returned, “was a very cruel thing to say the night before a wedding.”
“Yes.”
Then you took one step closer. His eyes dropped to your mouth.
“I will sleep in your rooms,” you said.
The words came out steadier than you felt.
Shamrock’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Good.”
“That is all you have to say?”
“No,” he said. “It is all I should say.”
You smiled before you could stop it.
Shamrock saw.
His expression shifted.
And that was when you realized staying in the library was becoming a terrible idea.
“I should go,” you said.
Neither of you moved.
Shamrock crossed the room then, slow enough not to startle, close enough to ruin any remaining chance of good judgment.
“I will escort you.”
“I know the way.”
“I know.”
You lifted a brow. “Then why?”
“Because I want another minute.”
Oh.
“Fine,” you said. “One minute.”
His mouth moved faintly. “How generous.”
“Do not waste it.”
He opened the door.
The corridor was empty. You walked beside him in silence.
Not uncomfortable this time.
Charged.
Every step toward your room felt both too short and too long. When you reached your door, you stopped with your hand on the handle.
You turned back to him.
His eyes were on you with a restraint that made your skin feel too warm.
“Well,” you said softly, “you have escorted me.”
“I have.”
“Very impressive.”
“I try.”
That almost made you laugh. Then his hand lifted and touched your waist.
Only enough to pull you one step closer.
You went.
His other hand found the doorframe beside your head.
“Tomorrow night,” he said, mouth near yours, “I am going to ruin you properly.”
Your hand closed in his shirt.
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
He kissed you before you could answer. Your hands slid up his chest, one catching in the open collar of his shirt, the other sinking into his hair.
His body pressed yours back against the door. His hand moved from your waist to your hip, then behind you, bringing you against him until there was no proper space left between you.
You should have worried about footsteps.
You did not.
He turned his head, deepening the kiss until your knees became unreliable and your back needed the door.
Shamrock’s hand slid beneath your robe.
His palm settled against your waist through the thin nightgown, warm and firm, and your fingers slipped deeper into his hair.
The sound he made against your mouth was quiet.
Rough.
You drew your fingers through it again before you could think better of it.
His mouth left yours and moved to your throat.
Your head tipped back against the door.
He stopped.
His mouth remained close to your skin. His hand stayed beneath your robe, unmoving at your waist.
For one second, neither of you moved.
Then he lifted his head.
His eyes were dark.
Too dark.
His mouth brushed yours again.
Once.
Too brief.
Cruel.
Then he pulled back enough to look at you.
Your hand was still twisted in his shirt.
You made yourself let go.
His gaze followed the movement.
“You should sleep,” he said.
Then he stepped back.
You hated him.
You adored him.
Both seemed inconvenient on the night before a wedding. You opened your door and slipped inside.
You leaned back against the closed door and pressed one hand to your mouth.
Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Chapter 25: Very Little Dignity
Saint Aurens Hall was enormous.
That was your first thought when Madam Ruelle led you through the entrance. The ceiling was trimmed with gold. Tall columns lined the aisle. Every sound carried too clearly.
A cough would become an announcement here.
A stumble would become family history.
Madam Ruelle walked ahead with a folder tucked beneath one arm, explaining the order of the ceremony, the route through the hall, and the timing expected of everyone involved.
You listened.
Mostly.
Your father stood to your left with Lady Marise beside him. Garling walked ahead near Madam Ruelle, offering very little.
Shamrock stood on your right.
You had not been alone with him since the library. You had also not stopped thinking about the library.
His hand at your waist.
His mouth at your throat.
Madam Ruelle gestured toward the front of the hall. “The ceremony will begin here. Commander Figarland will stand at the left of the dais. Lady Veroux will enter from the far doors.”
You looked at the distance from the doors to the dais.
It was long.
Unnecessarily long.
Every step would be watched. Every pause would become evidence of something.
You were not touring a hall.
You were being shown where to perform.
“Mary Geoise does enjoy giving people time to be watched,” you said.
Shamrock did not look at you, but you saw the faintest shift at the corner of his mouth.
More private.
Harder to ignore.
Madam Ruelle continued with professional bravery. “After the ceremony, the guests will be guided to the terrace.”
She led you through a side passage and out into open air.
The terrace overlooked a formal garden tiered in white stone and dark green hedges. Beyond it, Mary Geoise stretched beneath the afternoon sun, bright and cold and untouchable.
The reception would be held here. “It will be beautiful at sunset,” Madam Ruelle said.
You looked across the terrace.
It would be.
That was almost annoying.
Garling spoke for the first time in several minutes. “The terrace is suitable.”
Madam Ruelle gestured toward the central steps. “Lady Veroux will descend here.”
You looked at the steps.
“There are too many of those.”
“There are twelve,” Shamrock said.
“That is too many.”
Madam Ruelle smiled with professional distress. “The train will be managed carefully.”
“By whom?”
“Commander Figarland will take your hand at the bottom.”
You looked at Shamrock.
He held out his hand.
You placed your hand in his, and he guided you down the first step.
“Slower,” Madam Ruelle called.
Shamrock’s thumb shifted once against your knuckles.
You missed the next step.
His other hand caught your waist before anyone could gasp. For one second, you were pressed close enough to feel the buttons of his uniform against your side.
“Careful,” he said.
You looked up at him. “Your fault.”
His hand stayed at your waist one breath too long.
Then he released you.
Madam Ruelle moved on to the final confirmations: flowers, candles, guest movement, musician placement, and the ceremonial knife for the wedding cake, which you chose not to question.
The tour ended at the edge of the terrace.
Madam Ruelle clasped her folder to her chest. “If the final arrangements are acceptable, the remaining orders will be released today.”
Garling looked at Shamrock.
Shamrock said, “Accepted.”
Your father’s eyes narrowed slightly. You realized he had not been asked.
Lady Marise gave you one last assessing glance before she followed your father. Garling spoke briefly with Madam Ruelle, then turned toward the waiting vehicles.
For a moment, you and Shamrock stood at the terrace rail, the garden below you and the hall behind you.
“You have been avoiding looking at me,” he said.
You looked at him then.
A mistake.
The sunlight caught the red in his hair. His uniform was immaculate. His expression was controlled.
His eyes were not.
“I have been behaving,” you said.
“Yes.”
The word was too low.
Too close to approval.
You sat across from Shamrock in silence as the vehicle rolled away from Saint Aurens Hall.
Neither of you spoke.
Shamrock sat opposite you, one arm resting along the side of the seat, his gaze lowered to your hands in your lap.
Controlled.
Too controlled.
You looked out the window.
The city blurred past.
You counted three turns.
Then four.
Then you stopped counting because his knee shifted slightly across from yours and your entire body noticed.
Ridiculous.
Unacceptable.
You looked at him.
He looked back.
Neither of you said a word.
You moved before thought could ruin it.
One moment you were across from him.
The next, your hand was in the front of his jacket and your knee was on the seat beside his thigh.
Shamrock looked up at you.
You kissed him.
He held still for half a second.
Then his hands closed around your waist and pulled you fully into his lap.
Your skirt bunched between you. You moved, trying to get closer, and Shamrock made a low sound against your mouth.
That was new.
You wanted it again.
You kissed him harder, one hand sliding into his hair, the other gripping his shoulder as the vehicle rocked beneath you.
His mouth opened under yours.
His arm locked around your back, pulling you tight enough that you felt him hard beneath your skirt.
You gasped.
Shamrock’s hand slid down to your hip.
Lower.
He gripped your ass and dragged you forward against him.
This time, the pressure was deliberate.
“Shamrock.”
His name came out rough.
His mouth moved to your jaw, then your throat. He kissed you there, his teeth catching lightly enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair.
One pin came loose.
Then another.
Your hair fell over your shoulder.
“Your hair,” he said against your skin.
“Your fault.”
“Yes.”
His hand moved under your skirt.
You gasped when his palm found your thigh.
He paused.
You caught his wrist.
“Don’t.”
His eyes lifted to yours.
You dragged his hand higher.
“Stop,” you finished.
His fingers flexed once around your wrist.
His mouth covered yours again as his fingers pressed between your thighs.
You grabbed his jacket with both hands.
The sound you made should have embarrassed you.
It did not.
Shamrock swallowed it with another kiss.
His fingers moved again, slower this time, and your hips jerked against his hand.
“Quiet,” he said against your mouth.
You bit his lower lip.
He made another low sound.
Good.
Your hand dropped between you, fumbling with his belt.
The buckle resisted.
You cursed under your breath.
Shamrock’s mouth moved against your cheek.
“Impatient.”
“You are wearing too many things.”
“You attacked me in a vehicle.”
“You looked available.”
His breath left him in something close to a laugh.
Then the buckle came free.
Your fingers found the fastening beneath.
Shamrock’s hand closed over yours.
For one second, neither of you moved.
His breathing had changed.
So had yours.
“If you touch me,” he said, voice rough, “I will not stop at touching you.”
Your stomach tightened.
“Is that a warning?”
“Yes.”
“Or a promise?”
His eyes lifted to yours.
You kissed him again.
His hand released yours.
That was answer enough.
You pushed past the loosened fastening and wrapped your hand around him.
Shamrock’s head tipped back against the seat.
The sound he made was low, broken, and nothing like control.
Heat went through you so fast you nearly lost your balance. His hand gripped your hip and pulled you down against him.
You moaned into his mouth.
His fingers moved between your thighs again, firmer now, and the vehicle rocked hard enough to knock your shoulder into the wall.
He caught you without stopping. You laughed once, breathless and unsteady.
Shamrock kissed it out of your mouth.
Then the vehicle slowed.
At first, neither of you noticed.
Then a voice called from outside.
The driver. The estate gates.
You froze with your hand still inside his open waistband. Shamrock went still beneath you, his mouth against your throat, his fingers still under your skirt.
“No,” you whispered.
His breath hit your skin.
For once, he sounded as ruined as you felt.
The vehicle rolled forward more slowly.
Stone under wheels.
A turn.
Home.
The word hit somewhere inconvenient.
Shamrock lifted his head.
His eyes moved over your face, your loosened hair, your mouth, the very obvious fact that you were still in his lap with his hand beneath your skirt and his pants open beneath your own hands.
His jaw tightened.
Not with anger.
With restraint.
“Move,” he said.
You stared at him.
“I am trying to preserve what remains of your reputation.”
“That seems optimistic.”
“Yes.”
Neither of you moved.
The vehicle slowed again.
Shamrock closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
That was satisfying enough to make the interruption almost survivable.
Almost.
You climbed off him with very little dignity and far too much silk. Your skirt caught on his knee. He freed it with one hand, eyes deliberately not following the movement of your legs.
You dropped onto the opposite seat and began fixing your hair with shaking hands.
Shamrock looked down at himself.
Then at you.
“You look pleased,” he said.
That almost made you laugh. You pressed both hands to your mouth instead.
The vehicle stopped.
A footman opened the door.
Cold air rushed in.
The footman looked at Shamrock.
Then at you.
Then at absolutely nothing at all.
A professional.
Possibly the only one present.
Shamrock stepped down first.
Somehow, by sheer force of breeding or stubbornness, he had repaired enough of himself to look merely severe.
You hated him for that.
Then he offered you his hand.
You took it.
Your knees were steady.
Your hair was not.
One loose strand slid over your shoulder.
Shamrock’s eyes followed it.
You squeezed his hand hard enough to punish him.
He did not react.
Bastard.
You lifted your chin and stepped onto the drive.
Mr. Veyne stood at the entrance.
His eyes moved over you.
Hair.
Mouth.
Dress.
Then Shamrock.
Uniform.
Hair.
Expression.
Mr. Veyne bowed.
“Commander. Lady Veroux.”
You stared at him.
For the first time since meeting him, you respected him completely.
You walked inside beside Shamrock.
At the foot of the stairs, you glanced at him.
His face was controlled again. But there was color high along his cheekbones, and his hair was still not entirely fixed.
Good.
“The meeting was very productive,” you said.
His eyes cut to yours.
“Was it?”
“We finalized the venue.”
“Yes.”
“The terrace.”
“Yes.”
“The ceremonial cake knife.”
His mouth tightened.
You lowered your voice. “Your pants.”
His expression changed.
Beautifully.
Only for a second.
Still.
Worth it.
Then you turned and walked up the stairs before he could answer.
Behind you, Mr. Veyne made no sound at all.
Which meant he was either dead inside or laughing somewhere no one could see.
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Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Chapter 24: Moves and Confessions
You moved into the Figarland estate one week after the engagement party.
Your wedding was two weeks away, but the household had begun using words like transition, preparation, and adjustment. They were clean words. Useful words. Words that made it sound as if being moved from one life into another was a matter of careful scheduling.
The first week was not terrible.
Your rooms were beautiful. A bedroom larger than your cottage. A sitting room attached through a pair of carved doors. A dressing room where your gowns had already been arranged.
Lila was nearby. Mr. Veyne was severe but not unkind. The servants were polite. No one mistreated you.
Still, the loneliness found places to settle.
At breakfast, in the careful space between questions.
In the corridors, where every servant knew where to stand and you did not.
In the evenings, when Lila left you for the night and the room became too large around you.
And worst of all, in the fact that Shamrock was somewhere in the same house and still felt impossibly far away.
On the seventh night, you lay in bed for nearly an hour and did not sleep.
A shift of wind against the windows. A creak somewhere in the walls.
Your own breathing.
You stared into the dark until the ceiling became unbearable.
Then you got up.
You did not know where you intended to go. That seemed fitting.
You opened the door carefully.
The halls outside were dim, lit by wall sconces. You stepped out and closed the door behind you.
The house did not feel asleep.
It felt watchful.
You walked without direction at first, passing a window that overlooked the garden.
You stopped when you saw Shamrock come around the corner.
He was not in uniform.
That was the first thing you noticed, which was unfair, because there were several more useful things to notice. Like the fact that you were alone in a dark corridor wearing silk pajamas. Or the fact that you had not spoken to him privately since the engagement party.
But no.
You noticed the shirt open at his throat. The dark trousers. The long red hair loose down his back.
Then his face.
He looked tired again.
Less hidden now.
“Lady Veroux,” he said.
“Commander.”
Your voice sounded too formal for the hour. He looked over you once. Not improperly.
Then it returned to your face a little too deliberately.
Still, your skin noticed.
“Are you lost?”
“No.”
A pause.
Then you sighed. “Possibly.”
“This wing turns back on itself.”
“Of course it does.”
His gaze stayed on your face.
You looked down the corridor, then back the way you had come. Every door looked deliberate. Every shadow looked placed.
“I thought I would know how to be here by now,” you said.
The words came out before you could stop them.
Shamrock did not answer quickly. Then he looked down the corridor, toward the turn you had come from.
“You are in the wrong wing.”
You stared at him.
“That is your answer?”
“It is the first problem.”
Despite yourself, your mouth almost moved.
He saw it.
“Come with me,” he said.
The walk was short. Shamrock opened a dark wooden door and stepped aside to let you enter first.
The room was smaller than the main library, though only by Figarland standards. Shelves covered two walls. A desk was near the windows and a low fire was burning in the fireplace with two chairs near it.
It was the first room in the estate that did not seem arranged to instruct you.
Shamrock closed the door.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Shamrock said, “I owe you an apology.”
You looked at him. That was not what you had expected him to start with.
He stood near the desk, his expression controlled but not distant. “I should have told you,” he said.
No defense.
No careful argument.
You looked away first.
Toward the shelves. Toward anything that did not have his face.
“Yes,” you said.
“She had no claim on me,” he said. “But Belladonna could still use her to hurt you.”
Your throat tightened.
You hated that.
The accuracy.
The fact that he understood now.
The fact that it helped.
You looked down at your hands. “I should apologize too.”
Shamrock did not move. “You do not have to.”
Your eyes lifted to his. “Do not be generous. I will become suspicious.”
“I am not being generous.”
“Then be quiet and let me do this badly.”
His mouth closed.
For once, he obeyed.
You took a breath.
“At the engagement party,” you said, “you were right.”
His attention sharpened.
You looked toward the fire because his face made honesty more difficult.
“I did need to hear that you stopped seeing her because of me,” you said. The words left your mouth and took every useful defense with them.
“I hated that it mattered. I hated that you knew it mattered. So I said something cruel because hurting you was easier than letting you see how much it hurt me.”
His expression did not soften.
It became heavier.
“You succeeded,” he said.
Your eyes stung, which was absurd and unacceptable. “I am sorry,” you said. The words came out smaller than you wanted.
Shamrock was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Accepted.”
You nodded once.
The room should have felt easier after that.
It did not.
Shamrock watched you for a moment. “There is more.”
Of course he knew.
His voice was quiet. “You only fight me this hard when something matters.”
There was still one truth left, and it was worse than the apology.
You looked down at your hands. “I…do care.”
Shamrock did not move.
“I care, and I hate that I do.”
The words were out now. There was no graceful way to take them back.
“You took me from my home,” you said. “You brought me here. You made plans around me before I understood half of them.”
His face did not change, but his attention sharpened.
“And now I miss you when you are in the same house,” you said, quieter. “I get angry because another woman knew something about you that I did not. I stand in rooms full of people who would have watched me drown if your name were not attached to mine, and somehow you are still the person I look for first.”
Your fingers curled against your palm.
“That feels humiliating.”
Silence followed.
“You are not wrong to hate that.”
You looked at him.
His voice stayed even, but it was quieter now. “But I will not lie to you and say I regret it.”
“That would be easier,” you said.
Silence followed.
“Yes,” he said. “I used strategy. I did not lie about wanting you.”
A pause.
“I hate that it hurts you,” he said.
Your eyes returned to his.
His voice stayed quiet. “I do not hate that you look for me first.”
Something inside your chest loosened by one painful degree.
“You would say something awful like that when I am trying to stay angry.”
His gaze lowered to your mouth.
“You are not trying very hard.”
Shamrock stepped closer. Slowly enough that you could have stopped him.
You did not.
His hand moved to your face, cupping your jaw first, then settling more firmly when you leaned into him. He leaned down and kissed you.
The first touch of his mouth was controlled, almost careful.
You hated that too.
The restraint. The patience. The way he gave you enough room to retreat when retreating was the last thing your body wanted.
You pulled him closer.
That was all the permission he needed.
His arm slid around your waist, pulling you in until your body met his.
The kiss deepened.
You had spent two weeks trying not to want this.
You were very tired of trying.
You kissed him back harder.
His control shifted under your hands. His fingers pressed harder into your waist and his mouth moved lower, to the side of your throat.
Your head tilted back.
“Shamrock,” you breathed.
He went still with his mouth against your skin, one hand gripping your hip and the other braced at your back.
This was dangerous because you were not using anger to keep him at a distance.
Shamrock broke the kiss first.
Barely.
His forehead rested near yours, his breathing controlled with visible effort.
Yours was not controlled at all.
His thumb moved once at the back of your neck.
“Still annoyed?” he asked.
You opened your eyes.
His mouth was too close. His hair had fallen forward near his cheek.
Terrible.
“Shut up and kiss me again,” you demanded.
A smile ghosted over his face. He pressed another kiss to your lips.
Shorter this time.
Not gentler.
For one second he pulled you close enough that you felt the hard line of his restraint as much as his body.
Then he stopped.
He drew back slowly. His hand stayed at your neck for a moment longer before falling away.
You released his shirt and stepped around him.
At the door, you paused and looked back.
Shamrock stood near the chair, hair loose, shirt rumpled where your hand had twisted it.
A small victory.
Then he crossed the room and opened the door.
Neither of you spoke as he walked you back through the turning wing.
At your door, you stopped. You briefly wondered what would happen if you invited him in.
Shamrock stopped moving, as if the thought had reached him before you could hide it.
He stepped back first.
“Go inside,” he said.
The order should have annoyed you.
It did.
But your hand was already on the door.
“Good night, Commander,” you said.
You went inside before you could change your mind.
Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Arc 4: The Terms of Surrender
Chapter 23: Great Pretender
The engagement party was not a party. It was a declaration with music.
That was the first thing you realized when you walked into the main hall of the Figarland estate and saw what Mary Geoise considered celebration.
The hall had been dressed in deep red, black, and white. White flowers had been used sparingly. Red candles burned in tall black holders.
You stood near the entrance while two servants adjusted the fall of your skirts.
It was beautiful.
Dark red silk fitted through the waist with long sleeves. Your hair had been pinned back with small red stones woven through it.
Lila stood just behind you, expression carefully calm.
“Do I look like I’m about to be announced or sacrificed?” you asked.
Her eyes moved over the room. “Both seem possible.”
“Excellent.”
Across the hall, your father stood with Lady Marise near a cluster of nobles. Saint Harlan’s expression was composed. Lady Marise looked beautiful and displeased.
Adrien stood a few paces behind your father, dressed with his usual precision. Lucien hovered beside him, trying and failing not to look impressed.
“You look expensive,” Lucien said.
Adrien glanced at him. “That was nearly a compliment.”
You looked down at the dark red silk. “I’ll accept nearly.”
Lucien studied the hall, then the servants, then the Figarland colors surrounding all of you. His expression shifted into something less careless.
“They really are taking you,” he said.
You smiled faintly. “That is one way to describe marriage.”
Lucien frowned. “It’s a horrible way.”
“Yes,” Adrien said quietly. “It is.”
Mr. Veyne spotted a servant adjusting one candle too far to the left and corrected it with a look.
No words.
Just devastation.
You had to respect the efficiency.
The tea women had arrived too.
Mary Geoise would sooner cancel the weather than miss an opportunity to witness discomfort in silk.
Belladonna Mirelle looked at you from across the hall and smiled.
It was not a friendly smile.
You smiled back.
Also not friendly.
Progress, really.
You found Melusine Arco near the center of the hall, speaking with a man in a dark Holy Knight uniform.
No.
Not simply speaking.
Standing beside him.
The man was tall and dark-haired, with tired eyes and the careful expression of someone used to surviving rooms like this.
He said something.
Melusine’s eyes shifted toward him.
Her face did not change. But the corner of her cup paused near her mouth.
Very interesting.
Before you could decide what to do with that, movement near the main doors changed the room.
Shamrock entered.
Shoulders shifted. A woman near the musicians touched her hair. Belladonna looked away too quickly. Seraphina did not look away at all.
You hated that you noticed.
You hated more that when Shamrock’s eyes found yours across the hall, everyone else became less important.
He looked tired.
Not enough for anyone else to see.
But you saw it.
His mouth held the same hard line, but exhaustion had left faint shadows beneath his eyes.
Holy Knight business, apparently.
Shamrock crossed the hall toward you. Several guests pretended not to watch.
“Lady Veroux,” he said.
“Commander.” Your voice came out cooler than it had the last time you saw him.
His gaze moved over your face.
He noticed.
Garling’s voice cut cleanly through the room before you could say anything else.
“It is time.”
You were guided to the front of the hall, which felt very much like being moved into position for public inspection. Shamrock walked beside you.
Your father stood on one side.
Garling on the other.
There were speeches.
Short ones, thank God.
Saint Harlan spoke first and said several polished sentences about honor, alliance, and the joining of distinguished houses.
Garling spoke next. He was briefer.
“House Figarland recognizes the engagement between Commander Shamrock Figarland and Lady Veroux. The terms have been accepted. The alliance proceeds.”
A servant brought forward two glasses. You and Shamrock were expected to drink.
You lifted the glass.
The room followed.
Applause came after.
You stood beside Shamrock beneath Figarland colors while Mary Geoise watched and understood that something had been decided.
You should have felt trapped.
You did.
A little.
You also felt your father watching from the side of the room and realized he could no longer pretend this was only his victory.
That part felt very good.
After the announcement, the room broke apart into conversation.
Gunko stood near one of the side doors. Sommers spoke with two older nobles near the musicians, smiling in a way that made the servants keep extra distance.
Congratulations arrived in waves.
Some sincere. Some sharp.
You survived them with your hands folded and your face arranged. Shamrock stayed beside you for the first half hour.
Eventually, Saint Theodore Aven approached with Melusine at his side.
Their greeting contained no warmth whatsoever. Which, for Holy Knights, might have meant friendship.
Saint Theodore inclined his head to you. “Lady Veroux.”
His voice was even, low, and did not waste itself.
“My lord,” you said.
Shamrock looked between you. “Saint Theodore Aven. Lady Melusine Arco.”
Melusine gave you a small nod.
“Lady Veroux.”
“Lady Arco.”
“I see tea has been withholding information.”
Melusine lifted her glass. “Tea is not entitled to everything.”
Saint Theodore’s eyes moved briefly to her.
Oh.
Interesting indeed.
Shamrock noticed too.
He and Saint Theodore exchanged the kind of look men in uniforms used when they wanted to have an entire conversation without providing useful material to anyone nearby.
You found it deeply annoying. Melusine apparently agreed.
“I need a refill,” she said.
“Tragic. So do I.”
Melusine turned toward the refreshment table.
You followed.
The room parted easily enough now. That was new. Not because people respected you, exactly. Because people respected what stood behind you.
Figarland colors.
Figarland announcement.
At the refreshment table, Melusine handed her glass to a servant and waited until yours had been taken too.
Then she said, “You look calmer than expected.”
You glanced at her. “That is because my panic has been professionally dressed.”
“Very well dressed.”
“Thank you. It took three people and one emotional threat from Lady Marise.”
Melusine’s mouth almost moved.
You accepted the fresh glass from the servant and waited until he stepped away.
“Saint Theodore Aven,” you said.
“Yes.”
“That was informative.”
“Was it?”
“No. That was the problem.”
Melusine looked into her glass. “Our engagement has been under discussion for some time.”
“You make it sound like a trade deal.”
“In Mary Geoise, marriages often are.”
“True. Mine appears to involve ribbons, household regulations, and public humiliation over tea.”
Her gaze moved to you.
“Belladonna chose the audience carefully.”
“From you, strangely, that almost sounds like sympathy.”
Melusine’s eyes moved briefly toward Belladonna, who was laughing too brightly beside a cluster of women near the musicians.
“She should not have said it that way.”
“But she was not lying.”
“No.”
The answer was clean. Annoyingly clean.
“I do not care that he had a past,” you said.
“No?”
“No.”
Melusine looked back at you.
You disliked the silence enough to continue.
“I care that I sat in that room while women who already thought I did not belong here waited to see whether I knew what kind of arrangement I was entering.”
Melusine’s expression did not soften. It became more attentive. “Being jealous is ordinary. Being made foolish in public is unforgivable.”
“I did not say I was jealous.”
“No,” Melusine said. “You very carefully did not.”
You took another sip of wine.
Melusine followed your gaze across the room.
To Shamrock.
Then, briefly, to Saint Theodore Aven.
“It is easier when you dislike the man chosen for you,” she said.
You looked at her.
She was still watching Saint Aven.
“Do you?” you asked.
“No.”
You looked back at Melusine.
“For Mary Geoise,” she said, “he is tolerable.”
“That sounds serious.”
“It is not unserious.”
For one moment, the noise of the party seemed to thin around you both. Melusine’s voice lowered slightly. “Wanting him is not the dangerous part.”
Your fingers tightened around the glass.
She continued, “Letting him know how much is where people begin making mistakes.”
You looked toward Shamrock before you could stop yourself.
He was already looking at you.
You took another drink. “I dislike how useful you are.”
“I have been told it is one of my worse qualities.”
“By Saint Aven?”
Her gaze slid toward you.
A crack.
“Do not start,” she said.
You smiled into your glass. “Interesting.”
“No.”
“Deeply interesting.”
“I came to offer solidarity, not material.”
“You offered both. Very generous.”
Melusine’s eyes narrowed by a fraction. That was probably friendship in her language.
Across the room, Coraline was watching you both with open curiosity. Belladonna was pretending not to.
Melusine handed her glass back to a servant. “We should return before people decide this conversation contains secrets.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
“At least they would be correct.”
This time, Melusine did smile.
By the time you reached Shamrock again, Saint Theodore had returned to Melusine’s side.
He looked at her glass.
“You changed wine.”
“You noticed.”
“It was red before.”
“I am impressed by your powers of observation.”
His face did not change. “They are frequently useful.”
You looked at Melusine.
She did not look back.
Very well.
That was going to be a problem later.
A good one.
The party continued.
Near the far side of the room, Archibald was dancing with Lady Coraline Pavo.
Lady Coraline smiled up at him. Whatever he said to her, he said with complete seriousness.
She blinked.
Then laughed, sudden and unguarded.
You narrowed your eyes.
Suspicious.
You danced once with your father because refusing would have caused more conversation than surviving it.
He held you correctly and spoke very little.
“You brought me back to marry me off,” you said.
Harlan’s hand remained steady at your back. “I brought you back because you belonged to my house.”
“That is not the same as wanting me here.”
“No,” he said. “It is not.”
The music carried on around you. You looked at him. “Was I ever anything but a means to an end?”
“You are bold tonight,” he said.
You smiled faintly. “I can be now.”
For once, your father did not answer quickly.
Then he said, “Usefulness is not an insult.”
“It is when it is the closest thing to affection you offer.”
He offered no comfort.
“No denial?” you asked.
“You wanted honesty.”
“I wanted a father.”
His expression did not change.
“You had one,” he said. “An imperfect one. A practical one. But a father.”
The words landed with no softness at all.
Harlan continued. “And now you are placed higher than Eriana ever could have arranged.”
You stared at him.
The final notes began.
“You think that makes this a success.”
“I think it restores what your mother removed.”
“I had a life.”
“Yes,” he said. “And now it has been brought into order.”
“Thank you for finally making that clear.”
The music ended.
You stepped back with the appropriate bow of your head.
You did not look back.
You were halfway to the side balcony when Shamrock found you.
You did not turn immediately.
The balcony doors were open, letting in cold air from the garden. It was not private. Not exactly. But the music softened there, and the noise of the hall became manageable.
Shamrock came to stand beside you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Beyond the balcony rail, the garden lay black and silver beneath the lamps.
“You left the room quickly,” he said.
“My father was honest for once.”
“And?”
“You would think it would feel better.”
You looked at him then.
That was a mistake.
The shadows beneath his eyes were still there. His red hair moved slightly in the cold air, loose against the dark line of his uniform.
“You should go back inside,” you said.
“Should I?”
“Yes. Someone may want to admire you publicly.”
His gaze settled on you.
A direct hit. Petty.
Satisfying for less than a second. Then less satisfying when he did not look away.
“You are still angry.”
“How observant.”
“Still avoiding the reason.”
You laughed softly. “There is something remarkable about your confidence.”
“There is something remarkable about your refusal to say one direct thing when it matters.”
You turned back toward the garden. “That is rich coming from a man who forgot to mention an entire woman.”
“I did not forget.”
“No. You decided it did not matter.”
“Yes.”
You hated the honesty.
It left you nowhere graceful to put your anger.
“You were wrong,” you said.
“I know.”
That was worse.
Your fingers curled against the stone rail. “You do not get to be reasonable tonight.”
“I am not trying to be reasonable.”
“No? What are you trying to be?”
His voice lowered. “Alone with you.”
The words moved through you too quickly.
You stiffened.
Shamrock noticed.
“That,” you said, “is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I have cared about since you walked out of that room.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Then anger rushed in to cover it.
“You want me to admit I needed to hear that you stopped seeing her because you wanted me,” you said.
He did not look away. “Did you need to hear that?”
Your face warmed.
“I needed the truth,” you said. “Do not make it more sentimental than that.”
“I am not.”
“It sounds remarkably similar.”
“No,” he said. “If I wanted to make it sentimental, I would say you were relieved to know I wanted you more than I wanted her.”
The cold air moved between you.
“You are enjoying this.”
“No,” he said. “I am trying to make you stop hiding behind humiliation when the part you hate most is that you care.”
You looked at him then.
Too quickly.
You had given him the satisfaction anyway.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then the music changed inside.
A slower arrangement. Formal. Recognizable even to you now, because Madam Solenne had made you practice it until your feet hurt and your temper had become a separate person.
Shamrock looked toward the open balcony doors.
The first dance.
Because Mary Geoise had an excellent sense of timing and a terrible sense of mercy.
“Lady Veroux,” he said.
You looked at his offered hand. For one wild second, you wanted to refuse.
Then you remembered Garling’s terms. In public, you stand with him.
You placed your hand in his. “Commander.”
His fingers closed around yours.
You walked back into the hall together. Conversation shifted as you entered. Faces turned. You felt every pair of eyes and gave them nothing.
Shamrock led you to the center of the floor.
Madam Solenne would have wept with relief.
Or criticized your elbow.
Probably the elbow.
The music began.
You moved with him.
Flawlessly.
That was the cruelest part.
After months of lessons, your body knew exactly what to do. Step. Turn. Breathe. Lower your gaze at the right moment. Lift it at the next.
Shamrock’s hand held steady at your waist.
Too steady.
You did not look at him at first.
You looked past his shoulder. At the lamps. At the dark windows. At the women watching to see if you stumbled.
“You learned quickly,” he said.
“Did you expect me to stumble?”
“No.” His hand held steady at your waist. “No one would know.”
“That I’m furious?”
“That you felt anything at all.”
It was the closest he had ever come to sounding unguarded.
“I was trained well,” you said.
His gaze held yours.
This time, the hurt was visible before he buried it.
“I see,” he said.
The dance carried you through another turn.
Silk shifted around your legs. His uniform brushed your glove. His hand remained at your waist, exactly where it was allowed to be.
Proper. Contained.
Everything Mary Geoise admired.
Everything you suddenly hated.
Around you, the room watched Commander Figarland and his future wife move as if nothing between them had cracked.
You gave them flawless.
You gave them polished.
You gave them every lesson they had beaten into your spine.
And when Shamrock turned you beneath the chandelier light, you smiled like a woman who had memorized the rules.
The whole room applauded how beautifully you had finally learned to belong.
Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Chapter 22: The Binder
Three weeks into your engagement, you had learned several things.
House Figarland did not believe in comfortable chairs.
Saint Garling believed silence was an educational tool.
Your father disliked signed terms more every day.
Lila had survived her first round of vetting and described it afterward as “being politely peeled.”
And Mr. Veyne, the chief steward of the Figarland estate, had no sense of humor.
None.
You had begun testing this as a matter of personal discipline.
Mr. Veyne managed the Figarland household with terrifying precision. Servants appeared where he wanted them before he spoke. Doors opened before he reached them.
He had looked at you on your first afternoon and said, “Lady Veroux.”
You had smiled. “Mr. Veyne.”
He had bowed. “You are expected in the west receiving room.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“How confident of me.”
His face had not moved.
Shamrock had been absent most of the time.
Holy Knight business, you were told.
You had seen him twice in three weeks.
Once across the entrance hall as he arrived late, still in uniform, red hair wind-touched and expression unreadable. He had looked at you briefly.
The second time, he had passed the open doorway of the study where Garling was explaining household correspondence rules, and you had been forced to continue listening while your entire body became embarrassingly aware of a man who had not even entered the room.
Shamrock had not stopped.
Bastard.
Now the engagement party had become unavoidable.
Apparently Mary Geoise required a formal announcement, a controlled guest list, and a color scheme that made three different households argue like starving gulls.
The planning meeting was held at the Figarland estate because, as Mr. Veyne had explained, “the primary house determines the presentation.”
Your father had not enjoyed that.
You sat with Lady Marise, Saint Harlan, Mr. Veyne, Lila, and a young Figarland footman.
Lady Marise wanted pale gold.
Your father preferred Veroux blue.
Mr. Veyne had produced a written document explaining that House Figarland engagements traditionally used red, black, and white, with minimal floral excess and no decorative symbolism that could imply Veroux precedence.
Lady Marise’s smile had not moved in several minutes.
Dangerous.
“Surely,” she said, “a touch of blue would honor Lady Veroux’s birth house.”
Mr. Veyne looked at her.
“Lady Veroux’s birth house is not being announced.”
Your father’s fingers stilled against the arm of his chair.
You looked at Mr. Veyne.
That had almost been funny.
Not intentionally, probably.
Still.
Lady Marise’s voice cooled. “She remains Saint Harlan’s daughter.”
“Until marriage,” Mr. Veyne said. “After which public emphasis should be placed where the public alliance is strongest.”
“The alliance is between houses,” your father said.
“Yes,” Mr. Veyne replied. “Not equals.”
The thing everyone had been politely stepping around for weeks.
House Veroux had gained.
House Figarland had allowed.
Not the same thing.
Lady Marise turned to you.
A mistake.
“Surely you have an opinion.”
You looked at the ribbons.
“I agree with Mr. Veyne.”
You continued before anyone could ruin your point. “If the engagement party is meant to announce my future as Commander Figarland’s wife, then making the room look like House Veroux is trying to decorate itself into equal footing seems…”
You paused.
For manners.
“Optimistic,” you finished.
Lady Marise set her teacup down with great care. “A bride should not appear eager to abandon the house that raised her.”
You looked at her.
“The house that raised me is not in Mary Geoise.”
Her mouth closed.
Your father’s face went very cold.
Then Mr. Veyne said, “The red should be darker.”
Everyone turned toward him.
He looked at the footman. “The third ribbon.”
The footman nearly dropped the tray in his haste.
You stared at Mr. Veyne.
He did not look at you.
Interesting.
Mr. Veyne had just protected your remark by pretending the ribbon mattered more. Which meant there was a person somewhere under all that household severity.
When the meeting finally ended, your father left first. Lady Marise followed, slower, with one last look at you.
Lila left for the corridor, giving you one concerned glance before she went.
Mr. Veyne collected his papers.
You waited until the footman escaped with the ribbon tray before speaking. “That was almost kind.”
Mr. Veyne paused.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The ribbon interruption.”
“I corrected the ribbon.”
“You rescued the conversation.”
“I corrected the ribbon.”
You smiled.
“Thank you,” you said.
That made him still.
He looked at you properly then. “You were correct to side with House Figarland.”
“I know.”
His eyebrow lifted slightly.
You leaned closer. “Was that approval?”
“No.”
“Shame. I was going to have it framed.”
Mr. Veyne looked as if he might actually exhale through his nose. Then he reached beneath the top stack of papers and withdrew a binder.
Bound in polished leather with a narrow red cord and a Figarland crest stamped into the front.
He set it on the table in front of you. It landed with a soft, heavy sound.
You looked at it.
Then at him.
“What is that?”
“Household regulations.”
You stared. “I’m sorry?”
“Household regulations,” he repeated, as if the words had become more reasonable through repetition.
You reached out and opened it. The first page contained a table of contents.
A long one.
Correspondence protocol.
Servant chains of command.
Holy Knight confidentiality rules.
Dress expectations for ceremonies.
Dress expectations for mourning.
Dress expectations for disputed mourning.
You stopped reading.
“Disputed mourning?” you asked.
Mr. Veyne’s face remained composed. “It occurs.”
“I’m sure it does.”
You turned another page. There were subsections. Many subsections.
Your mouth went dry. The room seemed colder.
You closed the binder.
Mr. Veyne stopped speaking. “My lady?”
You looked up.
He noticed something.
“I understand,” you said.
You did not. Not fully. But you understood enough to know you needed air.
Mr. Veyne studied you. Then bowed. “Your first review will begin tomorrow.”
You placed your gloved hand on top of the binder because if you did not touch it, it might become larger.
“Of course.”
Mr. Veyne gathered the remaining papers and left. The room emptied until only you remained with the binder. You looked down at it again.
The door opened.
“Lady Veroux.”
Shamrock came farther into the room. “The meeting ended?”
You looked at him.
All you could think of was Belladonna’s smile.
You removed your palm from the leather cover. “Yes.”
His gaze moved from your face to the binder.
“Veyne gave you the regulations.”
“He did.”
“They are not meant to be learned in one day.”
“How generous.”
His eyes returned to you. “Something happened.”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly. Shamrock noticed.
He took another step into the room. The door remained open behind him, but the space felt smaller anyway.
“What happened?” he asked.
You opened the binder because looking at paper was easier than looking at him.
You looked at the page without reading it. “Does this binder include protocol on mistresses, or is that in a separate volume?”
The silence that followed was immediate.
Clean.
You had meant to sound amused.
You had not.
Shamrock’s voice changed by almost nothing. “Who told you?”
You laughed once.
It was not a pleasant sound.
“That is your first question?”
His eyes were fixed on you.
“My first answer is that there is no mistress.”
“But there was.”
He did not deny it.
That hurt more than it should have.
Stupid.
You had known the answer before you asked. Belladonna had not looked like a woman inventing a story. She had looked like a woman enjoying the advantage of already knowing it.
“Yes,” Shamrock said.
The room seemed to lose another degree of warmth. You nodded once. “How efficient of you to confirm it.”
“It was not a relationship, and I ended it.”
You looked at him then.
“When?”
“When I returned from escorting you to Mary Geoise.”
Your hand went still on the page.
“Why?”
Shamrock looked at you. For once, he did not look as if he had chosen the sentence before speaking.
“Because after that, continuing would have been dishonest.”
You stared at him.
Something in your chest moved.
You hated it immediately.
“How noble.”
“It was not noble.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What was it, then?”
His voice lowered. “Necessary.”
That was worse.
Because necessary meant something had changed.
Because necessary meant he had known.
You closed the binder.
“You might have mentioned it.”
“I did not think it mattered.”
You looked at him.
“You did not think a woman you had recently taken to bed mattered?”
His jaw tightened. “I meant it was over.”
“To you.”
“Yes,” he said. “To me.”
You stood because sitting made you feel trapped. The chair scraped lightly against the floor.
“At tea,” you said, “Lady Belladonna asked whether you intended to give up your mistress after taking a wife.”
His expression cooled.
Not at you.
At the name.
“She should not have said that to you.”
“No,” you said. “But she could. That seems to be the point.”
Shamrock said nothing.
You stepped away from the table.
“Everyone at that table knew something about you that I did not. They watched me defend you while waiting to see if I knew where I stood.”
“You stand with me.”
“As what?”
His gaze darkened. “My future wife.”
You laughed softly.
Another wrong sound.
“There it is.”
His eyes narrowed. “You say that as if it is an insult.”
“No,” you said. “I say it as if I am trying to understand whether wife means wanted or merely arranged.”
Silence.
The words had gone too far.
You knew it the moment they left your mouth.
Shamrock’s gaze darkened.
“You are not angry because Belladonna knew first,” he said.
Your fingers curled around your gloves.
“Do not put words in my mouth.”
“You are jealous.”
Your laugh came out soft and sharp. “Do not make this smaller by calling it jealousy.”
“She had my bed,” he said. “That is all she had.”
“How simple for her.”
Something changed in his face.
You wished you had not said it.
“No rules,” you said. “No table of contents. No instructions on how to sit, speak, mourn, write, enter rooms, leave rooms, and become acceptable enough to stand beside you.”
“She did not stand beside me.”
“No. She only had to lie down.”
His jaw flexed.
There.
That landed.
Good.
Cruel, perhaps.
But good.
“When I wanted only a bed,” he said, “I had one.”
He stepped closer.
“I ended it when wanting only a bed stopped being true.” His voice lowered.
You could have answered honestly.
You could have said that the thought of him with someone else had sat under your skin since tea.
Because you had already started imagining yourself as his in ways that frightened you more than Garling ever had.
Instead, you reached for your gloves.
“Well,” you said, “that should make the household regulations simpler.”
Shamrock did not answer.
That was worse.
Your fingers closed around your gloves.
“What?” you snapped.
“You are very determined not to say it.”
Your face warmed at once.
Anger first. Then something worse.
“I care about being humiliated.”
“Yes.”
The agreement threw you off.
His gaze did not move from yours.
“And you are hurt.”
Your fingers tightened around the gloves.
“How generous of you to diagnose me.”
“I am not diagnosing you. I am relieved.”
That pulled your gaze back to him.
“What?”
His expression remained controlled, but there was something beneath it now. Something quieter. More dangerous.
“You have been treating this engagement like a sentence,” he said. “It is useful to know that I am not the only one who wants.”
Your throat tightened.
You hated the word.
Wanted.
It made everything too simple and too impossible to dismiss.
“I did not say that.”
“No.”
“And if you repeat it, I will deny it.”
“I expect you will.”
That was worse than if he had argued.
You reached for the binder. “I have a review tomorrow,” you said. “I should rest before learning how to mourn incorrectly.”
“Lady Veroux.”
You hated how much you wanted to stop when he said it like that.
So you did not.
You picked up the binder.
It was heavier than it had any right to be.
At the door, his voice followed you.
“This is not finished.”
You looked back.
“No,” you said. “But you seem to have understood enough for one afternoon.”
Then you left before he could ask the question you were still not ready to answer.
Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Chapter 21: Tea & Other Weapons
Your father signed the terms two days later.
He did not enjoy it.
That was the first pleasant thing to happen all morning.
You were not present for the signing, of course. That would have been too satisfying, and Mary Geoise disliked giving satisfaction to people who might use it irresponsibly.
Instead, you were summoned afterward.
Saint Harlan stood behind his desk with the signed papers arranged before him. Lady Marise sat near the window, her posture perfect and her expression very carefully empty.
That meant she was furious.
“You may consider the engagement formal,” your father said. “The public announcement will be made within the week.”
“Efficient.”
“Lila will be vetted by House Figarland,” he continued. “Her position will be transferred once the household arrangements begin.”
You nodded once. “Good.”
“You are dismissed,” he said.
Adrien was in the corridor when you stepped out. He looked from your face to the closed study door. “So it’s done.”
“Apparently.”
“Congratulations.”
“That sounded almost sincere.”
“It was half sincere.”
“How generous.”
Lucien appeared behind him. “Is it true you’re marrying Commander Figarland?”
“So I’m told.”
Lucien stared at you. “That makes you more important than me.”
Adrien folded a note in his hand. “I did warn you.”
“I thought you were exaggerating.”
“You often do.”
You looked between them. For one strange second, neither of them looked like enemies. Then Lucien frowned. “Do I have to be polite to her now?”
Adrien’s mouth barely moved. “You should have started earlier.”
Lila was waiting in your room when you returned. You closed the door behind you.
She looked up at once.
“Well?”
You took off your gloves one finger at a time. “The terms are signed.”
Her hands stilled.
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“And…”
“You are coming with me.”
For a moment, she did not move.
“They agreed?”
“Conditionally.”
“Of course.”
“You will be instructed and generally inspected for signs of Veroux contamination.”
“That sounds thorough.”
“It sounded worse in person.”
Lila came to stand behind you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then she said, quietly, “Thank you.”
You looked at her in the mirror. The words sat between you, small and dangerous.
You had learned in Mary Geoise that gratitude was often another kind of debt. But this was not that. This was not the heavy, polished thing people placed in your hands and expected you to carry.
This was just Lila.
You nodded once.
“Do not make me emotional before tea,” you said.
Her brows drew together. “Tea?”
You grimaced.
“Lady Nerissa sent another invitation.”
Lila stared at you. “You are going?”
“I considered hiding.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“Then I remembered they would still talk. I would just be absent and therefore less able to enjoy how wrong they are.”
“That also seems reasonable.”
“I’m glad one of us thinks so.”
Lila moved to the wardrobe. “They will have heard.”
“Obviously.”
“People will be unkind. Lady Belladonna especially.”
You sighed. “She does seem like a woman who sharpens herself on other people’s problems.”
Lila paused.
“That was very good.”
“I am saving my strength.”
“For tea?”
“For not committing crimes at tea.”
“Wise.”
The tea was held in Lady Nerissa’s glass-walled salon again. The moment you entered, conversation thinned.
Lady Nerissa rose with a smile. “Lady Veroux.”
“Lady Nerissa.”
“How kind of you to join us.”
“How optimistic of you to keep inviting me.”
Her smile deepened. “Hope is a terrible habit.”
“I’ve heard worse defended here.”
That earned you a very small laugh from Coraline.
Seraphina Brume sat beside her, hands folded tightly in her lap. Her expression was composed, but softer than the others. Belladonna Mirelle wore pale blue and a smile with teeth behind it.
Melusine Arco sat near the window. She looked at you once. Then at the empty chair beside her.
Interesting.
You took it.
For several minutes, the conversation behaved. Coraline asked about the gallery. Nerissa asked whether the Kensington collection had improved since last season.
You answered politely.
Appropriately.
Then Belladonna set down her cup.
“So,” she said, “it seems congratulations are in order.”
There it was.
The knife under lace.
Nerissa did not stop her.
You lifted your cup. “Does it?”
Belladonna smiled. “Everyone has heard.”
“How efficient of everyone.”
“Commander Figarland is to marry you.”
Several women shifted.
Seraphina looked down.
Coraline looked delighted and horrified to be alive for this.
Melusine remained still.
You took a sip of tea.
Still too floral.
Consistent, at least.
“The announcement has not been made,” you said.
“No,” Belladonna replied. “But things are often known before they are announced.”
“In Mary Geoise, things are often invented before they are known.”
Melusine’s mouth moved faintly.
Belladonna’s smile sharpened. “Is this invented?”
You set your cup down carefully.
“I suppose you will all know when there is something to know.”
Belladonna leaned back. “How modest.”
“Thank you.”
“It was not praise.”
“I am accepting it anyway.”
Coraline pressed her napkin to her mouth.
Nerissa’s eyes brightened.
Belladonna’s gaze cooled. “You must understand the surprise. Commander Figarland has refused women from extraordinary houses.”
“So I’m told.”
“Women raised properly for this world.”
You looked at her.
Not hidden well enough.
A mistake.
Useful.
“How fortunate for them,” you said.
Belladonna blinked. “Fortunate?”
“To have been spared the disappointment.”
A small silence followed.
Then Coraline made a sound into her napkin that might have been a cough if one were charitable.
You were not.
Belladonna’s cheeks colored faintly. “I only mean that many women have admired him for years.”
“That sounds tiring.”
“I imagine he grew accustomed to it. Commander Figarland has never lacked attention from suitable women,” Belladonna said.
There it was.
Suitable.
Seraphina’s head lifted.
Her expression tightened, but not with anger.
Pain, maybe.
You softened your tone by one degree. Not for Belladonna.
For her.
“Admiration becomes ugly when women start acting as though a man belongs to them because they wanted him first,” you said.
Seraphina looked at you then.
Belladonna noticed and disliked it.
Naturally.
“No one said he belonged to anyone,” Belladonna said.
“No,” Melusine said, speaking for the first time. “You resent that Commander Figarland chose a woman you consider beneath you, and that his choice now requires you to treat her as if she is not.”
Every head turned toward her.
Melusine lifted her cup.
Belladonna’s eyes narrowed. “That is not what I said.”
“No,” Melusine replied. “It was cleaner.”
You looked down at your tea.
Very carefully.
Because if you smiled, Belladonna might actually ignite.
Nerissa leaned back, visibly delighted and trying not to show too much of it.
“Lady Melusine,” she said, “how unusually direct.”
Melusine’s gaze moved to Nerissa. “I thought directness might save time. We were all circling the same insult.”
Coraline whispered, “Oh.”
Seraphina’s hand came up to her mouth.
Belladonna’s smile thinned.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I assumed Commander Figarland would have explained the practical arrangements before allowing you to sit here defending him.”
Your fingers stilled around your cup.
Belladonna’s eyes widened by a careful fraction. “Oh,” she said softly. “He has not.”
Seraphina went still.
Nerissa’s amusement vanished.
Melusine set her cup down without a sound.
Belladonna looked almost pleased with herself now.
“Then perhaps it is not my place to say whether Commander Figarland intends to dismiss his mistress once he takes a wife.”
The room went very still.
You set your cup down.
Too carefully, perhaps.
Belladonna saw it.
Her smile softened into something worse.
“You truly did not know.”
You looked at her.
“Be specific.”
Her smile thinned. “That Commander Figarland is a man, Lady Veroux. Not a saint from some provincial prayer book. Surely you did not believe you were the first woman to interest him.”
“No,” you said.
The word came out evenly.
A victory, if one had low standards.
Belladonna tilted her head. “Then perhaps you only believed you were the only one who mattered.”
You smiled.
It felt like biting down.
“I was raised in a house with a leaking roof,” you said. “I have been kidnapped, locked on a ship, and survived worse rooms than this.”
Belladonna’s smile thinned.
You continued, pleasantly, “So if you are waiting for uncertainty to make me faint, I’m afraid you may need to provide stronger tea.”
Nerissa laughed. The sound gave the room permission to breathe.
Belladonna did not laugh.
You did not look away from her.
Melusine’s gaze stayed on you a moment longer. Then she looked at Belladonna. “There. You have your answer.”
Belladonna’s mouth tightened. “That was not an answer.”
“No,” Melusine said. “It was more honest than one.”
You stared into your tea to avoid looking at her.
The rest of the tea remained messy, but survivable. When the tea ended, the women rose in waves of silk and gloves.
Melusine lingered near the window.
You joined her because apparently you had become someone who made choices now.
Alarming.
“You did not have to do that,” you said.
“I dislike inefficient cruelty.”
You looked at her.
“Belladonna is usually more skilled,” Melusine said.
“She had an off day?”
“She was emotional.”
You nearly smiled.
Melusine glanced toward the salon doors, where the others were gathering. “You should be careful.”
“I keep hearing that.”
“Most people mean behave.”
“And you?”
“I mean count who smiles before they strike.”
That was almost advice. Real advice.
“Should I count you?” you asked.
Melusine’s mouth moved faintly. Perhaps everyone in Mary Geoise had one of those.
“You already did,” she said.
Then she walked away.
You had not given Belladonna the satisfaction of seeing you bleed in public.
That did not mean she had missed.
And somewhere between floral tea and sharpened smiles, Melusine Arco had stepped beside you.
For now, enough seemed to be the only kind of victory Mary Geoise allowed.
Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Chapter 20: Accept the Terms
“Commander Figarland called this morning,” Saint Harlan said.
The words did not surprise you.
“I see,” you said.
Your father turned from the window. His expression was controlled, but not empty. There was something behind it.
Satisfaction.
A man watching a door open and already imagining what he might carry through it.
“He requested permission to marry you.”
“You accepted,” you said.
“Naturally.”
“I appreciate the suspense.”
Your father’s eyes cooled.
Good.
At least one of you was reacting properly.
“This is not a moment for flippancy.”
“No,” you said. “It seems to be a moment for decisions made without me present.”
Your father crossed back to his desk and set the letter down. “This is an extraordinary honor.”
“For whom?”
His eyes lifted.
You smiled faintly.
Wrong choice.
Probably.
But the question had escaped before wisdom caught it.
“For this house,” he said.
There it was. Honesty, almost.
“You will not behave as though this engagement is another burden placed before you for amusement.” He continued. “The formal announcement will follow once terms are finalized.”
“Of course. I would hate to rush the romantic paperwork.”
“Enough.”
The word was quiet.
You stopped. Not because you had nothing else to say.
Because there were times when wasting a good remark on your father felt like throwing bread into the sea.
He sat behind his desk. “You will begin spending time at the Figarland estate this week,” he said.
Your fingers tightened once.
There it was. The next door.
“What kind of time?”
“Instruction.”
“I’ve had instruction.”
“Not in their house.”
That landed with more weight than you wanted it to.
“You will be expected there three afternoons each week,” he said. “Perhaps more, once the household determines what is required.”
“The household determines.”
“Yes.”
“Does the household have a face, or is it more of a collective threat?”
His expression did not shift.
That was answer enough.
Garling, then.
And whoever served beneath him.
Wonderful.
Your father leaned back. “You are entering one of the oldest and most powerful houses in the Holy Land. Their expectations will be severe.”
“I had gathered.”
“Your first visit to the Figarland estate will be tomorrow,” he said. “You will conduct yourself appropriately.”
“Do they know I’m difficult to transport?”
“Commander Figarland seems aware.”
“Unfortunately.”
For the first time that morning, something almost like irritation cracked through your father’s composure. He dismissed you with a nod. You left before he could find another way to turn the room cold.
Lila was waiting in the corridor. You closed the study door behind you. She searched your face. “Well?” she asked softly.
You exhaled. “Apparently I’m engaged.”
Lila went still. “Apparently?”
“I was not present for the exciting part.”
For once, she seemed to need a moment. That made two of you.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
You began walking because standing still made the answer feel closer. Lila fell into step beside you.
“My father says I’ll begin spending three afternoons a week at the Figarland estate.”
Her brows drew together. “For instruction?”
“For whatever terrifying people call instruction when they have better carpets.”
“Lady Veroux.”
“I know.”
You did.
That was the worst part.
You knew what this meant.
More than visits.
More than lessons.
It meant the slow transfer had begun.
Veroux to Figarland.
Father to fiancé.
One house’s ambition to another house’s expectations.
And somewhere in the middle of it, Shamrock Figarland, who had warned you first, kissed you twice, and somehow made the thought of becoming his feel less like surrender than it should.
Lila’s voice softened. “Do you want to marry him?”
You looked ahead.
“I want coffee.”
“That was not an answer.”
“No.”
She waited.
You sighed.
“Strong coffee.”
“Also not an answer.”
“You’re becoming difficult.”
“I learned from you.”
Then you looked toward the far end of the corridor, where sunlight fell across the marble floor.
“Lila,” you said.
“Yes?”
“When I go to the Figarland estate…”
You kept your voice even. “You’re coming with me.”
She did not answer immediately. When she did, it was quiet. “If they allow it.”
You looked at her.
“No,” you said. “If I do.”
For a moment, she only stared at you. Then something softened in her face.
—————————
The next afternoon, you returned to the Figarland estate alone.
Inside, the entrance hall was as cold and polished as you remembered. Black stone floor. White veining. High ceilings. No unnecessary softness.
At least the house remained committed to its personality.
“I wondered how long it would take,” a voice said.
Your shoulders tightened.
Saint Shepherd Sommers stepped out from a side corridor, expression arranged into something too lazy to be called a smile and too sharp to be harmless.
Fantastic.
You had been inside the Figarland estate for less than a minute and had already found something worse than the furniture.
Sommers looked amused. “Commander Figarland let the others circle longer than I expected. Usually, when he wants something, he removes the obstacles sooner.”
The words were light.
The meaning was not.
You hated that they landed somewhere already sore.
“How comforting,” you said. “I was afraid this house might be subtle.”
His smile deepened by a fraction.
That was not an improvement.
“No need for subtlety now,” Sommers said. “You’re in the house. Getting out is the harder part.”
Your spine tightened.
Sommers noticed.
A voice spoke from the end of the corridor.
“Stop being a nuisance.”
Sommers’ eyes shifted.
Gunko stood there, blue hair beneath her black cap. Her eyes moved from Sommers to you.
Sommers smiled. “I was just being friendly.”
“Your idea of friendly is usually reported after the fact,” Gunko said.
You almost liked her.
That seemed unsafe.
Gunko turned to you. “This way.”
You followed because the tone did not suggest discussion, and because standing alone with Sommers seemed like the kind of mistake tavern girls either avoided or learned from once.
As you passed, Sommers said, “Mind your step, Lady Veroux. This house is rough on women who don’t know when to lower their eyes.”
The words slid neatly between your ribs.
Gunko did not slow. “Do not encourage him.”
“I was discouraging him.”
“No,” Gunko said. “You were engaging.”
You considered that.
Unfortunate.
The east sitting room waited at the end of the hall. Gunko stopped beside the door and opened it without ceremony.
Inside, Shamrock stood near the window. His gaze moved from Gunko to you.
Gunko said, “Sommers delayed her.”
Shamrock looked back at Gunko.
“Briefly,” she added. Then she stepped aside.
You entered before anyone could make the delay sound like your fault.
The door closed behind you.
For one second, the room was quiet. Shamrock’s gaze moved over you once.
“Did he touch you?”
The question was quiet.
Immediate.
Something in your chest tightened.
“No.”
“Good.”
Not comforting in any ordinary way.
Still, some part of you that had been braced since the hallway loosened by a fraction.
You hated that too.
“Lovely friend you have.”
“Sommers is not my friend.”
“Comforting distinction.”
“He is useful.”
“That is worse.”
“Yes.”
Then you said, “I want Lila with me.”
You stepped closer. “She is the only person in that house who has ever looked at me like I was a person first and a problem second.”
The words came out sharper than you meant.
Too honest.
Shamrock’s expression changed.
“I want her with me,” you said.
“That will be discussed today.”
“With Garling.”
“Yes.”
“And you.”
“Yes.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like a no wearing decent clothes.”
“It is not.”
“Then what is it?”
“It means there will be conditions.”
“Of course there will be. This house has conditions on the shrubbery.”
His gaze stayed steady.
“If I seduce you, will that help my case?”
Shamrock went still.
Excellent.
Finally.
You lifted your brows, because if you stopped moving now, you might remember your own nerves.
“I’m only trying to understand Figarland procedure.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Are you?”
“Yes. Is seduction filed before or after formal petitions?”
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he stepped closer.
This time, he did not pretend otherwise.
The space between you narrowed until the air felt occupied.
“Before,” he said.
Your heart did something foolish.
“Good to know.”
“It would not help your case.”
“No?”
“No.”
His eyes moved over your face, slow enough to be deliberate.
“It would make me less patient with the delay.”
Your mouth went dry.
The sensible thing would have been to step back. You were becoming less sensible around him.
“You seem like a man who values patience.”
“I do.”
“And yet?”
His hand lifted, not touching yet, only close enough that your skin remembered exactly what his fingers felt like.
“And yet,” he said, “you keep testing it.”
His fingers slid beneath your jaw, tipping your face up to his, and his mouth touched yours.
Then he eased back before you were ready.
You caught his coat and pulled.
That was all it took.
His hand closed at your waist, the kiss deepening just as a knock came at the door.
You broke away.
Shamrock did not move immediately.
Then the knock came again.
Shamrock looked toward the door. “Enter.”
The steward appeared. His face revealed nothing.
Impressive.
“Saint Figarland is ready.”
“Good,” Shamrock said.
Shamrock looked at you.
“Lila stays,” he said quietly.
Your eyes lifted to his.
Garling sat behind no desk. He stood near a long table where several papers had been placed in neat stacks.
He looked at you when you entered. Then at Shamrock.
“Lady Veroux.”
“Saint Figarland.”
You sat only when instructed.
Shamrock remained standing beside your chair.
Garling placed one hand on the papers. “Before formal announcement, certain terms must be understood.”
You folded your hands in your lap. “I’m listening.”
Garling’s gaze stayed on yours for one second longer.
Then he began.
“You are entering House Figarland. You will be expected to understand that your loyalty changes with marriage.”
Your stomach tightened. Not because the idea surprised you.
Because Harlan would hate it.
Interesting.
“My father will not like that,” you said.
“No.”
That answer came from Shamrock.
You looked up at him. His expression was unreadable.
Garling continued. “Saint Harlan does not gain access to this house through you.”
There it was. A door closing.
Not on you. On him.
That should not have pleased you.
It did.
You looked back at Garling. “Does he know that?”
“He will,” Garling said.
You almost smiled.
You did not.
Progress.
Garling moved to the next paper. “You will learn the protocols of this household. Visitors. Correspondence. Servants. Private rooms. Public silence. The difference between a request made to you and a request made through you.”
“That is quite a list.”
“It is incomplete.”
“Naturally.”
Shamrock’s gaze shifted toward you.
You ignored him.
Garling did too.
“You will attend instruction here three afternoons each week,” Garling said. “More if required.”
He continued. “You will not publicly undercut Shamrock’s authority.”
Your spine stiffened.
Shamrock did not move.
Garling noticed both.
“In private,” Garling said, “your arguments are your concern.”
You blinked.
That was not what you expected.
“In public, you stand with him.”
The words settled over the room.
Not soft.
Not romantic.
Not entirely unreasonable.
Annoying.
You looked toward Shamrock.
His eyes were already on you.
You looked back at Garling. “And if he is wrong in public?”
“Then you tell him privately.”
“That sounds convenient for him.”
“It is necessary for the house.”
“And for me?”
Garling’s gaze did not soften. “If you weaken him publicly, you weaken yourself beside him.”
You hated that it made sense.
Shamrock said nothing.
Garling moved on. “You will not allow your attachment to appear as weakness.”
Your face warmed.
Horrifying.
Shamrock’s expression remained controlled.
Suspiciously controlled.
Garling saw that too.
“Mary Geoise will tolerate many things,” he said. “A Figarland ruled by affection is not one of them.”
You looked down at your hands.
Then back up.
“That sounds like advice for him.”
“It is for both of you.”
Garling moved to another paper. “There will be expectations regarding heirs.”
The words were not loud.
They did not need to be.
Your body went cold.
Of course that would be here, written cleanly somewhere in the neat stack of papers as if it had anything to do with ink.
Shamrock spoke before you could.
“That discussion does not happen today.”
Garling looked at him then.
So did you.
Shamrock’s face was controlled.
His voice was not soft.
“It is not necessary today,” he said.
Garling held his gaze.
For a moment, the room sharpened around them. Then Garling looked back at the papers.
“Later, then.”
Your breathing returned. You wished that was the only thing his interruption had done to you.
Garling continued as if nothing had happened. “Access to household information will be earned.”
You stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
Garling’s eyes returned to yours. “You will ask questions in private. You will not repeat answers in public. You will not carry half-understood information back to your father.”
“I have no interest in helping my father.”
“Interest is not the only way people are used.”
Garling let the silence sit long enough to become uncomfortable. Then he moved to the final paper.
“Your attendant.”
You kept your attention on Garling.
“Lila stays,” you said.
Garling’s brow lifted slightly.
Not surprise. Not quite.
“You are making a demand.”
“Yes.”
“Bold.”
“I thought we had established that obedience was unlikely.”
Shamrock did not move. Garling looked at you for a long moment.
“She came from your father’s house.”
“She came with me.”
“She will be vetted.”
“Yes.”
“She will answer to Figarland household authority.”
“No.”
The word left before fear could interfere.
Garling’s gaze sharpened.
Shamrock looked at you.
“She answers to me,” you said.
The room went very quiet.
“She can be vetted. She can learn the house rules. She can be watched until every suspicious person here feels properly entertained. But she answers to me.”
Garling said nothing. You continued before wisdom could return.
“You said loyalty changes with marriage. Then let it change. She is not Harlan’s. She is not Lady Marise’s. She is mine.”
Shamrock’s eyes moved over your face.
Garling saw that too.
Finally, Garling said, “You choose interesting moments to understand possession.”
Your face heated.
“That is not what I meant.”
“No,” Garling said. “It is what you said.”
Terrible man.
The family resemblance was becoming offensive.
You lifted your chin. “Then I will say it better. She is under my protection.”
Garling studied you.
Then looked at Shamrock.
Shamrock’s voice was even. “Lila remains with her.”
Several seconds passed.
Then he said, “Conditionally.”
Your shoulders nearly dropped with relief.
“What conditions?”
“She is vetted. She receives instruction. If she carries information to Harlan, she is removed.”
“She won’t.”
Garling’s gaze stayed on you.
Then, very faintly, his mouth moved.
Alarming.
“Then you will be responsible for her.”
“Yes.”
The answer came easily.
Garling folded the paper. “Very well.” He looked at Shamrock. “The formal announcement may proceed once Harlan has signed the terms.”
Your head turned. “He has to sign?”
“Yes.”
You looked back at Garling. “All of them?”
“Yes.”
Including the part where Harlan did not gain access through you.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling.
Garling noticed anyway.
Naturally.
The meeting ended shortly after.
You rose when Garling did. Your legs felt steadier than expected.
Garling’s gaze moved over you one final time. “You did not waste anger today.”
The words were not praise.
Not exactly.
But they were not insult either.
With Garling, perhaps that was all anyone got.
You inclined your head. “I was saving it.”
“For?”
You looked at Shamrock. His eyes were already on you.
“For later.”
Garling’s gaze shifted between you. For one terrible moment, you thought he might comment.
He did not.
Shamrock walked you back toward the entrance hall. “You did well,” he said.
You looked up at him. “I sat in a room and argued over ownership of my attendant.”
“Yes.”
“That is not usually considered doing well.”
“It is here.”
“How encouraging.”
The front doors opened.
You smiled politely because there were servants present and because you had apparently survived enough of the Figarland estate to understand timing.
“Goodbye, Commander.”
“Lady Veroux.”
You stepped outside before he could say anything worse.
Behind you, the Figarland doors closed with a sound too much like certainty.
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Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Chapter 19: The Knife Version of the Story
For a week after the Figarland dinner, you did not see Shamrock.
That should have helped. It did not.
It only gave your mind time to become inconvenient.
You did not think about the kiss.
You did not think about your back against the wall of the Figarland estate, his mouth on yours, the sound he had made when you dragged him closer.
Nope.
Definitely not.
Lila had stopped pretending she did not notice when you became angry at nothing.
One morning Lady Marise looked at you over breakfast and said, “You seem distracted.”
You looked at your eggs.
“I’m reflecting on my many opportunities.”
Your father’s eyes lifted from his correspondence.
Lila, standing near the wall, developed a sudden interest in the teapot.
Then the flowers arrived.
Not a bouquet.
That would have been too ordinary.
A long, low arrangement in a dark ceramic vase was carried into the sitting room by two servants. The flowers were deep red and white, structured more than soft, arranged with dark leaves and branches.
Lady Marise saw them first. “How thoughtful,” she said.
You stood near the window with a book you had not been reading and looked at the arrangement. “They look expensive.”
“They are from the Figarland estate.”
“That explains it.”
Lila lowered her eyes.
Lady Marise did not appreciate that. She stepped closer and found the card tucked neatly between two white blooms.
Her gaze moved over the writing. “Commander Figarland requests your company this evening.”
Requests.
That was new.
Suspicious.
You held out your hand.
Lady Marise hesitated.
You lifted your brows.
After a moment, she gave you the card.
Lady Veroux,
If you are willing, accompany me this evening to the Kensington Gallery.
Shamrock Figarland
You stared at the words.
If you are willing.
Infuriating.
Absolutely infuriating.
Because he had listened.
Badly, perhaps.
Late, definitely.
But he had listened.
Lady Marise watched your face. “You will accept.”
You looked up.
“There it is.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Commander Figarland’s attention is not something you can afford to mishandle.”
“You and my father should consider having that printed on napkins. It would save time.”
Lady Marise’s expression chilled.You smiled pleasantly. “I will accept,” you said.
Her suspicion sharpened.
Fair.
You would have been suspicious too.
The Kensington Gallery stood in one of Mary Geoise’s older districts. It housed private collections opened only for select evenings, which meant everything inside was valuable enough to be admired by people who had never earned anything.
Shamrock arrived at seven.
You wore dark green silk because Lady Marise had decided deep colors suited you and because you had decided not to let her be wrong merely to spite her. Your hair was pinned halfway back, with the rest falling over your shoulders.
Shamrock’s eyes moved over you when he arrived.
“You look well,” he said.
“You sent flowers.”
“I did.”
“They have a personality.”
Amusement touched his eyes. “Do they?”
“They look like they would correct my posture.”
“Then they were well chosen.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Shamrock offered his arm.
You took it with less hesitation this time.
That was concerning.
The gallery was already full when you arrived. Music played somewhere in the central hall, soft and unobtrusive. Guests moved through rooms of paintings, sculptures, old weapons, jeweled maps, and relics displayed beneath glass.
You disliked the relics immediately.
Too many of them looked like they had belonged somewhere before Mary Geoise decided ownership was theirs.
“You disapprove,” Shamrock said.
“I’m looking.”
“You disapprove while looking.”
The first hour passed publicly. That was probably intentional.
Shamrock greeted several men, ignored several women with professional indifference, and kept you beside him in a way that was formal enough not to be scandalous and deliberate enough that everyone understood.
You were watched.
Again.
By women. By fathers. By men trying to determine whether approaching you now required calculation beyond their comfort.
It did.
That part was useful.
Annoying, but useful.
Eventually, Shamrock guided you out of the central hall and into a quieter side gallery lined with old portraits and glass cases full of ceremonial blades.
The room was not empty, but it was close enough.
Two older men stood near the far end discussing a painting in bored voices. A woman passed through without stopping. For the first time that evening, no one was close enough to hear. You looked at the blades arranged beneath the glass.
“This feels pointed.”
Shamrock followed your gaze.
“The room is private.”
“And full of knives.”
“Behind glass.”
You looked at him. “I made an effort.”
“I noticed.”
You stared at him.
“That is not how jokes work.”
“I am aware.”
“Are you?”
His eyes returned to yours. This time, the amusement was there without the courtesy of becoming a smile.
“There is something I need to tell you.”
Your stomach tightened.
There it was.
The reason for the flowers.
The reason for the request.
“Should I sit down?”
“No.”
“Unfortunate. That means I’m expected to stand through it.”
“I intend to speak to your father formally.”
The words landed exactly where you thought they would.
“About marriage.”
“Yes.”
His gaze did not move from your face. “I am telling you before I speak to him.”
“I noticed.”
“That was your objection last time.”
“One of them.”
His expression did not change.
“You did improve,” you said. “That is irritating.”
“I thought it might be useful.”
“You must be very proud.”
“Moderately.”
A laugh almost escaped you. You looked back at the knives before your face could betray you. The room felt too quiet despite the music from the hall.
“You had over four months,” you said.
Shamrock was silent.
You crossed your arms. “You watched my father parade suitors through his house for four months.”
He looked at you directly.
“I wanted you to know what the alternative was.”
Your eyes narrowed. “That is a horrible answer.”
“Yes.”
“And very convenient for you.”
“Yes.”
You forced yourself to look back at him. “And marriage?”
“Because your father will not stop.”
“No,” you said, voice lowering. “That explains the move. It does not explain me.”
You had not meant the question to sound small.
It did anyway.
“You could marry anyone here. Women raised for this. Women who want this. Women who would not make your life difficult before breakfast.” You looked back at him. “Women who do not have half of Mary Geoise waiting for them to misstep.”
“I have met those women.”
He stepped closer, slow enough that you could have moved away. He continued, “Because you keep learning without becoming obedient.”
Your mouth closed.
“That is a terrible foundation for marriage,” you said.
“Most foundations here are worse.”
“Wonderful.” You lifted a hand before you could think better of it. “That will be a lovely story for the children. I had poor manners and once tried to stab their father with a kitchen knife.”
Shamrock went very still.
You realized what you had said at the exact moment he did.
Their father.
Oh no.
No.
Absolutely not.
“Hypothetical children,” you said immediately.
His eyes did not leave yours. “Of course.”
“Hypothetical father as well.”
“You were specific.”
Your face warmed.
Horrifying.
“Accidentally.”
“Of course.”
“Do not be pleased.”
“Too late.”
You turned back to the display case. “I regret several words in that sentence.”
He had the restraint not to smile. Barely. The amusement thinned into something far more difficult to ignore.
“I have been offered obedience,” he said. “Beauty. Ambition. Perfect manners. Useful bloodlines.”
His gaze moved over your face.
“None of them held my attention.”
You looked down.
Not pretty. Not polished. Not a compliment someone had taught him to give.
Just him.
“You have terrible taste,” you said.
“Yes.”
“And worse judgment.”
“Possibly.”
You looked back at him. “You are supposed to deny at least one of those.”
“No.”
“Why?”
His eyes held yours. “Because I want to kiss you, and arguing would delay it.”
Your thoughts stopped.
Cleanly.
The music from the hall seemed very far away.
Shamrock’s hand rose to your jaw. This time, the touch was careful from the start. His thumb brushed the edge of your cheek.
Then he kissed you.
Slower than before.
His mouth moved over yours once, then again, controlled enough to make you chase the pressure instead of fight it.
He made a low sound against your mouth and stepped closer, one hand settling at your waist. The glass case was at your back. Shamrock was in front of you. Music drifted from the hall, distant and useless.
You kissed him harder.
Because slower had become unbearable.
For a moment, the gallery disappeared. Then voices approached from the hall.
You broke away first.
Barely.
Your breathing was not where you had left it.
Shamrock’s was controlled.
Mostly.
His eyes stayed on your mouth for one second longer than they should have.
There it was.
You felt better.
A little.
“You chose a public gallery for this conversation,” you said.
“I chose a side room.”
“With doors.”
“Most rooms have those.”
“Do not become funny now.”
The voices passed without entering.
You released his coat and smoothed the fabric immediately, because apparently you had manners now even while losing your mind.
He watched your hands.
“You may speak to my father,” you said.
His gaze lifted.
Your heart beat once, hard.
“I may?”
There was the faintest edge of amusement in it.
Your eyes narrowed. “You may ask.”
“Yes.”
“And I may still refuse.”
The amusement faded into something steadier.
“Yes.”
“And if you become unbearable, I will.”
“Understood.”
You stepped away from the glass case and lifted your chin.
“Good.”
People laughed somewhere nearby. Mary Geoise continued on, polished and hungry and unaware that one of its most infamous bachelors had just made a marriage intention.
He offered his arm.
You stared at him.
Then took it.
Because apparently you were still learning without becoming obedient.
Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Chapter 18: The Figarland Estate
You realized halfway through the drive that Shamrock had not said where you were going.
That should have concerned you sooner.
In your defense, he had asked you to dinner in front of half a room of women who would absolutely remember it, then trapped you in a vehicle and said I came for you, as if that was a reasonable thing to say to a woman with several objections still pending.
So yes.
You had been distracted.
Still, when the vehicle turned away from the central restaurants and toward a quieter stretch of the Holy Land, you looked out the window.
The streets widened.
The houses grew larger.
The gates became less decorative and more threatening.
You turned your head slowly.
“Where are we going?”
Shamrock sat across from you, one arm resting along the side of the seat. He had looked irritatingly comfortable for the entire ride.
“My family estate.”
Your fingers tightened in your lap.
“Your family estate.”
“Yes.”
“I thought we were going to dinner.”
“We are.”
You looked back out the window as the vehicle passed through a set of black iron gates.
“Of course,” you said. “Why would dinner happen somewhere normal?”
The Figarland estate rose ahead. It did not look like a home. It looked like a place people were summoned to.
The vehicle stopped near the front steps. A servant opened the door before you could decide whether remaining inside counted as resistance or simply delay.
Shamrock stepped out first and offered his hand.
“Before I take that,” you said, “tell me exactly who is waiting inside.”
“My father.”
Everything in you went still.
Then hot.
Then very, very controlled.
“Saint Garling Figarland.”
“Yes.”
Your smile came slowly.
It felt sharp enough to draw blood.
“You are fortunate,” you said.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “How?”
“That there are witnesses.”
The moment your feet touched the ground, you leaned closer as if Shamrock had said something charming.
“If I stab you with a dinner fork,” you said softly, “I want you to know it was premeditated.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
“Do.”
He drew your hand through his arm and led you toward the steps.
The entrance hall was colder than your father’s house. Not in temperature. In feeling.
The ceilings rose high above you. The floor was polished black stone veined with white. There were no unnecessary flowers. No soft colors. No attempt to make the room kind.
At least the house was honest.
A servant bowed. “Commander. My lady.”
Shamrock released your hand only once you were inside.
The steward opened a set of double doors and you saw the dining room.
Long table.
Low light.
And a man already standing beside the hearth.
Tall. Broad. White hair pulled back. Face carved hard with age and authority. You knew who he was before anyone said it.
Saint Figarland Garling turned.
Shamrock had stopped beside you.
“Father,” he said.
Your body went very still.
Damn it.
Garling’s eyes moved to you.
Not rudely.
But thoroughly.
A battlefield assessment in a dining room.
You felt it in your teeth.
“Saint Harlan’s daughter,” Garling said.
Not a greeting.
A placement.
You looked at Shamrock.
He did not look away from his father.
You looked back at Garling and folded your hands because if you did not put them somewhere, they might find Shamrock’s throat.
“Saint Figarland,” you said.
Garling studied you.
Then looked at Shamrock.
“She is smaller than the noise around her suggested.”
Your face stayed neutral.
Barely.
Shamrock’s voice was even. “Noise often exaggerates.”
Garling’s eyes returned to you. “Does it?”
You could feel Shamrock beside you.
Silent.
Waiting.
Not rescuing you.
Fine.
You could stand without him.
Usually.
“It depends who is making it,” you said.
A faint stillness entered the room.
Garling did not smile.
Neither did Shamrock.
But something passed between them.
Not approval.
Not exactly.
Interest.
You were beginning to hate that word.
Dinner began.
No one called it a test.
That would have been too honest.
The food was excellent. Everything in Mary Geoise was either excellent or cruel, and the wealthy had learned to arrange both on plates.
Garling asked about your time in your father’s house.
You said it had been instructive.
He asked about your upbringing below.
You said it had been useful.
He asked whether you missed it.
You put down your glass.
“Yes.”
Garling’s eyes held yours across the table. “Even now?”
“Especially now.”
The servant refilling the wine did not pause.
Very disciplined.
Garling leaned back slightly. “Most people would avoid admitting that here.”
“Most people here seem occupied with avoiding many things.”
Shamrock’s gaze shifted to you.
You did not look at him.
Garling did.
“Your father has had difficulty placing you.”
“That is one way to describe it.”
“What way would you choose?”
You took a bite of chicken because making Garling wait felt like the only available luxury.
“I would say he keeps choosing poorly and acting surprised by the results.”
Shamrock’s mouth did not move.
You checked from the corner of your eye.
Disappointing.
Garling looked at you for a long moment. Then he said, “And my son?”
There it was.
Your appetite vanished.
You set down your fork.
“What about him?”
“Is he also choosing poorly?”
Shamrock was suddenly very still beside you.
You looked at Garling. Then, against your better judgment, at Shamrock.
His face was controlled.
His eyes were not.
Wonderful.
Now both Figarlands were doing that.
You looked back at Garling. “I would not presume to explain your son’s judgment to you.”
Garling’s gaze held yours. “That is not an answer.”
“No,” you said. “It is manners.”
Something in the room shifted.
Shamrock looked at you then.
Garling studied you for a long moment. “And without manners?”
You folded your hands in your lap. “Without manners, I would say he seems very committed to making his own life more difficult.”
For several seconds, the room was silent.
Then Garling looked at Shamrock.
“You were right.”
That was not comforting.
You turned your head. “About what?”
Garling did not answer you.
Shamrock did.
“That you would not make this easy.”
You stared at him.
“I was invited here to be easy?”
“No.”
“Good. I didn’t bring anything for that.”
For the first time, Garling’s mouth moved.
Barely.
Not a smile.
More alarming.
Dinner continued.
It did not become comfortable. Nothing in the Figarland estate seemed designed for comfort.
But it became survivable.
Garling asked questions.
You answered the ones worth answering.
Sometimes badly.
Sometimes carefully.
Once, Garling asked whether you understood what attention from House Figarland could do for your father’s position.
“Yes,” you said. “It gives him something valuable enough to panic over.”
By the time dessert arrived, your shoulders ached from keeping them relaxed.
The final course was something delicate with sugared fruit and cream. You ate half of it out of spite because it was very good and you refused to let this house take dessert from you too.
When dinner ended, Garling stood first.
So did Shamrock.
So, after half a second, did you.
Garling came around the table and stopped in front of you. “You are not what Saint Harlan knows how to use.”
The words settled heavily.
You could not tell whether they were insult or compliment. With this family, the odds were poor either way.
“No,” you said. “He keeps trying anyway.”
Garling’s gaze held yours.
Then he looked at Shamrock.
“See her home.”
“I will.”
That was it.
No farewell.
No blessing.
No threat dressed as courtesy.
Just dismissal.
Shamrock walked you out through the dark hall.
You waited until the dining room doors closed behind you.
Then you stopped.
Shamrock stopped too.
You turned on him. “You brought me here to meet your father.”
“Yes.”
“You did not think that was worth mentioning?”
“I chose not to mention it.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“If I had told you, you would have prepared for him.”
“I was supposed to be unprepared?”
“You were supposed to be yourself.”
That caught harder than it should have.
You stared at him.
The hall was quiet around you, lamps burning low against the walls.
“That is very convenient language for an ambush.”
“Yes.”
You stared at him.
He did not look away. “It is also true.”
You hated that he did not even bother making himself sound better.
“You could have told me,” you said.
“I could have.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
“Because I chose you before the dresses. Before the lessons. Before your father understood what he could gain from you.”
Your breath caught.
Shamrock’s voice lowered. “I wanted him to see that woman.”
For one moment, the anger had nowhere to go.
It stayed anyway.
It had to.
“And what was he supposed to do once he saw her?” you asked.
“Decide whether to oppose me.”
You blinked.
“Oppose you.”
“Yes.”
“Not approve me?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly to be softened. Shamrock’s expression did not change.
“My father was never deciding whether you were worth my attention.”
That answer should have made things simpler.
It did not.
It made you angrier, because for half a second you wanted to believe him.
“So he was deciding whether I was worth the trouble,” you said.
Shamrock’s eyes stayed on yours.
“No. He was deciding whether I was serious enough to make trouble over you.”
That stopped you.
Completely.
You wanted to hit him.
You wanted to kiss him.
The second thought arrived so violently that you hated yourself for having it.
“You are still angry,” he said.
“Furious.”
His gaze dropped to your hand clenched in his jacket.
“That is not where angry women usually put their hands.”
“Shut up.”
You pulled him down, or he bent toward you.
Later, you would not be sure.
It did not matter.
His mouth hit yours hard enough to drive you back into the wall. One hand braced beside your head; the other slid beneath your arm and across your back, hauling you against him until the front of his uniform pressed into the silk of your dress.
You made a sharp sound into his mouth.
He swallowed it.
That made you angrier.
You shoved him. Hard.
Shamrock broke from your mouth, one step forced back before he caught himself.
For one second, neither of you moved.
His eyes stayed on yours, dark and fixed and far too steady for a man you had just pushed away.
“Do not look at me like that,” you said.
His hand closed around your wrist. Then he pulled you back to him.
Hard enough that your body met his again, shoulder to thigh, and the sound you made disappeared against his mouth.
Infuriating man.
You twisted your wrist free only to shove his jacket open, fingers pushing beneath the dark fabric, palms flattening against the hard line of his chest through his shirt.
You felt the moment he stopped being careful.
Your teeth caught his lip. Your nails dragged once against his shirt.
His hand closed at the back of your thigh through your skirt, lifting your leg half an inch before he seemed to remember where you were.
He broke the kiss only to take your mouth again at a better angle.
Your head hit the wall softly.
His hand was there first.
You pulled him closer.
His hand slid into your hair, fingers catching the pins.
One fell.
It struck the floor with a tiny metallic sound.
Neither of you stopped.
Shamrock’s mouth moved from yours to the edge of your jaw.
Your breath caught sharply.
His hand flexed once at your waist, then stilled.
For one moment, the only sounds were your breathing and the clock somewhere down the hall.
Then voices moved in the distance.
Servants, probably.
You turned your face away.
Shamrock stopped at once.
He stayed close, breathing controlled but not as controlled as usual. His hand remained at your waist for one more second before he let go.
You hated the absence immediately.
Your back stayed against the wall.
His gaze moved over your face.
Mouth. Hair. Eyes.
You lifted your chin because anything else would have felt like defeat.
“This does not mean I forgive you.”
“No.”
“Or that you are less annoying.”
Amusement touched his face and vanished before it could become useful.
You wanted to slap it off him anyway.
He bent and picked up the fallen hairpin from the floor.
For a moment, you thought he would hand it back. Instead, he stepped close again and slid it carefully into your hair.
His fingers brushed your temple.
Your breath went stupid.
“There,” he said.
You glared at him.
“Do not tidy me after ruining me.”
He smiled.
“You are not ruined.”
He looked at you for one more second. Then stepped back.
The space returned.
Cold and necessary.
The front doors waited at the end of the hall.
Dinner was over.
The kiss had happened.
And somehow, the evening had become worse.
Because now you knew exactly what Shamrock Figarland’s mouth felt like.
Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Arc 3: A Dangerous Interest
Chapter 17: The Visible Choice
A few days after the Holy Knight honors dinner, Saint Pelham’s departure had become three different stories.
In the first, he had been called away by urgent family business.
In the second, he had taken ill.
In the third, he had developed a sudden and permanent understanding of Commander Figarland’s interest.
By midafternoon, your father summoned you.
He studied you for a long moment. “You understand what Commander Figarland’s attention means.”
You folded your hands in your lap. “I understand that everyone else thinks they do.”
His eyes cooled. “I am not interested in your cleverness today.”
“That’s unfortunate. It’s one of my few reliable qualities.”
“One of very few.”
You looked at him.
“You have been waiting to say that.”
“Not long.”
“How disciplined.”
“When necessary.”
“In taverns, people usually insult you with more enthusiasm.”
“In Mary Geoise, we prefer efficiency.”
You hated that your mouth almost moved.
Your father noticed.
“Enough,” he said. The word was quiet.
You closed your mouth.
Your father leaned back in his chair. “Figarland is not a suitor to be insulted or driven away because you dislike feeling managed.”
“And if I dislike being managed in general?” you asked.
“Then you will learn to dislike it privately.”
There it was.
Mary Geoise parenting.
Efficient. Cold.
“You will not ruin this,” he said.
“This,” you repeated.
“Do not be tiresome.”
“I was trying to clarify whether this meant my life, my marriage, or whatever political piece you see when you look at me.”
His expression did not shift.
That was answer enough.
“You have been given a rare advantage,” he said. “A man others have failed to interest has chosen to look in your direction.”
Your stomach tightened.
“You will conduct yourself with restraint,” he continued. “You will be respectful. You will be gracious. You will not mistake his attention for permission to behave as you please.”
You stared at him.
That nearly made you laugh.
“Understood,” you said.
Your father’s eyes narrowed.
“Saint Pelham’s family has withdrawn their inquiry.”
“How tragic.”
“This is not a jest.”
“No,” you said. “I imagine Saint Pelham found very little of it funny.”
Your father watched you for a long moment. “You will not mention him today.”
You blinked. “Today?”
“Lady Nerissa has invited you to tea again.”
“Is this another opportunity?”
“Yes.”
“I’m beginning to miss punishments. They were more honest.”
“Punishments rarely made you more agreeable.”
“Did you try many?”
“No,” he said. “I recognized the futility early.”
“You will attend,” he continued. “You will be pleasant. And if Commander Figarland’s name is raised, you will remember that your words reflect on this house.”
You stood before he could decide to continue. “May I go?”
He gave the smallest inclination of his head.
Dismissed.
You left before he changed his mind.
Lila was waiting two corridors away, pretending to adjust a vase that needed no adjustment.
“You were hovering,” you said.
“I was nearby.”
“You were within vase distance.”
“It was a very interesting vase.”
“It’s white.”
“Many things are white here. One learns to find nuance.”
Despite yourself, you smiled.
By the time you arrived at Lady Nerissa’s tea, you could feel the difference before anyone spoke.
Belladonna Mirelle smiled when you entered, and the smile had sharpened since the last time. Coraline Pavo waved with genuine delight, then seemed to remember she was supposed to be subtle and lowered her hand. Seraphina Brume looked at you with wounded fascination.
Melusine Arco sat near the end of the table again, dark eyes calm.
Nerissa rose to greet you. “Lady Veroux,” she said. “How kind of you to come.”
“How brave of you to invite me.”
Her smile warmed.
That was suspicious.
“Bravery is often exaggerated.”
“And yet here we are.”
You took the seat she offered.
Tea was poured.
“So,” Coraline said, unable to hold herself back for longer than three sips of tea, “is it true?”
Nerissa’s eyes moved to her.
Coraline flushed.
“What?” you asked.
Belladonna folded her hands around her cup. “Saint Pelham leaving the honors dinner.”
Ah.
That.
You looked into your tea.
Still too floral.
A hostile arrangement.
“He did leave,” you said.
Coraline leaned forward. “In the middle of dinner.”
“Technically after the fish.”
Melusine looked down.
Belladonna’s smile thinned. “People are saying he withdrew his inquiry afterward.”
“People here are very fast. It’s almost impressive.”
“Was it because of Commander Figarland?” Coraline asked.
The table shifted.
You set your cup down. “You would have to ask Saint Pelham.”
“No one has seen him,” Coraline said.
“Then he is either very busy or very committed to the story.”
Nerissa’s gaze stayed on you. “Commander Figarland talking to your father changed things.”
“Yes,” you said. “I have noticed.”
Belladonna leaned forward. “And did he ask formally?”
“No.”
The table shifted again.
Not disappointment. Recalculation.
Seraphina exhaled softly, almost in relief.
Nerissa’s eyes stayed on you. “But he clarified his interest.”
You looked at her.
She smiled as if the word tasted interesting.
“People are saying many things,” she said.
“People usually do.”
“Some are saying Commander Figarland has finally chosen.”
Seraphina’s face pinched.
Belladonna’s smile thinned.
Coraline looked between everyone, delighted and nervous at once.
You folded your hands in your lap. “People are very generous with explanations no one asked for.”
Belladonna’s eyes flashed. “Commander Figarland is not a man one treats lightly.”
“I didn’t realize we were discussing furniture.”
Coraline choked.
Melusine coughed once into her napkin.
Nerissa did not look away from you.
Seraphina did.
She stared at her folded hands, cheeks pale with the effort of politeness. For the first time, you felt something close to guilt. Not because you had done anything wrong.
Because liking someone privately had somehow become a public injury to women who had built dreams out of his indifference.
You hated Mary Geoise for that too.
Coraline leaned closer, voice softer now. “What is he like?”
You looked at her.
You thought of Shamrock on the ship. In the storm. In your father’s hall. At the ballroom, hand steady at your back.
You thought of him outside the pavilion, telling you he could stop waiting whenever he chose.
“Difficult,” you said.
Melusine’s eyes lifted.
“Cold?” Belladonna asked.
“Frequently.”
“Cruel?” Nerissa asked.
You paused.
“Not carelessly.”
That changed the room slightly.
Seraphina looked at you then. For a moment, her softness did not seem empty. It seemed young.
“Oh,” she said quietly.
You did not know what to do with that.
So you drank tea.
It was still terrible.
The conversation moved after that, not away from Shamrock exactly, but around him. Belladonna returned to gossip. Coraline asked about your dress and meant it kindly. Nerissa watched everyone.
Near the end of tea, as servants cleared the plates, Nerissa leaned back in her chair.
“Whatever happens,” she said, “you should know that attention from Commander Figarland changes the way people will approach you.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“It is advice.”
“Those also keep dressing alike.”
Melusine looked amused.
Nerissa’s smile softened by a degree. “People will envy you. Some will flatter you. Some will wait for you to make a mistake large enough to enjoy.”
“I have a talent for providing variety.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Belladonna smiled too quickly.
Seraphina did not.
You glanced at her again. She caught you looking and gave the smallest, strangest smile.
Not kind. Not hostile.
Resigned, perhaps.
When the tea ended, the women gathered in the front hall. The air became a soft storm of gloves, ribbons, perfume, and voices pitched carefully low.
Then the front doors opened.
You felt it before you saw him.
The way conversations paused, then resumed incorrectly. The way Belladonna’s hand went still on her glove. The way Coraline straightened.
Please. Not today.
Shamrock Figarland stepped into Lady Nerissa’s front hall.
Every woman in the room noticed him.
The footman at the door bowed so quickly he nearly folded in half.
Nerissa looked from Shamrock to you.
Of course she did.
Shamrock’s eyes found yours first. Because apparently ruining one dinner had not satisfied him.
He crossed the hall toward you.
“Lady Veroux,” he said.
“Commander.”
Your voice behaved.
Excellent.
Your pulse did not.
Less excellent.
“I would like to take you to dinner.”
Behind him, Coraline made a sound so small it could have been a breath.
Belladonna went very still.
Seraphina looked away.
Melusine looked at you as if she had just watched someone place a candle too near silk.
You smiled.
It felt like biting down on silver.
“How kind of you,” you said. “You do enjoy making arrangements.”
His eyes sharpened.
He heard the anger under the polish.
Good.
“Do you accept?”
You were aware of everyone.
You could not tell him to shove it.
Tragic.
“I would be delighted,” you said.
Belladonna’s mouth tightened. Coraline looked as if she might actually stop breathing.
Shamrock offered his arm.
For one second, you considered refusing it on principle. Then you took it because Mary Geoise loved principles best when they could be used against you.
His hand settled over yours.
Lightly. Decently.
Infuriatingly correctly.
“Lady Nerissa,” Shamrock said, inclining his head.
“Commander Figarland,” Nerissa replied, smiling as if she had just been handed a private performance.
He guided you toward the door.
You kept your smile in place.
Barely.
Only when you were outside, past the servants and the lowered voices and the bright eyes watching from the hall, did you speak again.
“Do you make a habit of arriving where you are least wanted?”
Shamrock did not look down at you. “No.”
“How selective of you.”
The vehicle waited at the curb. Shamrock helped you inside.
The moment the door closed, the smile left your face.
He sat across from you.
Wise.
Infuriatingly wise.
The vehicle moved smoothly away from Lady Nerissa’s house.
For three seconds, you said nothing. Then, “Was that necessary?”
Shamrock sat across from you, posture composed, one arm resting along the side of the seat.
“I chose my timing.”
“How noble.”
“I did not claim nobility.”
“You are very careful about what you claim.”
His gaze held yours.
“Not always.”
“You made a spectacle,” you said.
“I made a point.”
“To whom?”
“To everyone watching.”
“You arrived at a tea full of unmarried women who already looked like they wanted to poison my cup and asked me to dinner in front of them.”
“They will not poison you.”
“That is not comforting.”
“They lack opportunity.”
“Worse.”
He almost smiled.
Your anger sharpened. “You enjoy making my life more difficult.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“At Lady Rosward’s,” he said, “you were angry when you told me about the women at tea.”
Heat rose under your skin.
“I was annoyed.”
“You were jealous.”
“Say that again and I may open the door.”
“The vehicle is moving.”
“I’ll wait for a turn.”
This time, he did smile.
He had found the nerve and pressed.
Your chest tightened.
Very inconvenient.
“I was not jealous,” you said.
“You are still a poor liar.”
His expression shifted by almost nothing.
Satisfaction, maybe.
Restraint, certainly.
“I did not come for them,” he said.
The vehicle seemed smaller around the words.
“I came for you.”
Your heart made a foolish, humiliating thing of itself.
You hated that.
You hated him for noticing.
And he did.
You looked toward the window before your face could betray you. “You understand they will be worse now.”
“Yes.”
“And my father will be worse.”
“Yes.”
“And Lady Marise will start choosing even more respectable dresses.”
“That is unfortunate.”
You looked back at him. “I was speaking seriously.”
“So was I.”
The laugh nearly escaped you. You stopped it just in time.
Shamrock saw anyway.
He sat across from you, not touching, not reaching, giving you nothing improper to object to and too much to feel.
“I am still angry with you,” you said.
“I know.”
“You should look more concerned.”
“I am not concerned.”
“Clearly.”
“You are angry,” he said. “Not unwilling.”
The words settled between you.
Quiet. Unadorned.
Worse for it.
You looked back at him slowly. “Do not make the mistake of thinking that means yes.”
“I have not.”
“No,” you said. “You are only making the mistake of enjoying it.”
Plot: A quiet Straw Hat catches the attention of the Red-Haired Emperor.
A/N: This is YANDERE/DARK Shanks. Do not read if you dislike this version of him. SMUT AHEAD.
Part 5
You did not sleep.
You tried.
You lay in the dark with the ship moving beneath you and Evie’s voice turning over in your head.
He won’t get bored.
He’ll get comfortable.
Boredom would have been easier.
Comfort settled into corners. Learned your habits. Made room beside your bed.
By midnight, you gave up pretending.
The hallway outside your cabin was quiet when you stepped into it. The guard two turns down looked over once, then away again.
The ship let you move as long as every path still belonged to him.
You found Shanks in the library. He sat at the desk with a map spread beneath one hand.
He did not look surprised to see you.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“So are you.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Captain’s habit.”
You stepped inside and shut the door behind you. The latch clicked softly.
Shanks heard it. Something in his expression changed, small and immediate.
You crossed the room slowly, stopping on the other side of the desk.
“Evie spoke to me,” you said.
“I assumed she would.”
“She said you won’t get bored.”
Shanks leaned back in his chair.
“She’s right.”
The answer moved through you in a way you hated.
“I think she’s happy,” he added.
“She isn’t free.”
“No,” Shanks said. “She isn’t.”
He pushed the chair back and rose to his feet.
“But she is loved,” he said. “Protected. Known. She has a place on this ship no one would dare question.” His voice lowered. “That can be enough.”
“For her.”
“For you too.”
Your throat tightened.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you’re lonely even when people love you.”
The words struck too close.
You looked away.
“I know the Sunny is your home,” he said. “I know you miss them. I know you hate me for that.”
Your eyes burned.
“I also know you came here tonight.”
You forced yourself to meet his gaze.
“You think that means you won?”
“No.”
He paused.
“I think it means you’re tired of pretending you only came here to argue.”
Heat moved under your skin.
You hated all of it.
You hated that your body had gone still for a reason that was not fear.
Shanks saw that too.
His voice dropped.
“Stop overthinking and come get what you want.”
For one long second, neither of you moved.
You rounded the desk so quickly your hip struck the corner. The dull pain barely registered. Shanks turned toward you, and you grabbed the front of his shirt in both hands, dragging him down as your mouth met his.
The kiss broke something.
Shanks made a low sound against your mouth and kissed you back hard. He tilted your head back and took the kiss deeper.
His tongue slid against yours, and your hands moved to his shoulders. You felt him smile against your mouth, felt the satisfaction in it, and bit his lower lip hard enough to make him breathe out a laugh.
“That’s it,” he said, voice rougher now. “Knew you’d come to me.”
You kissed him again before he could say anything else.
Shanks backed you into the desk hard enough to rattle the map beneath your hands.
His mouth left yours and moved to your throat, then the sensitive place beneath your ear.
He remembered.
“You’re so angry,” he murmured against your skin. “And still you came.”
“Shut up.”
His teeth grazed your neck.
You made a sound that was between a gasp and a moan.
Shanks smiled there, then bit down.
Your nails dragged over his shoulder as his tongue dragged over the bite, making sure you felt exactly where he had left it.
“Careful,” he said, and his voice had gone dark with amusement. “Keep clawing at me like that and I’ll start thinking you missed me.”
“I hate you.”
“No,” he said, mouth moving lower, open and hot against your throat. “You hate that I know exactly where to touch you.”
His hand slid beneath your shirt and up, palm closing over your breast as his thumb circled your nipple.
You pulled him closer.
Shanks made another low sound, and that one was not amused.
He lifted you onto the desk with one strong motion. Papers scattered. The map tore somewhere under your knee.
His hand pushed into your pants and between your legs.
You gasped.
Shanks watched your face as his fingers worked slowly at first, too slowly, drawing heat out of you in patient strokes that made you whine.
“Look at me,” he said.
You shook your head once.
His fingers circled your clit with just enough pressure to make your body jolt.
“Look at me.”
Your eyes snapped open.
Shanks was watching you with that terrible focus again. Like every sound, every breath, every little betrayal of your body was something he meant to keep.
“That’s better,” he said.
You wanted to curse at him.
What came out was softer. Worse.
His expression changed.
“There,” he murmured. “That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
Your face burned.
You dragged him back to your mouth. He kissed you messily now, all tongue and teeth, his control thinning with every sound he pulled from you.
“Let me fuck you,” he said, lower. “I’ll make you forget every reason you thought you could leave me.”
Your answer broke against his mouth.
After that, neither of you had patience. Clothes were shoved aside and dropped wherever they fell.
His mouth stayed on yours when he pulled you closer. When he settled between your thighs. When the first rough push made your head fall back.
He caught your sound with his mouth.
Then gave you another.
And another.
The desk moved beneath you.
Your nails dug into his shoulder, dragging down as he moved, harsh and steady, his hand hooked beneath your thigh to hold you open for him, holding you in place for every deep thrust that scattered your thoughts until there was only the weight of him and the heat of him and the awful, aching truth that your body had wanted this.
Wanted him.
Shanks pressed his mouth to your neck again, breathing hard against the mark he had left.
“I can’t stand it,” he said, voice low at your ear. “Thinking about you away from me. Sleeping somewhere I can’t reach. Laughing with people who don’t know what you sound like when you fall apart.”
Your fingers twisted in his hair.
“Shanks.”
His hips drove harder at the sound of his name.
“That,” he said roughly. “Again.”
You shook your head, but your body betrayed you, arching into him as his hand moved between your legs again. His mouth found yours, swallowing the next broken sound before it could leave you.
He kissed you like he wanted to take the shape of your refusal apart piece by piece.
And you let him.
That was the part you would hate later.
Maybe.
Maybe you would hate that you stopped thinking of later at all.
Shanks dragged his mouth down your throat, leaving another mark lower than the first. One you could hide if you tried.
“You’re mine,” he said against your skin.
The words went through you, low and hot, and Shanks felt the answer in your body.
“Oh,” he breathed, satisfaction rough in his voice. “Sweetheart.”
“Don’t.”
“You liked that.”
He lifted his head.
His eyes were dark. His mouth was wet. His hair was a mess from your hands.
For once, he looked less controlled.
“You can fight me tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight, take what I’m giving you.”
Your breath shook.
Then his hand found your clit again, and whatever answer you had broke apart.
You clung to him. Scratched at his back. Bit down on his shoulder when the pleasure finally dragged you under.
“That’s it,” he said into your hair. “That’s mine too.”
His arm locked around you, holding you hard against him as his hips drove deep one last time and you felt him come inside you.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The world had not ended. That felt unfair.
Shanks’s hand moved slowly up your back. Not grabbing now. Not pushing.
Keeping.
You were still sitting on the desk, legs trembling, your body aching and messy with what had just happened.
His face was against your hair.
And when it was over, he did not let you go.
“I thought about tying you to my bed,” he whispered, almost fondly. “But you came to me on your own.”
His mouth brushed your hair.
“I like that better.”
——————————
Since the night in the library, you had mostly avoided him.
You took meals when you knew he was busy. You stayed near the quieter corners of the ship.
But Shanks was patient.
He did not crowd you. He did not throw your surrender back in your face. He only watched you with that warm, terrible knowing whenever you crossed his path.
As if he was waiting for you to forgive yourself.
So when the Red Force docked that morning and Shanks disappeared with Beckman to speak with the harbor master, you packed quickly and left through the side passage.
You told yourself it was not betrayal.
You told yourself you were only going back to where you belonged.
You made it halfway down the side steps before you saw Evie.
For a second, neither of you spoke. Then she looked at the bag over your shoulder. Her expression did not change.
“He’ll know,” she said.
You looked toward the dock. People moved below, carrying crates, shouting prices. Freedom looked insultingly ordinary from here.
“You aren’t going to stop me?” you asked.
She looked at you then.
There was no pity in her face.
“No.”
Your throat tightened.
Evie looked past you, toward the dock. “Go on,” she said softly. “You’ll understand soon enough.”
You walked past her before you could lose your nerve.
You made it as far as the lower dock before someone caught you.
That was the humiliating part.
Not even the street beyond the harbor. Not the little booth with the public transponder snail where, if you had been fast enough, you might have called the Sunny.
The lower dock.
You had one hand wrapped around the strap of your bag when a shadow moved beside a stack of cargo crates.
“Going somewhere?”
Your heart stopped.
Yasopp stepped into view, his expression too mild. For one foolish second, you thought about running.
Then Lucky appeared behind you, leaning against a post with a skewer in one hand and absolutely no surprise on his face.
Your throat went dry.
“I was just walking.”
Yasopp glanced at the bag.
“With clothes?”
You paused.
Neither of them moved toward you.
Somehow that made it worse.
Lucky sighed, almost sadly. “Captain’s not going to like this.”
Your stomach sank.
Yasopp held out his hand.
You hesitated.
His face softened slightly.
“Don’t make us take it from you.”
That hurt more than it should have.
You let the bag slide from your shoulder.
Lucky took it carefully, like handling it gently would make any of this less terrible.
No one grabbed you.
No one tied your hands.
They only walked with you back to the Red Force, one on either side, close enough that every person on the dock knew you were not alone.
Evie was gone by the time you reached the ship again.
Shanks was waiting on deck. Beckman stood a few paces behind him, cigarette between his fingers.
Shanks looked at the bag first.
Then at you.
For a moment, he did not move.
His face stayed calm.
That was how you knew it was bad.
Lucky brought the bag up the gangplank and set it on deck.
“Found her near the lower dock,” Yasopp said.
Shanks’s eyes stayed on you.
“Thank you.”
The words were polite.
Flat.
Yasopp and Lucky left without needing to be told.
Beckman’s gaze moved over your face once. Then he looked at Shanks.
“Captain.”
“I know,” Shanks said.
Beckman paused.
Then he walked away too.
You were left standing in front of Shanks with your bag between you.
The ship moved gently beneath your feet.
Neither of you spoke.
Finally, Shanks stepped closer.
You made yourself hold still.
His jaw shifted once, like he had bitten down on the first thing he wanted to say.
“Were you going to leave me a note?” he asked.
His voice was soft.
Too soft.
“No.”
His eyes darkened.
Still, he smiled.
It was a terrible attempt.
“No note,” he repeated.
“Shanks—”
“How far did you think you’d get?”
You looked away.
His hand came up.
You flinched before you could stop yourself.
Shanks went still.
For the first time, something cracked across his face.
Not anger. Hurt, maybe.
Then it was gone, buried so quickly you almost thought you imagined it.
His hand lowered.
“You thought I would hurt you.”
The silence answered for you.
Shanks looked toward the dock, then back at you. “I told myself I wouldn’t be angry,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
The honesty startled you.
His voice stayed low.
“I’m angry you ran. I’m angry you scared me. I’m angry you thought you could walk off this ship with a bag over your shoulder and disappear into a town I hadn’t cleared, toward people who may or may not be waiting, with no idea who watched you leave.”
Your chest tightened.
“There’s always someone watching.”
“Yes,” Shanks said. “Because you are mine to keep safe.”
The words struck too deep.
“Stop saying that like it’s the same thing.”
“It is to me.”
Your eyes burned.
“That’s the problem.”
For a moment, he only looked at you.
Then he bent, picked up your bag, and held it in his hand.
“Come with me.”
Your stomach twisted. “Where?”
“My cabin.”
“No.”
The whole deck seemed to quiet around you.
Shanks’s voice lowered.
“That was not a request.”
He turned and walked toward the stairs.
You stood there for half a second too long. Then you followed.
Because Yasopp was by the lower rigging.
Because Lucky was near the galley door.
Because Beckman was somewhere behind you, silent and knowing.
The cabin door shut behind you with a soft click.
Shanks set your bag on the floor beside his desk.
For a moment, he stood with his back to you.
You waited for the anger.
For the punishment.
For the thing you had been afraid of since the lower dock.
Instead, Shanks exhaled slowly.
“You’re tired,” he said.
The words broke something small and stupid inside you.
You stared at his back.
“What?”
He turned.
His expression had changed again. Still serious. Still dangerous.
“You’re tired,” he repeated. “And stubborn. And scared. And you keep thinking if you make it one more door, one more street, one more ship away, you’ll become someone I can’t reach.”
He stepped closer.
You did not move.
“That isn’t going to happen,” he said.
Your eyes burned.
“I know.”
The admission came out so quietly you barely recognized it as yours.
Shanks stopped.
“I know,” you said again, because the first time had not been enough. “I can’t leave.”
Shanks’s mouth parted slightly.
You looked down at your hands. They were trembling.
“I thought I needed to try,” you said.
“And now?”
You closed your eyes.
You saw Yasopp stepping from the shadows. Lucky waiting behind you.
Evie on the rail, saying you’d understand soon enough.
Every open path turning quietly back toward the same man.
“I’m done trying tonight.”
Not forever. Not yet.
But tonight was enough to make his face soften.
Shanks came closer. This time, when his hand lifted, you did not flinch.
His fingers touched your cheek.
You hated the tear that slipped free before you could stop it. Shanks brushed it away with his thumb.
“I told you,” he whispered. “You don’t have to run from me.”
Your chest ached.
“I was running from what happens if I stop.”
The smile faded.
Then he drew you in.
Slowly.
Your forehead touched his chest first. His arm came around you, firm and warm, holding you against him.
The fight went out of you all at once.
Not because you forgave him.
Because you were tired.
Shanks lowered his mouth to your hair.
“I have you,” he whispered.
You shut your eyes.
His hand moved slowly up your back. For a moment, he only held you.
Then his fingers slid into your hair and closed into his palm.
You gasped as he pulled your head back hard enough to hurt.
His mouth was beside your ear now, his voice low and stripped of every gentle thing he had been pretending to offer.
“But if you run from me again, sweetheart, I’ll stop letting you pretend this is anything else.”
You went still against him.
He did not loosen his grip.
“You think you’re a prisoner?” he bit out. “Try me again, and I’ll make sure you understand the difference.”
Your pulse tripped hard.
For one second, all you could feel was his hand in your hair and the steady force of his body holding yours in place.
Then his grip eased.
Slowly.
Carefully.
His mouth touched the side of your neck, soft now. Almost apologetic.
“I don’t want that for you,” he said against your skin.
Another kiss brushed into your hair.
“I want you here.”
That was the worst part.
You believed him.
In the morning, no one mentioned the bag.
Lucky saved you a seat at breakfast. Yasopp slid the honey toward you without looking. Evie glanced at you once and said nothing at all.
Beckman smoked near the rail, his gaze on the horizon, Evie tucked in beside him.
Shanks sat at your side, warm and easy, his knee touching yours beneath the table.
No one called you prisoner.
No one called you guest.
And this time, when Shanks reached for your hand, you let him take it.
The Red Force moved beneath you, steady as a heartbeat. You understood then that the ship had never been waiting for you to stop fighting.
A/N: This should be read after Chapter 16 of Blood of the Holy Land. Or it won’t make sense.
Sommers appeared beside him before the first course.
“Commander.”
Shamrock did not look at him immediately.
Across the pavilion, you had been seated beside Saint Pelham. Harlan looked pleased with the arrangement. Pelham looked like every acceptable son of a respectable house: polished, harmless, and insufficient.
You looked as if you were considering whether the table knife was sharp enough to change the evening.
“Sommers,” Shamrock said.
Saint Shepherd Sommers followed his gaze. His smile appeared slowly.
“So this is the tavern girl.”
Shamrock’s expression did not change.
Sommers studied you over the rim of his glass, openly curious. “She is very beautiful. I see the appeal.”
“Yes.”
A small answer.
His smile sharpened. “The future Lady Figarland.”
Shamrock turned his head slightly.
Sommers’s gaze remained on you. “Come now, Commander. You have been very patient these last four months. Men do not develop patience without wanting something badly enough to wait for it.”
At your table, Pelham leaned closer and said something. Your expression sharpened for half a second before smoothing into courtesy.
Sommers gave a soft laugh. “And there it is. Teeth under silk.”
“Careful,” Shamrock said.
Sommers looked delighted by the warning. “I did not say I disliked it.”
A servant passed with wine. Sommers took a fresh glass and let the silence sit between them for a moment.
“You could have had her placed in your house the week you brought her back,” Sommers said. “Ruined every suitor before the first invitation arrived.”
Shamrock watched you lift your water glass.
“I could have.”
“But you did not.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Shamrock’s eyes stayed on you.
Because taking you too soon would have made you fight the wrong enemy.
Because forcing your father’s hand before Mary Geoise had begun watching you would have made you look like an indulgence instead of a choice.
Because a woman taken from a tavern and hidden inside House Figarland would be a weakness.
A woman desired, pursued, and then chosen in front of every old family in the Holy Land would be harder to dismiss.
Shamrock said only, “Certainty requires preparation.”
Sommers’s smile widened. “How romantic.”
“How efficient.”
“Is that what you call it?”
“It is what it is.”
Across the pavilion, Pelham was speaking again. Harlan’s eyes moved toward you with quiet approval, as if the evening were unfolding according to his design.
Shamrock found that almost amusing.
Almost.
Sommers noticed the glance. “Veroux thinks this is his table.”
“Let him.”
“And Pelham?”
Shamrock looked at the man seated beside you.
Pelham was not cruel. That was the problem. Cruelty might have offended you enough to be useful.
“Pelham will withdraw.”
Sommers tilted his head. “Will he?”
“Yes.”
“How wise of him.”
“He does not know it yet.”
That pleased Sommers.
“What am I allowed to break?” he asked.
“Nothing visible.”
“A pity.”
“No rumor about her,” Shamrock said.
Sommers’s eyes flicked back to him.
There was the line.
Small. Clean. Deliberate.
Sommers had been waiting to see where it was.
“And Pelham?”
“Whatever defect in his own position persuades him to leave.”
Sommers considered that. “Debt. Family embarrassment. Political inconvenience. Cowardice.”
“Choose the quietest.”
“You ask ugly work and deny me artistry.”
“I ask discretion.”
“That is rarely as satisfying.”
“I am not interested in your satisfaction.”
Sommers laughed softly. Then his gaze returned to you.
You had said something to Pelham. Whatever it was made him blink, then recover with an earnest smile.
Sommers’s mouth curved. “She is wasted on him.”
“Yes.”
This time, Shamrock did not bother making the answer smaller.
Sommers looked at him from the corner of his eye.
“Understood, Commander.”
He moved away without going directly to Pelham. He was smarter than that. First he paused beside a servant, murmured something that made the young man go pale, and spilled a dark line of wine across the tray.
A private cruelty.
A warm-up.
Then, several minutes later, when Pelham excused himself from your side, Sommers intercepted him near the marble column.
The exchange was brief.
Pelham’s face changed.
Confusion.
Offense.
Calculation.
Fear, carefully hidden.
His eyes flicked once across the pavilion.
To Shamrock.
Shamrock was speaking with Gunko by then and did not look back.
He did not need to.
Pelham returned to the table soon after, pale beneath his manners. He bowed to your father, to Lady Marise, then to you.
He left without finishing his wine.
Only then did Shamrock look across the pavilion.
You were already looking at him.
Your face was calm.
Your eyes were furious.
You knew enough.
Sommers passed behind him a few minutes later, glass in hand.
“Pelham has discovered reservations,” he said.
“How fortunate.”
“For whom?”
Shamrock watched you sit beside the empty chair, spine straight, anger bright beneath all that silk.
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Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Chapter 16: A Holy Dinner
The first time Commander Figarland visited after “clarifying the nature of his attention”, you were ready for him.
Practically, socially, and with the full force of every lesson Madam Solenne had dragged you through for months.
He arrived at noon.
You received him in the small blue sitting room. Lila stood near the tea service with her hands folded and her face arranged into perfect calm.
A mistake.
You knew her too well.
Her left eye had already twitched twice.
Shamrock entered in uniform, red hair falling neatly over one shoulder, expression composed in that deeply irritating way of his.
You rose.
Not too quickly. Not too slowly.
Exactly as Madam Solenne had taught you.
“Commander Figarland,” you said, dipping into a flawless curtsy.
His eyes narrowed by a fraction.
Good.
“Lady Veroux.”
“Thank you for your visit.”
You gestured toward the chair opposite yours. Not the comfortable one. There were no comfortable chairs in that room, but this one was especially committed to the principle.
“Please, sit.”
Shamrock looked at the chair.
Then at you.
Then sat.
You lowered yourself only after he had settled, ankles together, spine straight, hands placed neatly in your lap.
Lila turned toward the tea table.
Very slowly.
Coward.
“I hope your morning has been pleasant,” you said.
Shamrock studied you.
“It has been productive.”
“How fortunate.”
A pause.
You smiled politely.
His gaze moved over your face. “You are in a strange mood.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I intended to be gracious.”
Lila’s shoulders moved once.
Barely.
“You succeeded,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“That was not praise.”
You inclined your head. “Then I accept it with the humility it deserves.”
Lila reached for the teapot. It touched the saucer with the smallest sound.
You did not look at her. If you looked at her, this entire campaign would fail.
Shamrock leaned back slightly. “You are angry.”
“A lady does not display temper before guests.”
“You have never cared about that before.”
“I have been improving.”
His eyes sharpened.
There it was.
The first clear sign that he understood.
You lifted your cup. “Tea?”
“No.”
“How wise. It is terrible.”
Lila made a sound.
Not a laugh. Not quite.
A very wounded breath.
You set your cup down with perfect care.
Shamrock’s attention moved briefly to Lila, then back to you. “Should she leave?”
“No,” you said. “A private conversation with an unmarried lady requires proper supervision.”
His expression did not change. That was almost impressive.
“You did not care about that three days ago,” he said.
“I was less educated three days ago.”
“You are doing this on purpose.”
You blinked at him.
Slowly.
Properly.
“Doing what, Commander?”
“Behaving.”
You smiled.
Madam Solenne herself could not have found fault with it.
“How unfortunate,” you said. “I was told it was desirable.”
For one moment, Shamrock said nothing. The silence should have felt like victory.
It did, actually. A small one.
You took another sip of tea.
It truly was terrible.
Shamrock said, “You think this punishes me.”
“I would never presume to punish a guest.”
“No. You would make him drink bad tea and call it hospitality.”
Lila turned sharply toward the window.
You kept your eyes on Shamrock.
“I offered. You refused.”
“Because I am not foolish.”
“No, of course not, Commander.”
Your smile deepened by exactly the amount allowed in polite company.
He hated this.
Because you were giving him every correct answer, every graceful pause, every polished courtesy Mary Geoise had beaten into you, and none of the woman he had come to see.
The realization settled warm and sharp beneath your ribs.
You set your cup down.
“Commander,” you said, voice soft with perfect manners, “are you displeased?”
“No.”
“Truly?”
He did not look away.
“Yes.”
You nodded once. “How reassuring.”
He leaned forward slightly. “Lady Veroux.”
The way he said it nearly cracked your composure.
You folded your hands again.
“Yes, Commander?”
His gaze dropped to them.
To the careful placement.
Then back to your face.
“You are very proud of yourself.”
“I am very proud of Madam Solenne,” you said. “Her lessons have clearly been effective.”
Lila made another sound. This time she disguised it as a cough.
Shamrock did not look away from you. “Effective is one word.”
“What word would you use?”
“Wasteful.”
You tilted your head.
Perfectly.
“I thought men of Mary Geoise preferred women obedient, composed, quiet, and properly arranged.”
“They do.”
“And you?”
His expression changed by almost nothing.
But you saw it.
You smiled then.
Not politely this time.
Only enough for him to see the teeth beneath it.
“Oh,” you said softly. “You don’t.”
—————————
The invitation arrived the next day.
You sat near the window with a book open in your lap. Lady Marise lowered the card.
“We have been invited to the Holy Knight honors dinner.”
You looked up.
“The what?”
“The Holy Knight honors dinner,” she repeated. “A private annual event. Select families only.”
You cleared your throat. “How distinguished.”
“It is extremely distinguished,” she said.
Naturally, that was worse.
She crossed the room and set the invitation on the table beside you. Thick cream card. Red seal. Formal lettering.
Your gaze moved over the names. You did not reach for the invitation.
Lady Marise noticed.
“You will not treat this lightly.”
“I was treating it heavily. That was the problem.”
“Your father expects you to behave accordingly. Saint Pelham will join our party,” she said.
You blinked.
“Saint Pelham?”
“His family remains interested.”
Mary Geoise had many faults, but its talent for making a person feel like meat placed between two knives was unmatched.
Lady Marise seemed to take your silence for acceptance.
The dinner was held one week later beneath a pavilion. White fabric rose in panels around columns wrapped in ribbon. Beyond the open sides, the gardens stretched under lantern lights.
The invited families arrived in controlled clusters. Not too many. Enough to make exclusion obvious.
Saint Pelham was handsome. Brown hair. Clear skin. Pleasant voice. A smile that did not offend. Nothing about him suggested cruelty.
Nothing about him suggested much of anything.
He bowed when you entered the pavilion. “Lady Veroux.”
“Saint Pelham.”
“I am honored to escort you this evening.”
“How kind,” you said.
His smile remained pleasant. “I hope the evening proves enjoyable.”
“I have hopes as well.”
You were seated beside him near the middle of one of the long tables. Your father and Lady Marise sat not far away. Across the pavilion, the Holy Knights gathered near the head table.
You recognized Shamrock immediately.
That irritated you.
He stood in formal dark uniform, red hair loose against his shoulders, speaking with a tall man whose orange hair fell in soft waves and whose expression made the room feel slightly less safe. Saint Shepherd Sommers, if you had matched the name correctly from Lady Marise’s rigid whisper on arrival.
Near them stood Gunko. Her face turned once toward the gathering crowd. Archibald Conrad Digby stood a few paces behind her.
Beside the head table, Saint Rimoshifu Killingham was speaking to an older noble. He laughed once, the sound carrying just enough to remind everyone that laughter could still belong to dangerous men.
Saint Pelham leaned closer. “An impressive gathering.”
“Yes.”
“House Veroux is fortunate to have been included.”
There it was again.
Fortunate.
You picked up your water glass. “So I’ve been told.”
“It reflects well on your father.”
“I imagine he thinks so.”
Pelham smiled faintly. “And on you.”
You looked at him.
He held your gaze with careful composure. “Commander Figarland’s attention has made several houses reconsider their assumptions.”
“How useful of me.”
“I did not mean—”
“No,” you said. “People rarely do.”
A pause.
Pelham recovered well. You would give him that.
“What I mean,” he said, “is that your position has become more complex.”
“My position has been doing acrobatics for months.”
“I can offer stability.”
You stared at him.
“I see.”
“My family is respected. My household is orderly. I would not expect you to spend your life performing for half of Mary Geoise.”
“How restful.”
He seemed encouraged by that.
Unfortunate.
“A wife should have dignity in her own house,” he said. “Children, naturally, create some disruption, but that is expected.”
“Naturally.”
“I would want several. Three sons, ideally. Daughters as well, if fortune allows.”
You set your glass down very carefully.
“Do they come assigned by number, or do you have to request them individually?”
Pelham blinked. Then smiled because he had decided you were joking.
A mistake, but a polite one.
“I only mean that a proper household requires continuity.”
“And I look continuous.”
“You look capable of adapting.”
That was not the worst compliment you had received in Mary Geoise.
It still made you want to leave the table.
You glanced across the pavilion. Shamrock was looking at you.
You hated that your body recognized him before your anger decided what to do.
He looked away first, turning back to Sommers.
Dinner began.
There were speeches. Brief ones, thankfully.
When Shamrock stood to answer on behalf of the order, the pavilion changed before he said a word.
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
“The Holy Knights serve the peace of the Holy Land,” Shamrock said. “Peace requires order. Order requires certainty. We remain certain.”
That was all.
No flourish. No warmth.
Applause followed anyway.
You looked down at your plate.
Saint Pelham leaned closer. “Commander Figarland retrieved you?”
The knife paused.
Only briefly.
Pelham noticed.
To his credit, he looked immediately regretful. “Forgive me. I spoke carelessly.”
That was new.
An apology before blood.
Progress.
You resumed cutting. “Many people do.”
“I will try not to be one of them.”
That almost made you like him. Then he added, “A wife should not have to correct her husband in public.”
There it went.
You took a bite of fish.
It was excellent.
Irritatingly.
The evening stretched.
Pelham spoke of estates. The advantages of steady alliances. The importance of avoiding unnecessary scandal. He was not cruel. He was not vulgar. He was, by every standard Mary Geoise valued, suitable.
You felt nothing.
Not even enough irritation to make the conversation interesting.
Sommers had begun moving through the gathering with a glass in one hand and a practiced smile. You saw him pause beside a young footman carrying a tray of wine.
The footman had done nothing wrong that you could see.
Sommers said something too low to hear.
The young man went pale.
A few nearby guests pretended not to notice.
Sommers tipped his glass slightly, spilling a dark line of wine across the tray and onto the footman’s white glove.
The servant froze.
Sommers smiled.
Not broadly.
Not enough to cause a scene.
Only enough to make the humiliation private and unmistakable.
The footman bowed his head and retreated.
Your hand tightened around your fork.
Sommers looked toward your table.
His eyes found Pelham first. Then you.
His smile remained.
A few minutes later, as the next course was being cleared, Pelham excused himself.
“Forgive me,” he said, setting his napkin beside his plate. “I will return shortly.”
You nodded because there was nothing else to do.
He walked toward the edge of the pavilion. He had barely reached the shadow of one marble column when Sommers intercepted him.
Not abruptly.
That would have drawn attention.
Sommers touched Pelham’s shoulder with two fingers, almost friendly.
Pelham stopped.
You were too far away to hear what Sommers said when he bent slightly toward him.
You did not need to.
Pelham’s face changed by degrees.
Pleasant composure first.
Then confusion.
Then understanding.
Then something closer to fear, carefully dressed.
His eyes flicked once across the pavilion.
Not to you.
To Shamrock.
Shamrock was speaking with Gunko and did not look back.
That was what made you certain.
Sommers straightened.
He smiled at Pelham as if they had exchanged a harmless social note, then moved away without looking at you again.
Pelham remained near the column for perhaps ten seconds. Then he returned to the table.
His face had settled into politeness so quickly it almost held.
“Forgive me,” he said again.
You looked up at him.
“I am needed elsewhere.”
“During dinner?”
“A family matter.”
“Your family is here.”
His mouth tightened.
“Another matter.”
For one moment, you saw it clearly. He was not cruel. He was not brave either.
Whatever Sommers had said had been enough.
Saint Pelham bowed to your father. Then to Lady Marise. Then to you.
He left without touching your hand or finishing his wine. You watched him go.
Your father’s face did not change, but his fingers tightened once around his glass.
Lady Marise looked toward Shamrock.
So did you.
He was still speaking with Gunko.
Still not looking at you.
You hated him so much in that moment that the feeling almost steadied you.
The rest of the dinner continued as if nothing had happened. That was Mary Geoise’s greatest talent.
Men vanished from tables. Servants were humiliated. Prospects collapsed. And still the next course arrived hot.
You smiled when spoken to.
You answered when required.
You did not look at Shamrock again.
When the dinner finally concluded, guests rose in elegant disorder.
Your father was speaking with another noble.
Lady Marise had been detained by an older woman with diamonds at her throat.
Shamrock stepped away from the head table and moved toward the garden path beyond the pavilion.
Alone.
Convenient.
Infuriating.
You followed before judgment could catch up.
The path was lit by low lanterns set along the hedge line.
Shamrock stopped before you spoke, as if he had known you would come.
Naturally.
You hated that too.
“Lady Veroux,” he said.
You stopped several feet away. “How generous of you to clarify my prospects for me.”
He looked back at you.
No guilt. No useful human expression whatsoever.
“You were not considering him.”
The answer came too quickly.
Your anger sharpened.
“That was mine to decide.”
“Yes.”
He did not argue. That made it worse.
“You had him removed.”
“I had nothing removed.”
“Do not play with words.”
“I am not.”
“You sent Saint Sommers to speak to him.”
“Saint Sommers often speaks to people.”
“He is unpleasant when he does it.”
“Yes.”
You stared at him.
“That is your defense?”
“No.”
“At least you understand the weakness of it.”
His gaze moved over your face.
Slow. Controlled.
Possessive enough to make your skin heat and your temper worsen.
“If a man leaves because Shepherd Sommers spoke to him once,” Shamrock said, “he was never a choice.”
You hated how steady he was.
“You are exactly like them,” you said.
His expression did not change.
“You see something useful, and you reach before anyone else does.”
“I did not reach.”
“No,” you said. “You pointed.”
Shamrock stepped closer. “I do not intend to keep watching lesser men circle you while I wait politely.”
Your breath caught.
Fury came first.
Then heat.
Then fury again, because heat had no business arriving.
You lifted your chin. “I thought you preferred proper behavior.”
“Not from you.”
His eyes held yours.
“I have given you time to get used to my interest,” he said. “I can stop waiting whenever I choose.”
Your mouth closed. The sheer arrogance of it stole language.
Shamrock watched you lose it. Then, very faintly, his expression shifted.
Amusement. There and gone.
You hated him.
You wanted to step closer.
Both facts occupied the same breath.
“I look forward to seeing you again soon,” he said.
Your fingers twitched toward the nearest lantern.
Too small to throw effectively.
A pity.
“I hope you enjoy your victory.”
“I rarely take one I do not intend to enjoy.”
Your eyes narrowed.
“Good night, Commander.”
You turned before he could see too much of your face.
“Lady Veroux.”
Then you kept walking, angrier because he was right, and far angrier because he knew it.
Plot: A tavern waitress with roots in nobility is taken into the polished brutality of Mary Geoise. Saint Shamrock Figarland is tasked with retrieving you. How unfortunate for him.
Read on AO3
Chapter 15: Every Offer Has a Flaw
A week after Lady Rosward’s evening, the dance had become unavoidable.
Not to you.
You had done an admirable job avoiding it.
Mostly.
Mary Geoise had not.
Mary Geoise had taken one dance and fed on it for seven days.
By the third morning, Lila had heard two maids whispering in the east corridor.
By the fourth, Lucien had asked at breakfast whether Commander Figarland intended to marry you or simply ruin breakfast by making everyone discuss it.
Adrien did not look up from his plate. “If he intends to marry her, you may want to practice sounding less entertained.”
Lucien frowned. “Why?”
“Because then she becomes more important than you.”
You looked at Adrien. He calmly reached for his cup.
Lucien looked offended.
For once, you did not.
By the seventh, your father summoned you to his study.
That was never good.
Lila was pinning your hair when the message arrived. Her fingers paused only once before continuing.
“Should I ask?” she said.
“No.”
“Do you know what it is about?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will not ask.”
“Good.”
A beat passed.
Then she said, “Is it about Commander Figarland?”
You met her eyes in the mirror.
“I thought you were not asking,” you said.
“I weakened.”
“Unfortunate.”
“It happens.”
You looked away first.
The woman in the mirror wore ivory and pearl buttons.
You stood, smoothed the front of the dress, and tried very hard not to think of Shamrock Figarland.
Then you walked to your father’s study and found him already there.
Annoying.
Shamrock stood near the window. Lady Marise was near the side table.
Your father spoke. “Daughter.”
“Father,” you said.
The steward closed the door behind you.
Your father gestured toward the chair before his desk. “Sit.”
You sat because standing while all three of them watched you felt too much like being arranged for display.
Sitting was not better.
But it gave your hands somewhere to go.
Saint Harlan leaned back in his chair. “Commander Figarland has been clarifying the nature of his attention.”
Your body went very still.
Oh no.
Slowly, you turned your head toward Shamrock.
He looked back at you.
Calm.
Controlled.
Completely unhelpful.
“The nature of his attention,” you repeated.
“Yes,” your father said. The satisfaction in his voice was faint.
But you heard it.
Lady Marise heard it too.
So did Shamrock.
Your stomach tightened.
You had been discussed.
By men.
Again.
In a room where your future sat between them like a document waiting for signatures.
Saint Harlan steepled his fingers. “Commander Figarland’s interest is a considerable honor.”
Your eyes stayed on Shamrock. He did not look away.
“Is it?” you asked.
Your father’s expression cooled. “You will remember who you are speaking to.”
You stood.
All three looked at you.
“I assume I have heard enough to be dismissed.”
Lady Marise’s lips parted.
Your father’s gaze hardened.
“You have not been dismissed.”
“No,” you said. “But I am beginning to feel decorative.”
The silence went sharp.
Shamrock’s eyes moved over your face. For the first time since you entered, something almost like warning crossed his expression.
You looked at your father. “May I go?” The words were polite. Barely.
Saint Harlan watched you for a long moment. Then he looked at Shamrock.
“Commander, I will have the steward see you out.”
“I can do it,” you said.
You smiled.
It felt terrible.
“I know the way to the door.”
Shamrock inclined his head slightly. “That is acceptable.”
Acceptable.
You were going to kill him.
Not here.
Later.
Possibly with the ivory dress.
Your father’s eyes moved between you. “Very well,” he said.
The dismissal had finally arrived. You turned before anyone could change their mind.
Shamrock followed.
The hall outside was empty except for two servants.
You stopped so abruptly that Shamrock nearly reached your shoulder before halting behind you.
“You are unbelievable.”
“That is not the usual complaint.”
“Right. Usually there’s swooning first.”
His mouth moved faintly.
Bad time.
Terrible time.
You hated that you noticed anyway.
“This is not funny,” you said.
“No.”
“You are supposed to be different from them.” The words came out before you meant to give them that much truth.
For the first time, Shamrock did not answer immediately.
The silence irritated you.
It also frightened you a little.
His eyes moved over your face, slower now.
“I never told you I was different,” he said.
“No. You just keep acting like you are when it suits you.”
“You are wasting time with men who cannot hold your attention.”
The words struck harder than they should have.
Because they were true.
Because every man your father had brought before you had blurred into houses, polished manners, and empty smiles.
Shamrock had not blurred once.
“That is very arrogant,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You should be ashamed.”
“No.”
“Try.”
“I would disappoint you.”
“You already have.” You held his gaze. “You should have spoken to me first.”
“Yes.”
The answer was too plain.
Your anger stumbled.
You hated that.
“That is not an apology,” you said.
“No.”
“Do you have those?”
“Rarely.”
“That explains several things.”
Shamrock's gaze shifted past your shoulder, toward the closed study door.
“Your father is considering three other offers.”
Your body went still.
“What?”
“One from Saint Pelham. One from a younger son of House Tarlowe. One informal inquiry from Saint Ursen’s mother.”
You stared at him.
There it was. Not softness. Not romance.
Strategy.
“So that is what this is?” you said. “You danced with me once and decided to put your name in before someone else could?”
“Yes.”
Your face warmed.
Not only from anger.
That made it worse.
“How flattering,” you said. “I had hoped to be considered a woman, but meat at the market has its charms.”
His expression sharpened.
“That is not what I meant.”
“It rarely is.”
You stared at him.
Then something cold and useful settled in your chest.
“Every offer has a flaw,” you said.
His face changed by almost nothing.
“You remember.”
“You taught me.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me, Commander.” You stepped closer before you could think better of it. “What is yours?”
For a moment, Shamrock only looked at you.
Then he said, “Me.”
Your breath caught.
“What?”
“When I decide I want something,” he said, “I am difficult to dissuade.”
Your pulse jumped.
He did not look away.
“That sounds like a warning,” you said.
He stepped closer, forcing you to tip your chin higher to keep his eyes.
His gaze dropped once to your mouth.
Not by accident.
Then returned to your eyes.
“It is, for anyone who assumes I will lose interest before I have what I want.”
Two servants turned the far corner.
You stepped back before anyone could see how close you had let him get.
“You are very difficult to hate properly,” you said.
“Good.”
He said it without looking away.
Your breath caught.
The servants passed, heads lowered. Neither of you spoke until they were gone.
Then you pointed toward the front hall. “The door is that way.”
“I know.”
“Then use it.”
He inclined his head. “Lady Veroux.”
“Commander.”
You stepped aside.
He walked past you.
At the door, he paused only long enough for the steward to open it.
Then he was gone.
You stood in the hallway, hands still curled at your sides, your dress suddenly too tight around your ribs.
Lila appeared from a side corridor several moments later.
She took one look at your face.
“Do I want to know?” she asked.
“No.”
“Do you want tea?”
“No.”
A pause.
“Coffee?”
You closed your eyes.
“Yes.”
“Good,” Lila said. “That sounded serious.”
You looked toward the closed front door.
Your father wanted advantage.
Lady Marise wanted repair.
Mary Geoise wanted gossip.
And Shamrock Figarland, apparently, wanted to be considered.
You pressed your fingers to your aching temple.
“Make it strong.”
Lila nodded.
“Very strong.”
You did not move for another moment.
Because somewhere between rage and heat and humiliation, one thought had settled where you could not remove it.
You were wasting time with men who could not hold your attention.
