🪽

“This is all of them?” Bev nods as she hands the richly dressed lawyer the thick stack of NDA’s. Your eyes narrow on your own, right on top with your messy signature.

Getting into the sprawling estate had been hell. The owners, some jagoffs by the name of Danforth, didn’t want the help being seen by their guests. The catering vans had to circle the mile-long driveway and backroads before Bev finally found the back entrance. And then, because of that tedious delay, you’d all had to rush the food into the mansion. 

One of you accidentally dropped a tray of some French shit you couldn’t pronounce. That had cost Bev an extra half hour as the head of staff for the estate berated her. You could still see how red her cheeks had gotten while she tried not to cry. 

You’ve barely been here an hour and already your hatred for the rich is deepening. 

A stout woman in a classic maid’s outfit walks up and down the long line of Bev’s caterers. She holds herself with the severity and posture of a military man. You’re afraid that if a hair slips out of place, she’ll make you drop and give her twenty. She comes to a sudden stop in front of you and you instinctively straighten, spine groaning as you force it into a better posture than you’ve had in a year. 

Her eyes narrow before she lets out a low huff. “Send ten out with the champagne,” she barks out an order and you hold your hand out instinctively for your tray. Bev gives the go-ahead to her assistants and they begin loading you all up with champagne worth more than your shitty apartment. 

Before you can finally escape the kitchen, the older woman stops you. “Watch yourself,” she warns. Your brows furrow in confusion but she’s already walking away, tugging at another girl’s skirt until the hem sits right. That didn’t seem like a warning that meant ‘don’t get smart with the guests.’ It felt more like you should have left before you even set foot in this dreary mansion. 

With no other choice, you shuffle in line with the others and follow the leader out the swinging kitchen door. The noise is immediate as you’re led into a large drawing room. Low chatter and rich laughter that makes your wallet quake. Women’s 4-carat diamond rings clink against champagne flutes, Rolexes flash as men sip their brandy. Each pass through the room makes you wish you had the skills to slip a ring or necklace off an unsuspecting socialite. 

You’re forced to dismiss the thought as a man whistles, snapping his fingers and motioning you closer. Your eye twitches as you bite back something rude; instead, you force a polite smile on your face, making your way over. “Took you long enough,” he gripes, rolling his eyes. 

You offer a short laugh and your smile tightens. “Did you need something, sir?” Your tray is empty, clearly tucked behind your back. Five extra seconds of patience and you would have been refilled. But you doubt anyone in this room has ever had to wait for something. 

“Yes,” he stares at you as if you’d grown a second head. “Champagne,” he drawls in a tone that actively makes you wish for a gun. 

You blink a few times, struggling to comprehend how someone could be so confidently stupid. “Apologies, sir, my tray’s empty. But the bar is just over there,” you point toward the bartender, who is quite literally five feet from the man. 

His perfectly maintained eyebrows draw in at your audacity. “Good, you have eyes. Go get me some.”

Tomorrow, you would congratulate yourself on such phenomenal self-restraint. Tonight, however, you bite your lip hard enough to hurt and force yourself to go grab some champagne. 

When you swipe the flute from the bar, it takes everything inside you not to spit in the bastard’s drink. “Here you are, sir,” you force a jovial tone to your voice. He rolls his eyes. Those thirty seconds you took must have felt like a lifetime to the poor thing. 

He waves his hand in dismissal and you can’t help the astonished scoff that leaves you. Shaking your head, you’re about to turn away when you catch him fiddling with the ring on his pinky. You might as well already be gone for all the care he pays you as you linger behind him. 

His ring pops open to reveal a compartment inside. You frown as he sprinkles powder from his ring into the drink. With a low sigh, he readjusts his tie and makes a beeline for the blonde in the center of the room.

The domineering presence that has commanded the party thus far. You’re quite certain she’s the one who hired Bev, with how easily she dismisses and beckons forth those around her, like an owner calling their dog to heel. 

The man you’d just served sidles up to her, a smarmy grin on his face as he holds out the champagne. With a low sigh, you shake your head and rush forward. The rich might all behave like a bunch of well-dressed bottom feeders, but you’re not about to allow a woman to be roofied at her own party. 

You jog up to the woman and reach out. She startles at your touch. There’s a man at her side you hadn’t noticed before. He’s on the shorter side, with salt-and-pepper curls and a tight jaw that looks like it's been itching to bite at someone all night. “You’re touching me,” she drawls and you jerk your hand back. 

Her lips curl with disgust, as if you got your poor on her. Clearing your throat uncomfortably, you glance over at the man you just served. His eyes narrow, but you don’t think he even paid enough attention to you to remember your face. 

“Excuse me, ma’am, but you’re not supposed to drink that.” You gesture toward the champagne and she pulls it back from you. 

“Good help’s hard to find these days, isn’t it?” The man laughs, eyes narrowing at you as he tries to remember how he knows your face. Jesus, these people are inhuman. 

“And why shouldn’t I drink my champagne in my home?” she demands, cutting her eyes to the man at her side. They both share a suspicious look that has you clamping up. 

“Um, well-”

“Alright,” the man at her side finally steps forward, hands outstretched like he’s about to escort you out. You’d really rather not find out how these people dispose of ‘bad’ help.

“He put something in it,” you rush out, narrowly dodging her guard dog’s hands. They both pause and the blonde brings the drink to her nose. She takes a deep whiff while the blonde man across from her goes colorless. 

She lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. “Really, Brentley? Poison is a woman’s game; you should know better.”

Your eyes dart between the pair of them. She’s taking this a lot better than you would have. The shorter man redirects himself to the other man, ignoring you now. All three of them seem to have forgotten you were there. They began to act as if she were the one to make the discovery, icing you out of the conversation. 

It’s a blessing, you think. She seemed ready to cut off your hands for getting poverty on her silk dress. Slowly, you back away from the trio. When you’re sure no one’s paying attention, you make a beeline for the kitchen. One attempted poisoning is more than enough excitement for the night. 

Bev is surrounded by a cyclone of pans, cutlery, and splashing red sauces. Her white coat is absolutely covered in stains, and the stout woman from before is yelling at her for burning some hors d'oeuvres. You’re a horrible person for leaving her high and dry, but you need to get out of here before you discover something so bad that not even an NDA can shut you up. 

You drop your tray by the kitchen door and rip off your apron, making a run for it before anyone can spot you. If Bev asks, you’ll tell her you got sick and had to leave. She probably won’t believe you, but you doubt she’s paying much attention to who’s missing right now. 

Slipping outside, you tug out your phone. You’ll need to get an Uber out of here; the estate is over an hour out of the city. Like hell you’ll be able to make the walk in the heels they required you to wear. 

Trying to open up Uber, you frown, no bars. Great, in this sprawling billion-dollar estate, they couldn’t shell out some extra cash for a cell phone tower or something. Grumbling, you lift your phone to the sky, trying to see if you can catch a signal. You don’t pay much attention to where you go, just walking until you get enough of a connection to call a ride. 

After a few minutes, you find yourself outside of some strange shed. A bar comes to life and you let out a low noise of excitement, quickly ordering a ride. An odd noise to your right catches your attention and you shift your focus back to the shed. 

It’s wet, this noise, squishing as someone lets out a low groan. Your nose wrinkles, disgust brewing hot in your stomach as you risk a step closer to the door. Through the wooden slats, you can make out the form of a hunched man. Another low grunt and he lifts his arm, the metallic shine of a butcher’s knife catching in the dim light. You clamp your hand over your mouth, swallowing back your gasp as he slams the knife down. 

A painful squelch and then you hear the pitiful sound of an animal breathing its last breath. Are they preparing the meat for dinner now? You ask yourself. How odd, even for the rich. 

Tilting your head, curiosity overrides sense as you press closer to the wood of the shed. The man straightens and you recognize the greying auburn curls from inside the estate. This had been the little guard dog standing next to that blonde woman you’d helped. He lets out a low grunt and wipes his hands on his apron, stepping to the side. 

There’s no stopping the sharp gasp that rips through you. It wasn’t an animal he was butchering. No, it was the man who’d tried to poison the woman. His mangled body was crumpled on the floor, blood swirling down a drain in the center of the shed. His fingers twitched with the last bits of life as his body began to cool. 

You stumbled back from the shed with burning eyes, stomach turning as you tripped over yourself. 

“What are you doing out here?”

You whipped around with a gasp, barely stopping yourself from screaming. The blonde woman stood behind you, hands propped on her hips as she scrutinized your form. The shed door creaked open behind you and you went still, already feeling a predator's gaze boring into your back. 

“I was looking for a signal,” you whisper, holding up your phone. 

“Did you find it?” The man calls from behind you. You’re too terrified to turn. You can’t face a murderer, not with the body of his victim still cooling behind him. 

“Yeah,” you squeak out, nails biting into your palm as your eyes desperately search for a way out of this. 

The blonde’s head tilts and she offers a sharp smile. “You’re the maid that told me about Brentely.” Oh, of course, now they can remember a face.

“Mhm,” you hum, throat so tight you can hardly breathe. 

Her eyes narrow for a split second before she waves you off. “Run along, little rabbit.” You hesitate and she tilts her head, almost daring you to disobey. It takes a second longer before you’re booking it back toward the main section of the estate. 

“You’re just letting her leave?” The man hisses. 

“I know what she looks like, now. Besides, she did sign an NDA,” she mutters, leading him back into the shed. 

That should have been the end of it. After all, you did sign an NDA. And without much knowledge of the legal process, you just assume that you can’t tell another living soul what you witnessed. It’s not like you’re actively looking to snitch, either. The guy had clearly been a scumbag and those people were far more powerful than the justice system. 

You’d looked them up after you’d gotten home. Trying to place where you’d seen them before. Titus and Ursula Danforth, the siblings who’d hired Bev. People who could bury you if you ever tried to report them. You knew you weren’t influential enough to pose a threat to them. And you know that they understood that, too. 

So why the hell were you being followed?

Every night when you’d get home, a black town car would be parked outside your apartment. Too clean, too new, too rich for your neighborhood. You’d see it throughout the day as you went grocery shopping, as you applied for new jobs, everywhere. Those tinted windows prevented you from seeing just who was trailing you. But you knew who’d sent them. 

You were nothing to the Danforths. An insignificant little bug who’d just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why would they waste so much time on you?

It didn’t make sense, and thinking too long about it made it harder to muster up the courage to leave the house. So, you tried to forget about them. You tried to forget about the town car parked across the street as you ran into the hardware store. But it was difficult to pretend it was a normal day when you turned the aisle and saw Titus Danforth standing at the other end. 

His hands were in his pockets as he observed the axes and picks with an upturned nose. Your eyes widened, and you caught yourself, trying to slowly back out of the aisle. But your stupid, cheap shoes squeaked against the linoleum, and his head snapped toward you. 

Your entire body froze under his empty stare. Those eyes, sharp as a blade and completely void of any emotion. It felt like staring down a shark, and you’d just chummed the waters. 

“You,” he muttered. 

You could try to make a run for it. You’d probably beat him to the door. But then what after that? He keeps following you, keeps having you tailed and you spend every waking second looking over your shoulder? Your life was shit enough already; you couldn’t give him so much power over it. 

“Mr. Danforth,” you greet. Titus felt too comfortable. Too familiar for the man stalking you. 

His head tilted at that, eyes flitting over your form as he appraised you. You’re sure he found you wanting for something. You were so far below him on the social ladder that you don’t even think there’s a rung for you to hold onto. 

He takes a step closer to you and it feels as if the air around you grows colder at his presence. You can’t bring yourself to meet him halfway, but you refuse to back down. Holding your ground, you eye him warily. 

“Have you been following me?” It’s posed as a question, but you can both hear the accusation in your tone. 

His eyes narrow, lips quirking slightly as he scoffs. “Do you think I have the time to follow everyone who sticks their nose in my business?”

“Clearly, you do.” It’s probably stupid to goad the man who could kill you right here and walk away scott free. But you’re not going to let him make you feel like you’re going crazy. “I don’t see any other reason you’d be somewhere like this,” you gesture toward the run-down store and his nose wrinkles. His disgust gives him away. 

“My sister thought it wise to let you go. You helped her; that was her returning the favor.”

“And you don’t agree?” He doesn’t have to say anything; his presence is enough of an answer. You risk a step closer, ignoring how his stare makes your hair stand on end. “You’ve been watching me, you know I haven’t done anything to earn your suspicion. I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

“Do you?” He prods, your brows furrow at the dig. 

“Sarcasm is a lot different than accusing someone of-” you stop yourself, biting your tongue before you blurt out what he’d done in the middle of the hardware store. 

His brows pique, seeming disappointed you hadn’t just proved yourself wrong. “If you didn’t think you could trust me, why’d you let me go that night?”

A spark of emotion, just the slightest bit of anger on his face, before his calm facade slips back in place. “It wasn’t my choice,” he grits out. You draw back, eyes narrowing. So, his sister calls the shots then. You wonder if she’s aware her dog has sprung his leash. 

“Look, I have enough to deal with without you making my life hell. Frankly, you’re not worth the fucking trouble it would take to report you. Just… let me be, please.”

He’s silent for a moment and you don’t know how to take that. When it gets to be too uncomfortable, you start to walk away. “You’re bold for someone who’d be so easy to erase.” 

Tensing up, you risk a glance over your shoulder, but he’s already gone. 

A few nights later, you find yourself standing outside a shitty bar. You’d spent the night making it up to Bev for ditching her by buying her cheap beer you could barely afford. Now, you’re staring down at what it would cost to order yourself a car. 

Bev had taken off with some guy she’d picked up, leaving you stranded. You rock back on your heels, bare legs growing colder the longer you stay still. “Fuck,” you hiss, shoving your phone in your purse. You wrap your jacket tighter around yourself and turn to make the trek home. 

It’s beyond stupid, walking home like this, buzzed and in skimpy bar clothes. But you don’t even have enough money in your bank to pay your water bill. Let alone afford a ride back to your apartment. 

It doesn’t take long to feel it. Your hair stands on end, gooseflesh pricks at your skin painfully. Someone’s watching you. Just behind you, just out of sight, their eyes are stuck on your back. It’s futile to try to shake off the feeling. There’s no getting rid of base instinct. You risk a glance over your shoulder and find no shadows lurking under the street lamps. 

That’s when you hear it. The sound of an engine starting. Bright headlights flood the street before you. Grimacing back from the light, you cup your hand over your eyes and glare at the car making such a scene. It shouldn’t surprise you to see the black town car, but you’re caught off guard nonetheless. 

“What the fuck?” you mutter, watching as it rolls to a stop beside you. The back window rolls down, hair that’s growing too familiar to you becomes visible. Jesus, he’s not even driving. Of course, he’s got a damn chauffeur. Why wouldn’t he?

You should honestly be concerned about the man following you. The one you’d just seen murder someone, not even a week ago. But you’re just relieved it's him and not some other freak following you. Better the evil you know…

The door doesn’t open, he doesn’t say anything, and there’s no invitation offered to get in. You’re not sure if he just wanted to taunt you with the heat you can feel wafting from the window or what. 

“Um, hi?” you mutter, still slightly buzzed. 

He lets out a sharp sigh, and then the door swings open. You leap back before it can bash into your knees, cheap heels tilting threateningly beneath you. “I don’t-”

“Get in,” his voice is short and leaves no room for questioning. Besides, you are desperate to be out of the cold. There should be far more of a fight put up, but you get into the car and close the door behind you. The driver pulls away from the curb immediately, seemingly desperate to be out of this shady neighborhood. 

You can’t exactly blame him. You hate when Bev drags you to this side of town. She always ends up ditching you by the end of the night. 

Just to have something to do, you plant your purse firmly in your lap, fiddling with the straps. You can see Titus out of the corner of your eye. His jaw is tense, as usual, gaze is fixed pointedly ahead. You’re afraid to speak. As if one wrong word might trigger him to attack. 

“Still following me, I see,” you mutter, fiddling with a string on your dress. 

He sucks in a sharp breath, and you straighten, waiting for him to bite. “Did you drag your heels from the bottom of a bargain bin?”

Your eyes widen and your head snaps toward him. “Excuse me?” But he’s not done. 

“And your dress is one thread away from being nothing more than a cheap scrap in a landfill.” Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You’re far too astonished by such a brutal callout of your accurately described bargain bin wardrobe. “So, why would you ever think it’s smart to walk through a neighborhood like that in shoes you can’t even run in?”

Rolling your eyes, you let out a sharp scoff. “Jesus, don’t try to white knight me after you’ve been stalking me for a week.” His gaze snaps toward you, and you shrug. “If it comes to it, I ditch the heels and run. I’ve been in tighter squeezes than a shady neighborhood and a cheap dress.”

Your answer seems to have pretty much the opposite effect of what you’d been hoping for as his nostrils flare and his shoulders stiffen. Thankfully, the driver’s pulling into your apartment complex. You’re about ready to throw open the door and roll out; you’ve escaped from worse dates with the same method before. 

“Your neighborhood’s disgusting,” he snipes, sniffing. 

You open the door and toss him a glare over your shoulder. “Then buy me a house, or stop following me,” you snap, slamming the door behind you. You almost wished he would actually shoot you. It’d be preferable to being followed by a domineering, judgmental shadow. 

When you open the door the next morning, instead of the paper, there’s a thick envelope on the mat. Bending over, you pick it up, honestly surprised one of your neighbors hadn’t snatched it yet. 

You’ve got one foot in your door and have barely opened the envelope before you're racing outside. You keep it tucked tight to your chest, heart racing as you storm down your stairs and to the town car parked expectantly outside. 

Rushing up, you rap your knuckles on the window, slippered foot tapping impatiently against the pavement. Slowly, the window rolls down, revealing Titus’ chauffeur, but no sign of the man himself. 

“Is he in there?” you demand, trying to get a look into the back seat. 

“No, ma’am, not today.”

Your brows furrow as your gaze snaps back to him. “He makes you come out here without him?”

The driver nods sagely, “In case you ever decide to swallow your pride and ask for a ride.” A sharp scoff escapes you and he offers a saccharine smile. “His words, ma’am.”

“Upptiy asshole,” you grumble. You pull the envelope away from your chest and flash it at him. The thick stack of hundreds inside dangles just beneath his nose. “What is this?”

His brows raise as he glances between you and the cash. “Money, I believe.”

You shoot him an unimpressed glare. “Yes, I’m aware of what money is. I want to know why it’s at my door.”

“I believe for a better pair of shoes, ma’am.”

Your lips part as your gaze drops back to the cash. Jesus, even his gift was insulting. And how much did he think a pair of shoes cost? This was two months of rent in your hand, not to mention every one of your overdue bills. 

“Yeah, well, it’s going to my water bill,” you grumble. “You can leave, I’m not going anywhere today. Nor am I ever taking his chauffeur.”

The older man simply smiles and shrugs. “I’ll be here if you need me, ma’am.” The window’s rolling back up before you can object. Thoroughly dismissed, you begin the awkward trek back up your stairs. What the hell does he even do in there all day? 

And why is Titus torturing his poor chauffeur and making him wait out there when he’s not even here?

You shake your head and grumble quietly to yourself. You never should have gone to that damn mansion. 

“Where’s Ralph?” Ursula stepped into Titus’ office with her typical demanding air. Having no care for what he’s been doing or the fact that he’s been trying to clean up her mess for the past week and a half. 

“With the girl,” he mutters, leafing through the paperwork on his desk. Ursula shakes her head, expression blank. Titus lets out a heavy sigh, “Brentley,” he reminds her. 

That had been a particularly satisfying kill. He’d been looking for ways to get rid of that pompous ass for a long time. And you’d just walked right up and handed it to him on your little silver tray. 

Ursula’s eyes narrow before recognition sparks in them. “I still don’t understand why he isn’t here,” she huffs. 

“Because I’m trying to make sure that your odd desire for mercy doesn’t go to the police.”

“Jesus, Titus, I want my driver back. Put her down if you have to.” Ursula throws her hands up with a huff and begins to storm out of his office. Titus pauses, imagines what it might be like to kill you. He’s unsure how he’d do it, now. You’re easy enough to get in a car. Maybe he’d drive you back to the estate, take you to the shed where he’d slaughtered Brentley. 

He imagines that terror in your eyes would be quite the sight to see. That brief moment right before you scream and he plunges the knife in your chest. Titus’s hands tighten around his papers before he releases a short breath, dropping them back on his desk. Something stirs in his groin that makes him stretch out his legs. 

“Unless,” Ursula’s voice calls from his door. Hadn’t she left yet? “Are you playing with your food, again?”

“What?” He snaps, having less patience for her than usual. 

“That little server from the party…” she shrugs. “Having fun playing with her, Titus?” His jaw clenches, imagining the generous donation he’d left you this morning. Pocket money for him. He’s sure it’s life-changing for a poverty-stricken thing like you. 

“Ugh,” Ursula groans in disappointment. “You always do this. Find a new toy to play with, something that will really get on father’s nerves. Then I’m cleaning up your mess. I don’t feel like having to scrape a maid off concrete again. If you’re going to play, make sure it doesn’t get in my way.”

With that, she finally leaves, the door slamming behind her. Titus stays where he is, jaw flexing as he settles his breath. She has no idea what she’s talking about. He’s never kept toys, never played with women. They played with him, and he had little care for women who thought he was something disposable. 

He doubts you’d be like that. Desperate as you are, you still manage to have a bite. Still try to fight against him. There’s something in that desperation, that gritty will to survive, that’s a hundred times more interesting than any heiress he’s had dinner with in the past year. 

He tilts his head, picturing the look on your face if he presented you with one of his penthouses. Disposable things, he occasionally visited. An entirely different life from your shitty little apartment complex. It’s difficult deciding what’s more enticing…

The light leaving your eyes, or being the reason it’s still there. 

“Oh, fuck me,” you hiss, staring out the peephole and finding an annoyingly familiar face waiting. When is this rich boy going to let you get back to your life? Passionless and boring as that life is, it’s yours. And you’d like him out of it. 

You suck in a sharp breath and throw the door open. Titus waits for you, hands folded behind his back, a suspicious tilt to his lips. “What?” you demand, eyeing him warily. 

His eyes narrow before he holds out his hand. “Take a ride with me,” he tells you. There’s no space for ‘no’ with him. It’s not something he’s ever heard or will ever accept. Despite every instinct telling you not to, you take his hand. 

You frown as he slips a key into your palm, dragging you out of your apartment. “Where’re we going?” you demand, stumbling as he storms off toward the stairs. He drags you along behind him, paying little mind to your questions or complaints. 

“Somewhere more suitable to my tastes,” he offers airily. 

It’s hard to say how you end up here. Sort of. You understand the steps easily enough. Titus stalked you, paid you, and then dumped you in a penthouse so he could stalk you in a neighborhood closer to his economic bracket. 

But there’s this grey area between all that, where you can’t quite comprehend what your life has become. You watched him murder a man, saw him and his sister cover it up. You should hold the power; you have something on him. 

Yet, he has this power over you. This sway that makes you agree to things you never would before. 

On your last cent and struggling to keep a roof over your head, you still wouldn’t let yourself rely on a man. But now, you sleep in his penthouse. You wear clothes bought with his card. And, occasionally, he visits you. For the most part, he keeps to his mansion and socialites. 

But when he’s looking for something interesting, for someone without an ulterior motive or fake personality, he comes to you. Eventually, the shininess of a new toy will wear off. You’ll dull around the edges after not having to fight to survive. The thing that’s strangely endeared him to you will be gone, and you’ll be left worse off than before. 

Because now, you don’t have your own place to run back to. 

You’re searching through job listings on the new laptop he gave you when the front door opens. “Shit,” you hiss, closing out the tabs and sliding the computer away just as he walks into the living room. 

“What was that?” He demands, eyes already narrowed in suspicion. 

“Porn,” you respond bluntly. His nostrils flare for a moment before his lips quirk. You offer a weak smile, feeling like a fool performing for nobles so far above her. Each moment with him, in the comfort of this grand place, you wonder when he’ll grow tired. When you won’t be funny enough to keep around anymore. When you’ll have to fight for scraps again. 

He unbuttons his coat and you stand, already reaching for it. He lets out a rough sigh, collapsing on the couch as you go to hang it up. What are you to him? You find yourself asking that question more than you’re comfortable with. 

When you return, he’s digging through your computer. You’re not stupid, though. You look for ways to escape him on incognito tabs. “Snoop much?” you tease, offering a tense smile. 

He closes your laptop and tosses it onto the table. Your eyes widen at the blase attitude. You could never imagine treating your valuables as if they were so… replaceable. 

“What did you do tonight?” He asks, rubbing his temple as he sinks into the cushions. 

“I already told you,” you snark. He pops open an eye, and you shrug. 

Replaceable. “Cooked some dinner, burnt it. Ordered Thai, instead.”

“I’m so sick of these fucking gatherings,” he grunts, eyes clenched shut as he shakes his head. 

Replaceable. 

He completely passes over what you’ve said, but you don’t really care. Taking a seat beside him, you’re not surprised when he grabs your waist, tugs you onto his lap. It’s routine when he visits, now. 

A doll. 

You run your fingers through his tight curls and he shudders at the gentle touch. Smiling slightly, you pull his head into your chest. He falls easily into you. Most days, he reminds you of one of those mutts used in dog-fighting rings. 

He’s got sharp teeth and a worse bite, but he seems to just be looking for an iota of normalcy. Sadly, a life lived with a silver spoon in his mouth means he has no idea what normalcy is. It’s certainly not playing house with your stay-at-home sugar baby whenever you get tired of being rich. 

Dolls break so easily. 

His arms tighten around you and you suck in a deep breath, trying to settle yourself. “What’re all these meetings about, anyway?”

“Marriage,” he answers bluntly. Your fingers still in his hair, job applications sit in the back of your mind. He lifts his head with a frown. “What’s wrong?”

Dolls are replaceable. 

Your smile tightens at the edges until it hurts. “Nothing,” you lie. “Don’t like any of the gorgeous heiresses they’ve presented you with?” you try to tease him. It comes out too strained. Too bitter to fit your role. 

Titus catches on, like a shark sniffing out blood. He leans back on the couch and you stiffly follow him. “Worried?” he taunts, and the joy that flickers through his eyes fills you with a blinding hate. He knows. 

You almost thought he was too stupid to understand what it means to struggle. To have to worry about where or when your next meal will come. But he knows what you fear, he knows how to use it against you and keep you docile. It’s fun for him, being so wholly in control of your life and your future. 

I am replaceable. 

“Not at all,” you shrug, dipping forward to press a kiss to the corner of his lips. “We both know I’m more fun than them.” You slip from his lap, smirking as you drag your hand along his shoulder, slowly making your way to the bedroom. It doesn’t take him long to follow once you’ve tugged his leash. 

“Oh.” Ursula stands at the entrance of the penthouse. Her sunglasses are still on, lips curled as she takes you in. “I was looking for Titus,” she explains, brushing past you and making her way inside. 

Your eyes narrow as the door shuts behind her. Why do you feel like she’s lying?

“Shouldn’t he be at your mansion?” You ask, heart skipping when you realize you’ve left your laptop open on the coffee table. You knew Titus wouldn’t be coming by anytime soon. You hadn’t thought to cover your tracks. 

Of course, Ursula takes after her twin. She loops through the living room, arms crossed in judgment, before her attention’s snagged by the screen. She lifts her sunglasses and peers down at it. 

If you pretend like it’s normal, maybe she won’t tell Titus. 

“Big mansion,” she mutters in response to your earlier comment. “Must’ve missed him.”

Now you know she’s lying. 

“Uh-huh,” you mutter, trailing after her. “Well, he’s not here.” Ursula ignores you, bending down and scrolling through your laptop. “Hey, do you mind-”

“Office administrator?” She questions, tongue rolling like a job title is a foreign language. 

You roll your eyes, “I forget nepo babies don’t understand the idea of employment.”

She lets out a short scoff, offering you a bitter smile. “Careful,” she warns. “I don’t like you that much.”

You offer a sharp grin, but bite your tongue. You’re more scared of her than you are of Titus. She’s had him in her claws a lot longer than you. And you doubt you mean enough for him to protect you from her. 

“Why are you looking at jobs?” She demands, eyes snagging on your half-packed suitcase. “Escaping, are we?”

You follow her gaze and shake your head. If only. “No, Titus wants to get away. Something about a property up in the mountains.”

“The Leedle Property?” She interrupts.

“I guess,” you mutter, eyes narrowing at how eagerly she jumps at the information. “Why?”

“And why are you applying to jobs if you’re not running away from my brother?” she asks, ignoring your question. 

You bite your lip, wondering how much you should actually tell her. But it doesn’t seem like she’s leaving until she’s satisfied. “I’m not an idiot. Your brother likes collecting toys, but he enjoys breaking them more.” Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t try to lie, doesn’t try to correct you. 

“This can’t last forever,” you motion toward the penthouse. “I need something I can actually rely on. Myself.”

“Why not babytrap him?”

If you had a drink, you’d choke on it. “What?” you demand, voice rising in pitch. 

Ursula shrugs. “Babytrap him, file false charges against him, stalk him. A few of the things the women in his life have tried to have a piece of my inheritance.”

“Crazy women,” you correct. “I’d rather work until I’m 90 before I babytrap a man. Especially your brother. No offense,” you quickly correct. 

Her tongue laves across her teeth as she surveys you. A part of you shudders, wondering if this is the part where the rich people cannibalize the poor to taste poverty for the first time. “The Leedle Property, then? When’s this little getaway happening?”

She completely disregards your previous line of conversation. You’re not sure if you’re grateful or more unsettled. “This weekend,” you tell her. 

“Hm,” she hums before nodding and making her way back to the door. “Make sure Titus doesn’t see those applications. I doubt he’d take kindly to his doll escaping her house.”

Your jaw clenches as the door slams shut behind her. You do not like that woman. Why the hell did she even come over?

Grumbling to yourself, you collect the rest of the clothes you plan on packing and shove them into your suitcase. No wonder Titus seems so eager to get away from his family. They’ve got the meanest bite of anyone you’ve had the displeasure of meeting. 

Titus drives you up to the estate. You’d had to bite back a joke about him knowing how to drive when he’d come to pick you up. You doubt he’d appreciate mockery during one of the few times he actually does something for himself. Besides, he seems to be in a good mood, no need to ruin that with your mouth. 

“Why the mountains?” you ask, breaking the silence for the first time during the drive. 

Titus’s eyes drift over to you before focusing back on the road. “It’s quiet, peaceful.” He reaches over, hand squeezing your thigh. “No one around for miles.”

You snort and toss him an unimpressed look. “You could say that about any of your estates. How come we’re not relaxing on a beach with a drink in our hand?”

“Don’t complain,” he chides, hand squeezing in warning. 

You shift uncomfortably, straightening in your seat. “Thank you,” you amend, “for bringing me.” He offers a hum but says nothing else. Your stomach twists as you worry you’ve just messed this trip up for yourself. 

“Hey,” a cool touch on your chin and you’re tilting your head to meet his eye. “This will be nice,” he tells you. As if there is no greater authority than him. Like nothing could ever prove him wrong. 

You yearn to move through the world with the kind of self-assured confidence a rich man has. As if the entire universe bends to his will and his alone. It must be nice, being so self-deluded. 

“Yeah,” you agree, voice empty as you offer a shallow smile. When will you get tired of me?

You hear it, a sort of clock counting down before you’re left broken on a curb somewhere. 

His hand lingers on you the rest of the ride, but you both remain quiet. Something heavy has settled between you. An amalgamation of your hesitation, his uncertainty about what to do with you. For an hour of the drive, you actually wonder if he’s just brought you out here to kill you. 

But he could have easily killed you at the penthouse. He doesn’t seem the type to need a change of scenery. At least, that’s the best you could comfort yourself. 

Eventually, he pulls up the long, winding driveway of a sprawling estate. “I thought you said this was a cabin,” you accuse, forehead practically pressed to the window. 

Titus pauses, “It is.”

Your gaze drifts back to him and you scoff. “It’s the size of a McMansion.”

Titus shrugs, “It’s rustic.”

He gets out and you wait like you’re supposed to. It takes a second before he’s at your door, opening it and offering you a hand out. He leaves your luggage in the car. You wonder if he’ll get it later or if there are little servants here to do that for him. 

“You know,” it's an effort to keep your jaw off the ground as you take in his second home. “I’m going to need a house tour, so I don’t get lost in here this week.”

Titus lets out a small huff of laughter, arm winding around your waist as he leads you up the front steps. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you all the hidden rooms.” He opens the front door as you shoot him a wide-eyed stare. 

“Hidden rooms-”

“There you are!” A sharp voice interrupts you, cold and cruel. A blonde monster stands in the foyer. (Cabins definitely don’t have foyers, by the way. Something to be addressed later.) “I was starting to worry you would never show up, brother.”

Ursula stands holding a champagne flute, dressed to the nines, and you suddenly realize there are a dozen other well-dressed people all around her. Certainly better looking than your worn-down jeans and baggy sweater. They all sip their drinks and fiddle with their diamonds, gaze scrutinizing you. 

You shudder, freezing in the doorway as you realize this is an ambush. Women your age and younger all stand in a circle to the right of the door. Each dressed better than the last. Not one of them pays attention to you; all eyes are on Titus. 

“Ursula?” Titus grits out, eyes roaming the room with fury burning in them. “What are you doing?” 

She walks forward and holds out her hand. Suddenly, you’re alone, Titus following after his sister as she leads him into an adjacent room. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what's happening. You’d let it slip to Ursula where your getaway was going to be, and she’d set this up. 

An ambush of socialites and heiresses, far better suited for her brother than some scrappy little piece of trash like you. The women’s parents were all eyeing you with disgust. Unable to comprehend how you captured Titus’s attention when their daughters failed. 

You wind your arms tight around yourself, taking a hesitant step back. Maybe you could just steal his car and make a run for it. 

“Oh,” your back slams into someone’s chest and you falter. “I’m sorry,” you mutter, already turning around. 

An older man with cold eyes glares down at you. Shivers rack up your spine, gooseflesh pinches at you. The Senior Danforth, you would bet everything. Those cold, emotionless eyes are just like his son’s. 

“Sir,” you greet, taking another step back. 

His eyes narrow, and he lets out a low huff of disappointment. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand my son.”

You offer an awkward chuckle, knowing you’re being insulted straight to your face. “Does any parent?”

“Are you being smart with me?”

“I-”

“Father,” a voice interrupts. You sink back in relief, practically hiding behind Titus as he comes up behind you. “Ursula’s just explained the mix-up.” His eyes dart over to you and you feel like you’re missing something crucial. “I wish you had told me your plan,” he grits out, clearly struggling to stay polite. 

His father scoffs, not sparing you another glance. “Why? So you could run away with your little paramour?” 

Your brows turn in, the way he says it makes it sound like a slur. You must be nothing to this man. Honestly, he looks at you and probably just sees a little roach to crush under his heel. Is this why Titus is with you? There’s clearly no love lost between him and his father. Maybe you’re his rebellion. 

“Of course not,” Titus hisses. “You know how deeply I respect our traditions,” again, another sly look over at you. What the fuck were they talking about?

You glance over your shoulder and catch a few people just as they rip their stares away. Their voices remain hushed, too low for you to make out any hints of what might be happening. Slowly, you step back from Titus. He’s too absorbed by his father to pay much attention. 

You make it all the way back to the car, thinking you’ve successfully escaped, before you hear footsteps rushing to catch up. “What are you doing?” Titus demands. 

“What do you think?” You whip around with a scoff and he draws back. “I know what I am to you, Titus. I’m not something permanent or anyone worth a damn. But that doesn’t mean I have to stay here and be insulted while you cozy up with some heiress.”

“Is that what you think?” He asks, head tilting curiously. 

“It’s what I know. And it’s not like you’ve proved me wrong.”

Titus smirks and that little quirk to his lips is infuriating. “And letting you stay rent-free at my penthouse doesn’t prove you wrong? Providing you with any creature comfort you might want or need doesn’t prove that?”

You lick your lips and let out a sharp sigh. “No. Because I know you, this is your game, Titus. So, just let me go home, alright?” You reach for the door handle, but it doesn’t budge. “Titus,” you grit out, yanking on the car door. 

“You’re not leaving,” he tells you. 

“Seriously, Titus, I don’t want to be here.” His lips flatten, and you draw back. For a moment, he almost looks sorry, and you think that’s more terrifying than any anger you’ve ever gotten from him. “What’s going-”

An arm wrapped around your back, a cloth pressed to your nose. One whiff of that sickly sweet scent and you were going limp. 

Sharp, pungent, someone slips something under your nose strong enough to shock you back to life. You suck in a sharp gasp, more of the smell burning in your lungs. Your eyes open, but your vision remains dark. Something burns around your wrists, they’ve tied your hands behind your back. 

“What’s- what’s happening?” Laughter to your left, chilling and shrill. 

“Take it off,” you vaguely recognize the voice of Titus’s father as a mask is ripped from your eyes. The light floods into your vision and you grimace, head pounding from whatever they’d used to knock you out. When your eyes relax, you realize you’re in a basement of some sort. The walls are all dark brick, the floors a black tile that looks like it’d be easy to clean blood off of. 

There’s a circle formed before you. The guests from upstairs are all staring at you now. Except the girls are dressed in white gowns and slips. While their parents all don black cloaks. 

“Oh fuck me,” you hiss, looking down at yourself. You’ve been changed into a matching white dress with the rest of the women. “I knew you assholes sacrificed people," you snap, glaring through the crowd. You’re searching for one man, but they’ve all got these terrifying goat skull masks on. 

Still, you think you recognize that haunting look in Titus’s eyes by now as your gaze stops on a man to your right. 

“The eloquent language of the working class,” someone titters off to your left. 

“Forgive the French,” you bite out. “But at the very least, we don’t fucking eat people.”

“Enough!” Your shoulders jump as Titus’s father descends the dais he’d been standing on. “No one is getting eaten or sacrificed. All this is… is an annual hunt.”

The way he says it makes you wish you were being ritually sacrificed. A maid strolls through the crowd, a covered cart in her hand that she pushes to the middle of the circle. You almost call out for help, but their employees are just as fucked as the rest of them. 

“A hunt?” You whisper, eyes being ripped to the side by one of the women in a white gown. Her glare is boring into you, malice and hatred bubbling over in frothing animosity. You’d never even said one word to her, and she looks ready to rip your throat out and eat your heart. 

“As our guest to this tradition,” the Senior Danforth offers a chilling grin. “I allow you the first pick.”

“We had a deal-” A man steps forth to object, but Titus’s father holds up his hand, silencing him without even looking away from you. Swallowing thickly, you step forward, hands still bound behind your back with rope. The Senior Danforth rips the sheet off the cart with a gusto better suited for a magician. Two servants appear behind you and roughly cut the rope away. 

Beneath are a dozen different weapons. Glocks, shotguns, hunting knives, throwing stars, even a bow and arrows. “Oh, we’re actually hunting?” You offer him a confused stare. If only one fucking person in this room would give it to you straight rather than playing at these confusing mind games. 

“Not game,” someone answers and you go still. Titus, that’s his voice. His father shoots him a reproachful glare and your former paramour goes quiet.  

“When an eldest son is viable for marriage and deigns to choose outside of his… circle. A hunt is ordered by the families of the poor girls jilted. The last one standing earns his hand.”

“Marriage,” you tumble over your words. Reeling from figuring out you’re being hunted and that this is all for some man. “I’m not even his girlfriend. I mean, this is one big mistake. I don’t want to marry him at all!”

“Ouch,” someone laughs behind you. 

“I’m afraid the hunt has already started,” Titus’s father motions behind him. On a marble slab behind the dais is a goat’s corpse, its throat slit and blood dribbling into an engraved sigil on the floor. “Unless you’re willing to forfeit?”

“Ye-”

“No!” A sharp voice interrupts. You turn and see Titus, his mask discarded as he stares past you at his father. “A forfeit is automatic disqualification.”

“Okay…”

“Death,” he snaps bluntly when you fail to pick up the hint. 

“Fucker,” you hiss, glaring over at his father. 

“Enough,” Titus steps back into place as his father motions him away. “Pick your weapon before I pick for you.”

This is fucking insane. They’re asking you to pick your weapon to murder other women. Half of whom look a decade younger than you. God, are you really about to murder child brides?

Someone laughs at your side and you glance over to see one of the young women whispering to her mother. Their eyes are sharp as they observe you, devoid of humor. You’re nothing to them. Not human, not prey, just an obstacle in their way. 

Your eyes drift back to the cart. Your hand inches toward a revolver. You know how to shoot and you’ve got a decent aim. But you hesitate, there are eyes boring into the back of your head. Burning and urging you away from the revolver. Guns run out of bullets, but that hunting knife with the long, curved blade seems far more reliable. 

Your hand wraps around the leather-bound handle. And Titus’s father hums. “Interesting,” he mutters. You pull back, the knife tucked to your chest as a maid directs you back into the circle. The other women step up, the majority going for bows or guns. Did you just get yourself killed?

When the last one has chosen, a girl barely older than twenty, the Senior Danforth claps his hands with a mirthful smile. “With each bell tolled, we are one step closer to a most beneficial union. Take them to their release points.”

Your arms are snatched up by two servants as they march you out of the basement. The majority of the women are split up, taken to different sections of the estate to lessen the chances of a quick, boring game. But while they’re directed outside, you’re led up the stairs to a bedroom. “What’re you doing?” You demand, eyes wide as the servants deposit you in the center of the room. 

One of the maids giggles, pressing a finger to her lips as she runs from the room. “What?” You hiss, bewildered as you try to come to terms with everything that’s happened. 

But life doesn't feel like letting you get comfortable in this new reality. “Make this quick, Titus, I don’t want to be accused of cheating.” Ursula’s voice, bored and cold as usual. Her steps are growing closer to this room. 

You suck in a sharp breath, eyes darting around for somewhere to hide. There’s an old wooden wardrobe, just big enough for you to slip in. You rush toward it, throwing yourself inside just as the bedroom door creaks open. 

Titus lets out a low groan and you press your eye to the crack of the wardrobe. “I told them to bring her here.”

“I told you we should have fired those two years ago, they’re fucking worthless.” Ursula has a revolver in her hands, similar to the one that you’d rejected. On Titus’s shoulder is what looks like a large hammer. The type you’d see at historical sites beside blacksmithing forges, not held casually.  

“Where do you think they left her?” Titus glances around the room, his eyes hesitate over the wardrobe. You jump back from the crack in the door, clamping your hand over your mouth so he can’t hear you breathe. 

“Who knows? Let’s just make this quick,” Ursula checks her revolver, loading in bullets before sending Titus a sharp smirk. 

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he sighs, following her out of the room. You wait until the bedroom door closes to slip out of the wardrobe. Your heart is slamming against your ribs, blood thrumming with adrenaline as you let out a shaky breath. 

It’s not like you and Titus were some grand love story. Your relationship lies within transactional boundaries. And you’ve known…. You knew! That this would always end badly for you. Titus likes to break his toys; you just hadn’t thought he would go so far as to drag you into a fucking satanic cult. 

Your throat clenches tight as your chest quakes; it’s hard to get your breath as reality slowly dawns on you. The knife is clutched so tightly in your chest, one trip and you’ll end up offing yourself. Slowly, you creep toward the bedroom door. 

Maybe you’d be better off hiding in here. Your hand hovers over the doorknob as you think of something Titus had said to you. “I’ll give you a tour of the hidden rooms.”

Your eyes track over every crevice of the room you’re standing in. There are at least three spots you see that might be a secret door or hidden passageway. Nowhere is safe.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re throwing open the bedroom door and peeking into the hall. The stupid dress they’d put you in trips up your feet as you step outside. The door closes softly behind you as you kneel, taking your knife and cutting into the hem. 

“There you are.”

Your head snaps up, blood draining from your face as you see Ursula standing at the end of the hall. “Titus,” she calls, eyes alight with the joy of the hunt. 

You step from the tattered remains of your gossamer skirt, bare feet tripping along the waxed marble. Titus turns the corner, that hammer still on his shoulder. “There you are,” his lips quirk and Ursula cocks her revolver.  You take a step back and Titus’s eyes narrow. “Don’t,” he warns. 

But you’re already turning, feet slapping against the floor as you make a run for it. You can hear them curse behind you, Ursula’s annoyed sigh as you turn the corner. 

You come to a short stop, body freezing as you see another woman in a white slip. She’s apparently ditched the dress, same as you. Her eyes widen as they land on you, lighting up with a challenge. “No, no, no, wait!” You let out a shrill scream as she lifts her gun, shooting wildly. 

“Jesus,” you drop to the ground, hands covering your head as a vase shatters behind you. 

“Shit,” she whines, stomping her foot as she goes to reload. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You snap, surging to your feet and storming toward her. Your hand lashes out, sending the gun clattering to the floor. She lunges for you, hands outstretched toward your neck. On instinct, your hands fly out. Both of them. 

The knife you’d forgotten about plunges into her gut and she lets out a rattling groan. “Oh, oh no,” you whisper, eyes bugging out as blood begins to pool down your arm. “Oh I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, lowering yourself as her body goes limp in your arms. Slowly, you let her drop to the floor, the knife making a schlick noise as it slips from her stomach. 

“What did I do?” Tears are welling in your eyes. It doesn’t matter that she was actively trying to kill you. Or that she would have gotten you first if you hadn’t been faster. You just killed someone. Just took a life like it was nothing. 

“I wasn’t sure you had it in you.” With a gasp, you leap to your feet. Titus stands behind you, head tilted as he takes in the dead body. “Congratulations.” Barely a moment later, you hear it, the bell tolling somewhere off in the distance. Your eyes drop to the dead body at your feet. 

“How do they know?” Titus smirks and you have a feeling you won’t be made privy to family secrets unless you survive the night. 

He opens his mouth, but the bell tolls once more, and then again. Two more girls, dead. “Only eight left,” he grins. He takes a step closer, and you stumble back, knife pointed at his chest.  

He glances between you and the knife with astonished surprise. “What are you gonna do with that?” His voice is low, disarmingly calm as he holds out his hand. The knife trembles in your grip, faltering slightly as he takes your wrist in his hand. 

A sharp breath rips from you as he tugs you into his chest. The knife picks against his shirt, tearing at a thread, but you bend your wrist. Stopping yourself before you really hurt him. He tuts, disappointed by such a weak display of mercy. “You’re not going to make it much longer if you can’t go in for the kill.”

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, biting your tongue so the tears in your eyes don’t spill over. His gaze tracks the way your lashes flutter, a cruel smirk pulling at his lips. 

“Do you want to live?”

You’re silent for a moment, the blood of that woman cooling on your hand. His thumb sweeps through it, admiring how it paints your skin. “Yes,” you finally choke out. As selfish as it is, you want to live. And if that means killing a few spoiled heiresses before they get you...

You’ve survived tighter squeezes in worse dresses. 

“Good,” he practically coos, his voice a low purr, lulling you into this false sense of security where he isn’t the same man who’d gotten you in this situation to begin with. “Because I don’t want any of these other women. I want you, which means you need to live.” This cadence of his voice is the same tone he uses when he coaxes you into his bed. 

He likes this. 

You shouldn’t be surprised. You met the man because you caught him murdering someone. Still, there’s a dead body cooling at your feet and you can feel the weight of his want pressing into your hip. 

“Why did you do this?” You hiss out, finally asking the question that’s haunted you since the game began. “Why-“ your voice breaks and you clamp your mouth shut. You can’t let him see you cry. He’d like it too much. 

His hand comes up, gently cupping your cheek as he pulls you impossibly closer. “Wasn’t the plan,” he mutters, eyes stuck to your lips. “My family thought it was about time I settled down. They wanted to make sure I chose the right woman.”

“They don’t want me, Titus.” And until a few minutes ago, you hadn’t thought he wanted you either. 

His eyes narrow as his grip on you tightens. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like you’re one bad move away from making him bite. “I don’t care what they want. I want you. Which means you’re getting through this, alive. I’m not calling another woman Mrs. Danforth, do you understand me?”

Even if you didn’t want to survive… even if you weren’t already the type of person who claws and scratches and doesn’t care who she hurts to keep living, you wouldn’t have a choice. He’s not giving you an option; he’s threatening you. Making sure you’ve got it through your thick skull that, no matter what, there is no escaping him. 

“What do I do?” You whisper, lips nearly brushing his with how close he stands. He sucks in a deep breath before slowly releasing you. It’s an effort not to stumble over the corpse as you put some space between the two of you. 

“Stay hidden,” he instructs. “I’ll take care of the others.”

Your brows furrow as you fiddle with the torn edge of your dress. “Won’t that count as cheating?”

“It will.” Your shoulders jump to your ears as Ursula’s voice echoes down the hallway. You turn to see her striding toward you. There’s blood splattered against her silk blouse and an angry red welt on her cheek. “But if you think the others aren’t out here sniping the competition, you’re not as smart as I gave you credit for.”

Another toll of the bell in the distance. The numbers are dwindling faster than expected. “As for what you should do,” her brows raise and she offers you a cruel smile. “Run, rabbit, before someone else finds you.”

You want to ask them where the hell you’re meant to go, but footsteps are approaching from the other end of the hall. Titus spares you one last look before heading toward them, dragging his hammer from his shoulder. You swallow roughly, giving the dead woman one last look before you take off at a run. 

You’d thought the best place to hide would be in plain sight. Skulking around the estate while everyone searched for the girls outside seemed smart. Until the rain came, it began washing everyone inside, hunters and prey alike. One girl had found you hiding near the kitchen as she came back in from the storm. 

It was only because the floor beneath her was soaking wet that you managed to get a good shove in. Just enough to have her slip and knock her head against the tile. After that, what happened feels like a blur. You know she’s dead, that her blood coats the front of your dress. The bell had tolled, but you don’t remember it. 

It seems wrong, not remembering your own kill. Like you’re not honoring her death properly. But she’d had a shotgun pointed at your chest, so it’s a little harder to find any sympathy. Unfortunately, her screaming had drawn attention to you. 

You had to run out of the estate, into the pouring rain and raging winds. It battered your body, turned your white dress sheer as you tried to find cover in the woods bordering the estate. You briefly considered trying to find the road, but you doubt you’d have much luck in these conditions. 

The bell tolls in the distance. If you’re keeping count right, that means there are only two other girls. You grimace, chin tucked to your chest as the rain howls around you. Your hair is soaked, stuck to your cheeks as you try to wipe the water from your eyes. You have no idea where the sudden storm came from, but you can hardly see a foot in front of you. 

If the other women find you before you find them, you’re screwed. You won’t even have the time to be scared before they pounce. Shivering, you shove your hair off your face and push away from the tree you’d been resting on. 

You try to keep low to the ground, using the underbrush as cover as you skulk through the forest. Somehow, through the sound of your own footsteps and the rain hitting the foliage, you manage to make out strange noises. It reminds you of the night you first met Titus, the last time you’d tasted normalcy. 

It was the same noise the man he’d killed made right as he died. Peering around the tree you’re cowering behind, you see her. The last woman, shoulders heaving as she stands over the body of another. You flinch as the bell tolls and huddle down as she slowly surveys the area around her. 

Recognition flares in your mind, and you feel your chest tighten. This is the same woman who’d looked ready to rip you apart in the estate. Of course, the most vicious bitch had to be the last one standing. 

The only advantage you have right now is that she doesn’t know where you are. Knife in hand, you slowly creep your way out from behind the tree. Her back stays turned toward you, head tilting as she tries to get a better view through the rain. 

You hold your breath, not making a noise. Not even as you lunge at her, arms wrapping around her neck as you both hurtle toward the forest floor. She lets out a low grunt, growling as you sit on top of her, struggling to pin her flailing limbs down. 

One well-thrown elbow and you’re rolling off her, curling into yourself as you try to catch your breath. She’d managed to catch you right in the diaphragm. The impact gives her just enough time to right herself. Both of your dresses are stained with mud and blood. And as the rain continues to pour, you only grow filthier. 

Nails tear through skin, hands slip and drag along wet flesh as you grapple on the floor. Your knife is kicked away, and her gun is buried somewhere in the dirt. You’re left with nothing but physical strength and pure terror. 

She gets her hand tangled in your hair and uses the leverage to slam your head into the ground. Your vision goes dark as your ears ring, pain throbbing through your skull. You lash out violently, nails catching her cheek. You dig in, dragging down until you feel her flesh building beneath your nails. 

She lets out a gasping cry of pain, batting your hand away. She manages to turn you over, with a tight grip, she’s quick to find your neck. Your legs kick violently beneath her, hips bucking as you quickly lose your breath. 

She’s pinning you down, lips pulled back around sharp teeth in a growl. Her hands are wrapped around your throat, squeezing the life from your lungs. And, still, you have an advantage over her. 

You’re used to living off scraps, used to having to fight for what you want. You didn’t grow up with everything handed to you on a silver platter. She never had to fight to live or to get what she wanted. That desperate drive to keep going and never stop isn’t anywhere in her. She just wants to win. Just wants another trophy on her mantle. 

Your legs slowly stop kicking as your hand gropes blindly through the mud. Your vision is beginning to go, the world greying at the edges as your nails catch on something sharp. She doesn’t pay you any mind, grinning as she digs her thumbs into the hollow of your throat. 

Blindly, you grab the rock and throw it into the side of her temple. She lets out an odd noise, grip loosening as she tilts to the side. You don’t waste time catching your breath. Lunging forward, you knock her onto her back and raise the rock high above your head. Her eyes widen as you bring it down against her skull. 

There’s a sick crack and then her eyes are shutting. But the bell still hasn’t tolled. You bring your hand down again and again and again. Until the crack turns into a soft squish and there’s blood weeping from the mangled mess that used to be her face. You don’t stop until that bell rings, until you get to feel the finality of the night in your bones. 

Your hand hovers above your head, the bell tolls through the night air. Slowly, the rock tumbles from your grasp as you struggle to your feet. The rain eases up, harsh battering becoming a gentle mist as the clouds above you part. 

Your hair hangs in matted tangles around your face, your entire body is covered in mud and blood. The dress you wear is in tatters, thin straps barely clinging to your shoulders. Heavy boots snap against the branches behind you. 

You hardly even flinch, just briefly glancing over your shoulder. All those from the basement have returned, black cloaks on and skull masks donned. You hear them whispering, betting with one another about which of their daughter’s survived the night. 

Scraping your hand across your cheek, you attempt to rid yourself of some of the grime coating your skin. It barely puts a dent in it. With a sigh, you resign yourself to your fate, slowly turning. 

You can tell from the gasps rippling through the crowd that they’d already forgotten about you. You were never a threat to them, just the inciting incident to get their daughters into the right family. 

A part of you almost wants to taunt them. To ask what good their deal with the devil did? Because you’re still alive and their daughter’s aren’t. But you’re too tired and too beaten to do anything but keep standing. 

The Senior Danforth stands at the front, hands tucked behind his back. “Interesting,” he muses, eyes narrowing.

First. 

“I knew you were scrappy, but this is something else,” Ursula chuckles at her father’s side, admiring the mangled corpse at your feet.

Second. 

Titus steps from the crowd, followed by a man in an elaborate cloak with a veil over his head. “You all know the deal,” he calls to the others. He holds a hand out to you and you stare down at it.

He could be third, he could be last, but maybe you’ll keep him around. 

“What?” you croak, throat destroyed from what that woman had done to you. 

“Your prize,” Ursula drawls. Oh, right, the whole reason for this fucking hunt. Marrying Titus, being a Danforth, signing away your soul. 

“And if I say no?”

“You’d be forfeiting,” Titus tells you, a quirk to his lips. He already knows your answer. You didn’t make it this far just to give up now. You didn’t claw your way back from hell just to throw it all away at the end. 

Slowly, you take his hand in yours. The satanic priest beside him steps toward the corpse of the last woman. He dips his thumb into what's left of her skull and approaches you both. The warmth of her blood dribbles down your forehead as the priest etches a sigil into your skin. He doesn’t do the same for Titus. 

Your mind loses focus as he begins to speak. The vows you make certainly aren’t those of holy matrimony, but you can hardly pay attention. You think about how with Titus on your arm, his leash will be passed hands. 

Ursula, you’re sure, will try to get cozy with you. Make sure her guard dog never strays too far. It shouldn’t be hard to get Titus to turn on her. Family has so little meaning to these monsters. But first, you’ll want him to take out the patron of the family. The smug bastard who’d dragged you into this hell simply because he couldn’t stand his son dating someone so… cheap. 

Then, you’ll go after the others. All the soulless bastards who sent their daughters to die and didn’t bat an eye. If you have to marry into this, bring children into this world, then you’re going to make sure there’s no competition left for them to fight. 

“I do,” Titus echoes the priest’s words and stares expectantly at you. 

Thunder rolls in the sky behind you. “I do,” you whisper. Lightning flashes and for a moment, there are horns curling above Titus’s head. They’re gone as quick as they came, then he’s tugging you into a harsh kiss, another’s blood smearing between your lips as your unholy union’s sealed. 

This is your world now, and you’re not some trampy little paramour anymore. You’re Mrs. Danforth. And you’re going to make every one of these fuckers pay for ever letting you grasp the power you’d fought for your entire life. 

𝘏𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘛𝘰𝘶𝘳

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                 ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 Some say it's a place where your dreams come true 💿

You should've known something was amiss with all the muttered pet names, sly touches when no one else was looking, and compliments toward your dresses when all he actually seemed able to focus on were your physical assets. It made your hair prickle on occasion, but you had been naïve—of the innocent belief that no one would be able to climb so far if they were corrupt; dirty. In the end, that's exactly why he managed such a feat.

Makes things easier when you have the right people paid off or indebted to you, turns out.

"Thought I was the only one here," Charlie remarks from behind you.

Turning this way and that, you glance over your shoulder and study the sight of the deputy chief casually leaned against the doorway of his office with crossed arms and a devious smile painted across his lips. Pushing off it, he stalks toward you with steady strides; his heavy department-issued boots thumping across polished tiles. "Pulling a late one, huh?"

You turn back to the illuminated desktop in front of you and blink away the blurriness overtaking your tired eyes. "Just trying to finish a few things up," you explain quietly.

Dragging over a chair from the desk across from yours, the wooden legs scrape across the floor like nails on a chalkboard. You grit your teeth until he finally spins it around and straddles the back of it.

"My girl," he purrs while sliding a palm along the curve of your neck. "Working hard for her chief. Knew I made the right choice when I hand-picked you."

You force a wavering smile and continue typing.

Massaging the sides of your neck with his fingertips, he speaks again. "You like working under me?" Charlie inquires with tilted lips and darkling eyes.

You swallow. "I do."

He hums in satisfaction. "Hell of a lot better than the Traffic Division," he rumbles. "Nice desk right by my corner office," he continues while sliding his hand lower, to your shoulder. "Breaks. Hour long lunch."

He stands and you mistakenly hit an incorrect key.

Coming round to stand behind you, he plants each of his calloused palms atop your tensed shoulders. Bearing down and kneading knotted muscles from you being hunched over all day, he keeps talking. "Holiday bonus." He leans down close to the shell of your ear. "Had to pull a few strings to get the last one on your paycheck, so I hope you appreciate my efforts."

"I-I do," you stutter.

With every violent coronary contraction that thumps between your breasts, your breathing grows more shallow. You should've left along with everyone else hours ago. The work constantly flows; it's never-ending. As such, it could've waited until morning.

"Thank you," you tack on quickly.

"Thank you for being polite," he whispers.

"Now, I hope you don't take this as me being greedy," he begins while releasing you to instead flip his previously abandoned chair back around. Seating himself upon it with spread legs, he slaps his palms against his thighs. "But I have been hoping for a little something in return."

Acid roils in your stomach and crawls its way up the back of your throat.

"Sweet young thing that you are, I'd hate to see you fall into the wrong hands," Charlie croons while moving a hand to your thigh. "It can just...be too much to carry sometimes, y'know? All the pressure weighing on me."

With fingers left hovering above the keyboard, you glance down to where he's made contact and watch as he verges closer and closer to your inner thigh.

"I just need a way to relax," he finishes.

"I—I think I should head home now," you whimper while making to grab for your bag.

He clamps down with a pinching squeeze. "Be polite," he growls. "Mind your manners."

Falling back against your chair with stinging tears brimming in your eyes, you consider breaking one of his fingers, or stabbing him in the eye with a sharp, metal letter opener. The first would be no good—he's so much bigger and stronger. You'd never make it to the door.

As for the second... Would anyone believe you if you told them why you had to do it?

He leans in close; close enough for you to inhale the warm, heavy scent of his cologne. "Considering a way out?" Charlie asks quietly.

You remain still.

"Feels rather insulting," he jeers. "Thought you liked me," he finishes with a feigned pout.

You don't justify what he's said with a response. He's like a wolf playing with its food before inevitably chomping down on an artery—every bit of struggle you display only spurs him on all the more.

"I want you to listen to me," he grates while inching closer to the hem of your dress. "You're not going to tell anyone what I'm about to do to you. If you do—look at me!" he suddenly shouts, causing you to shriek in terror.

Jerking your head in his direction, he grips your chin painfully tight to keep you steady. "Eyes on me," Charlie commands while prodding against your panties with his fingertips. "If you think to tell, just remember what kind of power I have. I own this department now. I have other cops, judges, and criminals alike in my back pocket."

He curves a finger and shoves it toward your covered opening. "I'll get you blackballed throughout the entire fucking justice system. And where you've been here for a few years..." he purses his lips and shrugs. "You'll be damned either way. Leave the PD off your resume, and questions'll be asked about such a considerable gap in your work history. Put it on, and they'll be contacting me for a reference."

He tangles his fingers in your hair and tugs your head back. "But don't you think for one second that I'm letting you go anywhere." He cups you over your panties. "This?" Charlie leans in ever closer. "You? Belong to me now."

A quiet sob spills past your lips and he grins. "We have an understanding, sweetheart?"

You nod vigorously.

He releases you and kicks his chair back and sends it skidding across the floor in the direction he took it from. "Good."

Grabbing your upper arm, he wrenches you out of your seat and sends you staggering into his sturdy side before leading you into his office.

"W-What're you—" you try to pull away. "P-Please don't."

"I get what I want," he mutters before dragging you over the threshold and shouldering the door shut behind him.

Shoving you in the direction of his desk, he surveys you with ravenous hunger, teeming in eyes which have bled from brown to black in the lack of lighting. "Why're... Why're you doing this?!" you screech while searching the space for his utility belt.

You need to get his gun!

"I've wanted this for so fucking long," he says huskily before pinning your squirming waist to the edge of the desk. Gripping your chin in the space between his thumb and forefinger, Charlie trails wet, searing kisses up your sensitive neck. "If you fight me, it'll only make things worse for you. So just do as you're told and it'll all be over soon. Got it?"

You begin to sob hysterically. Broken cries interrupted by choking hiccups that get caught in your restricted airway block out the sound of a small fan whirring in the corner and the hum of a computer tower beneath his desk. Your terror is all which remains in this suffocating room.

Grabbing your hips, he situates you atop the desk, then pulls a switchblade from his pocket.

You wail harder.

Shoving your dress up to your stomach, he grabs the waistline of your underwear and slices through the material in one fluid motion on either side. Once he's yanked them free from your bottom, the thin material flutters toward the floor.

"You don't get some cut-and-dry narrative about tonight," he murmurs while planting each of your feet atop the desk to give him plenty of room to work. "One where you call me a monster and claimed I forced myself on you."

Sinking to his knees, Charlie closes his mouth for a moment, then puckers his lips and spits on your exposed cunt. "You're going to come, and then the real fun begins."

Dragging the pad of his thumb through your folds, you buck your hips and wonder what you might accomplish if you went toppling over the desk backwards. If you hit your head, would it be at an end? Would he rush you to the ER? Would you find a shotgun in the space under it and be able to rack a load in time to use it on him?

"Are you clean?"

Interrupted from your deliberations, your brows furrow. "What?"

He circles your clit next. "Are you clean?" he repeats exasperatedly.

Clean? What does he mean clean? You shower every night. What is he—

Oh.

"Yes."

"Thought so," he utters before diving between your legs.

You squeeze your eyes shut when he drags his tongue through your slick folds, and dig your nails into the carved wooden edge of the desk to maintain composure. You refute the warm feeling which blooms between your spread thighs when he sucks on your clit; ignore how your fleshy walls squeeze tightly around his thick fingers when he eases them inside you.

You project from your body and into another room when it begins to respond with rocking hips and moans falling from your lips in an act of betrayal.

Bearing witness to Biblical temptation from afar, you watch through shaded windows as you keep your legs spread like a greedy whore, wanting for more of what he's offering.

If you're so very willing, then maybe this is deserved.

Looping his arms around your thighs, Charlie rests them over his over his shoulders and his face disappears entirely until all you see is a field of silver curls just below your belly. "God," you groan with your head throw back.

Slurping your arousal and smacking his lips against your own second set, your body begins to calm from its earlier erratic state. Circling your sensitive bundle with a speared tongue, Charlie doesn't see fit to stop until your orgasm bursts through you cataclysmically—complete with trembling legs, sweaty skin, and mewling whimpers escaping your mouth as your head spins and your body goes numb from a sense of euphoria.

When he rises, it's with a contained groan and hands planted upon aging joints.

You watch quietly as he pops the shiny tines on his leather belt loose while staring directly between your legs and licking his shimmering lips.

Covering your mouth, you start to cry again. Oh God, what if it makes him angry? "I'm—" you try to muffle yourself. "'M sorry," you whimper while dipping your chin.

"Don't be," he says while swiping away a salty tear with the pad of his thumb. He smiles affectionately. "I want you to."

Planting a hand against your shoulder, Charlie pushes you back. Before you can react, he shoves his cock inside you with a single thrust.

At some point—rather, after you began slapping and kicking him in protest of your own assault—he pulled you off the desk, flipped you around, and began pounding into you from behind. That was after he pinned your wrists above your head and threatened to make your life here a living hell if you didn't behave yourself.

Like it won't be anyway now.

You're also completely naked and have jumped up, onto your tiptoes to make his ministrations easier to take.

Your bunched-up dress lies balled-up in a corner somewhere, mocking you from afar for giving up and in so easily to his wicked whims. With your breasts pressed flat against the desktop, you're also left feeling a bit cold.

Your body trembles.

Charlie's grip around your hips has grown so tight that it's sure to leave bruising come the morn, but perhaps that's part of his design—an unspoken reminder of where he's been; what he's done to you.

Grunting as he snaps his hips against your ass, it sends ripples through the plump skin.

You tried counting the thrusts to make the time pass faster, but he's rather quick about it. You lost track after 20.

You wish he'd hurry the fuck up and be done already.

Like your prayers have finally been answered, his hips stutter and his breaths become ragged. "Oh f—Oh fuck. Mm, I'm gonna come," he groans.

You stare at a dying plant on the widowsill.

You should save the poor thing.

"Fuck—fuck," he utters before clutching a handful of your hair and wrenching you back against his bare chest where he's left his shirt unbuttoned. Wrapping one hand around your throat and the other around your waist to keep your body flush against his, Charlie's cock begins to twitch, and just as thick spurts of cum begin to fill you, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, causing you to scream in frenzied anguish.

You claw at his hand to try and free yourself, but it's no good. He has you right where he wants you.

Eventually, his breathing slows, his mouth retracts, and his hold loosens.

Once it's finally over, the chief pulls out of you—leaving semen to run down both your thighs as you slump lifelessly over his desk. He tosses a box of tissues at you and commands you to clean yourself up while he wipes off his girthy, soiled cock.

You quietly excused yourself to the restroom after. You took your time washing away the evidence of what he did.

You can't tell.

You had considered it, though. If someone came, he'd be caught red-handed. Even if he tried to argue that it was consensual, he would still be disbanded from the force for having sex with a subordinate.

But you forgot your phone at your desk.

Once you've peed, his cum has stopped dribbling out of you, and you've scrubbed the tears from your face, you return to gather your things.

You never look at your broken reflection.

One by one—with stiff limbs—you tuck your personal belongings away. Cellphone, charger, lip balm, hair band.

You briefly forget how to get yourself home when you begin to think on it.

You don't feel like yourself.

It's like he's still buried inside you, stretching you in half until your cunt melds perfectly around his every vein and ventricle.

"I'll walk you out," Charlie states while locking his office up for the night, causing you to jump quietly; you'd forgot he was here. "Not safe out there alone," he jests with a wink while sidling close and wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

You remain hauntingly silent as the quiet clicking of your shoes echo across an empty building you never wish to return to.

"Just so you know," Charlie begins while leaning against the driver side door of your vehicle to prevent your escape, "I don't plan on sharing my new stress toy. You'll soon come to learn that I'm a jealous man."

You clutch your bag close to your chest and merely nod. You're not even a person now, but instead something to be played with.

You'd been right about the animal analogy after all.

Resting the heels of his palms against the windowsill, he tilts his head while studying your withdrawn, sullen expression. If you mean for it to be a deterrent, it's having the exact opposite effect. The erection stretching across his upper thigh is proof enough of that. "While you were in the restroom, I put an app on your phone to track your location."

Your eyes meet with his.

"Before you try to go searching for it, though, it's fairly well hidden." He shrugs indifferently. "Right electronic shop could locate it, but... Minute I find out you've uninstalled it, or deactivated the device, you can kiss your job here goodbye."

You sniffle and take a small step back. "Could just leave it at home," you sneer.

He grins. "Same goes for your car." Charlie pats the door. "Don't go searching the undercarriage unless you want trouble."

When... When did he—

"Since I can already see the cogs turning: right after making you my secretary." He chuckles. "Told you, I'm possessive."

Taking you suddenly into his arms, Charlie brings you against his chest and brushes a kiss over the crown of your head. "You just do what your new boss tells you and everything'll be fine. I promise, sweetheart."

Turning your face toward the crook of his shoulder, you start to cry.

He clicks his tongue, then softly shooshes you while running a palm down the back of your head. "Aw, my little cuddlebug tired?" he taunts.

You nod while nuzzling against his chest. "Do you get off on humiliating me?" you mumble.

He snorts. "That's so cute: you already starting to figure out how I work."

While you'd like very much to hurt him in truly horrific ways... Your only option right now is to remain plaint and agreeable. Otherwise, he could bring your entire world to a standstill. More than he already has.

After he bent you over his desk, you just wanted to be held. Comforted.

He's the only one who knows what happened, so he's the only one who can provide what you need. Isn't he?

An image of a finely sharpened #2 pencil stabbed through his jugular flits through your mind and you take solace in it.

Winding your arms around his waist, you shuffle your feet to stand closer.

"You be good to me," he whispers. "And I'll be good to you," he finishes with a kiss on the tip of your nose. "Since I have every intention of continuing on like this, I need to ask: are you on anything?"

You slowly blink bloodshot eyes open. "Like what?" you ask numbly.

He cards his fingers in your hair. "To prevent any unwanted consequences."

Oh. That.

"Yes."

Charlie scoffs. "Didn't take you for the type of girl who gets around."

"It helps with my periods," you spit. "Makes the flow not so heavy."

Dumbass.

He hums. "Didn't know that." He runs a hand down your back. "Just make sure to keep on top of it."

Your eyes flit around the empty parking lot. "But... Birth control doesn't always work—"

"Well, I have always wanted a family," he coos. "Could always benefit you if it did happen. Just think: you'd get to stay home barefoot and pregnant, and never have to work again. With my salary, you'd be well taken care of. What sort of young woman wouldn't want that for herself?"

Misogynistic bastard.

Peeling you away from the warmth his body momentarily provided, he pops your door open. "Something to consider," he states while resting his forearms atop the seal and his chin atop them as he studies you with sparkling eyes.

You toss your bag inside.

"See you tomorrow," the wolf says to the lamb.

youre not necessarily shocked as to what you find when seeing what was last searched, "male fingering" "male anal sex" "woman male anal sex" "male getting anal sex" and then the big word. pegging. guess it took him some time to research.

but youre not shocked because you sort of saw it coming. the way he reacted to you grabbing his ass, the way he gets when you grope at his thighs, his waist. you really just shrug it off, he clearly just wasnt ready to tell you.

after asking his brothers for advice, he looked into what Darren told him. about you fucking him in the ass. internally, hes thought about it before a few times. in dreams, between fucked up horny fantasies he has of you. it stunted him, because it was never like..a man. just you with a dick. he doesn't know.

and after browsing the internet, becoming interested in what he found, he began frequenting the newfound porn. which he sort of hated, because he felt like he was disrespecting you by watching porn in the first place. but he couldn't stop himself, when he was in your guys' home alone, he'd find himself drenched in sweat, fisting his cock at some grainy old video of some guy and some girl, that looked the slightest bit like you, getting fucked and cumming all over himself.

watching the multiple positions, the types of dynamics, usually the one where the woman's talking the guy through it. and he'd go at it for hours too, until it physically hurt to touch himself. Andy knew he couldn't go on like this, keeping it from you.

he knew he didn't want it to be someone else, he wanted it to be you. he wanted you, and no one else. he loved the times youd grab his ass, or hips, or thighs even though he knew he was sensitive about it.

he throws in the towel one night, one normal night. he was close to cumming, holding your face as your knees hug his waist, nails digging down his back. "y'gonna cum, baby? does it feel good?" you pant in his ear, getting a frantic nod, his mouth agape with little groans.

"feels so fucking good, love fucking you, love this pussy baby.." he whines. "yeah? love when I do this, too?" you've gotta cocky little smirk on your face as you grab his ass cheeks, spreading them a little. his breath stutters and his eyes squeezed shut, hips halting with his dick buried deep inside you and groans out, twitching uncontrollably as he cums hard enough to make him collapse on top of you.

"fuck..fuck baby i..was so early im sorry," he pants, burying his face in your neck. "its ok, honey. you reeeally like that, hm?" you cradle his head, running your nails through his sweaty curls. "yeah..yeah." he nods, sighing as his brows furrow against your skin. he wants it so bad. he can't stop it from coming out his mouth.

"yeah?" you push for the first time. he nods again, breath heavy against you. "yeah..i want you to fuck me." "like..like wanna flip over and ride?" you know the answer. he sighs again, seeing you clearly want him to say it. "no i...I want you to peg me. been thinkin' about it. n I want you to do it."

its a beat of silence before you shrug. "ok, baby. we can do that sometime." you lift his head up, wanting to frown at his embarrassed, blushing face. you give him a small kiss, cradling his chipmunk cheeks.

the sound of his voice alone, the gruff throaty murmur coupled with a classic surfer drawl, brings you the most comfort you’ve felt all day. rolling over, you lean your chin on the arm of the couch. jaw clamping down into a little pout as you gaze over at him.

broad shoulders, freckled & sunburnt, hunched over in his usual gait. a towel wrapped tightly around his waist, his right hand holding it secured as pools of water drip from his auburn curls to the floor. andrew is always a sight for sore eyes, but today? exactly the remedy you needed.

“a couple minutes ago” your eyes flutter shut, finally taking your first deep breath all day— just the steady presence of andrew can cure so much. his heavy footsteps come closer, a large hand carding through your hair as you sigh.

it’s silent for a few moments, only the feel of andrew’s thick fingers keeping you awake. “you tired? bad day?” andrew is a man of few words but it’s times like these where you prefer it. he doesn’t always know how to show love verbally, and after spending the day with an overstimulating amount of people, the last thing you want to do is have a long conversation.

your sad response of “yeah” causes andrew to pout even more. his hand sprawls across your head after a few light scratches before he’s made up his mind. “c’mon baby, get up” whispered so gently that it’s almost as if he didn’t want to wake you from your daze.

he leads you to the bathroom, turning on the shower for you as you stand in the middle of the room. he’s so precise, it might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen. pope lines up your body wash, your favorite shampoo & conditioner, your signature lotion, your cleansers & moisturizers— all of it. he does it without a single clank or clamber; well rehearsed in doting on his sweet girl.

you move to sit on the toilet seat lid, fatigued and enamored. so enamored, you don’t even notice when he steps out to throw on a pair of comfy shorts.

checking the water to make sure it’s your preferred temperature (scalding enough to make any other man flinch in a shared shower, but andrew revels in the sting), andrew returns back to you. sitting on the toilet seat, you gaze up at him, in adoration.

andrew cradles your cheek as he stands, breathing before sinking to his knees to slip off your shoes. “y’gonna take a shower, get all clean and cozy, and then i’m gonna lotion you up, and braid your hair, kay?”

he falls into this caretaker role so easily, it makes you want to cry thinking about how he must’ve always wanted this for himself.

you nod wordlessly, tenderhearted and needy for him. pope continues slowly, keeping eye contact as he nearly mumbles “alright honey, g’head and get in, i’ll be right here.”

shedding your work clothes, you barely notice andrew grabbing them and folding them up for you before he slips out of the steamy bathroom. andrew, loyal in all facets, goes to your bedroom and grabs some comfy jammies. the softest sleep shorts you own, comfy cotton panties, one of his old shirts & fluffy socks, he can already see your shoulders relaxing into his familiarity.

your shower was quick, a 15 minute hair wash & body session that leaves you glowing and warm. you can see the outline of andrew sitting on the toilet seat lid, quiet and poised. the comfort of his shadow an irreplaceable desire.

turning off the shower & peering around the floral curtain, you mumble “‘m all done.” promptly, andrews placing a warm towel in your hand and helping you out of the shower. you dry your hair as he dries your body, eternally pouty but relaxed.

your eyes flutter shut as he dries down to the bottoms of your feet, one knee propped up while the other kisses the tile floor. he’s determined in his pursuit, ridding you of all water droplets as he softly rubs the warm cotton against you.

“you want some lotion, sweetheart?” he whispers— already knowing the answer. he grabs your favorite lotion, the nutty vanilla shea butter brand that drives him insane, and comes back to kneeling in front of you. before one hand is braced on your knee, andrew pumps the sticky cream into his hands, rubbing them together before starting at your feet.

his hands rub over your pedicured toes, his thumb rubbing gently into your once-sprained ankle. andrew’s breathing picks up, and the entire scene is so sensual, so devoted, tears well in your eyes. his big hands span up your calves, paying equal attention to them before moving up to your thighs.

they’ve always been a source of insecurity for you; stretch marks & body hair being the constraints that can dictate an entire image. but andrew loves them. fuckin’ loves laying on them, kissing them, nipping them, sliding his cock between them.

so it comes as no surprise when andrew massages the tops of your thighs, his auburn curls tickling the little mound of your own curls. kissing your thighs, he continues to squeeze them gently as he makes his ascent. his nose rubs right against your clit as he inhales against you, a small groan leaving his chest as he settles in comfortably.

still rubbing your thighs, andrew nuzzles his head closer to you, closing his eyes to lick into you with your broken sigh. his hands trail up to your hips, rubbing lotion into the dips of your waist and the expanse of your tummy.

pope’s tongue swirls in figures 8s, sucking and nipping at your little bud with all the ease of a man eating his favorite meal for the rest of his life. the clack of his tongue resounds in the steamy bathroom as he presses his face further into you. it’s messy, filthy, downright dirty. everything andrew usually fears. but it’s you, and the grout in his knees and the ache in his jaw feel so good.

his hands move up to cup your breasts as you hunch over him, legs shaking as he hums softly into you. “so good, y’work so hard. taste so good”

digging your hands into his curls, you whine out; feeling your peak nearing. heaving and sobbing, andrew holds you upright as he slurps, his tongue rolling against your sensitive little hole as you cry out.

afterwards, when he rises to kiss you & helps you into your jammies, he braids your hair as you sit in a daze on your bed. the light tug of his hands keeps you grounded, keeps you from slipping too far away from him just yet.

when he’s finished, he kisses you from above, hand on your chin to tilt your head up. “c’mon, lemme make you somethin to eat.” pope grabs your hand, helping you rise before you trail behind him into the kitchen.

he sits you on the stool as he preps your dinner, asking you little, unstressful questions about your day. “how was your lunch?” “what color pen did you use at work?” “did you see any cool birds today?” the last one was so random it made you laugh, but andrew was entirely serious. okay, maybe he just wanted to hear you giggle.

after your eat your yummy grilled cheese, andrew cutting your sandwich into squares and feeding you from across the island, you feel the same anxiety from earlier creep in. andrew cleans the kitchen & shuts it down for the night, before padding over to your chair and scooping you into his arms. your arms hook around his strong neck, ankles crossed as he carries you into your room.

he places you gently on your lavendar comforter, floating about the room as he checks all of the locks. andrew is… meticulous, but not without reason. he’s careful with what he loves, and there’s a warm feeling in your stomach when you realize that’s how he’s been all night— like a child realizing that their favorite stuffie is entirely their own.

crawling into bed next to you, andrew keeps you nose to nose as you even your breathing. he doesn’t even need to say it, you can tell in his eyes he wants you to sync up with him. andrew licks his lips as you gaze at him doe-eyed. his strong thighs touch yours as you sink closer to him, “thank you andrew” “course”

you try & sleep after that, really you do. but the feeling of andrew, cradling you to his chest when he was still very much awake? the sound of his hand rubbing up and down your back over his t-shirt? the very reminder that he was real and wanted to do your skincare & eat you out on the floor of your bathroom? how could anyone rest?

now, andrew’s taken it easy on you, but he knows what you need. that sweet, dumb space in between reality and sleep; the daze you crave. this very realization is what leads his eyes to darken as he speaks with a swallow, “you still need me, huh?”

you preen as you sigh, “yess.” the moment you finish this answer, andrew’s leaning forward with a desperate kiss. rolling you on your back, you’re tummy to tummy with him as he deepens the kiss. the silent smack of your lips fills the room as you whine, hands coming up to frame his back as he breathes into your mouth.

the black shorts clinging to his thighs, some old mma practice shorts you begged him not to throw out, slide down to his knees. his arm braced beside your head as he whispers, “‘m gonna make it all go away, i promise.”

the slide, the squelch, the tremor that wracks through him as he slips inside of you already has your eyes fluttering shut. he rocks softly, hips flush against your pelvis as he sinks in as deep as he can. it almost feels like you have to gasp to accomodate all of him; have to clear your body of air to make room for his thickness.

he knows what you need, knows your poor, exhausted little brain is overworked and just wants to rest for the night. which is why it’s so perfectly timed that andrew wiggles his hips from left to right, drool pooling down his chin as you kiss. a calloused thumb comes to rub against your clit, still sensitive from his previous affections.

a gasp rolls through you, making room for andrew’s tongue— covered in him at all ends. the soft creak of the mattress, the slide of his sweaty chest against your soft t-shirt, the friction of your nipples straining against the fabric; it was all too much.

before you know it, you’re panting into his mouth. pope bites his lip with a shudder “fuuuuuuck” as your eyes glaze over. “y’still here baby, hm? oh, oh you’re fuckin’ gone, huh? i got you, i’ll make it better.” he whines out, struggling to hold back his release himself.

with a wail, you cum, legs shaking against andrew as he continues to thrust. wordless, breathless, boneless— you’re not even sure what planet you’re on. all thoughts of work, and miserable coworkers and a shitty pay leave your brain— the only thoughts a resounding andrewandrewandrew and loveyouloveyouloveyou as you weep.

andrew watches in awe as you repeat those phrases out loud, you don’t even know what you’re saying, you’re so thoroughly fucked. your eyes flutter closed with sleep as you cling to him, his jaw going slack as his hips pick up speed.

“ah fuck- y’can go to sleep baby, yeaaaah, that’s a gooood girl.”

and you do, surrounded in him, belly inwardly pulsing with the sudden flush of wet heat from your lover. a kiss to your eyelids, a breathy sigh against your lips as he settles in next to you, facing you as he speaks.

“goodnight. i love you.”

˚₊‧꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚