here for Pedro…

You shiver slightly when he comes into the office, shying away slightly and trying to be polite because your momma raised you with manners and it never pays to be rude to a man who beats people up for a living. 

Maybe that’s why he scares you. The intense silence as he watches you when you hand him the paperwork that he needs. The names of the people that have not paid back the loans, their addresses and where they work. Handed to him with an almost clinical professionalism that is in stark contrast to what he’s going to do with that information. 

“Hey, dollface.” He’s never rude. He’s actually always very polite when he comes up to your desk, shoving his hands into the pockets of the black leather jacket that seems like a part of his persona. Your eyes flicker up and you immediately tense slightly, shooting him a nervous smile. “Hey, Clint.” You hum, looking around for any papers that might have been laid on your desk to give him. You hadn’t been told about anything, but he normally never comes and seeks you out unless he needs something. “What’s up?” You ask as you search around. “Need something?”

“Whatareyou doin’ tonight?” His jaw is set, almost taunt as he stares at you. Waiting for you to answer almost impatiently. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and looks over his shoulder when something moves out of the corner of his eye. It’s just Leonardo, the cat that has more rights in this office than everyone else, jumping up onto the counter to drink from a random coffee cup that someone had left sitting there half empty. 

Your stomach twists and there is a heaviness that presses against your heart tonight. He must need a favor. Tonight of all nights. You sigh and shrug. “I- I don’t really have anything-”

Clint frowns, brows pulling together harshly and you break off the rest of your sentence and let it die. “Okay.” He turns and walks away from you, the bell over the door out of the office ringing as he pushes it open and leaves, making you stare after him in complete bewilderment, unsure of what the hell was going on. 

Leaving promptly at five o’clock can sound strange when you think about a criminal organization literally having 9-5 hours, but the little loan office is supposed to look legitimate. There are smaller loans, $100-200 that little old ladies borrow against their social security checks to pay for an unexpected expense, all legitimate and kept in a proper set of books in case the IRS comes poking around. They never do. 

You gather your purse, slide the ring for your keys onto your index finger as you walk to the door to shut off the lights. Everyone else had already left, just kind of disappearing like normal before the end of the day, assured that you would lock up like you do every night. Making you feel even more invisible as you lock the door with dissatisfaction over the day and wondering if picking up some take out could make it better. 

He’s leaning against your car. Watching you as you carefully lock the front door, tugging on the handle, just to make sure that it’s locked. Knowing that you might jump when you see him, but he waits anyway. The thing behind him something that might make you smile, or it might not, it all depends on if you like fucking roses or not.

It’s a horrible habit, but you walk to your car with your head down. Watching your feet as you count the steps to the compact little Ford you drive, hating yourself for the way your eyes are getting watery and knowing that you're going to have a good cry on the way home. Looking up at the last second before you need to stop in front of the door and jumping nearly a mile into the air when you see Clint Flood leaning against the front fender of your car. “Clint!” You gasp out and almost immediately look around to see if anyone else is nearby. 

“Easy, dollface.” He hates that he scared you, but he hadn’t wanted to call out, almost curious to know what caused that focus that blocked out the rest of the world. It was a dangerous thing for you to do, but he wasn’t here to lecture you. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” That’s true, he hadn’t, and he reaches behind his back to pull out the thing that he had left laying on the hood of the car. 

Roses, a beautiful bouquet of them, a dozen blood red, crisp roses are bound together with greenery and a pretty silver paper, with ribbons curling down from the bow, is in his hand as he draws it into view. Making your eyes widen in surprise, watery and beautiful, then confused as you try to understand. “I-”

“It’s your birthday today, right?” Clint asks, knowing that he hadn’t mixed up the date. It’s today, even if you hadn’t said a word to anyone. Even if no one had thought to say ‘Happy Birthday’ or bring in a cake. 

You stare at him for a moment, jaw slack and then back at the flowers. “It’s- these are for me?” You whisper quietly, hopeful in a way that makes his heart twist and his nervousness about doing this vanishes. 

“Of course they are.” He holds them out as he pushes upright off your car. Suddenly getting about four inches taller out of his slouch and moving closer to you in a gentle step. Careful not to make you jump again. “Every beautiful woman deserves beautiful flowers on her birthday.” 

You make a sound, soft and disbelieving as you slowly take the bouquet he is holding towards you. You gather them into your arms and cradle the fragrant, tender blooms and press your face into the flowers and close your eyes. Overwhelmed by someone remembering, someone caring. You had gone all day without anyone saying anything, thinking that it was just forgotten and pretending it was okay. That it didn’t matter. Adults didn’t need things like ‘Happy Birthday’ greetings and recognition. Except this completely calls you out for being the liar that you are. 

Clint watches you, not saying a word as you hug the flowers and breathe them in. Wondering if he should have done this earlier, but he hadn’t wanted to make you more nervous and he seems to do that easily enough. When you finally look up, he shoots you a small smile. “Come on, we’ll be late.” He tells you, almost laughing when your face clouds in confusion. 

He guides you over to his car, parked just on the other side of yours, and around to the passenger door. Opening it for you and waiting for you to climb in, turning and watching as you slowly walk closer. 

Late? What would you be late for? There was nothing planned, unless….he had asked about your plans earlier today. Did he have something planned now? With you? For you? A surprise? You don’t think that it’s something bad, not after giving you the most beautiful flowers that you’ve ever seen. You can tell he knows that you are confused but he doesn’t say anything, just waits and watches you with that same look that is always in his eyes when he looks at you. 

You get into his car. Part of him is surprised that you got in without any questions, the other part of him is relieved. He knows that he has to talk to you, to explain why, but it will be easier once he gets you to the restaurant. 

You interest him. In a way he hasn’t felt in a long time, in a way that he thought he might never feel again. Grace had made him feel that way, had been the love of his life, will always have a piece of his heart, but he feels something for you. He had wanted to ask you out, but the words hadn’t come. Grace had done the same kinds of things to him in the beginning before he relaxed and opened up to her. 

The drive is quick, he had chosen the place not too far away that he had heard you talking about in the office one day. The steakhouse with the good linens and candle light. The one that you had gushed over the food review in the paper talking about the best salmon they had ever eaten. The one you wanted to eat at but didn’t have a reason to go. Your birthday is obviously the best reason why you should go. 

The entire ride you are staring at the flowers, wondering why he got them for you. Not looking up until he pulls into a parking spot and you look out the windows. “Um, what are-” He doesn’t let you ask, putting the car into park and shutting off the engine as he answers. “Got reservations in ten minutes, dollface.” He says as he turns towards you. “You deserve to be taken out and celebrated.” 

For a long moment, he thinks you might refuse. You stare at him like he’s just spoken another language. One that you don’t understand. Stare at him before looking down at the flowers and then back up at him. “Reservation?” You ask and he nods. “Ten minutes.” He reminds you. “They said if we came early we could get a drink at the bar.” 

He had made reservations. He had planned this. You are confused but the way your heart is pounding, you don’t think it’s a bad thing. Butterflies swim in your stomach and you bite your lip as you look back down at the flowers. “Can I bring them inside?” You ask, not wanting to leave them behind. 

Clint chuckles softly and looks down at the blooms in question. “You can do whatever you want, dollface.” He promises. “It’s your night.” You bite your lip, something that he’s found adorable and even more so now. “Bring them in.” He says before he gets out of his car to round the front of it and open the door to let you get out. 

You unbuckle your seatbelt and slide out, flowers still in your arms and almost floating along in a sense of disbelief as he guides you towards the building. His hand is hovering just above your lower back, not touching you, but you can practically feel the warmth. Making you shiver again slightly. 

There is fancy, almost overly ostentatious music flowing through speakers when Clint opens the front doors. There isn’t a dress code that requires him to take off the leather jacket, but the black slacks he’s wearing are rarely pulled out of his closet. He had pulled them out for you, for tonight. He doesn’t hesitate to walk up to the host stand and give his name.  

You can’t believe that he made reservations. That he is bringing you here based on a conversation you had with Tammy in the office a month ago. A wistful, daydreamy want that is now apparently coming true. It’s everything you imagined it to be, romantic with low lighting and flickering candles at each table. The crisp white linens are almost too fancy to touch, and the host even pulls out the chair for you to sit down. 

It’s after the drinks have been ordered and you have finally swapped the flowers for a menu that you look up at Clint with a curious frown on your face. “Why did you bring me here?” You ask softly, as if you are afraid of making him angry by asking. Clint looks up and closes the menu as he contemplates how to answer without scaring you. 

“It’s your birthday.” He reasons, but that just makes you frown a little more. “I-” he shrugs. “I wanted to do something nice. To treat you.” 

“Why?” You bite your lip again. “I mean, you don’t- we don’t really socialize.” You point out and he flashes a quick half smile before he shrugs again. “It’s hard to socialize when you seem scared of me most of the time.” 

Your stomach drops, and you hate that he had realized that you were nervous around him. You had fooled yourself into thinking that you were hiding it so well. Your hands tighten around the menu and you look down at it in embarrassment. 

“Hey, don’t-” Clint shakes his head, upset that he upset you. “I just- I wanted to do this. Because….I would like to get to know you.” He confesses softly, opening up for the first time since he had lost the woman who had meant everything to him. 

That makes you look up, eyes almost startled as they find his and you soften. Your shoulders seem to drop and relax and you shoot him a shy smile. “You do?” You ask, making him give you a smile of his own as the waiter brings the drinks and asks if you are ready to order. “I do.” 

You seem to really relax and settle into the dinner, asking him questions and answering his own, your guard dropping and he hears you laughing at his admittedly bad jokes. Acting like you are enjoying yourself and moaning over the salmon when you try it. Claiming that it is every bit as good as the food critic had claimed, even insisting on feeding him a bite from your own fork. It was good, for fish. Although it hadn’t beat the buttery steak he had ordered for himself. Offering to let you have a bite of it too since it was just good manners. Watching you carefully take the bite from him and smiling when your eyes slip closed with a groan of pleasure that hits him in the gut like a punch. 

He had ordered you cake. The piece was indulgent, double chocolate with ganache, a single candle in the top of it when it’s brought out. He doesn’t tease you when you nearly cry, just urges you to make a wish and smiles when you blow it out. It would seem like such a small thing to someone else, but it means so much to you. How much thought he had obviously put into tonight. Almost like it was a date.

You are quiet on the drive back to your car. Making him nervous as he grips the steering wheel and glances into his mirrors so he doesn’t look over at you for every few seconds. He doesn’t try to talk to you, letting the silence settle but it’s not a heavy silence. Just comfortable in a way it might have not been before tonight. 

“I- I had a great birthday.” You admit when you’ve opened your car door and set your purse and the flowers inside. Turning back and shooting him another smile. One that pulls him closer as he resists the urge to pull out that pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and light one up. Clint nods and takes another step towards you. “Better than your earlier plans?” He asks, making you laugh. “My plans were to eat take out and watch tv.” You snort, reaching out and patting his arm. 

Clint reaches for you slowly. Giving you time to pull back if you want to, but you don’t. You bite your lip and look up into his eyes. “Don’t know…” Clint murmurs, “that could be a good night.” He teases quietly. “With the right company.” 

This should have been your best first day. The first day at the job that will finally get your head above water. The first time you’ve felt qualified, and that you’d fit in. And the first where you could see the stepping stones to something bigger and better in front of you.

It was your fucking thighs that ruined it all.

You’d wanted to make a good first impression. Bought a whole new outfit just to show how committed you were, down to the thigh-high stockings and matching underwear. That was for you, something under the pencil skirt and blazer that made you feel even more powerful. It had cost a pretty penny too. Your ample bottom and full figure needed good support, and that plus lace was always the highest price at the lingerie boutiques. But you shelled it out, along with their recommended garters and thigh highs “for peak professionalism,” and were feeling yourself as you strutted off the subway. There was practically a soundtrack playing behind you. Maybe “Uptown Girl,” the notes making a smile come to your face and your head bob as you exited the train.

You’re normally more careful, aware of how much more space your body takes up than the other knockout New York girls streaming around you. But confidence had you swinging your hips and stepping confidently…right until you bumped into a woman’s handbag with an aggressive closure, the metal skimming past your calf and over the delicate nylon.

It ran instantly, a testament to how much of a rip-off these undergarments were. You felt it split along the length of your shapely leg as you hurried out of the station and towards the gleaming monolith of your office. Scurrying inside, you slipped into the bathroom unnoticed to assess the damage.

The run had split into a gaping maw down your leg, the smooth fantasy of the nylon revealing the more mottled flesh underneath. You held back tears as you wracked your brain for a solution. You could run to a shop, get a replacement pair. You’re still early to clock in, wanting to arrive punctually to impress your supervisor. That’s it, you’d just pop out to a drugstore for a new pair and no one would be the wiser.

It was a perfect plan. You just needed to move. But you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot. 

The mirror mocks you, internal monologue screaming to the forefront from where you battered her back this morning.

Wouldn’t have ripped them if you were smaller.

Why do you need to take up so much space?

Did you think all this would change what you are?

Nastier names you call yourself only in the torture chamber of your mind echo in your ears. Your mascara is dangerously close to running, eyes catching on every flaw in your outfit, every wrinkle, everything that screams don’t look at the parts I hate, every unflattering angle. You reach deep to return to that carefree state you held just fifteen minutes ago but it’s dissipated like steam from a coffee cup. 

Grabbing a handful of tissues you storm into a stall and lock it, leaning over to let the tears drip onto the floor without ruining your makeup. The minutes are ticking away, time running out to fix your minor wardrobe malfunction, but the ache in your head and behind your eyes has become the only thing you can focus on now. Your sobs are quiet little sniffles and short gasps, thankful for the privacy.

Suddenly, the door to the bathroom slams open, and you shoot up, holding your breath. You’re not alone anymore.

Someone in smart leather shoes smacks across the floor, walking past the stalls and coming to a stop. A zip, then the tinkle of urination. Your expression crumples on itself in confusion.

Then a deep, masculine sigh reaches your ears, and your face quickly burns with embarrassment.

Fuck, did you walk into the men’s room?

You didn’t even check, just burst in to the first door with a toilet on it. There may have been urinals, but you were too preoccupied in the moment to pay them any mind. You clap your hands over your mouth, lightheaded at the fact that you’re listening to a grown man piss and he has no idea you’re in here. This day has turned from amazing to devastating to mortifying so quickly you could throw up. 

The man finishes, striding over to the sinks to wash up. You breathe a sigh of relief, ready to make a mad dash out before someone else enters. The water turns off, a few flicks of his hands in the sink, and then…

He starts talking.

“This is your day,” he says, an order that you can imagine him doing in the mirror. “You will succeed in what you do, and you will find satisfaction in that success. You will continue to grow, and be proud of yourself. You will start doing that today.” With every word you cringe inwardly. He’s so earnest-sounding, really enunciating his daily affirmations in a public restroom. His voice is pleasing to listen to at least. If he was a late night radio DJ you would certainly tune in to him to fall asleep. 

A moment of silence, a silent hope.

“This is your day…”

Oh for fuck’s sake, embarrassment be damned, you can’t keep listening to this.

“Hi there,” you squeak out, your whole body tense as his monologue cuts off sharply. The pause is at least ten months pregnant before he speaks.

“I-I’m so sorry, I thought I was alone,” he stammers out, two quick steps heading towards the door.

“No, I’m sorry, I-I shouldn’t even be here, it’s…” Your words run out of steam when you realize his footsteps have stopped.

“You’re a woman. In the men’s room.”

You can’t help but smirk. He’s a little slow on the uptake. It’s surprisingly sweet.

“It’s been a rough morning.”

Another pause.

“Are you in trouble?”

You peal out a weak laugh.

“Nothing like that, just…” Taking a deep breath, you blow it out. Might as well admit your failures to a stranger. “I ripped my pantyhose on the way here, and it’s my first day and I wanted to make a good impression, and then I got overwhelmed and…” Your breath starts to quicken, and below the Pepto Bismol pink stall you see two shoes slowly approach. They’re well cared for, supple shining leather, but scuffed all along the toe. Tan slacks overtop the laces, a crisp pleat ironed into the length. You even see a glimpse of striped socks underneath, a collection of garish colors that makes you smile.

“Hey, it’s okay,” the voice says soothingly, closer than before. His accent sounds Spanish before he manually flattens it, forcing it back into his throat in favor of an all-American good boy accent. It eases the tension in your shoulders, sitting down on the toilet seat and dabbing at your eyes. 

“I know it’s stupid. And I should just go out and get another pair. I just…” you say, but struggle to voice what’s really bothering you to a man who hasn't seen your face. Who probably doesn’t care who you are beyond a bizarre Monday morning anecdote. Most don’t, after all. You can’t remember how many times a man has looked through you because of the roundness of your tummy, or the thickness of your thighs. Or even worse, devoured your curves with roaming eyes but won’t look you in the eye, or call you back. 

“It’s not stupid. You wanted to feel ready to take on the day, and something bad happened. We all deal with it,” he says, the gentle register he’s taking on soothing to your frayed nerves. “Do you have a place to go for another pair?” he asks. You bite your lip, shaking your head before realizing he can’t see you.

“First time out here, but I can manage,” you say timidly. The embarrassment of your predicament is climbing back up your throat, the thrumming need to get out and away making your hands shake.

“I know a place, but it’s probably quicker for me to run out for you. Do you want to stay here while I get them?” 

You sputter, a thousand excuses why he should not do that roiling in your brain. “You don’t have to,” is the only one you manage to get out, heart hammering. A little chuckle wafts to your ears, and the heat in your cheeks blooms in your tummy as well. He sounds handsome, and that is short-circuiting your brain even more.

“I have gone on an errand or two in my life,” he jokes, feet making their way towards the door. “Lock it behind me so no one else comes in. I’ll do this -” He knocks on the door in a quick but recognizable pattern. “- when I’m back. It should only be a few minutes.”

“You’re that good huh?” You stammer again, your whole body threatening to light on fire in this stall. This man may come back to a pile of ash instead of a woman dying of embarrassment. 

“Eh, I could be better,” he says, and the door to the outside opens with a rush of lobby noise. “Be right back.”

A thick slam lets you sneak out to bolt the lock. Returning to the mirror that betrayed you just minutes before, you watch your reflection. Behind the roundness in your face you pick at and criticize, you recognize another emotion. Determination, and fortitude you push yourself to stop downplaying. You can overcome this setback. Nothing is lost. If anything, you might have gained a confidant, someone you could laugh about this comedy of errors with over coffee in the break room. 

You’ll be sure to thank him properly when he gets back.

Maxwell Lorenzano hurries out of the office building he’s worked in for six months, down the street and to the Macy’s two blocks away. He knows these roads like the back of his hand, and all of the stores that line them. A good thing to keep in his back pocket when he was pitching new products and charming sales people. Especially good when he knows exactly which door to go through to get to the women’s delicates section.

He strides in with all the glorious purpose of a man on a mission, and people part for him. He likes to think it’s because he cuts an impressive figure, tan suit over a white button-up, brown and yellow striped tie flapping with urgency. But there’s always the nagging worry that it’s because they recognize him. That the scurry away is fear. He’d been confronted in the past, a handful of angry men and women who wanted to take out their frustrations with their fists. But worse is the anxiety, the fear, like he could snap his fingers and magic them out of existence.

The aftermath of that damn stone still hangs heavy around his neck.

“Can I help you?” a petite saleswoman asks when Max comes to a stop in the nylon section. His sudden drop in demeanor from confident to hesitant must have signaled her over. In his eagerness he didn’t even ask his damsel in distress which kind she needed, or her size. He chews his lip in contemplation.

“I’m looking for a pair of nylons for my…” He pauses, no words coming to mind. His unlikely acquaintance? His mystery girl locked in the men’s room? His noble quest? The saleswoman - Karla, her name tag informs him - puts him out of his misery.

“I can help you with that. What kind does she wear? Control top? Thigh highs?”

Max’s mouth dries out. The most he knows of her is the glimpse he got of her feet, sensible black heels, well worn. The sight warmed something in his chest. She must be a hard worker, someone on her feet all day and always up to run an errand for a friend. He bets they ache at the end of a long day. Does she have someone to rub them for her?

“What do…most women wear to an office?” he asks, flitting his eyes over the variety of styles and shades.

“All the professional women I know use thigh highs. Easier in the office than a full set.” Karla directs him to the right section. “What size is she?”

Damn, this is where his lack of foresight fails him. He should have asked, but the intimacy of that question died on his tongue. Why did they size nylons in weight and height, the two most sensitive topics? He’d rather swallow a mouthful of glass than ask. Picking up one of the packets, he flips it to the size chart. There are only four options, which is easier than he expected.

“I can’t remember, better safe than sorry. One of each,” he says, Karla’s well-manicured eyebrows shooting into her hairline.

“And what color?” Karla asks. He noted that at least. 

“Sheer black.”

Karla moves to grab a handful of the basic style, the cheapest on the display, before Max stops her.

“These ones,” he amends, tapping the more expensive set. If she’d already torn one pair, another flimsy set wouldn’t do. It had nothing to do with the fact that the lace edging the expensive ones is more delicate, a prettier pattern, and thinking of giving it to you raises goosebumps on the back of his neck. 

He doesn’t even know you. It’s just…practical.

Karla rings up his purchases without further question, though maybe a little side-smile. She gives Max a brighter one when he takes the bag.

“You’re a good boyfriend,” she comments, scurrying off before he can respond. His face burns hot as he exits the store, checking his watch. The innocuous word - boyfriend - pings in his mind.

It had been some time since Max had run an errand for anyone. A few empty flings followed his divorce but nothing substantial enough to require a trip to the drugstore, or even a coffee shop. It was one of his favorite things about being a husband. He lived for the little memos on his desk blotter - Mrs. Lord needs you to pick up hairspray and milk - and followed them to the letter and beyond. He prided himself in knowing her favorite scents, what brands she preferred, what she turned her nose up at and what feminine products she needed. Sometimes he’d slip in something extra, a bouquet of flowers, a simple card. She’d groan at the expense, especially in the most dire times, but it always ended with her on her tiptoes kissing him, whispering, “My hero,” in his ear. 

He really enjoyed being her hero, even after everything that happened. 

It’s still early enough that his bathroom stowaway won’t be late to her first day. He’ll get to swoop in and save the day, be a hero to one person for a short moment. Jogging back into the office, the clash in humidities making his shirt stick to his back, he returns to the bathroom door. Rapping his pattern on it, he waits for the shick of the lock and a few moments more in case she wants to be back in the stall when he enters. 

Stepping in and locking the door behind him, the open space is still empty, her shoes in her stall. Her toes are pointed towards each other, legs nervously rubbing.

“I, uh, forgot to ask your size,” Max blurts out, cringing immediately at the first thing that comes to mind. He knows she’s holding her breath, so he speeds through the next part. “Those sizing charts are more invasive than a doctor’s visit, so I just got one of everything, and the shop lady said that thigh highs are what everyone’s wearing but I’m not an expert so I hope it’s…okay.” He trails off before stepping further in and sliding the bag under the stall door. He scolds himself not to look further but he does catch a glance at her shapely calves before straightening back up. 

“I can…leave now. Unless you want me to stay until you’re ready to go. What…whatever you want.”

She still hasn’t said anything and it’s heavier than his anxiety on his chest. He’s sure he’s offended her, or completely screwed this one small task up. Leave it to him to take helping a stranger to new, wildly creepy levels. Should he have just gone to reception to ask a woman for help? Is she mortified a man she’s never seen bought her something so intimate? 

He waits in agony.

You try to comprehend what this stranger has handed you. In his absence you practiced thanking him for what you assumed would be the wrong size of pantyhose. You planned how you would reassure him that he could leave so you could escape to the women’s room and struggle into whatever he returned with. 

But instead, he surprises you with a folded bag tucked discreetly under the bathroom stall. 

Four identical pairs of thigh-highs, all matching your outfit, and in every size you could hope for. Pulling out the correct packet, your breath catches in your throat. They’re nicer than you allow yourself to buy, the high-quality nylon silky under your touch. The lace along the edge is finely textured, beautifully designed.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you say, your voice faraway to your own ears, a ball forming in your throat. The man’s feet shuffle against the tile floor. 

“I hope you don’t think I’m being a creep. My ex-wife always said I was good at finding exactly what she needed.”

His voice is tight, and it plucks at your heart.

“Not a creep, you’re definitely my hero today,” you manage to say, rolling down the ruined pantyhose. The other follows, tucking your bare toes into your shoes to protect them from the cold floor. The man paces outside while you stretch each new nylon up your legs. 

“Definitely not how I thought my day would start,” he says, the smile in his voice making your first real one grace your lips. 

“Me neither. I can pay you for these.”

“I could never accept. I’ll return the extras, but please. Consider them a ‘welcome to the office’ gift. Or consolation after the morning you’ve had.”

“Oh, so you work here too? Great, now I’ll have to worry about bumping into you in the other men’s bathrooms.”

“I would gladly approach all bathrooms with caution if I got to run into you in one again.”

A softer pause than before.

“Would you like me to leave?”

Smoothing the lace band around your plush thigh, you let your fingertips trace the edge. Briefly, you imagine fingers other than your own following the same path before hooking underneath to slide them down inch by inch, replaced by soft lips. 

“I’d like to thank my savior face to face,” you tease, smoothing your skirt and toeing your shoes back on. You dab some toilet paper under your eyes, pat your hair, and take a deep breath before exiting the bathroom stall.

The stall door slams shut as the man who saved your day turns to face you. His eyes light on your face first, open curiosity melting into a charming smile that is…familiar. In fact, a lot of him is familiar. His wide shoulders, suit jacket stretching against them. The sweep of his blond hair, not as light as it used to be but still caramel with burnt sugar strands. His large hands, no longer sporting a Rolex or an ostentatious pinky ring. And his face, one of the most recognizable in recent years, wearing an expression you’ve never seen. If you weren’t so dumbstruck you’d think it was appreciation. It was the look someone might give before calling you beautiful. 

“Max Lorenzano…”

“Max Lord.”

His introduction trips over your recognition, dazed expression sharpening and shattering under those two words. The hope in his eyes dims as he schools his expression into acceptance, honey-golden aura swapped for the cool light of cold winter mornings.

“I’ll go. My apologies,” he says, simple, direct. You’re sure this has happened to him many times, possibly followed by shouts or sneers. Your own words stick in your throat as he claps his hands together and moves to leave. Thankfully your hands are fast enough, wrapping around his arm and pulling him to a stop.

“No, please, wait,” you finally manage, your bodies so close you’re burned by the heat radiating off his jacket. He turns in your grip, which you release to clasp your hands in front of your stomach. 

“I didn’t mean…you startled me, I never expected…” you start, rolling your next words around in your mouth. He watches you, half wary, half hopeful. This close you can see how the edges of his lips are slightly chewed, how close his shave is, the sheen of sweat along his neck. He must have ran to get back here so quickly. Your heart thumps weakly against your ribs.

“I never thought I’d ever come face to face with the person who granted my wish,” you say, watching his jaw tighten in anticipation of vitriol. 

“When I saw you on TV, and you asked me what my one desire was, I had…so many things come to mind. To be prettier, thinner, beautiful.” You can tell he wants to say something but you barrel on before you lose your nerve. “But I’m not a complete idiot, I’ve seen a few movies about wishes. I know those things can blow up in your face, and I don’t think I could take being hurt about how I looked by some magic rock.” 

Max’s hand cups your elbow, thumb rubbing a soothing path.

“So I closed my eyes and I wished exactly this: I want one more day with my best friend at the time in her life when she was happiest.” The next breath you take in shakes. “She died seven years ago. Breast cancer. I miss her every day, and I just wanted one more with her. And I got my wish. And it was the best fucking day. The world outside might have been a mess, but we watched our favorite movies, snuck out to the spots we loved before she got sick, ate our favorite foods and talked all night. And I know it was real because she handed me my own ass and made me come to terms with some shit I did not like about myself. Only she would do that.” You fight against the tears, a sniffle coming out instead, as Max watches you with blossoming wonder. 

“And when it was done she hugged me and told me to kick ass and eat cake and break hearts and I’ve been doing my best ever since.” You let out a watery giggle, Max’s smile warming your cheeks. “I never thought I’d be able to thank the person who gave me my best day, but then, here you are, giving me something I needed again. So, wow, thank you. I…thank you.”

Max clears his throat, his own eyes glassy.

“Can I hug you?” he asks, and you push into his arms without further preamble. He holds you with deep breaths, both of your hearts cracking open and healing pressed together. The overwhelming scent of sweat and spicy deodorant and the warmth of his skin is a balm to your frazzled nerves. His cheek rests against your forehead and when you squeeze him a little tighter he returns it. 

When you part, your reddened eyes and sniffling noses make you both snort out laughs, moving to the sink to freshen up. You powder your face, surprisingly unselfconscious after all that just happened. Max straightens his tie and sweeps back his hair. It looks soft, barely styled. His shoulders seem lighter.

Both presentable, he lets you into the hallway, hazarding a peek to prevent any scandal. You walk side by side as he asks you where you’re starting work - transcription - and you ask where you’ll be able to find him - the mailroom. He waits for you to sign in with the front desk before leading you to the elevators, not so surreptitiously angling for the empty one before leading you in. He’s meant to be going down a floor, but rides with you up to the sixth.

“I’m glad you made that wish,” he says once the doors shut, the elevator whirring to life under your feet. “And that you didn’t make the other ones. You’re already beautiful.” He says the last three words quietly, like they would spook you if he said them with his whole chest. Your cheeks burn, the smile dimpling them. “And…thank you. For telling me. No one’s ever told me they’ve been happy.”

You ride in silence until just before your floor, turning to look at the man who gave you so much. He’s watching you like a miracle, like he wants to wrap you in his arms again, like he wants to say something very stupid to a person he barely knows. He swallows it instead, but you can’t help yourself. You lift up on your tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek, and savor the way he leans into it.

“My hero,” you whisper, stepping out to let the doors close between you.

Your lips, and your words, linger on him for days. Your impressions lingers on his heart for longer. After a week he tries to forget, to push you to the background in a futile attempt at self-preservation. You don’t know him, and he doesn’t know you. Fate smashed you together but you should part just as quickly, save you both the heartache. He’s still a complicated man, and you deserve better than that.

It works until he gets a piece of mail for you, two weeks later, and possessed by some boldness he’s forgotten he has, he plasters a sticky note on it.

“I hope your first week has been better than your first day.”

He wants to write so much more, but knowing anyone could see it stops his hand. 

He doesn’t expect a response, at least not right away. You might still be embarrassed. So when he’s closing up at the end of the day and you come up beside him, the shock on his face breaks you into laughter. 

“My week has been nowhere near as good as my first day,” you finally say. “But I did find a good place to eat a few blocks away. Great dinner options.” Max’s heart pulls between stopping and beating uncontrollably in his chest until he finally says, “We better check it out then.”

The laughter is just as easy as the first day, the conversation even better. He refuses to let you leave without trying the milkshakes, and beams when he watches something heavy fall off your shoulders as you look at him. 

You tell him more about your life, your friend that brought you both together more than she’d ever imagined. He tells you about the life he lives now, of Alistair and how proud he is of him. Questions and anecdotes and words both loud and soft wrap around you in the wooden booth. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s felt like Maxwell Lorenzano.

When he walks you to your subway stop Max’s hand falls to your lower back and remains. The soft way you look at him makes him think that maybe all his heroics have finally gotten him somewhere after all.

And next time he finds himself in a bathroom with you, it’s very much on purpose.

END

The ancestral home of your uncle’s family, Yotes Castle, was not a place that made people feel comfortable or welcome. Built on the ruins of an old thirteenth century castle, some of the old rooms still part of the house, it cast a forlorn gloom on the surrounding landscape. The long drive up to the house, the ancient portcullis cutting visitors off from the outside world, and the dark granite stone, it all made the place look as bleak as something out of a penny dreadful. The one forgiving feature was the big park surrounding the house, sprawling and wild with endless pathways curving through the trees and shrubs to small hidden glens and meadows. This is where you’d often taken refuge when you were allowed, and it was where you’d first met him, the groundskeeper.  

You’d arrived at the house the previous autumn, just as the weather turned cold; heavy rains and thick fog rolling in from the nearby Irish Sea. Your father had passed away long before you could remember him, and for most of your life, your mother had raised you with the help of a governess and her maid in the London house. But your mother’s health was never what it should be, and when she too passed, her brother became your legal guardian. And rather than let you stay in London, he gave you a choice; to come and work as his children’s governess at Yotes, or stay in London and be cut off once your mother’s meagre fortune ran out. You had no choice but to pack your bags and make the long journey north.  

You’d never been to Yotes Castle, only heard your mother’s stories about it and how much she’d detested it growing up; dark, lonely, stifling. She’d married your father and left for London as soon as she could, and she’d never returned to the north.

Your own first impression of the castle was not promising either. The place had been shrouded by heavy mist, the whole place damp, inside as well as out. Long, dark corridors and staircases confused you as the butler led you to your uncle’s study when you first arrived, his nose turned up at your carpet bag luggage. Your uncle had greeted you like you were a new servant, not his departed sister’s daughter, and dismissed you after letting you know he expected you to take full responsibility for his two children. You were assigned a room next to the children, but at least you were allowed to eat with the family and not the servants. Although, after a few days, you thought it might be nicer to eat with the servants than suffer the stilted conversation and heavy silence in the family dining room. 

The housekeeper, Mrs Pluck, might think otherwise though. She viewed you as a servant, and would ignore any requests you made, sending up lunch only for the children, and not you, when your aunt and uncle were out. Making sure you weren’t served dinner in the dining room, instead making you go downstairs and explain to the cook why you hadn’t eaten. Until one day, Amelia, your ten year old cousin, told your aunt about this, and Mrs Pluck was told to make lunch for you too. After that, Mrs Pluck seemed to view you as her mortal enemy, doing anything she could to trip you up. 

Amelia, on her hand, had not told her mother out of the goodness of her heart, rather the opposite. She wanted you gone, as did her eight year old brother Albert. In the interim between their old governess leaving and you arriving to take her place, the children had run wild. Your attempt at making them learn at least the basics were met with protests and complaints. To say that your first winter was trying was an understatement. 

Spring was slow to arrive in these parts, but as the weather dried up, you could at least escape the house while the children had other lessons. The days were still chilly, you’d grown accustomed to breaking the ice on your wash basin in the mornings as your uncle refused to heat the house properly. But despite the cold, you wrapped yourself in layers of wool and escaped into the park, leaving the bleak house behind. 

You had a favourite spot, right at the end of the wooded area and well out of sight from the house. The path led through a thicket of rhododendrons and curved around a small lake, more like a pond really. On the far side of the pond sat a small cottage where no one seemed to live, covered in dark green ivy and climbing roses, all devoid of leaves this early in the spring. Where the path ended was a bench with a view across the lake and to the cottage. Even on the dreariest of days, the spot seemed bright, the weak sunlight of early spring reflecting in the lake’s mirrored surface. 

The first time you saw him, the sound of the cottage front door closing made you jump. The thump echoed across the small lake and you looked up, startled. On the other side a man had just come out of the cottage, a heavy looking axe in one hand. He stopped as he saw you, your eyes meeting briefly before he turned, a deep scowl on his dark face as he stalked away, disappearing from view behind the trees. You lifted your hand to shield your eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of his retreating back, but his long legs took him into the woods and he vanished in moments. Instead you looked at the cottage, it still seemed abandoned but now you saw the thin tendril of smoke rising from the chimney. Whomever he was, it seemed as if he was now living there.  

You returned to your book, but the man had disturbed your peace, his look at you had been so troubling. It was almost as if he disliked you on sight, while you didn’t even know who he was. What could have made him regard you with such aversion? 

With a sigh you closed your book and stood up, your favourite spot suddenly seemed less welcoming. 

It was a few days before you saw him again in the park. The weather had turned milder after two days of rain, and you’d left the children with their riding master. Slowly strolling through the copse of beeches at the far end of the park, reading your book, you didn’t notice the man leaning on his spade, or the ditch he’d dug. 

“Watch where you’re going!” 

The warning came too late as the ground disappeared from underneath your feet, and with a gasp you stumbled forward, just as a hand closed around your arm, pulling you back. 

“Cuidado!” he snapped, his fingers digging into your flesh as he all but shoved you back from the edge of the ditch, “Keep your eyes on where you are going, girl. I won’t explain a broken neck to your uncle.” 

You staggered back, his hand letting go of your arm as the book fell to the ground. 

“Th-thank you,” you stuttered, finding your balance again as the man shook his head with a scowl. 

“If you fall and break your neck or your leg, I’m without a job, so don’t get in my way,” he snarled, snatching the book from the ground and shoving it into your hands, “Now get away from here, go back to your books and keep them indoors.” 

Without a backwards glance he turned and grabbed the spade again and jumped into the ditch. You hesitated for a second, but the man stabbed the dirt with the spade with aggression, and began digging without another word. 

Holding tight to your book, you hurried away. The man’s fingers had left painful imprints on your upper arm, and you rubbed them as you made your way back towards the house, your heart still beating hard in your chest. He had scared you as much as almost falling into the ditch had. The scowl he’d given you had been amplified by dark eyes under his dishevelled mop of black hair and unkempt beard. It made him look foreboding and very dangerous. But what had really frightened you was the scar that marred his face, a wicked looking gash across his left eye. Even to your inexperienced eyes he looked like a man who had fought many battles and lived a hard life. What he did here, working for your uncle, you couldn’t even begin to imagine. His accent had been foreign, and he’d used a word you didn’t recognise when he first shouted at you. With a shudder you tried to calm yourself as you pulled open the heavy back door to the big house. 

The kitchen of the house was the only welcoming room in the place, much thanks to the elderly cook, Mrs Robertson, who ran it with a scullion to help her. Now Mrs Robertson greeted you with a smile, looking up from the dough she was kneading. 

“Hello, dear, you look frozen solid, is it still cold outside?” 

“Hello, Mrs Robertson. No, it’s not too bad, it’s just still cold in the shade,” you replied, unbuttoning your wool coat and hanging it over a chair in the corner. 

“Well, put the kettle on anyway, it’s time for some tea and you do look as if you could do with some warming up.”

She tucked the dough into a clean bowl and washed her hands while you filled the kettle and put it on the hob, stoking the coals to get it going. 

“I ran into a man in the park,” you said, taking down the teapot and cups from the cupboard, “did my uncle take on someone new?” 

“Tall, dark haired fellow with a nasty looking scar?” Mrs Robertson asked and you nodded. “That’s Mr Pero Tovar, he’s the groundskeeper. He’s been away for a bit, he usually is during the winter when there’s less to do. He must’ve returned recently, I haven’t seen him in a bit.” 

“I almost fell into a ditch he was digging but he caught me just in time, gave me a terrible fright.” 

“He will do that to you, poor man,” Mrs Robertson replied, “I met him once coming back late from the train, I was just coming up to the main gate, and he stepped out from the small path there. Nearly gave me a heart attack with the way he looked. But he apologised for scaring me and carried my luggage all the way up to the house,” she sat down at the table as you poured the boiling water into the teapot. 

“He’s not a wholly disagreeable man, even though he’s foreign,” she added as an afterthought, as she made sure you heated up the pot. 

“Do you know where he’s from?” you asked, “He had an accent I couldn’t place.” 

“Spain, I think. He mentioned it once when I asked why he didn’t drink tea. Apparently they prefer coffee there,” she shook her head as if the madness of not drinking tea was too much to imagine. 

You didn’t give the man any more thought, except to keep an eye out to avoid him when you were wandering the park, not wishing to be on the receiving end of one of his scowls again. The weather turned mild and soon daffodils and snowdrops were cropping up and you took the children outside to give them some lessons in botany. They were less than interested, and you soon gave up, letting them play in the stream flowing down towards the small lake while you brought out your sketchbook and began drawing the scene in front of you. The sun was warm, filtering down through the branches that were just starting to show the first hint of green again and you relished being out of doors, away from the house. The weather even felt warm, and you removed your heavy coat, before picking up the sketchbook again. 

The sound of footsteps crunching on last year’s dry leaves made you look up towards the path, only to be met by Mr Tovar’s dark eyes. He was all but marching towards you, a heavy looking tool bag in one hand and several long planks over his shoulder. Just as you thought he was about to scold you for some unknown trespass, he marched right by you with barely a nod, and made his way to the small wooden bridge crossing the stream. 

The bridge was really just a simple row of flat planks attached to logs long since hammered into the mud. The planks were beginning to rot and warp, and you’d kept the children away from it, it didn’t look safe. And Tovar proved you right when he knelt down and ripped the first plank away, the wood coming away in pieces in his hands. Soon he’d measured out the right length, and replaced the first plank with a fresh one, moving on to the next. 

You tried to return to your drawing or keep an eye on the children who were still playing further down the stream, but you kept glancing back at Tovar. Despite his intimidating appearance, or maybe because of it, you were drawn back to watching him as he worked. You weren’t unfamiliar with men, even though you’d grown up only with your mother. But this wasn’t the curious attraction you’d felt as a stable hand smiled at you. This was something else, something that made your eyes drift back to him, leaving your drawing unfinished as you watched him work. 

He had his back to you, a well worn black workman’s shirt stretching tight across his shoulders after he’d shed his jacket. It was mesmerising watching the broad back move and shift as he worked at the stubborn planks, the odd grunt reaching your ears. Hunched down as he was, he seemed to possess immense strength in his large hands, the planks groaning and protesting as he planted his feet wide and pulled. He always won the fight, tossing them behind himself in a careless pile. With an impatient movement he wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirt sleeve and straightened up. As you watched, he unbuttoned the cuff of his left hand and began rolling the shirt up over his forearms, exposing tanned skin dusted with dark hair. Done with one, he rolled up the other one before bending and grabbing the nearest loose plank, throwing it over his shoulder. 

As he turned he suddenly caught your eyes on him, and for a few seconds you were caught in his dark stare, unable to move. Slowly the scowl transformed into a smirk, and you dropped your gaze. From the corner of your eye you could see how he kept staring at you, his mouth pulled into a crooked grin as he seemed to study you in return. You felt your cheeks heat up and you turned away, looking down towards the children. From behind you, you heard him attack the planks again, another one tossed to the pile. 

Needing to remove yourself from the temptation to glance back at him again, you stood up and made your way down to the children. Albert was busy building a dam while Amelia threw rocks at it, he protested loudly while she laughed. 

“Amelia, don’t do that, let him build his dam,” you told her, knowing full well she would ignore you. She only sniggered and picked up another rock from the bottom of the stream, the hem of her dress soaked through. 

“Amelia! Stop that!” you snapped at her as she let the rock fly, narrowly missing her brother’s head as it went over him. 

“No!” she laughed, while Albert yelled at her, “I want to make him wet!”

“You’re ruining it! Albert hollered, as Amelia’s next rock hit the sticks and splintered his carefully constructed dam. With an angry roar he leaped for her but she easily jumped out of the way, laughing as she took off up the stream towards the bridge with Albert behind her. With a sigh you followed. You at least had to try to make them not kill each other. 

Pero stood up as the children came racing up the bank, Amelia laughing loudly as Albert yelled at her. When they spotted the tall man scowling at them, they both stumbled to a stop, looking up at him while you caught up behind them. Pero glanced over at you and then back at the children. 

“You should listen to your governess,” he said and gave Amelia a stern look, “And do not throw rocks at your brother.” 

But Amelia was not about to listen to the groundskeeper either. With an arrogant look on her face she put a hand on her hips and sniggered. 

“My father says you got that scar in prison. I think it makes you look like Quasimodo,” she smirked, pointing at Mr Tovar’s face as Albert started laughing. 

“Amelia!” you snapped, horrified at her behaviour. Mr Tovar’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline for a second before returning into a deep scowl. 

“Little girl,” he said, his voice low and serious, “you should not mock strangers.” 

“You’re not a stranger,” Amelia replied as Albert continued to giggle next to her, “you’re father’s groundskeeper, and you have to do as we say or he’ll send you back to prison with that ugly scar.” 

She was puffing her chest out as much as her scrawny ten year old frame would allow, and you could already see her mother’s haughty manners in the look she was giving Mr Tovar. He looked at her with a furrowed brow, his dark eyes almost hidden under his eyebrows, a dangerous sneer on his lips.  

“Amelia, that is enough,” you said, grabbing her arm and pulling her around, “you should be ashamed of yourself, apologise to Mr Tovar right now.” 

“No!” she yelled at you, struggling to pull free from your grip on her arm. 

“Amelia, you will apologise to Mr Tovar or I will tell your father how you have misbehaved.” 

“No!” she yelled again, and Albert joined in, yelling “No!” at the top of his lungs as Amelia continued to fight against your grip. Suddenly she lashed out and slapped you right across your cheek, and in shock you let go of her arm. The two children took off at a run, back towards the house, while you stood rooted to the spot, your left cheek stinging. 

Pero scoffed and came up to you, dropping the plank he’d been holding. 

“Delightful creatures,” he said, the sarcasm dripping from his voice as he looked down at you. With a surprisingly gentle touch, he took hold of your chin and tilted it to the light, examining the place where the slap had landed. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked and you nodded. 

“It stings,” you replied and he let go of your chin, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. 

“Come here,” he said, walking over to the stream and pointing at a flat rock just by the edge. He dipped the kerchief in the water and wrung it out as you sat down on the rock. His touch was gentle when he pressed the folded cloth to your cheek, the cool fabric soothing your skin. He held it to your face while he looked at you, and you realised his dark eyes weren’t really black, but a rich brown colour, much warmer than you’d first thought. And when he looked at you now, they even held some sympathy. 

“Why do you let them treat you like that?” he asked, the lilting accent in his voice less harsh now as he carefully refolded the kerchief, pressing another cool side to your skin.

“I have no power over them, and they know it. My aunt and uncle detest that I’m here, that they had to take me in. But I have nowhere else to go, so I put up with them until I can find some other family to work for.” 

“They will grow up into nasty adults,” he replied, “I hope you find a new family soon.” 

Pero dipped the kerchief in the water again and placed it back on your cheek, his hand still holding it in place and he was very close, closer than you’d ever been to any man that wasn’t in your family. You found you had to drop your eyes from his face, it was too intimidating to have him look at you like that. 

“Thank you, I can hold it myself,” you said, lifting your hand to take the kerchief. But he shook his head. 

“I’m keeping pressure on it so that it won’t swell up too much, although it will be tender for a few days.” 

He continued to keep his hand on your cheek, folding the cloth again and placing the cool side to your cheek. You glanced up at him, his face still close to yours, and found that he looked less scary now. The scar still added a grim element to his face, but despite the serious set of his mouth, his scowl had disappeared. 

“How do you know my name?” he asked, dipping the kerchief in the stream again. 

“Mrs Robertson told me, she told me you’ve recently returned as my uncle’s groundskeeper,” you replied, and his lips curled up in a small smile. 

“She is a good woman,” he said, “and she’s right. I returned a few weeks ago. I was away for the winter.” 

You wanted to ask where he’d been, if Amelia was right about him being in prison, but you didn’t want to break the spell of the moment. Instead you glanced down at your lap, unable to meet his eyes any longer. Tovar was crouched in front of you, and you saw how his trousers were worn and patched not only over the knees. His boots were mended and patched too, and the collar of his shirt was frayed. You realised as you took in the details of the man, that it looked as if he was living, or at least had lived, a hard and poor life. 

Pero dipped the cloth again, but this time he handed it to you. 

“Here, keep it pressed to your cheek while you go back to the house. And see if Mrs Robertson can give you some ice.” 

He stood up as you took the cloth, and then he held out his hand for you, to help you to your feet. You hesitated for a moment, looking up at him as he stood towering above you, with his hand out. He raised his eyebrows in question, and you found yourself again, putting your hand in his and letting him pull you up. He let go as soon as you were steady, but the warmth of his hand lingered in yours, the rough calluses of his palm imprinted on your skin and you realised it was not an unpleasant feeling. 

“Thank you, Mr Tovar,” you said, giving him a small smile, “I’ll make sure you get your kerchief back soon.” 

Tovar gave you a small nod, his dark eyes burning your cheeks as the corner of his mouth pulled up in smirk. 

“My pleasure, señorita.” 

You felt his hand in yours the whole way back to the house, it was a strange feeling. He was a coarse and angry man, he frightened you a little, although not as much as before. But yet the way his hand had felt on your chin, the way his eyes had been such a warm, brown colour up close, it seemed to linger in your mind. 

Mrs Robertson only rolled her eyes when you told her what had happened, giving you ice from the cold storage for your cheek. 

“And there’s no use telling your uncle about Miss Amelia’s behaviour,” she added, shaking her head, “She has him wrapped around her little finger.” 

You agreed with her, and said nothing to your aunt or uncle. But you didn’t take the children out into the garden any more. Instead you took refuge there yourself when you had time. More often than not, you went down to the bench by the small lake opposite his cottage. You hoped you’d see Mr Tovar, but he never seemed to be there. Instead you saw him from a distance as he went about various jobs in the park, always too far away to say something and he never looked in your direction. 

Until one day. 

Weeks had passed and summer had arrived and you had more time on your hands than what you knew what to do with. The family had left the house and travelled to the south of France for the summer. You had been told you would not be allowed to go, something that suited you well, even though your aunt expected you to be deeply upset by this. Both she and Amelia had hinted that you would be missing out on a world of amusements, but you didn’t have it in you to care. To be away from the family, to not have to deal with the children, that would be your holiday. 

Mrs Pluck had made it her mission to make your life in the house as miserable as possible and to escape her, you disappeared into the gardens for hours. On rainy days you asked Mrs Robinson to enlist you in the kitchen so that Mrs Pluck couldn’t accuse you of shying away from work. But it was a fine summer and most days you found a nook in the garden and read or drew. 

He found you down by the stream one day. The air was warm, especially for England, and you’d unlaced your boots and sat down on the bridge he’d repaired. With your feet in the cool, peaty, water you’d disappeared into your book, Mr Darcy declaring his love to Elisabeth for probably the twentieth time. 

Unbeknownst to you, Pero paused at the edge of the clearing as he spotted you, stopping in his stride to take in the peaceful scene you’d created in one of his favourite spots. The dappled sunlight danced across the stream, the gentle babble of the flowing water disguising the sound of his footsteps and he paused by the last tree of woods, the scene too tranquil to disturb. As he watched, you turned a page in the heavy book and pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, smiling at whatever you were reading. 

Pero would be the last person to admit it, even to himself, but he’d spent too much time thinking about your smile in the past few weeks. He was a man used to being on his own and didn’t pay much attention to the world around him unless it was threatening him or presenting an opportunity. The smiles of pretty women was not something he lingered on, mainly because the only women who smiled at him were the kind he had to pay to get. He knew his appearance, not just the scar, but his darker skin and guarded face, put off the women he met, and not just the women. So he’d arranged his features into a scowl that kept them all at bay, unless they needed him for a job. 

And this governess, he’d seen how you’d been frightened by him when you nearly stumbled into the ditch, and he’d dismissed you as one of the many women who took one look at him and baulked. But then he’d sensed your eyes on him as he worked on the bridge, seen your shy, awkward gaze when he caught you looking at him, no fear in your eyes. And the children were as cruel to you as to him, but you had to put up with them to keep your place in the house, to keep a roof over your head. You were a better person then he was, he would’ve struck the girl and thrown her into the stream. Instead, you’d stood there in shock as the children ran off, your hand on your stinging cheek. And he’d suddenly found himself pitying you, a creature too gentle to fit into the family of vipers that ruled the house. 

Before he’d even really considered it, he’d taken out his handkerchief and taken upon himself to soothe your swollen cheek. Your eyes had looked up at him with surprise and trepidation, but like the lamb, you’d followed him to the edge of the stream and sat down when he told you to. You really were too gentle and trusting for this world he thought, too innocent. He would’ve, should’ve, dismissed you easily, you were not his responsibility, not someone he needed to consider at all.  

But then you’d taken his hand and smiled as you thanked him, and he found, painfully, that you were not easy to dismiss, no matter how hard he tried. Instead your smile lingered in his mind, the spark it brought to your eyes, and how soft it made your features, matched only by the way your hand felt in his for the brief moment you held it. He’d never felt the urge to protect anyone else but himself before, but like a wolf turned guard dog, he suddenly felt the need to shield you, stay by your side and keep you safe. It was an unfamiliar feeling, and he’d pushed it aside, burying it deep inside. 

The next day he’d found his kerchief wrapped in a brown paper package on his doorstep. Clean and ironed, with a small sprig of lavender tucked between its folds. It was somehow now the prettiest thing he owned, and he couldn’t bring himself to use it again. Instead it stayed on his dresser, the lavender spreading its delicate scent around the room where it rested on the neatly folded fabric. Whenever he walked past the lavender shrubs in the garden, he thought of you, your smile seemed to live on at the forefront of his mind. 

He didn’t like how you made him feel, he didn’t want to feel like he needed to protect anyone but himself. If you were that weak and feeble, let you fend for yourself like he always had. It had made him strong and hard, he had no need for anyone and no one would treat him like those children had treated you. He avoided the lavender shrubs, and the spots where you often sat, making sure to never acknowledge you when he saw you in the distance. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself from glancing across the pond every morning when he left the cottage, only to find the bench empty. You never seemed to return to that spot.  

But now he stood at the edge of the woods, watching you turn another page, and smile again. He didn’t want to disturb you, didn’t want to see you smile at him again, didn’t want to see the softness of your eyes as they locked on to him and made his heart rage against anyone who hurt you. And at the same time, he knew he wanted you to notice him, to turn your head and smile at him instead of that book, to bring him to his knees and make him feel needed by you. He would be your guard dog for the rest of his miserable life if you only smiled at him. 

He felt it all battle inside him as he stood by the sturdy tree, a hand on its rough bark, one foot twitching to move forward, the jerk of the other to turn back. And maybe he made a twig snap, loud enough to make you lift your head from the book and turn, meeting his eyes as he tried to decide what to do. 

“Mr Tovar,” you said, and you’d made the decision for him. He felt his feet move, towards the bridge, before he’d decide anything. 

“I hope you don’t mind, but I left the kerchief by your door,” you said, looking at him as he stopped by the edge of the bridge. 

“I found it,” Pero replied, his large hands twitching by his side, “You didn’t need to clean it, but thank you.” 

He shifted his weight, testing the new planks he’d laid down, pretending to inspect them while you continued to look up at him. 

“How’s the-” he started just as you spoke. 

“Thank you again fo-” 

“Sorry,” you immediately apologised, “you first, Mr Tovar.” 

“You don’t need to thank me,” he replied, “How is your cheek?” 

His voice was gruff, but his scowl was less this morning as he looked at your cheek. The skin had bruised but the swelling had disappeared after just a day. You put your hand on your cheek as if to feel the texture of the skin. 

“It’s fine, the bruise has disappeared and there is no pain, probably thanks to your quick thinking.” 

“I bet the little lady had no punishment for her actions,” he growled, bending his knees and dropping onto his haunches. He gently took your chin between his thumb and forefinger, just like had the day it happened, and tilted your head to the side, inspecting the flawless skin. 

“No, I never told her uncle anything,” you replied, “What would be the point? It would probably only get me into trouble instead.” 

Pero dropped his hand from your chin, your eyes weren’t on him anymore and he chided himself for acting on the impulse to touch you again. He could feel the guard dog in him bristle at your words, at the way you’d so easily let Miss Amelia get away with her actions. He would not have let her even speak to you the way she did, let alone strike you. 

You dropped your gaze back to the open book in your hands, your feet still dangling in the cool water. Pero knew he should stand up, go back to his cottage, and continue to stay away, to push any thought of you to the back of his mind. Tell the guard dog in his chest to ignore the woman in front of him, you were not his to protect. 

But instead he found his voice and spoke. 

“What are you reading, señorita?” 

You looked at him in surprise, why was he interested in your book? But the gaze that met yours was curious, despite the serious set his jaw still held. 

“Pride & Prejudice, by Jane Austen,” you replied, showing him the spine of the book. It was a well worn copy, a gift from your mother many years ago, “Have you read it?” 

“No,” came his swift reply, almost as if he was scoffing at the thought of reading such a book. 

“Well, it’s very good, it’s probably my favourite,” you said, looking back down at the book, stroking the front cover with a gentle touch, “I’ve read it many times."

“Why?” he asked and as you looked up at him, his eyebrows pulled together in a questioning look, incredulous even. 

“Why not?” you retorted, “It’s a good story, I enjoy the characters, and every time I read it I discover something new, a detail I hadn’t thought about. Have you never re-read a good book?” 

“Never,” he said, and this time he did scoff and you wrinkled your nose at him, looking back at your book and opening it up to the page you’d been on. 

“Well, maybe you should try it sometime, it’s a good experience to revisit things you like.” 

Pero could sense he’d offended you in some way, and yet again he was drawn in two directions by his mind, he should stand up, leave you to your book. 

“I never learnt how to read,” he said instead, regretting the words the second they came out of his treacherous mouth. He felt heat rise up his neck as he cursed himself. He’d never admitted to anyone that he couldn’t read, even though he’d learned a whole new language as an adult. Just repeat what others said, it was easy. Interpreting the little symbols on pages, whether in Spanish or in English, proved impossible in both languages. But so desperate was his mind to stay connected to you, that not even his deepest secrets seemed safe when he was in your presence. 

Now it was your turn to look surprised as you closed the book again. The scowl on his face was back, like he was expecting your mockery as his neck flushed a deep crimson. 

“That’s a shame,” you said, your voice small. You felt as if he would be very angry with you if you pitied him or accidentally made him feel inferior, his deep scowl still frightened you as he waited for your reaction to his confession. 

“Reading makes me very happy, and it opens up new worlds,” you continued carefully, “There are some great stories by incredible writers, they really make me see what they are describing and make me feel so much. I hope you can experience that some day, if you learn to read.” 

Pero dropped his gaze, down to his hands, and sank down onto the bridge, sitting down next to you as he shook his head. He saw the softness in you again, that gentleness that made the guard dog in him spring to life. He wanted to protect you, even against himself, didn’t want to frighten you. So he looked at his large hands, dirty from the soil and rough with callouses and tried to make his voice less harsh, his features less abrasive.

“I’m too old to learn how to read now, I was never able to do it in Spanish or English, what use is it to try now? Just tell me what your incredible book is about.” 

“I’m sure you could learn if you had a good teacher, Mr Tovar,” you said, but he just rubbed at the dirt on his hands and furrowed his brow as he shook his head in response. 

“Better you tell me what your book is about, then I don’t have to learn how to read,” he replied, keeping his voice low. What was he doing? He should not talk to you, he could already feel his heart pounding in an unfamiliar way, small tendrils reaching out towards you. 

“It’s…it’s about a woman called Elizabeth Bennet. Her family wants her to marry a man for his money, but she wants to marry only for love. But to her, all the men she meets are fools, none are worthy of her. Then she meets Mr Darcy, and she’s too prejudiced against men to see that he would be a good match for her. And he, on his end, is too proud to admit that a woman of a lower class than him could provide him with the kind of marriage that would make him happy. Both of them are bound by social expectations and restraints. But it has a happy ending,” you smiled at Mr Tovar who was watching you speak with curiosity, “I know it has a happy ending but I’m still nervous every time I read it.” 

“Do you wish to marry for love?” he asked, “Is that why it’s your favourite story?” 

His gaze made your cheeks heat up, it wasn’t the question you’d expected, and his deep brown eyes seemed to see through to your soul and see the true answer that lay there. 

You shrugged, looking down at the water rushing over your feet, to hide yourself from his eyes. 

“I very much doubt I’ll ever marry, for love or not. I’m a governess, I have no money and won’t inherit any either. If someone would want to marry me, they’d get nothing for it anyway. And what’s to say that he is someone I want to marry? Then I’d rather be like Lizzy and not marry at all, because I doubt there is a Mrd Darcy waiting for me.” 

Pero watched you, as you watched the water slip around your bare feet, the guard dog growling in his chest. 

“Any man would be fortunate to marry you, señorita,” he said, “just make sure you love him before you say yes to him.” 

He stood up suddenly, it almost made you jump it was so sudden, and was halfway across the small bridge before you had the sense to speak up. 

“Mr Tovar, will you let me teach you how to read?” 

He stopped in his tracks, turning back to you with a look that confused you and almost made you regret your spur of the moment question. His jaw ticked to the side, he glanced back down the path where he was heading, and his fingers twitched. But his eyes looked almost hopeful, like a light had been lit inside him. But then he sighed and closed his eyes, his head dropping down on his chest with a muttered string of words you didn’t understand, you knew he’d say no to your offer. 

“Señorita, if you want to waste your time on a hopeless case, who am I to say no?” 

“Really?” 

His reply surprised you so much that the book almost slipped from your hand, and you quickly placed it on the bridge behind you as he took a few steps back to you and nodded. 

“Who else is going to offer to teach me? I’d be a fool to turn you down, even though I doubt you can even teach this dog to read.” 

“Don’t say that about yourself, Mr Tovar,” you gently scolded him, “I’m sure we’ll get you reading in no time.” 

“Pero,” he said, a small smile softening his features as he held out his hand to you. “Don’t call me ‘Mr Tovar’ if you’re to teach me, señorita.” 

“Pero,” you replied, trying to roll the name around your tongue the way he did. It felt nice, unfamiliar in the way it sounded, but it suited him, and the way his harsh features changed when he smiled, was reward enough for your attempt. 

“Maybe I’ll teach you Spanish while you teach me to read,” he chuckled, a warm sound from him as you took his outstretched hand and shook it.

“Tomorrow at ten, at the bench by your cottage?” you asked and he nodded in agreement. 

“Tomorrow at ten.” 

Meeting Mr Tovar, no, Pero, you corrected yourself, quickly became the favourite part of your day. The summer was fine and most days dry, so you brought your books to the bench every morning at ten, and remained with him until you had to go back to the house for lunch and he had to take care of his groundskeeper duties. 

It quickly became clear to you that Pero’s biggest obstacle was his own belief that he wasn’t able to learn how to read. Once he’d cracked the code, he seemed to rehearse the alphabet every chance he got and soon he made his way through your easiest book. He read out loud, his finger following along in the text and he sounded out every letter before he put them into words, but he was reading for the first time. It was also the first time you saw him smile properly, a wide grin on his face as he correctly sounded out and deciphered his first word on the page without your help. 

Seeing Pero slowly gain confidence in his new found skill made you happy and satisfied and for a while you pretended that was the only reason you enjoyed your lessons with him. But you knew, because of the way your heart felt when you saw him, that that wasn’t the only reason you enjoyed teaching him. Far from it you had to admit. The lessons had been only an hour at first, you knew that it became hard for any pupil to focus after an hour. And at first you’d said your goodbyes and left when that hour was up. But then Pero offered to teach you some Spanish, and soon your hour had stretched into three while he asked you about your life, and he slowly told you about his. The man who had seemed so frightening at first, so angry and intimidating, was now the one thing that made your life at Yotes Castle bearable, even enjoyable. 

Little by little you saw more of the man behind the facade he’d held in place for so long. Carefully you asked questions about the things that seemed to shape the way he was now, and his eyes would go black, painful memories forcing themselves to the surface. But he always seemed to overcome it, choosing to share even the more grim parts of his life with you when it didn’t make you pull back from him in revulsion. 

“I was a good soldier,” he said, “but the only reward for a good soldier is to stay alive and be sent into battle again. I made as little money as the man driving carriages in the streets and less than the man who sold groceries to the army. So when I could, I left the army and sought work as a mercenary. There is no honour in it, but at least it kept my belly full and I could choose my own master and make a bit of money.” 

Pero shrugged, hunched over with his arms on his knees, his shoulders by his ears and looking out over the small lake in front of the bench, while you looked at his strong profile, the light hitting the scar across his face. It used to look nasty and mean to you, now it seemed to be a part of him as much as his dark brown eyes, just a mark of the hard life he’d lived before coming here. 

“I did things as a mercenary that I’m not proud of,” he said, his eyes still on the lake, “I’ve killed more men than I can remember. Most of them I just forget in the heat of the battle, others…they stay with me and I can see their faces sometimes. But I did it to stay alive, it was me or them, and someone was going to make that gold and it might as well be me. Better I kill the men who needed killing and let some poor boy from London keep his sanity and his life while I make the gold.” 

He turned his head and looked up at your face, half expecting you to be grimacing in distaste at his greed, but you just met his eyes with a concerned look. 

“You’ve seen so many terrible things, Pero. It makes me worry for you.” 

“Worry for how I sleep at night?” he asked, quirking his eyebrows at you with a slightly mocking tone. But you shook your head. 

“Maybe, but I worry about how you think the world always sees you. Those you meet here don’t know about your background, and don’t judge you for what they don’t know, yet you assume they do, and scowl at us all even when we-” 

“Even when you’re just a lonely governess trying to be polite?” Pero interrupted and you had to smile at him. 

“Yes, even when that. I was frightened of you after our first meeting, you looked so menacing and seemed very angry with me.” 

“Querida, I was never angry with you,” he said, his voice low and smiling as he sat up straight again and turned to you. 

“I know that now,” you smiled back at him, “but that’s what worries me about you. Maybe you are missing out on friendship when your past always makes you think that the world will judge you harshly.” 

“You became friends with me,” he replied, “maybe that’s all I need?” 

“You need only me as a friend? You’re settling for very little, Pero,” you scoffed, but still smiling at him. 

Pero shook his head, “Querida, you’re selling yourself for very little if you think that your friendship isn’t worth everything.” 

His words made your cheeks heat up, and for a few long moments you felt lost in the way he was still looking at you, his face serious and his dark eyes locked on yours. When you finally managed to pull yourself away, you looked down at your hands, rubbing at an ink stain on your thumb. Beside you Pero shifted, suddenly leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss to your temple before he stood up. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, mi amorcita.” 

The kiss lingered long after he’d disappeared, your fingers finding the spot as you walked back to the house. You wished he’d continued, but you weren’t sure with what. 

“I was never in prison,” he told you one day, “well, not a real prison anyway,” he added with a smirk. “I was in China, working as a mercenary, and there was a misunderstanding. They put me in a cell but another mercenary got me out, he was good friends with the General, luckily.” 

“You’ve seen so much of the world, Pero, I’ve only ever been to London and here,” you replied, “What was China like?” 

“Interesting, and very different. Their language is very different from both English and Spanish. With English, I can recognise some of the words, with Chinese, nothing made sense,” he took the pencil from your hand and drew a strange symbol in the notebook. 

“That is the sign for gunpowder, I learnt it while I was there, important to know so that you don’t accidentally light a pipe next to it.” 

“That says ‘gunpowder’?” you asked incredulously as you looked at the seemingly disorganised lines he’d jotted on the page and Pero nodded. 

“They write words with pictures instead of letters, one of them explained it to me. And even I could tell the difference between our letters and their symbols. And my friend, who could read, couldn't interpret it at all, he said it looked nothing like anything he could read.” 

“I can see why,” you said, tracing the lines with your finger, “I see no similarity with our letters at all.” 

“I hope you get the opportunity to see more of the world one day, señorita, there is a lot more to it than just London and this miserable castle,” Pero huffed. The more you’d told him about your life, the more his anger had grown at the way your uncle was treating you, and letting his children and wife treat you. It made no difference of course, Pero was just the groundskeeper, and a foreigner at that. But it was nice to have someone on your side, someone as strong and intimidating looking as Pero, to tell you that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

“Maybe you can show me some day, Pero,” you said, the words slipping out before you’d fully considered them and you felt your cheeks heat up in a flash. Pero gave you a quick grin. 

“You wish to travel with the ill-famed Spaniard, a mercenary and dirty foreigner?” he laughed, “What would your uncle say?” 

“To hell with my uncle,” you giggled, it felt deliciously reckless to say it out loud, “To hell with him!”

Pero smiled at your glee, it was good to see you happy and dreaming of something other than your life at Yotes Castle. 

Two fat drops of water suddenly splashed down onto the page and you both looked up at the sky. Dark clouds had gathered above and now it was starting to come down hard, the first two drops quickly joined by many others. With a groan you realised you’d be soaked by the time you got back to the house, you had no umbrella with you, and your thin summer coat would not withstand this downpour. But Pero had already sprung into action with other plans, with a few quick movements he gathered up the books and notes from your lesson and held his hand out to you. 

“Come, quickly, we’ll run to my cottage until this is over.”

Without thinking, you took his warm hand and it closed around yours as he pulled you along at a brisk pace around the small lake. He kicked the door open and ushered you inside just as the downpour really started. Standing together at the entrance of his cottage, you watched the world turn liquid and grey in seconds. 

“Well, I guess that’s the end of summer then,” you said, peering into the gloom. 

“It will clear soon,” Pero replied, “but it will be wet for a while. Let me hang your coat up to dry, querida.” 

You’d told Pero your name, but he rarely used it, instead he’d continued to call you ‘señorita’ and explained what it meant. But as your lessons continued, he’d slipped into calling you ‘querida’ instead and you hadn’t yet had the bravery to ask him what it meant. It felt more intimate than miss, his choice to use it seemed to correlate with the deepening of your friendship, when reading lessons turned into longer conversations about your lives. Just giving him lessons, spending time alone with an unmarried man in secluded corners of the park, felt exhilaratingly dangerous. You hadn’t even told Mrs Robertson about it. But to acknowledge that you had more than just cordial feelings towards him, or that he might even have them too, that was an even more frightening thought that you shoved to the back of your mind and refused to entertain. It was an impossible scenario, your uncle would never allow his groundskeeper to court his niece.  

It was hard to keep that thought at bay here though. When he helped you shrug out of your coat, his fingertips brushed over the back of your neck as he took your scarf too, the gentle touch burning your skin. His touch seemed to linger a few more moments than needed, but you thought you’d happily stand still in his small hallway for days, if it meant you could continue to feel the warmth from his hands on your skin.

And Pero felt it too, the velvety smoothness of your skin, the warmth of your body as he stood just a little bit too close for just a little bit too long. He inhaled quietly, catching the scent of your soap, and took a reluctant step back, taking the coat with him. 

He hadn’t lit the fire this morning, but now he hung your coat over a rack and busied himself with the kindling while you looked around the modest house. The cottage was old, the stone walls thick, and you could tell not many of the items here belonged to Pero. You moved among the few items as the fire came to life, its crackling filling the room. You let your fingers brush over the sprig of lavender that lay on top of the still neatly folded handkerchief, a comb lying next to it along with a small sharp knife that you guessed he used to trim his hair and beard. 

A photograph caught your attention and you moved to stand in front of it. It stood propped up against the wall on the dresser, a simple portrait of two men. They were dressed in uniforms and looked with serious faces into the camera. You recognised a much younger Pero, his face smooth but still covered by his patchy beard, and no scar across his eye. The other man looked older and was light haired and as tall as Pero. 

“My friend William,” Pero said, coming up behind you and seeing what had caught your attention, “We were friends and mercenaries together, he’s the one who saved me in China.” 

“Where is he now?” you asked, picking up the photograph and studying the fair haired man.

“He met a woman and settled down, took a job with her father, helping them run the farm,” Pero replied, and yet again he was standing so close behind you that you felt the heat from his body through the layers of your own clothes. 

“It’s a good job for an old mercenary, he seemed very happy when I last saw him.” 

“Would you rather be a farmer than a groundskeeper?” you asked and Pero nodded. 

“Yes, if I found a woman who had a farm I could help run. But like your Elizabeth Bennett, I wouldn’t want to marry just for convenience.” 

“You want to marry for love?” you turned around surprised, looking up at him. He’d never struck you as a romantic. His demeanour towards you may have softened slightly, but his outer layer was still very much that of the scowling, dark minded man who’d rather the world just left him alone. Seeing him as someone who wished to marry a woman for love made you see him in a new light, maybe another crack in the facade he was slowly letting you through. 

Pero gave you a shrug and shook his head. 

“I don’t know, I don’t think I’d ever be fortunate to marry for love so I never considered marrying at all.” 

“But if you fell in love, you’d want to marry?” you asked and Pero gave you a humourless laugh. 

“Señorita, does it even matter if I’d want to marry at all? For love or for convenience, no one will marry an old mercenary, a piss poor old soldier, who thoroughly dislikes and distrusts the world.”

His face pulled up in a twisted grimace of a smile as he turned away from you and picked up the kettle on the clean scrubbed table. 

“Do you dislike me too?” you asked, placing the photo of Pero and his friend back on the dresser and moving over to the fire, “And distrust me?”

“Querida, no, of course not,” he replied, his eyebrows shooting up in concern, “I didn’t mean you, I’m sorry if you thought that.” 

He came to stand next to you by the fire, his dark eyes suddenly more concerned than you’d seen them before, searching yours to make sure he hadn’t inadvertently made you regret the friendship that the two of you had built up over the past few weeks. 

“I’d hate for you to think that I don’t trust you,” he said, “I’m glad you’re my friend and I hope you don’t regret the time you’ve spent teaching this old soldier to read.” 

You shook your head and without thinking, put your hand out and took his, stroking your thumb over the rough knuckles. 

“I don’t regret it at all, and I’m glad you trust me. You’re the first friend I’ve made since I came here and you’ve made this summer much better than I could ever have hoped. How could I regret the time I’ve spent with you?” 

Relief seemed to flood his features, his dark eyes turning warm in the glow of the fire light as he smiled and wrapped his fingers around yours. 

“I’m pleased to hear it, querida, our lessons are the best part of my day.” 

You smiled back at him, his hand, calloused and rough as it was, sent a delighted shiver through your limbs, fighting back the urge to step closer to him, to envelop more of yourself in the warmth that seemed to radiate from him. 

“Can I confess something, Pero?” you asked with a small smile and Pero nodded in reply, one eyebrow lifted in question, “My favourite part isn’t the lesson, but the time we spend talking about everything else afterwards. All your stories make me feel like I’ve seen more of the world because of you.” 

“I wish I could show you all of it,” he smiled in response, “maybe one day I’ll come back with a fortune and be able to take you with me on my travels,” he was smiling and he didn’t let go of your hand, still holding on, and now he was the one stroking your fingers, letting his thumb trace your knuckles, gliding up so that he felt the faint thrum of your pulse under the thin skin of your wrist. 

But you felt your heart twist at his words, you hadn’t even considered that he would leave. 

“You’re leaving?” you asked, the small moment of standing close to him, alone in his cottage shattered, and you pulled your hand from his. He had no obligation to you, no commitment, but it suddenly felt like he was breaking a promise. 

“After the summer, yes,” he said, the smile falling from his face when you let go of his hand, he reached out for yours for a split second, as if he wanted to stop you from pulling away, but thought better of it, “There’s not enough work for me through the winter so your uncle won’t pay to keep me on. I go south and find what work I can.” 

“Do you always come back in the spring?” you asked, the very thought of spending winter here without Pero making your heart sink into the pit of your stomach. Last winter had been torturous, the only thing making you not dread the coming winter was the thought of Pero and continuing to meet him. 

“I come back if I have to,” Pero replied, regret lacing his voice, “If I can’t find better work over the warm season, I come up here. Your uncle prefers hiring someone he already knows, and he’s prepared to pay a bit extra for it, so the wage is decent.” 

“But you might not come back next spring? And you’ll be away all winter?” 

Pero felt his treasonous heart clench when he saw the disappointment in your eyes. He’d tried very hard to see you as the teacher, a teacher who’d become his friend. Convincing himself that the guard dog that growled in his chest was only raising its hackles because a friend was being treated badly by the family that employed you both. Not because he had any deeper feelings for you, any feeling of love, he did not fall in love he told himself, he kept his heart from feeling anything more than friendship. 

But now his heart ached at the dismay he saw in your eyes, and he clenched his fists, digging his broken, dirty, nails in to his palms to stop himself from pulling you back to him, pulling you into his arms and telling you he wouldn’t leave, not without taking you with him. 

“Querida…” he mumbled, “I simply don’t know if I’ll be back next spring. But I promise, if you’re still here, I will do my best to return.” 

“I’ll miss you,” you said quietly as Pero carefully reached out and took your hand in his again, a small gesture of consolation, “Last winter was dreary and miserable but it will be worse now when this summer has been so nice.” 

You looked down at your hand in his, his golden, tanned fingers wrapping around yours, the back of his hand criss crossed by small scars. You’d seen them before and asked him about them, he’d let you trace your fingertips over them, seeing the evidence of the hard life he’d lived as a mercenary, while he’d kept his eyes on you. Now you did the same again, memorising each line, committing to memory how his skin felt under your fingers, the warmth, the sparse dark hairs that made his hands look so different to your own. 

Pero watched how you caressed his rough hands, hands he knew had been covered by more blood and grime that he wished to remember. So many lives ended by the movements they could perform. You knew about it all, you’d made him speak openly about the darkest memories his mind held, you knew these hands were capable of unimaginable violence. Yet you ran your soft fingers over the scars again, not pulling back from the man he was, no longer frightened by his violence, his scowl, the facade he knew he kept between himself and everyone. The way you looked at him, open, smiling, it made his heart do things he didn’t think were possible, feel light and buoyant, a small crack opening up. 

His hand moved without his consent, carefully coming up to your face, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing across it as you lifted your head and looked at him. 

“I’ll miss you too,” he whispered, barely recognising his own voice, his hand still softly caressing your cheek as you leaned your head against his palm, your eyes closing with a soft exhale. 

His heart soared in his chest.  

He thinks he moved first, but the warmth of your body was pressed against him before the thought had crossed his mind, your mouth so close and turned up towards him. When his lips touched yours, a small sigh escaped you, the warm air brushing over his bristly moustache. Your hand closed tight around his, holding onto him as if to stop him from leaving, but Pero knew nothing could make him step back now. He pulled you closer instead and pressed himself to you, a low, satisfied growl coming from deep inside his tight chest.

His lips were warm and tender against yours, the sensation so much softer than you’d ever imagined. He gently caressed your cheek, moving his lips against yours as you took in the sensation of being pressed so close to him. With your eyes closed, every movement and sound seemed heightened to your senses; the light scratch of Pero’s moustache, the calluses on his hand rough against your cheek, his other hand moving, wrapping around your waist, warm and firm against the small of your back as he held you close, the small gasp of breath from you when he left your lips for a moment to angle his head and capture them again, deepening the kiss.

You’d never been kissed like this, only experiencing chaste, dry kisses pressed to your cheek by your mother. Now Pero moved his lips against yours, gentle and firm, in ways you’d never felt before. He held you close, your whole body pressed against him as he took your bottom lip between his, giving it a gentle tug. It pulled a whimper from you, heat shooting through your body, and you felt your knees buckle as the sensation overwhelmed your senses. Pero tightened his grip on you, but pulled back a little, looking down at your closed eyes, your lips parted as you caught your breath. 

“Mi vida…” he breathed softly, “open your eyes.” 

You looked up at him, his dark brown gaze so permissive, more tender and open than you’d ever seen him before. 

“The rain has stopped,” he said, his voice still low, “you should go before they send someone to find you.” He didn’t think anyone would come looking for you for hours yet, but his grip on propriety was weakening.

You nodded, but neither of you made a move to break apart, Pero’s arm was still holding you firmly pressed to his solid body, his hand on your cheek. Your hands had entwined in his shirt, holding it as if it kept you from falling. 

“I don’t want you to leave,” you murmured, your eyes slipping to his lips, wanting to feel him on you again. 

“I’m not leaving for many weeks yet, querida,” he  replied, his hand leaving your cheek to push a strand of hair away from your face, “And many things can happen between now and next spring.” 

“Please kiss me again,” you asked, “Just in case,” and your cheeks heated up at your boldness, as he smiled at you, the corner of his mouth pulling up in a grin. 

“Anytime, mi amorcita.” 

He sent you on your way after another long, lingering kiss. He’d parted his lips, let his tongue come out to carefully taste you, his hand on your jaw prompting you to slowly open your mouth and taste him in return. The sensation was strange, almost too intimate, your already burning cheeks heated up even more and it made you shy, stilling your kiss. Pero had pulled back, pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth and smiled at you again. 

“Your kisses are like the sweetest wine, querida,” he said, slowly letting you go, “and a hundred times more addictive.”  

Your heart beat a new rhythm as you walked back to the house, thrumming in your chest, as your lips felt hot and tender, still imprinted by Pero’s kisses. Whatever measures you’d taken to protect your heart had proven worthless, the man who only a few weeks ago had seemed so intimidating and frightening, had become your friend through the lessons. After the afternoon’s events...your heart seemed to both ache and soar when you thought of him. This was an impossible situation, an impossible man to fall for, yet you knew it was too late to pretend, to hide the truth from yourself. 

You were hopelessly in love with Pero. 

But Pero felt fear grip his heart as he watched you walk away from his cottage. The guard dog in his chest growled and clawed at his innards, making them sting with guilt and dread. This was foolish, the most foolish idea, why had he let it go this far? Why had he kissed you, not once, but twice? Why had he not tempered his heart to this weeks ago? But your presence in his cottage, your upset when realised he’d be leaving and may not return, confessing that you’d miss him, it had broken down all of his carefully laid plans to only be your friend. It was reckless to kiss you, a severe lapse in judgement. To let himself taste your lips, feel you so close to him, the softness under his hands, to feel for just a few minutes how it would be if you were his. But he had nothing to offer, and even if he did, you were impossibly out of his reach. This would only end with heartbreak if he let it continue. And he knew his heart would recover and harden when told you it couldn’t continue, but he might break yours for good. 

Pero was already by the bench when you came there the next day, but he wasn’t sitting on it as he usually did. Instead he stood next to it, his large hands twitching with nerves as they hung by his thighs. 

You smiled at him, but it faded when you saw the serious set of his face, and he didn’t return your smile. 

“Señorita,” he said, his voice low and heavy as he nodded to you, “I apologise for my behaviour yesterday, I shouldn’t have kissed you. I wish to remain your friend and continue our lessons, but no more, I will not let myself go any further.” 

Your heart plummeted into the pit of your stomach, the fantasy you’d been nursing since yesterday afternoon shattering as Pero kept his eyes off you, looking at a spot on the ground between the two of you. You knew it was a silly dream, imagining a life where you and Pero could marry, be together and create a life for the two of you. But you’d held on to it, bolstered by Pero’s words that a lot could happen between now and next spring. 

But now here he stood, not meeting your eyes, his hands seemingly trying to keep something at bay with the way they kept moving, never stilling. He must know what he was doing to you, the pain his words caused, and you could see the struggle in him. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark under his deeply furrowed brows and you felt yourself breaking. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes and quickly you turned and sat down on the bench, opening your bag to take out the books while you shook your head. 

“It was nothing, Mr Tovar, and you’re right, we shouldn’t have done it. Let’s continue our lessons as friends.” 

You didn’t look at him, but you felt the bench shift as he sat down at the other end, and you handed him the book he’d been reading from. 

“From page ten, Mr Tovar, please.” 

“Señorita…” he replied, his voice doing a bad job at hiding the pain he felt at your cold demeanour, even though he’d been the one to break your heart, he knows it, he can see it in the way your eyes are filled to the brim with tears, “please call me Pero, you are still my friend.” 

“I think it might be best if we continue with titles, Mr Tovar. Please, page ten if you wish to continue our lessons.” 

He opened the book to the page, biting back all the things he would rather say, but he’s made a decision. He knew he’d hurt you, he knew this would hurt, but what he was foolish enough to start yesterday, has to end as quickly as possible. So he focused on the first word of the page, and tried to remember how to interpret the illegible markings that face him. 

He read from the book, you corrected him and helped him when he got stuck, just as you’ve done through all the lessons. But you don’t smile at him, and you don’t sit close to him. When the hour is up, you told him to practise a passage tonight, and then gathered your things and stood up. 

“Same time tomorrow, Mr Tovar,” you said, a statement rather than a question, and he can only nod in agreement. You gave him a short nod too, and walked away, quickly disappearing into the woods. 

The tears began to flow as soon as your back was turned to him, silently, holding back the sob that had been lodged in your throat for the past hour. You rushed through the small woods, not towards the house, but towards the winding maze of rhododendrons that offered a thicket of sheltered pathways under their heavy boughs. There, in the centre of the labyrinth, you sank down on the worn stone bench under the thickest trunks. Their season was long gone, a reminder how late the summer was getting, their bright petals turning brown on the forest floor. Covering your face with your hands, you gave into the grief that was squeezing your heart, whimpering as tears began to flow in earnest. It was so much worse than if he simply didn’t love you in return, you know he does, he couldn’t hide the pain on his own face as he told you it could go no further. But he pushed you away anyway because he realised it was a hopeless dream and it crushed you under the weight of how bleak it was. 

“I wish I’d never met him,” you whimpered, gripping the cool stone, digging your nails into the unyielding surface, “I wish I’d never met him.” 

Pero held onto the branch of the rhododendron bush so hard it might break under his iron grip. The guard dog in his chest was threatening to spring forward, to wrap itself around your broken form on the stone bench, to hold you, tell you it would all be fine, he’d find a way, protect you from everything, even himself. It was a mistake to follow you when you left, but his determination to not let the love between you go any further did not stand a chance against the urge in his chest to protect you from the world. Even if he would not let himself come close to you again, the guard dog still pushed him to follow you, the despondent shape of your shoulders, the quiet sobs pulling him just as much. 

When you whimpered, your wish to never have met him, he felt as if you’d slid a blade into his heart, and he only deserved it. He deserved as much pain as what he could hear in your voice, more even, he’d take it all from you if it wasn’t for the fact that he was the one causing it. 

You didn’t hear the careful crunch of his boots as he turned and walked away. 

Even though your heart was breaking, and sat in the pit of your stomach like a heavy weight every morning when you woke up, you still continued to see Pero almost every day. You both knew it probably would’ve been wisest to not continue the lessons, that it would make it all that much harder, keeping the pain fresh every day. But it wasn’t something either of you were prepared to give up, so you met on the bench by his cottage and you kept Pero at a distance, and he did the same with you. Always sitting at the far end of the bench, reading the passage you assigned him diligently, but never moving closer. 

Your one concession, the thing you found you couldn’t be without, was to extend the hour and stay even though the lesson was over. Listening to Pero’s stories of his life before he came to England, his childhood in Spain, his adventures as he travelled the world as a mercenary. But he kept his facade up, never letting it fall the way it had before, never letting you in again like he had.

He does teach you some Spanish though, teaching you how to pronounce his name the way he does and smiling when you greet him in Spanish every morning, telling him what a beautiful day it is, no matter how dreary the weather is. He tells himself he can live like this, have you as a friend in this place, someone who will make him come back next spring. He might even believe it. 

You count down the days to the end of the summer with growing dread, the ache in your heart doesn’t lessen. Rather it grows, rips through you when he smiles at your successful attempt at asking him how old he is. The Spanish he’s teaching you becomes your link to him, the one thing you’ll have left when he leaves, and you hoard the words in your mind, asking him to translate every word you can think of. 

But he never calls you mi amorcita again, and you never ask what it means. 

No summer is endless, and one day you returned from the lesson to find the house in uproar. Rooms being opened up, aired out, sheets pulled from the furniture as Yotes Castle was prepared for the return of the family. 

You saw their carriage coming up the drive as you left the house the next morning, and you hurried away, ducking out of sight. The horrid day of the children returning to their lessons is already here, and you wish to keep it at bay as long as possible. 

When you arrived at the bench by the cottage, Pero wasn't there yet. He’s usually first, he only walks over from his cottage, but now you sit and wait for him for what feels like an age. Finally he arrived, coming down the path from the big house, not his cottage.

“Buenas días, Señor Tovar, qué lindo día,” you greeted him and he nodded but didn’t smile. 

“The family is back at the house,” he said, stopping by the bench, but didn't sit down as usual. 

“I know, the house was turned upside down for their return yesterday and I saw their carriage as I walked down here,” you replied, taking in his face, a deep scowl pulling at his eyebrows, “Did something happen?” 

“I spoke with your uncle, my contract will run out in four weeks, I’m to leave at the end of the month.” 

“Oh.” 

It was all you could say, a small puff of air escaping you as you looked at each other, so much unspoken over the past few weeks, the events of the afternoon in the cottage suddenly sitting between you as if it had just happened.  

“I…I’ll miss you,” Pero said eventually, the silence stretching out for too long, “I’ll come back next spring, I promise.” 

You didn't reply, dropping your gaze to your hands, a lump in your throat had formed at his words. The very thought of him leaving, of spending the long dark winter without him…it clawed at your heart, forced tears into your eyes as the reality that you’d been trying to push back made itself known. 

“Querida…” he said, his voice low, pleading, “I’ll come back. But we still can’t…” he trailed off as you inhaled deeply, your shoulders shaking as you bit your lip. 

“Querida…” he tried again, stepping closer to you, his hand hovering over your shoulder, but pulling back before his hand reached you, “If things were different, but a man like me shouldn’t court a woman like you, it’s not right. I’m…I’m not….” 

He didn’t finish his sentence, instead he just stood next to you, his fingers trembling as he watched your shoulders heave in another deep inhale. 

“Pero…” you mumbled, your voice watery and his heart ached, you hadn’t called him Pero since the day you kissed and he’d never gotten used to you calling him Mr Tovar again. 

“Don’t come back next year if that’s all you see for us,” you forced out, your jaw clenched tight to hold back tears, “Don’t tell me who I should let court me. If I didn’t want it to be you, do you think I would’ve continued our lessons?” 

You looked up at him, your lashes heavy with tears and Pero sighed, dropping his head rather than to see the pain so clear on your face. 

“Querida…” he breathed out, a third time, and you let out a hollow laugh, a wretched snort with no mirth at all. 

“Is that all you have to say, Pero? ‘Querida’? What does that even mean, just an empty word when you’re too much of a coward to actually mean it?” 

You didn’t see the frustration that flashed across Pero’s face as you stood up, rubbing your hands over your face to wipe at the hot, angry tears that were slipping over your cheeks, turning to leave him. But Pero growled, a low noise coming from him as his hand shot out to grab your arm, closing tight around the fabric of your coat. When you looked back at him, his face was set in hard lines, his dark eyes boring into you under the sharp demarcation of his eyebrows pulled tight together.

“I’m no coward, I mean it when I call you ‘querida”, he scowled,  “But I know what I am, and that I have nothing to offer you but a life fighting to keep poverty at bay as I drift from job to job. Don’t call me a coward when you have seen nothing of the life outside of this house and your mother’s household. I’ve slept in hedgerows, I’ve gone hungry for days, walked my shoes to threads. It is not the life I want for you.” 

“I didn’t realise we were already married,” you spat out, your eyes as dark as his, as anger coursed through you at his presumption, “You’re not my husband, you do not decide over my life. Unfortunately, that privilege still lies with my uncle. And I never thought you and him would like to lock me up in the same cage.” 

“I don’t want you locked up, I hate seeing the way you’re treated by them!” Pero raised his voice, stepping closer to you, his hand tight around your arm as he pulled you in, “I would pull down every brick in this place to set you free if I could. Do you really think I don’t know how painful it will be to spend this winter apart? Away from you? All I want is to take you away from here and protect you from them, from anyone who’s not as good to you as you deserve. Hay un puto perro guardián dentro de mí! Carajo, cómo te amo!”

He shouted the last words, rage flaring up inside him as frustration burned through his body, your eyes wide as he gripped both your arms and almost pushed you away from him, but not letting go. 

“Don’t you understand? If I loved you less, I might be able to speak about it more, but I love you too much and I can’t let you live the way I do!”  

His face suddenly fell, the air seeming to escape him as he deflated, his fingers digging into your flesh loosened their grip and he sighed deeply as the rage that had flared in him died down.

“I…We…have no choice. Stay here this winter, only one winter, and I will come for you next spring and we’ll leave together,” he moved his hand, cupping your cheek gently, his face pleading, begging you to understand. It was ripping his heart in two, the very thought of leaving you here to suffer through another winter of the children’s abuse, your uncle’s neglect and your aunt’s disdain. But the option was to risk everything if he couldn’t find a job for the winter down south, “Please, mi querida, I promise I’ll come back and I’ll have money for us to leave and be together.” 

His face was pained as he looked at you, waiting for your answer, his hand still cupping your cheek as his thumb softly wiped at the tears that still trickled down from your eyes. 

“I…I love you too, Pero…” you stammered, the words sinking in as his tirade of words ebbed out, “I was scared you didn’t.” 

“Mi amorcita,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours, “my little love, I tried not to, but it’s impossible not to love you.” 

You closed the last small gap between you, kissing him without hesitation, his warm mouth opening in surprise as you pressed your lips to his. His hand left your arm and wrapped around your back as you moved together, your body pressed against his, his strong arm holding you very close to him just like he had the last time. A whimper escaped you as you felt him deepen the kiss, curling himself around you, caressing your cheek as all the pieces seemed to slot into place. Your hips against his, your arms around his body, the tickle of his moustache against your lips and his fingers tugging on the back of your coat, lifting you to your toes as he pulled you impossibly closer. 

The lack of oxygen at length made you both pull back just a little, Pero mumbling softly under his breath as he caressed your cheeks, cupping your face in both his hands and kissing your lips, the tip of your nose, and then your forehead before he looked down at you. 

“I promise, just one winter, mi vida. Can we survive that if we spend the next four weeks just like this?” 

“You’ll really come back?” you whispered into his neck, the steady thrum of his pulse just under your lips as he gently caressed the back of your neck, you could feel his fingers in the strands of hair that had slipped from your bun. 

“I promise, I promise,” he assured you, his lips pressing against your head between each word, ”I was always going to come back, no matter what you said.” 

“I should’ve taught you how to write too,” you said, “a whole winter with no word from you will be torture, but if I know you’re coming back, I can bear it. But I’ll miss you every minute.” 

“We have four weeks, teach me how to write too, la maestra,” he chuckled, leaning back a little so that he could see your face, still tear streaked and red eyed, his thumbs coming back to stroke your cheeks, “Mi amorcita, don’t cry any more. It won’t be easy, but if you really want this old soldier with no prospects, you can have him.” 

“I really do, Pero,” you said, closing the short distance between you again and finding his warm lips.

There wasn’t much of a lesson that day, Pero pulled you down onto his lap, sitting on the bench, making up for lost weeks. Your lips were swollen and red by the time you had to pull yourself away and return to the house, Pero to the duties he still had left as groundskeeper. Your heart was still heavy with the knowledge that he would soon leave, but you held on to the light that was his love, his promise to return so that you could leave together next spring. 

So wrapped up in your thoughts of Pero were you, that you didn’t notice the smug smile of Mrs Pluck, the housekeeper, as you approached the kitchen door. 

“There you are,” she greeted you, her self satisfied smirk stretching her jowls as she grinned like a cat that had caught a particularly juicy mouse. 

“Good afternoon, Mrs Pluck,” you replied, moving to the side to pass her, but she held up her hand and grabbed your jaw, pinching it painfully as she pulled your face around to peer at your lips. You yelped in surprise at her harsh treatment.

“Enjoyed your time with the groundskeeper did you?” she asked, malice dripping from her question, “I can see he did his best to bruise those rosy lips, making you look like a whore with a lip stain on.” 

Nausea forced its way up through your throat, almost making you choke as you tried to pull away from her sharp grip, panic gripping your heart as you saw her glee. The fear in your eyes was showing and her face pulled into an even wider grin as she let go of your jaw, only to grip your arm, her fingers closing like a vice around you. 

“You think you’re so clever, sneaking around with him every day, thinking no one would notice? Well, you’re a fool, girl. I’ve known for weeks and now I’m going to tell your uncle and have you thrown out. I’ve been waiting for this day, I only hope that swarthy tinkerer got you up the pole while he was at it, would serve you just right.”   

“Please, Mrs Pluck, don’t tell my uncle, we haven’t done anything, we’ve just kissed!” you pleaded, “He’s leaving in four weeks either way.” 

“And have a hussy like you stay on and teach Miss Amelia?” the housekeeper spat out, now dragging you past Mrs Robinson’s kitchen. She poked her head out from the pantry and watched in concern as the two of you passed. “You’re a fool if you think I would allow that while I’m housekeeper here, maybe that’s the kind of behaviour your mother allowed you to get away with, the Lord alone knows what goes on in those London houses.” 

Your heart was beating out of your chest as Mrs Pluck continued to pull you up the stairs towards your uncle's study. You could feel your legs shaking as the panic at what was about to happen to you, and to Pero, when your uncle found out. Pero would lose his job, there was no doubt about it. You might too, or he would lock you up, keep you from ever seeing Pero again. The very thought forced a sob up through your tight throat, the sound making Mrs Pluck snort again and dig her bony fingers deeper into your arm. 

The rap of Mrs Pluck’s knuckles on the study door felt like the bells of doom to your reeling mind. You had no excuse, no explanation, no way to plead for his mercy, and you stumbled as the doors opened and the housekeeper pushed you through them. 

“M’lord, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I have discovered something that needs your immediate attention,” Mrs Pluck simpered, her countenance suddenly all meek and apologetic. The change would be laughable to you if not for the panic that’s still coursed through you. 

“What is it?” your uncle asked, looking up from his large dark wood desk. 

“Your niece and the groundskeeper, Mr Tovar. I’ve discovered that they’ve been having an affair. It seems they’ve been meeting in secret all summer. And only just this morning I saw them together, they were very…intimate.” 

Mrs Pluck clasped her hands in front of her and looked the very image of piety as she pursed her lips in disapproval. 

“Is this true?” your uncle directed the question to you, but he didn’t seem to feel the need to meet your eye. Instead his gaze dropped back down to the letter he was composing, continuing to scrape his pen over the paper. 

“Yes, but we only-” you replied, your voice unsteady with nerves and panic, and your uncle cut you off. 

“Mrs Pluck, you saw them being intimate? How?” 

“I saw her sneak away from the house most mornings, so I followed. They met by the bench down by the groundskeeper’s cottage. I couldn’t tell you how many times they met but this morning they were kissing, and I saw her sitting on his lap for quite some time.” 

“This is unacceptable behaviour for anyone living under my roof, I do not care that you are my sister’s daughter. I know she raised you to be a lady but she clearly failed,” your uncle said, looking up at you and placing his pen next to the inkwell, “You are dismissed immediately, I cannot have you tarnish the reputation of this family with this kind of loose behaviour. You will pack your bags and leave first thing in the morning, you will have no reference. You’ll be paid what you’re owed.” 

It felt as if the ground opened up underneath you, your breath caught in your throat, and from the corner of your eye you saw Mrs Pluck smirk while she studied your reaction. Without a reference you would not be able to find a new position as a governess, not even as a house maid, finding any kind of work would be all but impossible. 

“Please, uncle, I accept that I have to leave, but at least give me a reference, we did nothing wrong, I just love him. And I’m not with child!”

Your uncle sneered as he returned to his letter, “Love? Foolish child, what other nonsense has he filled your brain with? No, this harsh lesson will be good for you. I'm sure you can find some occupation once you’re back in London where you can’t corrupt any young ladies, and certainly not my daughter.” 

“And the groundskeeper, sir?” Mrs Pluck asked, clearly keen to make sure he wasn’t forgotten. 

“Send one of the footmen for him, I’ll dismiss him immediately. He’s broken my trust and defiled my family, he cannot stay on another day.” 

He looked up at you and Mrs Pluck and waved his hand. 

“That will be all, and make sure she is confined to her room, Mrs Pluck. We don’t want her running off to that Spaniard.” 

Mrs Pluck had a lot to say as she escorted you to your room, her fingers once again digging into your arm. It seemed to be a steady stream of gleeful insults that buzzed in your ears like wasps, your mind too numb to take in what she was saying. The door of your room snapped shut and you heard the key turn as the lock clicked, leaving you standing frozen just inside. Your insides felt like hot lead, the buzzing in your ears was still deafening and it was starting to cloud your brain. Stumbling to the bed, you sank to your knees, grabbing the bed frame before you toppled over onto the scratchy rug. 

You weren’t sure how long you remained on the floor, your head reeling. It felt like you fainted, but you could still see the lurid Persian pattern on the rug in front of your eyes when you pried them open. The room was dark though, hours must’ve passed and you hadn’t even noticed. The buzzing had subsided, replaced by a tight knot of fear and worry in your stomach, your heart still racing. Pushing yourself up, carefully sitting down on the edge of the bed, you managed to light the candle on the bedside table, casting a faint light around the room. There was a tray just inside the door, and the two carpet bags you’d arrived with. Someone, probably Mrs Pluck, had left dinner on the floor, but clearly not cared enough to make sure your still form on the floor was alright. The sight of the congealed stew made your stomach turn and you scrambled for the chamber pot. 

On shaky legs, moving slowly, you made your way around the room to light the rest of the candles, coming to a stop in front of the small closet that held your clothes. You had no way of contacting Pero until morning, your only hope was that once you’d left the house, you could make your way to the cottage and find him, if he was still there. Your uncle seemed intent on throwing him out immediately, what if he had already left? 

The thought made panic rise in you again, bile forcing its way up, making you bend double with a whimper. A few hours ago the prospect of spending the winter here without Pero seemed like torture, now you wished that was all you had to face. At least he’d promised to come back next spring. Now he’d been forced to leave and you had no way of finding him if he wasn’t at the cottage. And you’d soon be out in the world on your own with no means and no other plan than getting back to London. How you’d survive, you had no idea. 

The next morning, after a night of very little sleep, you waited sitting on the bed with your two packed bags. You refused to be sad about leaving this house, but you were trembling with nerves at the prospect of soon being outed from the only family you’d known and left to your own devices. Pero was right, you knew nothing of the world outside of this house and your mother’s household. When the lock in the door clicked, you forced your head up high, at least you wouldn’t give Mrs Pluck the satisfaction of seeing you broken. 

The smug smile on the housekeeper’s face made you grit your teeth and straighten your back even more, gripping the handles of your two bags tightly. 

“Time to go,” Mrs Pluck smirked, opening the door wide and ushering you out. She didn’t grab your arm this time, but she followed close behind you, making sure to lead you through the crowded servant’s hall downstairs so that all could see you leave in disgrace. Mrs Robinson gave you a sympathetic smile, and you gave her a weak one in return. 

Out in the courtyard one of the stable hands was waiting with the wagon. Not looking back, you climbed onto the seat next to him and put your bags in the back. You had no intention of saying goodbye to Mrs Pluck, so you turned your back on her while she instructed the driver. 

“Drop her at the station, and make sure the groundskeeper isn’t anywhere around. He’s not allowed back here, do you understand?” 

“Yes, Mrs Pluck,” he replied, gathering the reins and preparing to leave. 

“He was sent off yesterday afternoon, he’s halfway to London by now, good riddance,” she huffed. You could hear the contempt in her voice and you were glad you couldn’t see her face, evil, vicious woman. 

With a jerk the wagon began moving, the driver clicking his tongue at the horse. You held on to the side of the seat as the wagon left the big house behind, rolling out onto the long drive down towards the main gate. The young stable hand said nothing as you stared straight ahead, but from the corner of your eye you could see him cast curious glances at you. 

“Whatcha do?” he asked eventually, “Get knocked up?” 

“No,” you said between tight lips, “Not at all.” 

“Steal summit then?” 

“Absolutely not!” you exclaimed and he shook his head. 

“No, you don’t look like the thieving kind, too fancy for that.” 

The wagon rolled down between the trees of the drive in silence for a while before he spoke up again, his curiosity getting the better of him. 

“So what did you do?” 

“Not that it’s any of your business, but you might as well tell the rest of the servants as they’ll be gossiping either way; I fell in love with the groundskeeper, we kissed, and Mrs Pluck saw us and ratted us out to the lord.” 

“You kissed?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise, “That’s it and you got booted? Mean ol’ bitch,” he shook his head, “Only ‘cause she’s an ugly old bat who no one wanted to marry. She’s always making life miserable for the housemaids, she had one of ‘em dismissed for just looking at the delivery boy from the village. Said she knew they’d been sneaking off together when everyone knew Jenny never would never do anything like that. And believe me, I tried with her and got nuttin’!” 

He suddenly went beet red and cleared his throat, “Sorry, probably shouldn’t have said that.” 

The end of the drive was near and you could see grand pillars on either side of the open gate. 

“Do you think you could drop me just outside the gate? I’ll walk the rest of the way, you can have a bit of free time before you go back to the house,” you said, Pero’s cottage was near the wall of the estate and not far from the gate. 

“You sure? It’s a fair way down to the station, take you an hour to walk with those bags,” the stable hand said, but you could see he was already eager at the prospect of some free time. 

“I’m certain, I’d rather be on my own for a bit too, got a lot of thinking to do,” you said and he pulled on the reins, the horse coming to a halt just outside the gate. 

“Alright, this is your stop then.” 

You thanked him and climbed down, retrieving your bags from the back, and then watched him disappear down the road. There was a pub in the nearby village and odds were he’d head there for a pint before returning to the house. As soon as he was out of sight, you doubled back, finding the small path that followed the wall towards the groundskeeper's cottage. Tucking your bags out of sight behind a shrub, you hurried down the small lane. After a few minutes, you came to the cottage from the back, the small lake on the other side. 

There was no smoke coming from the chimney and the shutters were closed, making your heart sink. The cottage looked closed and empty without any sign of life. As you stepped into the small garden at the front, you knew he was already gone and a sob forced its way up your throat as you saw what he’d left on the doorstep. Weighed down by a rock, was Pero’s handkerchief, the one he’d used to soothe your stinging cheek after Miss Amelia slapped you. Slowly you walked up to the door and picked it up, the soft fabric smelling of soap and faintly of lavender. The sight of the carefully folded kerchief in your hands brought tears to your eyes, welling up and falling down your cheeks as you realised Pero was gone, and with no means to leave you a message except the kerchief on the doorstep. You never had the time to teach him how to write, and now he’d been forced to leave while you were locked up in your room. Where would he have gone? He only ever said he went south, and found whatever work he could over the winter, but where? You had no idea, and even if he went to London, how would you find him there? The city was made to get lost and hide in. But you had to try, somehow you had to try and find him. 

Squaring your shoulders you wiped your cheeks and tucked Pero’s kerchief into your coat pocket. The cottage held nothing for you now, and you didn’t look back as you retraced your steps back to your bags, and then out through the big gate. You’d take the train to London, find a cheap, but respectable place to live, maybe you’d be able to find the housekeeper who had worked in your mother’s household, you knew where she’d moved to and she was always nice. 

With the big house behind you, you set out to walk the long road down to the station. Pero had said you knew nothing of the world, but you’d need to be a quick learner if you were to survive so that you could find him again. 

After what felt like an age, your feet swollen and aching, you reached the small town that was serviced by the train to London. It was a relief to put down the bags on a bench inside the station house and stretch your back. The station clerk regarded you with curiosity but was friendly enough when you brought out your small purse and counted the coins needed to purchase a one way ticket. 

“The next train to London is in forty minutes, miss,” he told you, “and there are no delays on the line.” 

“Thank you, I’ll wait on the platform,” you replied, turning to pick up your bags. 

“I’d wait in here if I were you, miss,” he said, a concerned look on his face, “there’s a vagrant hanging around the station house. He’s been here since yesterday evening and I think he’s sleeping on the benches. I was just about to send my boy for the constable so you best wait here until he’s gone.” 

“A vagrant?” you asked, a small burst of hope going off in your chest, “What does he look like?” 

“Frightful! Nasty scar right across his face,” the station clerk said, “Dark too and - miss!” 

The clerk called after you but you didn’t hear, you were out through the door in a flash, turning on the spot, searching up and down the platform. 

“Pero!” you called, spotting the sleeping man on a bench at one end, “Pero!” 

He jerked awake, on his feet in an instance before he’d even spotted you. You were already running towards him as his eyes widened, and with a few long strides, he was scooping you up, crushing you to him. 

“Mi amorcita,” he mumbled as you threw your arms around his neck, finding his lips, giving no thought to who might see. 

His arms were lifting you up, one hand cupping the back of your head, holding you tight to his warm mouth and you felt tears begin to stream down your cheeks. You sobbed against him and he pulled back, mumbling a stream of soft words in Spanish that you didn’t understand, his hand coming to wipe away the tears, caressing your cheek between kisses. 

“Don’t cry, mi vida, don’t cry,” he mumbled, placing another soft kiss on your mouth, “You found me, you found me.” 

“I-I went to the cottage, I found your handkerchief,” you stuttered, “I was going to look for you in London but I was so scared I wouldn’t find you.” 

“I’ve been waiting, I was hoping they’d put you on the train, I couldn’t leave without being sure,” he said, loosening his grip on your waist so that he could cup your face with both his hands, his brown eyes dark as he stroked your cheeks and pressed another long kiss to your lips. 

“Being sure of what?” you asked as the kiss ended and Pero shook his head. 

“Another plan of Mrs Pluck to ruin things for us,” he scowled, rage flashing across his face, “She told me she was the one that found us out and that she’d taken you to your uncle. She said you were locked up in your room and that you’d been allowed to stay at Yotes because you’d sworn to your uncle that you didn’t love me. That it had only been a foolish crush, that’s what she called it.” 

“Oh, Pero….” you breathed out, fear gripping your heart as you realised how Mrs Pluck had tried to make Pero leave you behind, “You know that was never true!”

“I know, amor, I know, of course. You’d only just left with my heart in your hands, I knew she was a lying witch,” he pressed another kiss to your lips, a soft moan escaping you as you felt his strong body wrap around you. 

“But what do we do now, Pero?” you asked, putting a hand on his shoulder and looking up at him, “We’re both out of work and I guess you got no reference from my uncle either?” 

“No, he didn’t, but I have plenty of references from the work I’ve done over the winters, I’ll find work there. But…” he hesitated as he frowned, lines of worry across his forehead, “I had a plan for next summer, when I came back for you. A plan for how we would start a life away from your uncle and Yotes Castle, but now…I might ask you already even though it is soon.” 

“What did you plan,” you asked as he let his hands slip from your cheeks, down to hold your hands in his. He paused, looking at his fingers as he entwined them with yours, so large and rough compared to your soft, ink stained ones, before he looked up at you, a small, nervous smile, a rare thing from him, on his face.  

“To ask you to marry me, to go to that place in Scotland, and jus-”

“Yes!” you cried, louder than you intended, “Yes, yes, yes, Pero!” 

You pulled your hands from his and wound them around his neck, making him stumble back as you kissed him hard. A surprised grunt came from him as he grabbed your waist to stop you from knocking him to the ground. The grunt soon turned to laughter as he tried to speak between your kisses, you hugged him tight, your body filling with light as you pressed your lips to his. 

“Cálmaté, mi amor,” he chuckled, taking your hands from around his neck and holding them between his own again, “It won’t be easy, we don’t even belong to the same church, but if you’ll have me, that is my plan.” 

“Yes, Pero,” you said, your voice suddenly unsteady as you felt tears starting to run down your cheeks, your emotions overflowing as you looked into the eyes of the man you thought you’d lost until only a few minutes ago, “I want to marry you, everything else, we’ll figure it out.” 

“I don’t even have a ring for you, mi amorcita,” he said, leaning forward to kiss first one tear stained cheek, and then the other, “I want to promise you everything, but I can’t give you anything.” 

“Pero, you’ve given me hope,” you whispered, “and love. That’s all I ever wanted, to marry for love. And then everything else will be easier.” 

“I can give you that at least, and I will keep you safe, no one will ever treat you the way they did again,” he said, his brow furrowing, the scowl creeping back onto his face as he shook his head, “Never again, amor.” 

You let your fingers caress his forehead, smoothing out the frown and tracing the line of the scar across his eye. You touched your lips to it as he closed his eyes, a feather light kiss to the feature so many feared him for. 

“My guard dog,” you smiled, “ ‘mi perro guardián’, wasn’t that what you called yourself yesterday?” 

He nodded, his eyes still closed as you continued to kiss his face, touching your lips to every mark as if to map it with your mouth. 

“Tú perro guardián,” he mumbled, “I will protect you, amor.” 

“Number one rule of anal sex is ‘No rush’,” Mr Miller says to his son. The older man is sitting by your side, his hands gently kneading your naked asscheeks. You hold your breath when he spreads the globes of your flesh and exposes your pussy slit and butthole. Both entrances clench.

You’ve been going out with Jack Miller for almost a year and you know his dad Joel relatively well. He’s single, works as a contractor, loves spending his free time playing the guitar, woodworking, watching old action movies and going to the bar with his brother Tommy. What you haven’t known before tonight is how good his fingers feel when he pushes them into your asshole. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

It all started with an argument. Jack was getting on your nerves, begging you to have anal.

“C’mon, baby,” he said, clinging to you like an annoying lap dog. He had just fingered you as a foreplay so you were sweaty and sleepy, lying naked on his bed. As always it had taken him too long. He had trouble finding the right rhythm and the right angle like he’d never touched your pussy before. While he was fiddling with your lady parts, a slideshow of your favorite porno scenes was playing on a loop behind your tightly closed eyes until finally you reached an underwhelming orgasm.

Probably relying on endorphins clouding your judgement, Jack began his anal pitch. He was promising you heavenly pleasure and an unforgettable experience, mostly turning himself on - a pole was proudly tenting his sweatpants.

Despite the passion in his voice, you were adamant in your decision. You’d never done it with anyone before and doubted that Jack was experienced enough to show you a wonderful world of anal.

“It’s not that simple, Jack! Jerking off to anal porn is not enough! What if you hurt me! You need to educate yourself first. You need to know… stuff.” You pulled the cover over your naked breasts and crossed your arms.

“What stuff?” Jack frowned.

“Exactly!”

You stared at the ceiling, contemplating getting dressed and going home. You were sure he wouldn’t let it go. And he didn’t.

“I’ll be careful, I promise. Just a tip first, you won’t even feel it. I’ll be super slow and then bam! I’m inside.”

BAM! No one in the history of mankind wanted to hear Bam! and their ass in the same sentence. So you shook your head and gave Jack an alternative,

“Why don’t you fuck my pussy?”

Jack palmed his clothed boner with interest but then shook his head, doubling down.

“Baby, pleaseeeeee..”

Nothing extraordinary would have happened if Jack hadn’t kept nagging and whining, pleading you to give him your butt. You kept saying ‘no’, he kept begging. It got so annoying that you decided to leave but before you sat up there was a loud knock on the bedroom door.

“Dad,” Jack grumbled and got up. He adjusted his hard cock and you pulled the bed cover higher, covering your chest.

“What’s up, dad?” Jack said, annoyed by the interruption.

“Can I …?” Mr Miller stepped into the bedroom. You swallowed loudly. It was weird to be completely naked under the sheet in front of your boyfriend’s father.

“Sorry for intrudin’, sweetheart,” he said, turning to you and then to his son. “Jack, I can’t listen to it no more! Don’t you get what she’s sayin’?”

“Dad, what the hell?” Jack’s cheeks grew red, he was shifting on his bare feet, throwing nervous glances at you. And you definitely shared his confusion.

“I wasn’t eavesdroppin’ I swear. These fuckin walls are cardboard thin. You were whinin’ like a little bitch, son. Sorry, sweetheart,” Mr Miller apologized to you again and then said the words that you’d never expected to hear from your boyfriend’s dad.

“Let me teach you anal.”

Jack was shocked and embarrassed. He was gawking at his dad with widened eyes while the older man was standing by the bed, towering over his son, feet planted firmly on the ground. He kept saying that he only wanted to help, gesturing with his big hands. To your surprise you immediately pictured those hands on your naked body.

You wondered how Mr Miller would teach you. Maybe he’d watch Jack and you, guiding you both, giving advice, or maybe he’d take matters (your ass) into his own hands. Those huge veiny hands. The thought made your core pucker and while Jack was asking his dad to leave, saying that he lost his mind, you pressed your thighs together under the cover, trying to alleviate the ache in your pussy.

“I couldn’t hear the TV, Jack! Only your pathetic attempts to put it in her ass. Sorry, baby,” Mr Miller looked at you, his hands raised palms to you.

“Don’t call her that,” Jack grumbled. He looked and sounded like a boy who didn’t want to share his toy truck.

“‘K,” his father nodded and turned at you. “Jus’ wanna help.”

He dropped his hands by his sides, his sad puppy eyes moving from his son and to you and back. Your heart swelled. Your pussy throbbed.

“Ok,” you said, surprising your boyfriend and yourself. Jack gawked at you.

“What do you mean ‘ok’?!”

“You want to have anal, yeah? But you got no clue what to do, don’t even lie, Jack! Let your dad teach us.”

That’s how you ended up in a position you couldn’t imagine being in your wildest dreams — lying naked on your front, your legs spread, your boyfriend's dad playing with your butt.

“Help ‘er relax,” Mr Miller says to his son, his voice soft and soothing, his tone casual as if he’s teaching Jack how to fix a lawn mower. Your boyfriend is seated in a gaming chair a foot away from the bed, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. When his gaze meets yours, you quickly look away. He doesn’t seem pleased, rather mortified. Whatever. You always thought that Mr Miller was hot, in a rugged and dilf-y way.

Once you had a dream about blowing him in their kitchen, your mouth full of his fat cock, his fingers tight in your hair, no Jack and his cuck gaming chair in sight.

“Draw ‘er a nice bath, give ‘er a massage, somethin’ like that,” Joel says as his calloused palm glides up and down the back of your thigh. You’re one big goosebump, his touch is electrifying.

“No harsh movements.” He carefully pushes on your inner thigh until you bend up your leg. Your hips open and slightly rise off the bed. “She needs to be pliant, ready to take you in her most vulnerable place.”

Jack swallows hard. Your cheek is resting on the pillow, your head turned away from Mr Miller, but you are seeing him perfectly in the wardrobe mirror that stands lengthwise the bed. He’s wearing his usual flannel, sleeves rolled up, and dark blue jeans. It’s not his home clothes and you wonder if he dressed like this for you.

Mr Miller’s salt and pepper locks curl up at the nape, he needs a haircut, but you like his hair longer. You imagine running your fingers through his curls, tugging on them while he’s plowing your wet needy …

“Are you comfortable, sweetie?” Joel interrupts your dirty daydream with a question, his voice soft and raspy. It could have lulled you to sleep if not for a finger that grazes your butthole, making you flinch.

“Uh-huh.” You don’t sound too sure.

“We’ll get there,” he says with a little smile and adds, “Together.”

While you’re slowly melting into the bedsheets from his gentle tone, Mr Miller turns to Jack.

“Another important thing is lubrication. You have some?”

It looks like Jack’s using all his energy to dissociate at the moment thus he misses the question.

“Huh?”

“Lube? You have it or I need to go get mine?”

You widen your eyes, picturing Mr Miller squirt lube on some lucky lady in his master bedroom. And to think you considered him almost celibate!

Your boyfriend blinks a few times, then gets up. You hear him rummaging through a mess in his nightstand drawer, mumbling the word ‘crazy’ before he throws a little bottle on the bed and returns to his chair.

“It should be warm,” Joel says, rolling it between his wide palms.

“May I?” His reflection points at your ass in the mirror and you nod with a quiet ‘yes’. Mr Miller opens the lid with teeth and moves your left asscheek to the side for better access.

“Oh!” You gasp when a slight cold glob of lube lands on your tight ring.

“Bit more.” Joel adds another squirt and then starts spreading the liquid around your ring with a tip of his finger.

“Ahhhh,” you whimper and bite your tongue immediately. Jack’s chair creaks.

“Feels good?” When Joel asks you the question you don’t see a point in lying so you say “yeah.” Wet arousal pools in your core, it’s a matter of minutes before it slides out of your hole and reveals how insanely horny Mr Miller is making you.

“We’re just startin’ and look at her response,” Joel says with pride in his velvet voice while his finger is slowly drawing circles over your asshole. “She’s enjoyin’ it. Even if we stop now she’ll remember the act as something pleasant.”

“Maybe we should,” Jack mutters but neither Joel nor you pay it any attention. Hot flames are licking at your core, the ache in your pussy growing so fast, you roll your hips against the bed, searching for friction.

Adding gasoline to your horny fire is the sight in the mirror in front of you — Joel’s sexy hand moving rhythmically over your ass, his plush lips slightly parted, his dark eyes focused on your puckered hole.

Mr Miller lowers his voice and asks, “Growin’ needy?”

Your eyes lock in the mirror. Fuck! A hot flash burns your lower belly when his black pupils meet yours. Sparks flying, gazes drawn to each other for a few long seconds, promising pleasure and trouble. The intense eye contact does something to you, drowns you in an ocean of lust, pulls you so deep you panic and hastily flick your eyes to your boyfriend who seems very pale.

“Sweetheart,” Joel calls you as if hating to share your attention with his son. You hum but don’t look at him.

“Do you give your permission for the next step? To open you up I need to eat your ass. Is that alright?”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Both you and Jack answer but you are the one calling the shots.

“Yes!” You repeat louder and raise your brows at Jack. Your boyfriend lets out a defeated sigh and drops his head.

“Good,” Joel says and gives your butt a light pat before cupping both asscheeks and spreading them apart. Cold air laps at your holes and you shiver. Joel smiles, probably noticing goosebumps on your skin.

“We’ll start slow.” In the mirror you watch him unhinge his jaw, stick his tongue out and lower his head.

You gasp when Mr Miller slowly licks your tight butthole. “Oh my God!”

Joel chuckles and repeats the depraved action. Soon he’s licking your asshole gingerly, his fingers digging into your flesh with passion. You’re softly moaning, your eyes are rolling to the back of your head. You’ve never had your ass eaten and the sensation is incredible. You wish he’d get lower and take care of your leaking pussy but fuckkk you can come just from Mr Miller’s tongue dancing over your little butthole. So when he parts from your ass, your needy whine rings in the room.

“I’ll be right back, sweetie.”

His wet lips are curled up at the corners, pride sparkling in his blown out eyes, Joel glances back at his son and announces,

“Now we gonna start openin’ her up with a tongue.” Your breathing hitches. You don’t see Jack’s expression because you can’t tear your eyes off Mr Miller in the mirror. “Gently push the tip inside her just so” — Joel leans down and his hot tongue prods at your ring, your mouth forms an O as you moan.

Joel mutters, “Slowly go in,” then his head begins moving up and down while his tongue slides into your ass deeper with every bop. He’s salivating onto your crack, the wetness dripping down to your pussy, covering your folds with the warm spit.

You are losing your mind over how amazing it feels, meanwhile Joel alternates between licking your ring and tongue-fucking it for what seems like hours or so you wish. His lewd slurping fills the room and mixes with your soft noises. You apply all your willpower to stop yourself from moaning like a whore out of respect for your boyfriend who is now sitting with his legs crossed, probably hard but too shocked to accept it.

“How you feelin’, baby?” Joel asks, licking his spit-covered lips.

“S—so good, Mr Miller,” you stutter, staring at him in the mirror with your half lidded eyes.

“See, she’s already gapin’ a little,” Joel says, showing your asshole to Jack.

“Hm-m,” Jack hums, his brows furrowed, his suspicious gaze trained on your ecstatic face.

“Now let’s add a finger.”

You squeak like a little mouse and your holes clench. Joel notices.

“Hey, don’t be scared, babygirl. You’re open nicely now. And I’m gonna be gentle, yeah?”

“Ok,” you reply and hold your breath.

“Nuh-uh. None of that. You should be breathin’, sweetheart.” He puts his warm heavy palm on your back, between your shoulder blades and rubs it up and down, giving you a rhythm.

“In— out—in— out.”

You follow his direction and soon your muscles relax, your eyes flutter close, your jaws unclench. It seems like your body is seeping into the mattress.

“I’m puttin’ one finger in.”

His voice is so quiet you barely register his words, barely notice his finger going inside your ass, miss a slight burn of the stretch, that’s how serene you are feeling.

When you finally open your eyes you see Mr Miller’s reflection thrusting his index finger in and out of your butthole, his eyes on your ring, his lip between his teeth.

“Wow,” you mutter, in awe of the hot sight and the new sensation. All your holes clench again and again, your pussy pushing your generous slick out and you catch yourself wanting Joel to fuck you.

"Another finger? Is that alright, sweetie?" With your heart pounding in your ears, Joel's raspy voice seems both close and far. You nod and mumble a shaky 'yes' before he inserts a second digit into your lubed up asshole. You moan, Joel growls, both at the same time. Your boyfriend curses under his breath.

"Hooooooly hell," you exhale against the pillow, clenching bedsheets with your clammy palms while Joel's scissoring your tight ring open. "This … it's amazing."

Joel pulls his fingers out of you and chuckles yet it comes out strained. You know it takes everything from him not to whip his cock out and fuck you right now. Jack seems to feel it, too.

"Dad, maybe that's enough?"

"No."

"No!"

Your yell drowns out Joel's reply. Your cheeks burning, lust clouding your mind and overtaking your body, you lift your head off the bed and glare at Jack.

"Mr Miller needs to... we need to learn what to do next. Right?"

Jack crosses his arms, his lower lip sticking out.

Completely disregarding his son's suggestion to stop, Joel nods at you and asks Jack as if it's some depraved sex ed class.

"She's nice and ready now. What's next?"

Jack blinks at his dad, a mixture of frustration and confusion plastered on his face. He shrugs. "I fuck her."

"Wrong!" Joel sits up straight and gives him a disappointed look. "Son, the most important thing about anal is consent."

You drop your head back on the pillow and nod with the 'obviously' expression meanwhile Joel continues.

"Even after you did all the necessary prep, you ask her again. And if she says 'no', you stop! Got it?"

You watch Joel in the mirror, his bushy brows furrowed, two obsidian eyes piercing Jack. He's not fucking around.

"Yeah."

"Huh?"

"Yes, sir," Jack mumbles. He looks so pitiful now you get scared of your pussy turning into the Sahara so you hastily move your eyes to the mirror with Joel's reflection in it.

You watch and feel your boyfriend's dad lean down to you. His hot breath fans your naked back, sending chills down your spine, as he asks,

"Can I fuck your ass now, baby?"

Your voice is wanton and needy, you're almost drooling onto the bed, as you reply,

"Yes, Mr Miller. But..?”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Can I be on my back?”

Joel kisses your shoulder and coos,

“Sure thing.”

Your body buzzing with want, you slowly and awkwardly roll over. Your exposed tits jiggle as you get comfortable and Joel takes you in— your puffy pussy, your heaving belly, your nipples hard as diamonds, desire plastered on your face.

Jack nervously clears his throat and leaves his cuck chair.

“You ain’t really doing it, right?”

You’re not sure if he’s talking to you or his dad but Joel is the one who answers,

“I’m teachin’ you two. And this is the most crucial part. You wanna go in now and ruin all the progress?”

Jack closes and opens his mouth, but when you shake your head at his attempt to intervene, your boyfriend plops back in the chair, looking gobsmacked.

“This is insane,” he murmurs and you have to agree. You’re feeling insanely good.

With a nonchalant expression on his flushed face Joel grabs a pillow.

“Raise your hips for me, baby.”

You do what he asks and he quickly places it under your butt. When your hips are raised Joel hums in approval.

“Grab your knees for me, please.”

Like an obedient student you do it immediately.

“That’s it. Good girl.”

His praise, his scent - manly and dizzying, his warm smile, his obsidian eyes set between your thighs — all of it makes your blooming pussy contract and a drop of clear slick beads at your entrance.

Joel smirks, his dark gaze darts to yours and then back to your leaky hole. He opens his mouth but words die on his lips.

Instead he takes a sharp breath and climbs on the bed, grunting. With your body trembling in anticipation you watch Mr Miller kneel by your propped up butt, unzip his jeans, his back now to his son.

Just for your hungry eyes, he pulls his cock out. Big, veiny, hard as steel fuck machine. Hnggg!

You clench your jaws, killing a moan that rises in your throat from the sight of his manhood. You see a drop of precum on the slit and your mouth waters.

“Need more lube.” Joel squirts a generous amount on his hand and then strokes his cock spreading the liquid.

You squirm on the bed, fear and excitement coursing through your veins. He wants to stick that huge thing where?!

Joel seems to read the worry on your face. With one hand around the base of his stiff shaft, he brings the other to your knee and gives it a light squeeze.

“If you want me to stop I will.”

You don’t reply, just stare up at him, fear and desire playing tug-of-war in your heart.

“See?” Joel gets his son’s attention but doesn’t look away from you. “This sweet thing is unsure but she’s bein’ brave and doesn’t stop me.”

Jack sighs with relief from behind Joel’s broad body. He probably hopes that you’ve changed your mind.

Then the older man addresses you.

“You don’t have to be brave for me or anyone else, ok?” You hum while warmth spreads in your belly, reaches your clit and makes it throb. You open your mouth but words don’t come out. Joel gives you a knowing smile and offers,

“How ‘bout I open you up again with my fingers? Two steps forward, one step back.”

Jack’s chair creaks unhappily when you breathe out, “Yes, please.”

Joel gives you a curt nod and sits on his heels, his cock still hard and waiting. His strong hand circles around the back of your thigh as he keeps it steady for you.

Jack’s view is blocked by Joel so he doesn’t see when his dad traces your pussy hole with his fingers and brings the wetness down to your ring. His eyes dart up to yours just for a second, you see lust and mischief there.

“Alright, here we go,” he mumbles to himself, easing two lubed up fingers inside you. This time you take them easily, dull pain of the stretch is present but also welcomed. You moan.

Mr Miller closely watches your face twisting with pleasure while his fingers are fucking your butt. You watch him back, suddenly swept by a feeling so strong, you forget how to breathe for a second. There's no one else in the room, in the whole world, only you and this big older man, giving you an unforgettable experience, filling the hole that’s never been filled and you don’t want it to end, hate for him to stop. Stop giving, taking, watching you melt for him.

Ahhhh! A scorching heat floods your belly and hits you like a tsunami. Your core walls clench once, twice, your head digs into the pillow underneath, your eyes close and a loud moan slips out of your mouth. You’re shaking and crying ecstatic tears, your ass squeezing Joel’s thick digits, your pussy contracting around nothing.

“D— did you just come? Jack’s cold tone brings you back to reality as if a bucket of icy water was thrown over your head. Still jerking with climax you snap your eyes open, your breathing heavy, and see Joel’s lopsided smile in front of you.

Fuck! Your cheeks and neck burn and you cover your face with your hands, embarrassed by unraveling in front of your boyfriend’s dad. With his fingers in your ass.

Joel comes to your rescue. He gently rubs your thigh with his paddle of a hand and coos,

“She’s one of a kind, Jack. The anal stimulation isn’t as pleasurable for women as it is for men. In the right hands though… you did wonderful, sweetie.”

You bite your lip, hiding a grin that’s about to bloom on your face, and grip your knees tighter.

“We can stop now if…,” Joel starts.

“No!” You cut him off and push your knees to your chest. “I want to be ready. For the real thing.”

“I’ll give you the real thing,” Joel whispers so quietly it’s barely audible but you hear. Your eyes lock as he plants his palm on the bed by your side and hovers over your lower half.

“Ready, sweetheart?”

After you say ‘yes’ Mr Miller glances back in the direction of his son.

“Jus’ the tip at first. Maybe only. Depends on how she takes it.”

He looks down at you with that soft but feral gaze of his and talks to Jack.

“Watch her face closely when you push inside.”

Joel’s hot leaky cockhead kisses your pussy hole and you gasp, your entrance winking at his manhood, inviting it to come in. Joel whispers,

“Only teasin’.” You smile and shake your head at the man. He gives you a wink and drags his tip down along the delicate skin between your pussy and asshole and then nudges your tight ring.

“If she scrunches her pretty nose, stop. Means she’s hurtin’.”

Joel presses his crown against your asshole and applies pressure. Your mouth parts when he starts pushing it into your asshole, the stretch far bigger than with his fingers. You take a few deep breaths, not stopping him, craving to be fucked.

“Yeah, breathe for me, baby. In and out. Like I taught ya.”

In! in! in! your pussy screams and throbs with the rhythm of your heartbeat, your body desperate to be ruined by your boyfriend’s dad.

Mr Miller pauses and closes his eyes, his forearm muscles tense with restraint, the veins of his hand that’s wrapped around his shaft are bulging. He speaks, trying to keep his voice steady.

“The most difficult thing now—is to control yourself — all you wanna do — is shove your dick deep inside her— to the hilt—- she feels so fuckin’ good.”

His arousal and your desire merge together and form an electric cloud around you two, the scent of sex heavy in the air. Mr Miller moves another inch deeper and you whimper.

“But you musn’t,” he grunts to his son or to himself. “You should be in control— think of her first and your pleasure second —Yeahhh?”

The last word sounds like a moan and you smile dizzily, ecstatic to see how much bliss you’re giving him. Joel pushes in some more and then looks into your eyes. “Wanna see?”

You nod eagerly and place another pillow under your head, propping it up to get a better view.

The sight before your eyes takes your breath away. Joel’s big hand wrapped around his girthy cock, the veins on his shaft thumping, glistening with lube. But the best thing is your stretched asshole, hugging Joel’s tip buried inside.

“Wow,” you breathe out. Joel smirks, his smile lopsided and boyish. He drops his head to your butt and asks,

“Wanna stop here? Done so good already.”

You crane your neck and glance at Jack, expecting him to scream ‘Yes! Stop! Now!’ but he’s hunched over in his cuck chair with a blank stare, chewing on the nail of his thumb.

You bring your gaze back up at Joel and purr,

“I want all of it.”

Joel nods and thrusts in.

Mr Miller’s fucking your ass like it’s been made solemnly for this purpose. His hands are gripping your spread thighs, leaving marks on your soft skin, his hips snapping against your asscheeks, drowning the room in the lewd Slap slap slap! Sounds.

By now you’ve lost all the composure and your loud moans are flowing freely from your lips, mixing with Joel’s animalistic growls.

“Yeahhhh.. good girl…she’s a fast learner… takin’ me like a champ.”

“Thanks, Mr Miller,” you mewl with your eyes rolling to the back of your head when you feel a second orgasm building. Hungry for it you lick your fingers, reach for your throbbing clit and start rubbing it while Joel’s steel shaft is massaging your insides.

“Lemme… want some help?” Joel asks, consent king as always.

“Yes, please.”

Not minding his son watching you two from the back, Joel brings his calloused thumb to your puffy clit and starts drawing infinities over it.

You arch your back, losing your mind over how amazing it feels. Your ass is full of Joel’s cock, but your neglected pussy hole is crying desperately. You look for your boyfriend behind Joel’s broad back. He still looks shell shocked, his widened eyes lowered, and you realize that he’s watching his dads heavy balls slap against his girlfriend’s asscheeks.

Opps.

“Mr Miller,” you whisper, staring at the older man again, “Could you..?”

You lift your hand, stick two fingers out and move them up and down, fingering an invisible pussy.

Joel flashes you a knowing smile.

“Gotcha, sweetie.” He glances back at his son and raises his voice, talking to you,

“You strugglin’, baby? Ok if I help you relax?”

You consent loudly so Jack could hear and the next second Mr Miller changes hands and his dry index and middle fingers easily enter your sopping pussy.

Yeahhhh! You whimper, so full of his fat cock and digits, it feels like you’re going to come apart at the seams.

Joel’s massaging your g-spot with two fingers, his thumb working your clit, his cock relentlessly rutting into your ass. You’ve never been fucked this good and you try to hold off your second climax, hating for the sex to end.

But Joel’s too hot, too experienced and soon you come with a wail, arching your sweaty back off the bed and clamping Joel’s hips with your thighs. Blinding ecstasy is coursing through your body, your cunt pulsing around Joel’s fingers, your asshole choking his cock so hard he stills.

“Here— we g—goooHngggg….” he roars, retreats his fingers out of your pussy and covers you with his huge frame. He pushes his face into your sweaty neck but holds his weight over your thrashing body.

“Where?” He chokes, his chest rumbling with groans, and you wrap your arms around his broad back and press your naked tits to him, mumbling into his ear,

“Inside my ass, Mr Miller. Please.”

His whole body tenses up over you and he begins squirting his hot cum deep inside your butt. The warmth of his load fills you more and more, every erratic thrust of his cock pushes the sticky spent back into you and you hold him tight, wishing to be stuffed to the brim. It doesn’t take long with how much he comes and soon his jizz covers your asscheeks and his balls, sticking them together like glue. You feel filthy and sexy, with your boyfriend’s dad busting inside you, the former having a perfect view of your asshole sucking the older man’s cum in. Too abundant it rolls down your crack and onto Jack’s bed.

Both of you are panting when Joel carefully pulls his cock out of your asshole and falls on the bed next to you, still fully clothed except for the pulled down jeans and boxers.

“Dad, put your dick away,” Jack grumbles.

“Yeah yeah.” Joel tucks his cock back in, leaving his jeans open. He sounds exhausted. You cover yourself with a sheet suddenly remembering that you’re naked next to your boyfriend’s dad.

You turn your head to him resting next to you, his forearm covering his closed eyes, his chest rising and falling quickly, his leg dangling off the edge of the bed. He’s so handsome you want to bite him. The man had a full day of work and then rocked your world. You find it incredibly hot but also feel guilty for exhausting him even more.

You watch Mr Miller for a few moments, warmth spreading in your belly and chest, until he takes a deep breath, opens his eyes and turns his head to you.

“Dad?” Jack calls impatiently, hurrying the man to leave but Joel doesn’t spare him a glance and asks you,

“How you feelin’, baby?”

He nods down at your pussy but you know he’s asking about your butt.

“I’m ok.” You squirm on the bed, trying to access your state. “A little sore but good.”

“Good,” Joel repeats with a warm smile. You’re staring at each other silently, his gaze soft and warm, grinning like two fools. You want to kiss him but stop yourself. It’s inappropriate.

Then you remember where his cock was just a few minutes ago and giggle.

“What is it?” Joel asks, his eyes dart between yours and then slide to your lips.

You shake your head, silence thick and loaded between you two.

Jack rips it apart as he clears his throat.

“Thanks, dad. Fucking hell. You can go now.”

He gets up from the chair and crosses his arms, frowning at the two of you. You wonder if he’s going to break up with you after this. Whatever.

Joel sits up with a grunt and gets out of the bed. He sways a little and you smile proudly — you did it to him.

“Thank you, Mr Miller.” You sit up, holding the sheet over your body. He zips up his jeans and winks,

“Don’t mention it, baby.”

Jack scoffs. Joel heads to the door but as he passes his son he pauses.

“Get her a wet towel. And some water,” he commands. “So .. if she took my cock, she wouldn’t even notice yours. You’re welcome.”

With that he pats his son’s shoulder and leaves.

Who needs Jack, amirite? Maybe Joel can teach them something else?🤔 Thank you for reading! Please, leave a comment and reblog if you enjoyed the story💞

MASTERLIST

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The port of Jorvik looked sullen and grey under the overcast sky as the ship approached. Eight days had passed since you left Ulvehi, a fast journey across the Western sea. You glared at the town as sails were pulled down and oars were put out to guide the longship up the mouth of the river Ouse. Ulvehi's, and your father's, banner were raised high and Asgeir wasn't challenged as the ship passed the chains that protected the port from attacks.

Instead a man was waiting at the dock, raising a hand in greeting as the oars gently brought the ship to a halt.

"Asgeir of Ulvehi, what are you doing here? They told me one of Agnar's ships had been spotted, but this is a surprise!"

The man spoke Norse with an accent you couldn't place, but Asgeir seemed to know him well. They embraced once he'd jumped off the railing and landed with a thud on the planks of the dock.

"Good to see you, Ulf," Asgeir smiled, "It's been a while hasn't it?"

"Many years I think, I didn't think we'd see you in Jorvik again. What made you brave the journey?"

"No bravery," he grimaced in return, "Don't we own the Western sea these days?"

Ulf chuckled as the gangway was laid out and Asgeir gestured up to you.

"Jarl Agnar's daughter is to marry Ealdorman Cuthbert of Ripon and I've been charged to bring her to him."

Ulf looked up at you and bowed his head, "You're in luck then, he's in town for a few more days. The king has just left Jorvik, there was a council on how to deal with King Malcolm of Scotland, he's causing trouble."

Asgeir frowned at Ulf, "How much trouble? Are the roads safe? The Jarl will not leave his daughter here if these lands will be Scottish."

"Agnar was always too cautious," Ulf scoffed, "The northern forces will deal with Malcolm, and the king is sending reinforcements from the south. But come, you and the Jarl's daughter can stay with me until the Ealdorman is ready to receive his new bride. Save you braving the new inn, my beds are softer on the backs of old men, Asgeir."

Ulf held out his hand, pointing away from the docks, and led the way. Asgeir shouted orders for a few of the men to follow, while the rest secured the ship.

You walked next to Asgeir, Ravn close on your heels, as you looked around the new city. The area closest to the port was much like Skiringssal, or Sigtuna, filled with a clutter of wooden houses, workshops, and shops, but the Anglo Saxon Christian presence was much stronger here. Most people seemed to have simple crosses around their necks, and small groups of monks crossed in front of you as you passed a large church.

"I didn't realise Jorvik was so Christian," you said to Ulf in Norse, and he glanced back at you.

"King Cnut is Christian, and so is York. Many of the remaining Norsemen have converted, or been born into Christianity now. The Danes are Christian too, but some still hold to the old gods."

"I remember coming here as a young man," Asgeir added, "Jorvik was a Norse city then, and the only Anglo Saxons we saw were traders from Wessex or Mercia.

"Cnut stabilised trade, and the Norse in Jorvik find it easier to accept a Danish king than one from Wessex, so the north is calmer now than back then. But the Danelaw is fading, strangely enough under a Danish king, we'll all be English soon."

"What do you know about Cuthbert of Ripon?" you asked, and Asgeir gave you a sharp look, the meaning clear.

"Not the most powerful man in these parts, but he's rich and has an extensive trade network with connections in Frankia. He only has daughters by his late wife though, so he'll be keen to have sons quickly enough."

"So his wife died then," you said, not bothering to keep the disdain out of your voice, "Last we heard she was still alive and he was just waiting for her to pass before finding a new brood mare."

Asgeir inhaled sharply, grabbing your arm as Ulf stopped and turned to you.

"My house is here," he replied in a low voice, pushing open a door in a low wooden wall, "and you should keep your opinions to yourself. Christian men expect their wives to be silent and meek. You'd do best to remember that, and forget your Norse customs."

"Silent and meek is not how I was brought up," you replied, shoving at Asgeir's arm as he ushered you inside.

"I know, that's why I'm warning you," Ulf said, "Do you not think I was raised by a Norse mother? She ruled our household, ruled the men, thralls, beasts, and my father too. But Cuthbert is not Norse, and you will not fare well in his household if you don't hold your tongue."

"You see what you're forcing me into?" you hissed at Asgeir as Ravn gave a low growl, sensing the tension.

"I serve your father," he replied, but his face was unhappy as Ulf led the two of you further into his front yard, leaving the men that had followed from the ship behind. You cursed them all under your breath, and the people in Ulf's household gave you odd looks as you stomped through the house.

Asgeir sent word back to the ship, and Ealdorman Cuthbert, and soon a messenger came back with an invitation for the very next day. It seemed the high ranking Anglo Saxon was keen to meet his new bride, and move forward with the wedding quickly. And you were equally keen to postpone the whole thing as much as possible, praying to Freya that Pero was safe, wherever he was.

But no amount of pleading with Asgeir helped the next day. He just shook his head and ordered you into the carriage that had been readied for the short journey across to the Ealdorman's home in York.

You already knew this lord had his main seat at Northmere Hall west of York, it was where he'd been preparing to travel too when word came of your arrival. But in York he resided at a large house near the church that dominated the centre of the town, and it was to this place Asgeir and the retinue of Norsemen that had come on the ship escorted you the next day.

Being led into the smokey hall felt like being led into a prison, many times worse than when you'd first met Grim. All your fears about Cuthbert of Ripon seemed to come true, as he pushed himself up from the high seat at the top of the great hall. The lank, grey hair was combed back in greasy strands, and the heavy wool cloak looked like it dwarfed the short man. As he stepped down, the sheath of his sword clanked against the high seat, making him stumble and curse. He was built like a man who had spent too many winters at the feasts, and not a single summer raiding.

But Asgeir bowed low and introduced you, and the old man let his gaze drift over your form. He seemed to take no notice of your face, or to the words Asgeir was saying. Instead he inspected your body as if he was appraising a cow, mumbling something to the man standing next to him.

You recognised him as the envoy who had been at Ulvehi last year, Edmund. He must've lied to your father to get him to agree to this marriage, and you wondered to yourself what Assar and Saga would say if they saw who their Jarl thought was a suitable groom for his daughter. But of course, your father had never met the Ealdorman, all he knew was that there was money, and a trade network to use.

The small carved dog Pero had given you pressed against your chest, hidden underneath your clothes, and the rounded shape of the bone against your skin made you feel less alone as you tried to ignore the eyes of the men and women studying you from around the edges of the hall, and the old man leering at his new bride.

Cuthbert had made his way down from the dais, and across the stone floor to where you were standing just in front of Asgeir.

"So, she looks healthy enough," Cuthbert remarked, "Wide hips, clear skin, and I've been told she has all of her own teeth even."

Looking over at Asgeir he nodded, "You can send word back to your master that I'll accept her as my new wife. She'll give us heirs that can continue to build what their fathers have founded."

You bit your tongue, forcing back the rage that filled you as the despicable man spoke of you as if you were a new thrall. What would Pero think if he could see you now? Reduced to the same status as he was, only disguised as a marriage? The old Pero probably would've thought it was fair; the Jarl's daughter getting a taste of what her own family's thralls suffered. But your Pero, he would take this man's head for even suggesting he could own you.

The thought almost made you smile as you imagined your strong mercenary cutting down the Ealdorman. And there would be no heir to this old man, no matter how hard he tried.

Behind you Asgeir nodded as the English words were translated into Norse.

"If it pleases the Ealdorman, we can begin preparations for the wedding as soon as possible," he replied, and the translator passed the message on to Cuthbert.

"No need," Cuthbert said, shaking his head, "All is already taken care of. We will do the betrothal ceremony now, and then we will have the wedding tomorrow. I have already alerted the monks at York Minster. The feast will be lacking, of course, but as my third wife, that is hardly the most important part."

"Now?" you said, "It's too soon, I-we are not ready."

Cuthbert looked at you with a frown, "Why isn't she ready?" he asked, turning to Asgeir, "She's been wed before, has she not? I was told she was a widow."

The translator quickly relayed the message, but before Asgeir could get the full message, you shook your head.

"I am not ready. We have just arrived to Jorvík, we need time to prepare for a wedding and-"

"Lady, I don't wish to be crude," the Ealdorman cut you off, "and I know you might not be familiar with our traditions, but I was told you were wedded to a Christian man and converted. And as a widow you are sure to be familiar with all the duties of a wife."

You opened your mouth to contradict him, but he held up his hand and snapped his fingers, "In my household, as in any Christian household, a wife holds her tongue when her husband speaks. As I said, I don't wish to be crude, but a son and hair must be produced, and God will only see that happen in the marital bed, and I have no wish to wait."

"But I do," you replied, finding your voice again as the translator furiously whispered to Asgeir. His hand shot out to close around your arm, as Cuthbert frowned, "I do not know you, you do not know me. I ask you for some days to at least become familiar an-"

"Silence!"

The order rang out across the hall and as one, everyone stilled. Asgeir's grip on your arm tightened and you heard him hiss behind you as the translator relayed what was being said.

"Do not anger him."

"No, lady, do not anger me!" Cuthbert spat, "Listen to your father's servant and hold your tongue."

He waved behind him, and a priest hurried down from where he'd been standing behind the high seat, followed by Edmund, the envoy.

"Ordgar, oversee the betrothal, and Edmund, go to the church, tell Bishop Godwine we are doing the wedding today."

Edmund bowed and passed you as he hurried through the hall, Cuthbert looking back at you.

"And tell him the bride might not be willing, but he knows my support," he called after him.

"Asgeir, please! I am not ready!" you said, turning to your father's envoy in this whole shamble with a desperate plea, but his face was drawn, and he shook his head.

"Your father's will stands, you're to marry the Ealdorman, and it's up to him to decide when."

"Nidingr," you spat at him, "Traitor, the Norns will curse you."

"You father…" he replied, but you shoved him away, making him lose his grip on you, there was no help coming from him.

Instead Cuthbert grabbed your arm, his grip strong despite his short stature, and pulled you around to face him.

"Speak the words, Ordgar. Asgeir will answer for her."

Ordgar, the priest, nodded and drew a deep breath and called loudly enough for all in the hall to hear.

"Give hand to hand and faith to faith. Who speaks for this woman?"

"No one!" you spat in reply, but Ordgar looked past you as the translator mumbled to Asgeir.

"Before witnesses I pledge her hand, her kin hears this pledge," he said, his voice low, but it seemed to be enough for the priest.

"My Lord Ealdorman?"

"I pledge before God and these witnesses that I will keep her lawfully as wife," Cuthbert replied.

"Does my voice not count at all?" you asked loudly, "I do not consent."

"In my household, you consent whether you want it or not," Cuthbert replied sharply, and the priest made the sign of the cross over your joined hands, "Now, the bishop will join us, and then you are mine, as your father wanted."

He let go of your hand and drew back, his men moving forward and preparing for the departure to the church, leaving you standing alone in the middle of the great hall.

Asgeir came up behind you, holding your cloak that had been left at the door, "Lady, he is powerful, do not anger him. Let him wed you and then you can have an easy life, just carry his children and he will be happy."

He spoke in a low voice, in Norse, as he helped the cloak over your shoulders.

"You carry his children then, I do not-"

"His first two wives did not die natural deaths," Asgeir mumbled, taking hold of your arm again, "I cannot protect you here."

"Then why did you bring me?"

Asgeir flinched at the hatred in your look, and you turned away before he could reply. The Ealdorman's men were approaching, and without words they ushered you and Asgeir to the waiting wagons.

The ride to the church was short and silent, and your wagon drove an extra lap around the town to give Cuthbert and his household time to arrive first and prepare the bishop. Asgeir sat next to you, but you turned your head away from him, and willed the tears clinging to your lashes to not fall.

"I am sorry," Asgeir mumbled, as the wagon circled the church, "If I could take you back to Norway, I would. But as it stands, both you and I, and the crew, would be dead before we cleared Jorvik harbour."

"Did you know?" you asked him, still staring through the lattice window of the wagon, "Did you know what kind of man he was?"

You felt Asgeir take your wrist, making you turn to look at him.

"No, and I swear it on the old gods, had I known, I would've sailed us both up to Upsala, for protection from these Christian traditions. I have known you since you were born, and I've served your father even longer. Never did I think I would bring you into this much danger."

"Then tell my father, when you go back. Tell him and make him come, or tell Assar and the Steinvikr men."

Asgeir nodded as the wagon pulled up in front of the church, "I will, I promise."

"And find Pero Tovar. If you want my forgiveness for this, find him and make sure he is safe."

"Your…your father will not allow a thrall to marry you…" Asgeir shook his head, looking pained as your nails dug into his hand.

"I don't care about marriage, or where I live or how. The only thing that matters is that Pero is safe, and with me. We can settle at the end of the eastern rivers for all I care, just help Pero find me. And then my father can pretend he never had a daughter for all I care."

The door of the carriage was pulled open, and Asgeir looked at the man who was reaching in to grab your arm, and then back at you.

"The love you have for him…it's clear. I'll try, I promise."

Someone tugged on your arm, and you glared at the guard as he pulled you from the carriage, making you stumble before you looked up at the scene outside the church. The dark stone building was the largest you'd ever seen in your life, and the imposing height of the tower drew your gaze upwards, towards the rain heavy clouds racing past just out of reach of the cross that topped the building.

The heavy wooden door stood open, and the armed men that formed a guard around the church yard urged you on, through the curious crowd that had gathered, pulling your gaze from the sky above and into the dark interior. Asgeir followed, his head bowed, as the rest of the men from Ulvehi formed up behind him.

Vaulted ceilings rose above you inside the church, hazy with smoke from the incense, a scent you recognised well from Sigtuna, together with cold stone and wet wool. Candles burned before the altar in wavering gold flames, their glow catching silver chalices and the dim red paint of ancient saints upon the walls. In the distance you heard monks chanting, Latin incantations hummed through the dark. The windows of the great church were small, letting in only a smidgen of daylight on this glum day, and the dim mood of the nave seemed to suit your own.

Reluctantly you walked down the aisle to the waiting bishop and your supposed husband to be. Asgeir followed behind, and two of Ulvehi's hirdmen, the rest remained outside. Cuthbert looked impatient, and the bishop looked bored, picking at his nails with a dull face as you approached.

"Godwin, read the words," Cuthbert said before you'd even reached the altar, and the bishop turned, facing the large altar piece where the fat, yellow wax candles waved in the draft.

It was as if you left your body, rising above the scene in the church. The foreign Latin words washed over the empty form without meaning as you looked down at the woman standing behind the priest, next to the man who was meant to soon be your husband.

This was not you. This was just your body being subjected to the will of these men. A shell that meant nothing. Your true self was floating in the rafters, searching for a way out so that you could look over the Western Sea and see if a scarred mercenary was coming for you.

Below, on the cold stone floor that made your back ache, words were spoken, promises made on your behalf that held no meaning. You searched the horizon for that ship as your voice answered the bishop's question far below, and when your hands were joined with Cuthbert's, he had to hold them tight, your limp grip slipping through his fingers. The words spoken were not a promise to anyone, they held no meaning to you. The man you called husband was somewhere else, and as you searched the horizon for him, meaningless figures moved on the church floor far below.

You sat through the meagre wedding feast in a daze, seeing it all as from above still. Your hands were cold, and you tucked them inside your dress. The small bone dog was warm where it was hidden against your skin, and you stroked it with your thumb, caressing the small scar across its eye. You were still searching for him, even as the evening turned to darkness. Spring evenings here in England weren't long and light as they were in your home, but as your body went through the motions of standing up and following the man they now called your husband, you still searched the darkening horizon for the ship that had to be coming.

But not even your mind could protect you from the wedding night as the heavy oak door of the bed chamber closed. The thump cut through your daze as Cuthbert unbuckled his sword belt. He leaned it against the wall by the fireplace and turned to you, setting aside his gloves with the same care he had shown his sword.

“If you are wise,” he said, “you will give me a son quickly.”

You said nothing, trying to return to where you could search the horizon, but your mind was frozen as you watched him hang the cloak over a chair and pull his tunic over his head.

Outside, somewhere far below the chamber windows, drunken voices still echoed through the hall. He crossed the room toward you as though approaching some long-awaited inheritance.

"On the bed now, wife."

The wind tugged at his clothes again as Pero stared down at Thorsten's broken gaze, and behind him Assar stepped closer and looked down at the corpse.

"I never liked him, good riddance," he said, "I would've killed him myself if you hadn't."

Bending down he snatched the money purse hanging at the belt and shoved it into Tovar's hand, and Pero looked up, pulled out of his daze.

"Thank you, I…"

"Take the silver, keep her safe," Assar said, "She loves you, so keep her safe. Now you'd better run, hide in the forest, head south."

"I have a ship to England waiting. Thank you, I owe you my life," he said, hastily sheathing his sword and giving Assar a short bow,

"You'd better run fast, Tovar, she'll sail any moment with this wind," Assar replied, waving him away, "Run! And tell her I'll see her in Valhalla!"

The wind chased Pero as he bolted through the back streets, back towards the dock. In the distance he could hear shouts going up as people caught sight of a dark haired man with a blood stained tunic and a great long sword in his hand. But he didn't have time to try to avoid them, or stay hidden. The wind was strong, and he knew the ship would be pushing out from the dock at any moment.

The air seemed to escape his lungs in short bursts, a burning pain with every breath he took as he ran, skidding across the muddy ground. The harbour came into view, and he pounded across the wet planks, making people jump out of the way at the sight of his face. At the end of the dock he saw Godric waving at him, shouting something. The ship was still there, and Godric standing on the railing as ropes were cast onto the ship.

"Run! Run!"

Tovar jumped over a crate, the great sword tight in his hand, and stumbled the last few steps. Throwing the sword over the edge of the railing, he leapt, grabbing hold of the slippery wood. Hands grabbed his arms, scraping his nose as he was tugged onto the ship, and with a groan he tumbled onto the deck, rolling onto his back as he gulped big lungfuls of air. Around him oars creaked as they were pushed out, Aelfric calling for the sails to be raised.

"Dammit, man, get out of the bloody way," he snapped at Tovar, kicking his sword out of the way, "'If I get hanged for whatever you did, I'll be haunting you in the next life."

Tovar scrambled to his feet, grabbing his sword and moving to the edge, slumping down next to Godric who was hunkered down against the hull.

"You had me worried there, Tovar," he said, clapping him on the shoulder, "Letting me risk all that, only for you to run off and get yourself killed over a sword."

"I'm sorry," Tovar panted, leaning back and drawing another deep breath as his racing heart began to slow down, "That man…if it had been any other man with my sword, I would've left it. But him…he's hated me since the first hour, and he was the one who betrayed me. I couldn't leave it with him."

"What happened? Did you…kill him?" Godric lowered his voice, making sure none of the other men on the ship could hear their conversation over the rush of the wind and creaking wood, "And how were you even able to call on the aid of someone like Saga of Steinvikr? She only told me she knew you and that you needed help escaping."

"She is the cousin of the daughter of the Jarl of Ulvehi, my wife."

Pero smiled at the word, wife, as Godric's mouth fell open. It felt good to say it out loud.

"You married the Jarl's daughter? How did he allow that?"

Pero almost laughed out loud, "He didn't, he doesn't even know it. When he found out his daughter had…"

He paused, he didn't even know how to say it. How could he explain what had happened in the past two years at Ulvehi? The anger he'd felt at first, he knew Godric would well understand that. But the rest? The slow growth of trust and friendship, and the early tender feelings he'd had. The growing need to first protect you, and then to be near you, to touch you. It had moved so slowly, and settled so deeply, that looking back he could hardly understand how he'd looked at you with hatred.

"Tovar?"

Godric looked at his friend, who had suddenly gone quiet, staring off into the distance past the ship's hull.

"She's my wife, because she said she's my wife. Not because a priest said it," Pero replied, "She carries my child, and she's been taken to England to marry against her will. I have to find her again, and keep her safe. Both of them."

Godric looked at Pero with wide eyes, "I think you need to start from the beginning, friend. We have at least a week's journey, and I'll need a good story to keep me entertained."

It wasn't an easy journey across the ocean back to England. A late spring storm rushed in from the north, and flurries of snow bit the faces of the men sailing the ship. Pero and Godric huddled down as best they could in the open hull, but shivered their way through the journey. Godric was less used to sea voyages than Pero, and when the storm hit he spent as much time hanging over the railing as he did hunkered down. Pero grabbed hold of the belt around his waist, hooking his arm through it to keep the man from falling overboard. They didn't sleep many hours as the storm raged.

As the ship finally made its way up the Ouse, both men stood by the railing, looking with relief out over the green lands they'd been taken from two years earlier.

"We're a lot further north, but I can make my way south along the coast once I've helped you find the Ealdorman," Godric said as they watched the green banks of the river flow past, "I've got family further inland, I don't think I'll be settling near any rivers or oceans again."

"Thank you, Godric," Pero replied, "I'll make sure you don't leave empty handed."

"I'm not doing it to get paid, Tovar," the other man protested, but Pero shook his head.

"I know, but you should have some of Thorsten's silver too an-"

He cut himself off as he saw Aelfric, the ship's captain, approach them where they stood at the bow of the ship.

"Jorvik is less than half a day's row up the river now, and I want no trouble there, so I'm letting you off here," he said, pointing to a small shallow beach just up ahead.

"I paid you to take us to York," Godric protested, but Aelfric shook his head.

"I know you caused some sort of trouble back in Skiringssal, and odds are I'm not able to go back there any time soon. Which is fine, I can trade in Hedeby or Ribe. But I don't want trouble in Jorvik, so you leave us here, or not at all."

Tovar nodded, and put his hand on Godric's arm, "Calm, friend, he's right. We shouldn't be seen in York, it's best if we leave them here."

Aelric looked relieved, eyeing the large sword that Tovar had hanging from his hip, "Thank you for understanding. I'll make sure no one knows you came across on my ship."

"Thank you," Tovar replied, and Aelric gave him a quick nod before retreating to the rudder of the ship.

It only took a few more moments before the ship pulled up alongside the low bank, and a simple plank was put out. Tovar and Godric made their way off the ship, and as soon as their feet touched the ground, Aelric shouted an order and the plank was pulled back in. It was only a moment's work, and then the oars came out and the ship was on its way again.

"England, at last!" Godric said, sinking down to his knees with his hands on the grassy bank, "I'd given up hope, never thought I'd see it again."

"We're not safe yet, amigo," Tovar replied, looking around them, "We need to find a village or a hamlet and buy supplies. Then I need to find out where I can find this Ealdorman. And I'll need your help. This," he pointed to the scar that cut across his eye, "is far too easy to recognise and remember."

Godric pushed himself up, nodding, "Agreed, and remember we're still in the Danelaw, plenty of Norsemen around here."

"Yes, and even if word of our escape hasn't made it here yet, the Jarl will send men after me, I'm sure. And I intend to be far away by the time they get here."

He pulled the cloak he'd bought from Aelric around his shoulders, pulling up the hood too, "Let's move, if we follow the river we should find a village."

The smokey air of the hall of Ealdorman Cuthbert's home in Jorvik stung your eyes as you bent over the bowl of stew that was your dinner. Around you the household bustled, the Ealdorman entertaining another set of important men from around Jorvik. He'd been sitting next to you, but now he'd moved down the table, drinking ale with some of the men. The men were raucous, and you knew too well how this evening would end, just like all the others had in the two endless weeks that had passed since your wedding.

You would try to take any opportunity you could find to slip away early, but Edmund, the man who had served as the Ealdorman's envoy to Ulvehi, would stop you before you could exit the hall, or catch up with you as you hurried away. Edmund was, you'd quickly learnt, much more intelligent than his master. He missed very little, and seemed to always be nearby, always listening and gathering information. Information he then passed onto Cuthbert, and you were sure he made all the servants share any, and all, of your secrets.

He was also cruel, and seemed to take dark satisfaction in seeing you humiliated. Once the wedding night was done, he made sure you had no privacy in the Ealdorman's house. It wasn't that you weren't used to the habit of sharing sleeping quarters with family, and sometimes thralls. You'd grown up hearing your parents' intimate moments as you slept in your bed in their room back at Ulvehi. It wasn't until your brother married and moved into a smaller longhouse with his wife that you had your own bedchamber, and even that you'd shared with Amina.

But here in Jorvik, the girl assigned as your maid slept on the floor in a corner, and Edmund had his bed in another. As the Ealdorman's closest advisor, he was given the honour of having his quarters in the same room as his master. And he treated the room as his own, walking in when he must know you would be undressing, the maid doing nothing but obeying him as he yanked open the door. Commenting on your body, he would urge you to become pregnant quickly, as you tried to pull your tunic up to cover yourself.

"Make sure his seed takes, or I'll have to find another broodmare," he grinned, "Wasn't that what you called yourself?"

"Get out!" you spat at him the first time it happened, as you tried to wrap the tunic around yourself, yanking it from the hands of the maid. She, the useless thing, was staring down at her feet as Edmund approached.

"No, I stay as close to my lord as he needs me, and make sure his wife does her duty as a good Christian woman."

Pressing your lips together you scowled at him, but held your tongue. The last thing you wanted was for Edmund to force you to convert, if he found out you hadn't confessed to their weak god. He smirked, tilting his head as he made a show of looking up and down your half naked body.

"Get her ready for the Ealdorman, he'll be here soon. And if you're not with child soon, maybe I'll fuck you too. Who would know if it was his son or my bastard that you whelped?"

He cackled, and retreated to his bed in the corner as you quickly pulled your sleeping clothes over your head, pressing back the tears that threatened to overflow.

You'd thought then, that first night after the wedding, that you could tell Cuthbert about Edmund's behaviour. Your father would never have allowed anyone in his household to speak to his family in that way, but you quickly learned that your new husband was indifferent to any of your discomfort. And worse even, Edmund had him under his thumb, in some way controlling him, but you'd yet to find out how. Cuthbert did what Edmund suggested, deferred any decision to him, and conferred on all issues. It was only outwardly that it looked as if the Ealdorman was the leader of the household. Behind closed doors, everyone knew who held the real power.

So as you sat at the table with your cold stew, you glanced over at Edmund, looking for a moment to slip away when he wouldn't notice. Cuthbert called for more ale, the feast growing more rowdy, but Edmund still had his eyes on you. It was a small comfort that tomorrow you would leave Jorvik and head to Northmere Hall with a Cuthbert and a retinue of his men. Edmund would remain in town and handle the trade. You presumed it was to begin setting up the lucrative trade network into Norway that your marriage had granted them, but you didn't know. You weren't told anything anymore, except where to be when Cuthbert needed you.

Eventually, after you'd stood up twice, only to be waved at by Edmund to sit down again, did Edmund come up to you at the end of the long evening.

"The Ealdorman wishes you to retire to the chambers, my lady," he said, always the same unpleasant tone to his voice even when he was addressing you in the correct manner, "He will join you shortly."

Standing up, you turned without a word and left the hall, and like a shadow, the maid followed. Perhaps you should try to win Edmund over, when all you wanted was to drive your knife into him. He was powerful, and it didn't serve you well to have him as your enemy. Right now he only treated you with the same disdain and malice he did everyone he considered beneath him, but if you weren't careful, you were sure he would turn truly vicious. No one had guessed your state yet, but you counted the weeks, and soon you would show. And then Cuthbert was sure to claim the child as his own, but you knew Edmund would count the weeks too and realise that it didn't add up. If he wished too, especially if the child turned out to be a girl, you had no doubt he would use that against you to his own benefit somehow.

Pulling the curtains around your bed tight, shutting out the world for just a little bit, you bit down hard on your tongue. Panic was digging into your chest as you faced another night with the Ealdorman. He would be here soon, and his sour breath and foul body would claim you again. It was hard enough to sustain the hope that Pero would find you during the days, but at night, after the man they'd forced you to marry was done with your body, it was as if the darkest pit opened up in your mind. There was no hope there, no light, and only one escape. You found yourself praying that Northmere had high towers, or a deep moat. If your mercenary didn't find you soon, there would be no other escape.

The damp was seeping through the thick wool of his cloak as Tovar peered out through the gathering dusk. It had rained a fine mist for two days as he'd waited for Godric outside the small hamlet they had reached after a day's walk. Jorvik was just over the next rise, and before the rain came, he'd seen the square tower of the church at the heart of town. Godric, ever the well of information, had said it was called a 'minster', not a church. Tovar didn't care, he just wanted to rush into town and tear every house apart until he found you, careless as that would be. But he'd tampered his urgency, and sent Godric ahead. If it wasn't for his scar, he would've risked entering York himself. There was very little risk that anyone from Skiringssal or Ulvehi had made it across to York before them, but someone could follow. And he didn't want anyone to remember seeing a brown skinned man with a vicious scar asking questions about the daughter of a Norse Jarl. So he'd stayed behind, seeking shelter in a small copse of trees a short way from the road. An ancient crumbling structure gave him some protection, but his two nights had been unpleasant and cold even though it was early summer. He shivered as he kept watch, staying out of sight.

Godric has set out two days ago, and had agreed to not return until he had information. He was going to ask around for you, claiming to be carrying a message from your father, an urgent message about his health if anyone asked. And now, just as the last light faded, Tovar spotted a cloaked figure hurrying down the paved Roman road that led east from York. But there was someone else, a second man, and Tovar quickly retreated behind one of the trees, his hand closing around the sword at his side.

In the dusk he saw the two men approach, stepping away from the road and walking towards the copse of trees. Both had their hoods up, and slowly Tovar unsheathed his sword, rolling his shoulders.

"Tovar!"

Godric hissed through the trees, a branch snapping under his foot as he tried to find the spot where he'd left Tovar, "Tovar! It's Godric, and I've brought someone who knows you."

Tovar lowered his sword and stepped out from behind the crumbling wall with a low whistle.

"Here, Godric," he said, "And who do I know in York?"

The man was two steps behind Godric as they approached, and he slowly pushed back his hood.

"Asgeir, of Ulvehi," he replied in Norse, and Tovar's sword flew up as he cursed loudly.

"Godric, you fool!"

"Hold, Tovar," Godric said, raising his hands as Tovar glared at Asgeir, "He's told me where your wife is, he knows where they're taking her."

"I can't trust him, he was the one who took her to York. He serves her father. I should kill you right now for what you've done to her," he spat, the last part in Norse at Asgeir, who raised his hands too, holding his palms out.

"I have no right to claim your trust, I know," he said, "But for her, I will tell you what I know, and help if you let me."

"Why?" Tovar asked, taking a step closer to Asgeir, the tip of his sword dangerously close to the other man's chest, "Why would you help a runaway thrall?"

Asgeir's hands dropped as he shook his head with a groan, the old man slumping before them.

"I've served her father since before she was born, I've lived my whole life at Ulvehi, and I owe everything I have to Jarl Agnar. I thought he knew it was the right choice to send her here, to marry this English lord. But now that I've seen the life that she must face...and that man…" Asgeir shook his head again and looked up at Tovar, "I watched her grow up, I remember the young girl she was, and I've seen her forced to marry once already. This life, as Christian wife, is not a life I would want for my own daughters if I had any. I should've left for Ulvehi weeks ago, after the wedding, but I…I couldn't leave her here. May the Gods forgive me for going against my Jarl, but I was trying to find a way to get her back."

Tovar stared at the man, his sword still pointed at the man's chest as he considered what he'd said.

"Where is she now?" he asked after a long pause, his sword arm dropping slightly.

"On her way to a place called Northmere Hall, north of here, and outside of a village called Ripon. They left yesterday."

"Yesterday?" The sword dropped to his side, "How do I find this place? How many guards does it have?"

Asgeir looked relieved as Tovar sheathed his sword and bent to gather his few possessions.

"I don't know exactly, but the old Roman road west goes through Ripon, and Northmere is just on the other side of the village. They can't make the journey in one day, so they must stop overnight, probably at his thegn's hall at Hartham. The man is called Uthred and he was at the wedding, but left to prepare for their arrival a few days ago.

"And guards?" Tovar asked impatiently as he adjusted his cloak and pulled up the hood, leaving the shelter of the trees and walking towards the road into York, Asgeir and Godric following.

"I don't know, but he left Edmund, the envoy, in York to oversee the trade and it seems like most of his men stayed behind. Probably to protect the goods and silver.

"Are we leaving now?" Godric asked, hurrying after Tovar and Asgeir, "We need horses, supplies."

"I can't wait," Tovar replied as he turned down the road at a brisk walk, "I need to catch up to them on the road. I will never be able to get her out of a lord's castle, and she might not be allowed to leave for a long time."

"Godric is right, we need horses," Asgeir said, "I can go into York and get two from the lord's stable, no one will question me if I'm to bring Godric's message from her father to her. I'll meet you at the Ouse crossing beyond the north gate in an hour. Godric can show you how to skirt the outside of town while I get the horses."

Tovar looked over at Asgeir as they picked up their pace, "If you betray me…" he said, but Asgeir held up his hand.

"I've seen your skill with an axe, Tovar. I have no doubt you are even more deadly with your own sword. And I won't ask how you got it back."

Tovar gave a short nod, whether he was satisfied or not was hard to tell. He didn't have much choice but to trust Asgeir. But if the man turned up with half the city guard, he would take down as many as possible, beginning with Asgeir.

The dusk had settled into night by the time Tovar and Godric reached the river crossing just north of York. The city gate was visible only thanks to the torches that glimmered on each side of it. Slipping past the city hadn't been difficult, as the darkness shrouded the small farms and hovels that clustered up against the city walls, the inhabitants had retreated indoors to get out of the drizzle.

Tovar shook out his cloak and stared at the gate, willing Asgeir to hurry up, the hour was almost up judging by the bell of the clock tower, and then glanced at Godric.

"We should say our goodbyes, amigo," he told the Anglo-Saxon, "You've been a good friend, but you are no fighter. If you leave now, you can take shelter without being seen with me, and then head south in the morning."

"Tovar…I want to see you reunited with your wife," Godric said, but he was also glancing out into the pitch black darkness of the road leading away from York with an anxious look.

"Don't try to convince yourself," Tovar said, chuckling despite himself, "A ride through the darkness, speeding to catch up with a lord and his armed guard? That is not something you want to experience."

Godric opened his mouth as if to protest, and then closed it, looking over his shoulder at the dark road again.

"I…"

"Here, take this silver, and go south," Tovar interrupted, "What's the name of your family's place?"

"Merewic, it's a three day ride south."

"Merewic, I will find you there if I can, or send a message."

He pushed part of the silver he'd taken from Thorsten into Godric's hand, grabbing his shoulder with the other, "Go, stay safe. And thank you for everything."'

Chapter 18

She stood in front of her small armoire, staring at her meager collection of clothes. The choices were limited, and nothing seemed quite right for the occasion. She needed to present herself well, because after all, this was more than just a visit. This was a potential new chapter for her and Edward.

After a lot of debate and indecision, Libby settled on her favorite dress. It was one she wore for church, the one that had traveled with her all the way from England. The fabric was simple but elegant, and it made her feel confident, like a woman with responsibility. It was a dress that reminded that she wasn’t just a widow, a teacher, or a single mother. She was also a woman who deserved a future, one she would create for herself and her son.

As she dressed, she couldn’t help but think of what was to come. Just like when she'd replied to that advert in the Illustrated London Standard, the future was uncertain, but the choice was hers to make. She was taking control of her own future, for better or worse. And for Edward's sake, she would make sure it was for the better.

Buttoning up her dress and taking one last, long look in the full-length mirror, Libby felt a sense of dread settle deep in her chest. Betrayal. That now-familiar feeling pressed down on her, and for a moment, she wondered if she was making the right choice. Was it truly time to move on, to leave behind what little comfort she had built in Longhorn? To admit that she had abandoned hope of ever seeing Frankie again? She paused, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted the pale green satin folds of her dress.

She let out a quiet sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed, gathering her thoughts. "You’re not making the decision today, Libby," she told herself firmly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You’re only seeing the town, getting a feel for it. Nothing more." She straightened her shoulders, setting her mind on the fact that she was not committing to anything yet. She was simply assessing the situation. This was about Edward. This was about giving him a better future. One where she could offer him more than a life of struggle.

The idea of her son’s future bore down on her, and  she reminded herself, it wasn't just about her anymore. It was about providing for Edward, securing stability for him. For them.

With a deep breath, she stood up and finished dressing. She pulled her chestnut hair back into its usual neat schoolteacher bun. As she worked, she was reminded of the time that Frankie watched her wind up her hair and plait it. The way he'd run his own fingers across her scalp in bed. She shivered at the memory, before chastising herself.

When she was finished, she gazed at her reflection for a moment longer, the woman in the mirror staring back at her with a mixture of uncertainty and determination.

Lastly, she grabbed her bonnet from the dresser, tying it securely around her head.

After finishing, she joined Edward in the kitchen. The little boy had been lying quietly on a blanket by the hearth, his small fingers tracing patterns in the rug, unaware of the quiet turmoil running through his mother’s head. As she gathered her things, Edward’s innocent gaze met hers, his eyes full of trust and love. The sight of him made her heart ache. He had no idea how much his future weighed on her shoulders.

She scooped him up from the rug, his small, solid body was comforting in her arms. With one last glance around the house, she grabbed her school bag and the extra bag she had for Edward, then they went outside to wait.

It felt like the longest wait of her life. Longer than the endless journey across the sea. Longer than the dusty, bumpy wagon train across the country. The anticipation twisted in her stomach, making her restless.

The quietness of the morning made every minute drag on forever.

And then, finally, she heard the rumble of wheels and the unmistakable clip-clop of horses’ hooves. The sound made a wave of nervous energy surge through her. She lifted Edward, who cooed softly, his small hands reaching for the fresh air as she hurried toward the road. The sun shone brightly, as they left the security of the cottage grounds. Perhaps it was an omen? A sign of the day ahead. Maybe good fortune beckoned?

Libby moved quickly, her steps purposeful but steady. She grabbed her bags and stepped out to the side of the road. She had anticipated this moment, had prepared herself mentally for the possibility of being questioned about her role as a teacher. It wasn’t just about being a widow or a single mother anymore; she had worked hard to prove herself as a capable, competent teacher. She would not let anyone undermine her efforts, not now. She needed them to see her for what she truly was. Someone with a quiet strength, someone who had moved on, and was now forging a new future for herself and her son.

She stood tall, ready to prove herself to the stranger who wanted to meet her. She knew that this was the moment that could change everything. This was the moment that could define her and Edward’s future.

As the carriage approached, she steeled herself and refused to falter. She adjusted her grip on Edward, who was now wide-eyed and curious about the activity around them. She couldn’t let herself hesitate, couldn’t let her doubts show. Not today.

Today, she was going to take control of her own future.

“Mornin’ ma'am,” said the carriage driver, doffing his hat at her. He was a gruff-looking, middle-aged man. “My name's David.”

“Good morning, David,” she replied politely, offering a small smile. “Are you here to take me to Willow Creek?”

He nodded and climbed down from his driver's seat to assist her. Glancing at the small child perched on her hip, he scratched his chin and added, “The Mayor sent me. He didn’t say nothin’ about a young ‘un though.”

He took the bags from her and stowed them safely in the back of the carriage before offering his arm to help Libby into the vehicle, Edward still resting in her arms. Once they were both settled in the back, he climbed back up to his seat. With a few clicks of his tongue, the carriage began its journey.

Libby sat quietly, watching. Occasionally a carriage would trundle past in the opposite direction, or they would pass people who were on foot. With Edward on her knee, she pointed out various animals in the nearby fields to him. She smiled as the little boy’s bright eyes followed her finger. They waved at groups of travelers passing by, reminding Libby of her journey from Sacramento to Longhorn. It had all seemed so very different back then. Back then she had been a single traveler with just a singular determination to do her job, and now, she was riding with a baby on her lap.

The journey would take a couple of hours, and to pass the time, she made some small talk with David. She figured it would be a good opportunity to learn more about the man who had persistently offered her the job.

“Have you worked for the Mayor long?” she asked casually, glancing up at him.

David considered her question for a moment. “Since he took office, ma'am,” he replied, his voice steady and unhurried as he kept his eyes focused on the road ahead.

“And how do you find him to work for?” Libby pressed. She wanted to understand if he was as good and kind as the letters had made him seem.

“He’s very good, ma’am,” David answered, his gaze still fixed on the path. “He’s fair an’ honest. He even gave me double-pay to come an’ collect you today. ‘E said it were only right, seeing as I was givin’ up me day off.”

Libby listened thoughtfully to his answer. That sounded promising. Maybe this man was indeed as good as he seemed, she thought, as she watched the road wind ahead. She didn’t want to think about it too long as the thought made her nerves rise again.

“Won't be long now,” added David reassuringly. “An’ you can see the place for yourself.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The Mayor an’ ‘is Deputy are puttin’ lots of dough into the town. Makin’ it look pretty as a picture. Word is that they found gold in them ‘ills.”

Libby listened intently as David waffled on and it wasn't long until the town slowly came into view.

As the carriage rolled past the outskirts, and passed a sign that read, “Welcome to Willow Creek”, Libby’s heart rate picked up. Looking around her, she noticed that, as David had suggested, the town seemed well-kept and busy, with people walking about, chatting, and going about their business. Several new buildings were under construction, suggesting the town was thriving and expanding. It was a far cry from the quiet, sleepy town she had just come from.

David steered the carriage toward a freshly-painted building and brought it to a stop. “’Ere you go, ma’am,” he said, looking back over his shoulder. “This ‘ere's the boss’s office. I’ll help wiv yer things.”

Libby smiled and nodded, trying to calm her nerves. “Thank you,” she said, before a thought struck her. “Your accent sounds familiar. Are you from London?”

David beamed at her, a friendly grin spreading across his face. “I'm a Cockney, ma’am. Born within earshot of them Bow Bells.”

Libby chuckled softly, the exchange putting her a little more at ease. “And have you been here long?”

“Long enough to start losin’ me accent, I guess,” David said with a laugh, helping her and Edward out of the carriage. “You’ve still got yours, but you’re from a nicer part of London, I can tell.”

“I am,” she admitted. “I grew up near Park Lane.”

“Thought as much,” he said with a small bow as her feet hit the ground. 

Smoothing out the creases out of her dress skirts, Libby straightened up, glancing around the busy street before she entered the building. She wanted to look presentable for her meeting. Edward wriggled in her arms, the lull of the carriage ride had disturbed his nap momentarily, and Libby steadied him, gathering her composure.

With a nervous breath, she followed David into the Mayor’s office, her thoughts churning. 

It gave her a little comfort to hear a familiar accent, especially one that spoke highly of her potential employer.

But the sudden thought of her potential employer sent a jolt of butterflies through her ribcage.

This meeting could change everything for her and Edward, but for now, all she could do was walk into it with the same quiet determination that had gotten her this far.

“Well, enjoy yer meetin, wiv the boss. I'll bid you an’ yer little ‘un a good day.”

“Thank you,” she said honestly. “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“Likewise.”

“Will you be my driver when I go back later?”

David scratched his head, looking confused for a moment. “Now, I don't reckon I will. No one’s asked me to drive you ’ome.”

“That’s a pity,” she said. “I enjoyed hearing your accent. It reminded me of England.”

David bowed and doffed his hat, a friendly grin on his face. “Farewell, ma’am. I ‘ope you an’ your little ‘un find what you're lookin’ for.”

“You are too kind,” Libby replied with a sincere smile. She watched him walk away before turning toward the steps that would lead her inside the Mayor's office. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and climbed the stairs, trying to calm the persistent fluttering in her chest.

The door to the office was unlocked when she tried the handle, and she stepped inside. The space before her was beautiful. Everything was freshly painted and resplendent. It was clear that the whole building had been recently constructed, and it looked as though every inch had been carefully planned. She walked towards the counter at the back of the room, her eyes scanning every detail, absorbing the calm elegance of the place.

As she admired the surroundings, a small, elderly man appeared, peering up at her over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“May I be of assistance?” he asked, his with an inquisitive tone.

“I—I’m here to meet the Mayor,” she stammered, trying to steady her nerves. “He’s expecting me.”

“Mrs. Green? Welcome,” he replied, stepping out from behind the desk. “And may I ask who this is?” He gestured gently towards Edward, who was peacefully sleeping in her arms again.

“My son, Edward.”

“Very good,” he said with a polite nod, gesturing for her to follow him. He led her through a door at the back of the room, beckoning her to come along. Libby dutifully followed, juggling her son and the bags in her arms.

He led her into a stunning office, its walls paneled with rich oak. A large, heavy, ornate desk sat at the center of the room, surrounded by plush velvet drapes that hung elegantly from the windows. A large rug covered the floor, softening the space and adding warmth. The Mayor must have indeed struck gold in the mines, Libby thought, taking in the luxurious surroundings. This place was beautiful and so much grander than anything she had imagined.

The elderly man gestured toward a soft, velveteen armchair facing the desk. “Please, have a seat,” he said kindly. Libby nodded her thanks and dropped her bags before sitting down and placing Edward on her lap. 

The elderly man bowed and exited the room with a polite, “The Mayor will be with you shortly,” leaving Libby alone in the office. She glanced down at her son, who was snoozing peacefully, leaving a small trail of drool on her shoulder. She sighed inwardly. It was too late to worry about it now. There was little to do but wait.

The sound of footsteps approaching the door broke the silence, and Libby quickly straightened herself. She adjusted her posture, put on her best smile, and stood up to greet the Mayor as he walked through the door.

She took a deep breath, her heart racing. This was it. The meeting that could change everything for her and Edward.

She put on her best smile and stood up to greet the Mayor as he walked through the door.

She stared at the Mayor for a long, disbelieving moment. Her mind struggled to reconcile the man before her with someone she had known in another time. This man was clean-shaven, smart, well-heeled.

But it had to be. There was no mistaking him.

“Good afternoon,” the man said, a genial twinkle lighting his dark eyes. “My name is Santiago Garcia.” He extended a tanned, steady hand toward her.

The voice. That voice.

It was too familiar.

Libby’s heart skipped a beat as her mind frantically pieced everything together.

“P-p-Pope,” she stammered, her words falling over each other as she tried to untangle the mess of emotion choking her. “You look like Pope. A friend of …”

He smiled at her gently, sadness woven into the creases around his eyes. “That feels like it was a lifetime ago. Please, sit down. You look as if you’re about to faint. Let me call for a glass of water.”

The shock was too much. Libby slumped back into her chair, clutching Edward tighter to her chest as her head spun. Thousands of questions whirled inside her mind, all fighting to be spoken at once.

“What? How? What happened to Francisco? Is he—?”

“Slow down, dear,” Santiago said quietly. “I fear you might pass out.” His gaze drifted to Edward, who stirred against her shoulder, sensing his mother's agitation. “It seems you have stories of your own to tell.”

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, approaching swiftly.

“That’ll be my Deputy Mayor with your water,” Santiago said easily, standing up. “This is where I take my leave — for now.” He paused with his hand on the door. “But the job offer still stands. I want you to know that. No matter what happens next.”

With that, he slipped out, just as the other door swung open.

Libby might have smiled at the absurd timing, if she hadn't been so utterly shattered by what she saw next.

“Francisco!”

The word left her throat, before she realized what was happening.

She thought, for one mad moment, that she was hallucinating. That her longing had conjured him out of thin air.

Because there he was, standing in the doorway — alive.

Francisco Morales.

He looked almost the same as when she had last seen him ride away fifteen months ago, but different, too. His unruly brown curls were slicked back neatly with grease, his facial hair clean—save the bristly mustache. His clothes were fine and new, his shoes polished and shiny. Only the depth of his brown eyes remained exactly the same.

“Libby,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. His hand shook so badly that water sloshed over the rim of the glass and soaked his sleeve. “My darling, Libby.”

A thousand emotions crashed through her as she stared at him, unmoving, as though the air had been sucked from the room.

Relief.

Shock.

Love.

It settled on anger.

“How dare you,” she hissed, struggling to keep her voice low so as not to wake their son. “How can you stand there like—like—like that—?”

“Hermosa,” he pleaded, his face crumpling, “please, calm down. I need to explain everything.” His eyes dropped to Edward cradled in her arms, his expression twisting with anguish.

“And you—you remarried?”

“No, Francisco,” she snapped, her voice trembling with rage and heartbreak. “I'm still on my own. There's been no one since you. I've told so many lies about him, about you, and about me over the last sixteen months. Lies to protect all of us.”

Her anger cracked under the weight of her emotions, dissolving into sobs of anguish and frustration.

“So many lies,” she cried, “that sometimes I feel that I don't even know what the truth is anymore.”

Her loud, angry sobs made Frankie quickly put the glass of water down on the desk. In a moment, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her and the child between them, holding them both tightly as he could.

“When you said you lied to protect me and him—?” he asked hoarsely.

Libby buried her face against his shoulder, her words muffled by her tears.

“He’s almost seven months old,” she sobbed. “It takes nine months to have a baby. He was conceived at the guesthouse in Dry Creek. We made a baby, Frankie.”

Her heaving sobs startled Edward awake. The child blinked up at the unfamiliar room, and at the new face staring down at him. A face with the same eyes that were gazing down at him now, filled with wonder and sorrow.

“Hey, little man,” Frankie whispered tenderly. He lifted Edward into his arms with a gentleness that made Libby's heart twist painfully. “I'm so sorry. I didn’t know about you. If I had known, I would have come running.”

Libby wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks, sniffling as she watched Frankie cradle their son. His large hands were so careful with the tiny bundle. Her deep-seated fury died away, instead replaced by a deep ache for the time that father and son had lost and everything they might still have.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I told everyone that my husband had died on the wagon trail,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “No one questioned it. When I registered Edward’s birth, I had to keep up the lie. I was terrified someone would figure out the truth.”

She looked up at him through wet lashes, her voice still quiet and fragile.

“His last name on the birth certificate is my dead husband's. But his full name is Edward Francisco Green.”

“I told them his Spanish middle name came from a good, kind man who helped me survive a difficult time.”

Francisco’s eyes shone with emotion as he cradled his son closer, his fingers brushing along the child's rosy cheek.

Libby drew a shaky breath, gathering her strength together again.

“I heard that some of the Triple Frontier Gang were killed during the army’s gold reserve attack. After that, I gave up hope of ever seeing you again. I thought you were a fugitive. Or dead.”

“Querida,” he said softly, holding his child and gazing at her with a depth of sorrow and longing that almost undid her on the spot, “let me tell you what happened.”

He gestured to some wing-backed chairs nearby. Libby took a seat in one, tucking her skirts underneath her with care. Frankie sat opposite, still cradling their son in his arms, reluctant to let go.

Libby leaned forward, straining to listen as Frankie began to speak. She wanted to know every detail.

“You knew we were planning to hit back at the army,” he began. Libby nodded in acknowledgment, she had suspected as much when Santiago had regaled her with their story—the beginning of the end. 

“Our plan was that we would hit the federal gold reserves being transported back East. It was our retribution for the way the Army treated us,” he said, his voice edged with disdain. “We watched from the hills. Observed and planned as they escorted some of the gold across the trails, like any good soldier would. And then we struck. Efficient. Fast.”

“The mission would’ve gone perfectly… if not for Redfly,” he said, his voice low.

It was weighted with grief and regret.

Edward gave a little yawn and nestled closer into his father's chest as Frankie continued.

“What did he do?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“He got greedy,” he said bitterly. “We had secured as much gold as we could carry between us. We had gone undetected. Everything was going according to plan. We were going to ride out of there rich men. Finally getting our own back on the army that had left us with nothing.”

He shook his head, the memories clearly still painful.

“But Tom, Redfly, wanted more. He kept grabbing gold, even though we didn’t have the means to carry it all. We tried to persuade him to leave, but...” He paused, wincing at the memory. “While we were arguing, we were spotted. Someone sounded the alarm.”

He fell silent for a moment, his jaw tight as he replayed the scenes in his head. 

“Then all hell broke loose,” he said heavily. Gently, he ran the tip of his index finger down the child's tiny nose. It was as though the action anchored him to the present, reminding him of the good things in life.

Edward sighed in his sleep and made soft, suckling noises. Frankie chuckled under his breath, the tender sound breaking the quietness in the room, if only for a moment. It seemed almost as though he didn’t want to revisit the horrors of that day.

“Gunshots were fired. We managed to crawl away under the cover of chaos, make it to our horses, and escape,” he continued, voice low. “But the army was hot on our heels. We led them a merry chase through the terrain, through places we knew better than they ever could, and for a while, we thought we’d lost them.

But a small group of scouts kept tracking us. And then...” He looked down at Edward, drawing strength from the sleeping child in his arms.

“Tom, was hit in the crossfire.”

Frankie's voice cracked slightly, despite himself.

“I’m so sorry,” Libby said softly.

Despite her own complicated feelings about Redfly. The man had been brusque, unpleasant, and at one point had even suggested she should be killed, but she knew he had been Frankie's brother in arms. His loss still hurt Frankie, no matter how complicated her feelings were.

Libby took a deep breath. The earlier swell of emotions had passed, leaving her calmer, but still raw.

“I have to ask,” she said softly, “how did you and Pope, Santiago, end up here?”

Frankie looked up at her, something warmer returning to his eyes.

“After Redfly was killed, me, Pope, Ironhead, and Bugs laid low in the hills for a while. We dropped the gold into a ravine. Somewhere we knew it would stay hidden. We couldn't risk carrying it. Not with patrols scouring the whole territory for us. We figured the only way to survive was to disappear.”

“So we started rumors. Ones that said the whole gang had been killed in the raid. We knew the army wouldn’t argue with it. It made them look good if the story got out that they'd wiped out the infamous Triple Frontier Gang.”

He paused again, looking down at Edward, who stirred and stretched, then burrowed deeper into the safety of his father's arms.

“I can’t believe how perfect he is,” Frankie murmured. His voice was filled with something akin to awe.

Libby smiled softly, leaning forward to brush a loose curl on her son's forehead.

“He’s not so perfect when he wakes me up at two in the morning and fills his napkins,” she said with a small chuckle.

Frankie laughed quietly, a rich, warm sound that made Libby’s heart twist painfully in her chest.

“I wouldn't mind that,” he said, curling his little finger through his son's loosely bound fist.

“But you were telling me your story,” she prompted, her voice kind and steady, coaxing him to continue.

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Where was I?”

He thought for a few moments.

“We laid low and used a little of the gold to survive. After a while, we went back to the ravine to retrieve the rest of it.”

“We disappeared into Sacramento, bought new clothes, and pretended we’d made our fortune in the mines. After that...” He glanced toward the door Santiago had exited through. “The rest was Pope’s, Santiago Garcia’s, plan.”

Libby listened intently, her heart aching with the weight of everything she was hearing.

“Pope thought we should settle somewhere near Longhorn,” Frankie continued. “He knew I’d never forgotten my promise to you—that I would find you at your little schoolhouse someday.

So we quietly bought our way into the community here, started building new houses, opening shops... and constructing a new schoolhouse.”

He smiled at the thought.

“Then Santiago became Mayor. And that’s when he wrote to you.”

Libby’s breath caught.

“I read that first letter,” she said quietly, her voice heavy with regret. “And I threw it on the fire. I thought... I was unworthy of the job. And I was scared to leave Longhorn, scared that if I did, I might miss the chance that you'd somehow come looking for me there.”

As she finished speaking, Edward stirred and woke fully in his father’s arms, yawning widely and showing his tiny pink gums.

For a few precious seconds, father and son simply stared at each other.

“He has my brown eyes,” Frankie whispered, wonder and pride threading through his voice.

“Yes,” Libby said, her voice catching slightly. “He does.”

She coughed lightly to cover the sudden swell of emotion. “He’s got your curls under that bonnet, too.”

A soft, aching smile crossed Frankie’s face.

“I wish I’d been there to see him born,” he said wistfully. “I’d have mopped your brow, held your hand...”

“I probably would have throttled you,” Libby said with a thin laugh. She turned away to blink back her tears. “It may have been for the best.”

He chuckled gently, rocking Edward back and forth in his arms. 

“I never wanted to leave you,” he said quietly. “When we rode out of town that day, I stayed in the hills, watching.

I needed to see you make it back to your wagon train safely.”

“Redfly wasn’t happy with me. Thought I was risking everything, but I couldn’t leave. Not until I knew you were safe.”

Libby pushed herself out of her chair, her legs trembling. She needed to move, needed to convince herself that the man standing before her, holding their child, was real and not some cruel figment of hope and memory.

“And when I didn’t reply to that first letter?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I was beyond disappointed,” he admitted, his gaze steady on hers. “But we put our heads together and came up with an even better idea.”

“We?”

“Me, Santi, Will, and Ben,” he said. “I’d like you to meet them properly, now that we’re not on the run anymore.”

He smiled at her. It was a real, warm smile that melted away the last icy shards of doubt inside her.

“You should really come see the new schoolhouse,” he said. “We’d love your input. We want to make it the best school these children could ever dream of.”

Libby looked at him in amazement.

"Are you... are you still offering me a job? Here?"

"Absolutely," he said, and held out his free hand for her to take.

Libby took it without hesitation, her heart soaring.

"New town. New job. And if you'll have me... a new husband?"

He looked at her, hope shining in his warm brown eyes.

Libby felt the last of her anger melt away.

"How could I turn any of that down?" she said softly, a radiant smile spreading across her face. "A new start for all of us — it's very fitting."

She leaned up and placed a soft kiss on his stubbled cheek.

Frankie let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh and a sob rolled into one. He tightened his hand around hers, careful not to jostle Edward too much, and pressed his forehead lightly against hers.

"Welcome home, Libby," he whispered.

"Welcome home."

Outside, through the open window, the breeze carried the scent of fresh paint, new wood, and endless possibility.

The future was waiting, and this time, they would face it together.

Two Years Later

“Just a moment, children,” Libby said with a smile, pausing in her writing on the blackboard as her eyes flicked up to the schoolhouse door.

There, in the doorway, stood her husband, Francisco Morales, a small baby strapped to his front, ocooned, safe, and asleep in her papoose. Swinging from his right arm was their son, Eduardo, Frankie's double, even at almost three years old.

After their emotional reunion and swift marriage, Santiago, as Willow Creek’s Mayor, had set the wheels in motion to change Edward’s birth certificate to reflect his true heritage, listing Frankie as his father, changing his official name, and even altering the marriage certificate to ensure the dates aligned perfectly.

Libby had occasionally wondered whether, if future generations of their family picked up the old records, they might sense the tampering and notice the handiwork where the truth had been changed. She imagined a curious great-great-grandchild, frowning at the too-neat dates or the sudden appearance of Frankie’s name in places it hadn’t been before.

“Say good morning to the Deputy Mayor.”

“Good morning, Mr. Deputy Mayor,” chorused the children from their desks, eyes darting between the two adults.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Morales?” she asked.

“Isabella will need a feed soon,” he said, nodding down at the small bundle.

“Of course,” she replied with a smile. “The morning got away from me.”

She stepped toward the doorway, her arms already reaching out to take the baby, her expression softening as she caught sight of Isabella’s tiny, sleeping face.

“Would you mind watching the class for me for a few minutes while I slip into the back room? There are some mathematical questions on the blackboard.”

Frankie glanced at the chalk equations written neatly across the black surface.

“As long as no one asks me anything difficult, I reckon I can manage,” he said, beginning to lift the small baby from the warmth of her pouch. She grizzled and gurned in her sleep as he handed her over to her mother.

“There, there, little one,” she soothed, as the baby nestled into her mother’s arms. The small, bonneted head turned instinctively, drawn by the faint scent of her mother’s milk.

She looked down at their young son, who was frowning intently at the blackboard.

“When will I be able to start school, Mama?” he whined.

“You’re one day closer than you were the last time you asked,” Libby laughed, shaking her head at her son’s eagerness.

“I promise that when I get home later, we’ll practise our letters before bedtime.”

Her gentle promise seemed to appease him. He nodded.

Before departing, Libby gave her husband’s hand a gentle squeeze. An unspoken gesture of love and affirmation.

With a rustle of skirts and a last glance toward the children, she slipped into the back room, the baby cradled close against her chest.

In her absence, Frankie stood at the front of the room, hands on his hips, surveying the young faces.

“Well then,” he said with a large smile, “who here is brave enough to solve the first problem?”

A few small hands shot into the air. Eduardo climbed into the nearest chair, too small for his feet to touch the floor, his eyes wide with pride as he looked up at his father.

In the back room, Libby sat in quiet contentment, the baby at her bosom, her breathing slow and steady as she listened to her husband’s voice through the thin wall.

She smiled to herself. She never quite believed that they could have made this life together.

But here they were.

She never could have written this story for herself. Her journey to the west. A new beginning in so many ways.

The End

Hours must've passed, and Pero's hands opened and closed as he tried to calm his breathing. The energy running through him made them tremble as he paced the small building he'd been thrown into. It was used for either sick thralls, or those who were being kept in isolation, and was never meant to be comfortable. But now it was colder than ever, and not just for the lack of a fire in the hearth. His head thumped, his ribs ached, but luckily not broken, and he could feel blood drying on his face as the cut on his cheek slowly stopped bleeding. No one came to check on him, but he hadn't expected it. He knew he'd made probably the worst mistake of his life, risked everything for both you and himself.

He sank down with his back against the wall, facing the door that he knew was barred from the outside. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm himself again, and think through his next steps, what he'd do in every scenario he could think of. If they came to execute him, he'd fight. If he was that close to death, he'd rather take his chances at fighting his way out of Ulvehi than to go meekly to slaughter. He'd take some of them with him before he succumbed.

If he was to be kept alive he'd be back in chains again, he was sure of it. Then he would have to find another escape once he knew what had happened to you. Or maybe he'd be sold, he couldn't imagine the Jarl keeping him at Ulvehi now. But most likely, he'd hang, or however the Norse men killed thralls. If he could, he'd fight his way out, but chances were slim, if it came to that, he knew he'd probably die here.

With a deep sigh he slumped down against the wall. He'd promised he'd find you, but in truth, he didn't know if he'd get out of this alive. He may never see you again, and the thought made him clench his fists again, forcing back the tremors as something caught in this throat.

I'm not dead yet. And they won't see me go quietly. But, please, let me see her again. Let me at least see her safe.

Nicholas hadn't been back since his hurried visit to this temporary prison. All he'd had time for was to scribble a few words on the parchment and tell Nicholas where the small statue was hidden under his bedding in the thrall's quarters. Hopefully he'd been able to get it to you, but Pero wasn't even sure of that. You might've been shipped off to England without another word from him or Nicholas. And for the first time in his life, Pero was afraid of dying. Things were unfinished, his life was unfinished. He'd had a brief spell of some sort of happiness, even here as a thrall, and he was afraid to lose it all too soon. And he had a promise to keep.

And a child…

You'd told him, and then everything had happened so fast, he'd barely had time to tell you what that meant to him. But there was a child growing inside you that shared his blood, something he thought he'd lost any hope of many years ago. But you said it, a part of him and a part of you, a small family. A small family for him again.

The thought made him squeeze his eyes shut, a sharp feeling rising in his chest as his nails dug into his palms.

Our child…There has to be a way, somehow, to keep them safe.

Sleep did not come easily, but he forced it upon himself the same way he had when he was a mercenary. His body and mind needed rest for the next few days, no matter what came. So he would take any sleep he could now even as his mind flitted back and forth, drifting back to your face whenever he drifted close to sleep.

The next morning it was the heavy steps approaching his prison that woke him from an uneasy slumber. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, rolling his stiff shoulders and flexing his hands. Whatever came next, if they meant to kill him, he would not go without a fight.

But there was no chance to fight, Thorsten stood in the doorway with a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Put his legs and arms in chains, beat him if he resists," he ordered the four men who'd come with him, "But don't break any bones, he won't sell if he's damaged. Although…" he added as two of the men roughly grabbed Pero's arms and forced them in front of his body, "A broken nose probably won't make much of a difference now. She'll never see you again, and I'll make sure you never see any other woman again. No women where you're going, thrall."

The last part he said with a grin and Pero bit his tongue, the sharp iron biting into his wrists as the lock clanked shut. If he was being sold he would wait for his chance, better opportunities for escape would come, he was sure of it. Thorsten was baiting him, hoping for a fight, but behind Pero's scowling face, he felt almost elated with relief. Being sold was the best outcome right now.

A ring of iron snapped shut around his neck too, and shackles were fastened around his ankles, a chain running from feet to neck and making his steps hobbled. One of the hirdmen tugged at the chain, and Pero shuffled forward, struggling to clear the high threshold out from the small building.

"Move, thrall," Thorsten spat, clearly not pleased with the lack of reaction from Pero at his needling, and gave him a sharp shove as Pero managed to step outside. The short chain pulled up short between his feet, and he fell, landing heavily on his arms, his face smacking down into the mud. Sharp pain stung his nose, and he felt the taste of warm blood in his mouth as someone grabbed his neck ring and yanked him up again, making him choke and cough as the force cut off his breath.

"Fall again and I'll drag you by that ring all the way to the dock, thrall," Thorsten snarled, as Pero took another stumbling step. Cold mud was sticking to his tunic and his skin, blood dripping from his lip, and maybe his nose, but he tried to keep his balance, focusing on the ships down by the fjord.

It took all his self control to not rage against the chains as he had when he first arrived, or to rage against Thorsten, at being called 'thrall' again like it was his name. One short step in front of the other, the way from Ulvehi lay on that ship, there was no escape just now. But soon…he kept that thought in his head as Thorsten yanked on the ring again, making the sharp metal cut into his neck.

Pero was roughly shoved onboard, pushed down in a corner of the deck and left to shiver in his wet and mud caked clothes. He watched Thorsten join the crew, and he wasn't sure if he was pleased about that or not, and for a moment he thought the Jarl would join them too, but he only jumped aboard and stepped up to Pero.

"I considered having Thorsten whip you until you bled out, like I should've that first time," he said, fixing Pero with his cold blue eyes, "But it would've been too easy. You'd die too fast, Hauknefr. For how you betrayed me, this family, I want you to die slowly and in pain. And I'm in luck, the foreman from the Falu copper mine comes to Skiringssal every spring to buy any strong thralls for sale," the Jarl said, pausing as he waited for Pero to react, leaning closer, "Do you know about the copper mines, Hauknefr? Did the other thralls ever tell you about them?"

Pero didn't reply, he just looked at the Jarl, fighting to keep his mind calm, but he could feel the scowl on his face, his tight eyebrows pulling at fresh cuts and bruises.

"The mines are where we send thralls to die," the Jarl told him when he realised Tovar wouldn't reply, "Forgotten by everyone, left to rot when their breaths give up from hot fumes and cold rocks. You won't die fast, you're too strong for that, but you'll die, and you'll never see my daughter again. Tell them this is what Jarl Agnar Björnsson does to thralls who dare to cross him."

"No moriré. Mi hijo crece en ella, mi sangre es ahora suya," Pero replied, spitting out the words he knew the Jarl wouldn't understand, but he still wanted to tell him; I will not die. My child grows within her, my blood is hers now.

The Jarl paused, as if trying to work out how he'd been insulted, and then pushed to his feet, sneering, "Your foreign insults won't do you any good, Hauknefr," he said, scowling as Pero forced himself to grin in defiance as the old man's knees protested, and the Jarl huffed.

"Thorsten! Get a good price for him, but not too good, won't do to let him be too valuable."

Thorsten nodded as the Jarl jumped off the ship and on to the dock again.

"I'll send the ship back with the money from the sale, Jarl, and then I'll ready Blodormr and set sail for Vinland."

"It'll be a great adventure for you and your crew, and I know you're worthy of this."

The Jarl paused and put his hand on the pommel of his sword, the great long sword he'd bought from the same man that had sold him Hauknefr. He'd told Hauknefr he'd kill him with his own sword if he tried to run, but this seemed more fitting. As Thorsten watched, he pulled the sword from its sheath and held out the pommel towards him.

"You're taking this treacherous thrall to his well earned fate, and then you're sailing on to your own. You should have the sword that was his, take it to Vinland and win us new land and wealth. He was not man enough to hold on to it, it's only fitting that you have it now."

"Jarl…" Thorsten said, bowing his head low, "This is a great gift. I will ask Thor to give strength to this blade and honour you on my journey."

The Jarl nodded, as Thorsten held the sword, looking at the sharp blade.

"The gods approve when we use the swords of our fallen enemies to win new victories, and this blade is thirsty, it hasn't seen blood in a long time."

Thorsten bowed again, and ran his hand over the steel, scraping his thumb over the cross on the pommel.

"I'm honoured, my Jarl, but I might need to scrape off this Christian symbol."

The Jarl chuckled, clapping Thorsten on the shoulder, "Do what you will with it, Thor will always give your sword arm strength enough to kill our enemies. Now, ready the men, they have many hours to row before their, and your, adventure really begins. Bring us home stories worthy of the sagas, Thorsten, Sigurd's son."

Thorsten grinned and stepped on to the ship's deck, Pero's sword at his waist, and he missed the look of rage that passed across the chained man's face at the sight of the sword, "I won't fail you, Jarl, we'll come back with stories and wealth."

Soon the ropes were cast, and Ulvehi began to shrink behind the ship as the men's oars dipped into the dark water and gave speed to the slim ship. Pero glanced back at the farm, craning his neck to see over the ship's edge. He'd hated the place since he first saw it, but at the same time, it was the place where he'd first met you, and, against all reason, fallen in love with the daughter of his captors. The kitchen garden looked fresh with the early spring green, the place where so many conversations between the two of you had taken place. He couldn't hate it anymore simply because of the memories it held with you, but still, he didn't want to return. You were no longer there, and more than ever he knew that he would need to find you again, to find some sort of peace. To see you disappear across the ocean and into the hands of some Anglo-Saxon lord was not how he intended to let this end.

He looked away, closing his eyes and leaning against the rough planks. This was not how he'd imagined his departure, but this was where fate had taken you both. Now he needed to remember, quickly, who he was before his thralldom, and call upon his years of experience to survive the next few weeks. His muscles would need to remember how to fight, and kill, without hesitation if he was to survive this, and reach England. And reach you.

The thump of the ship's side bumping against the dock at Skiringssal was what roused Pero from his uncomfortable slumber many hours later. It was late afternoon, and the sounds of the bustling trade port drifted up to him. The ship had been tied to the dock and soon rough hands pulled him to his feet. The long spring evening was turning into dark blue night, and after his chains were removed, he was shoved into a cage similar to the one he'd spent his first night in Skiringssal in. There were other men in it, and women in the next cage over.

As Pero tried to find a spot to rest in the cage, more men were brought in, shoving for space as it got crowded. A large dark haired man squeezed himself down onto to the wooden slats next to Pero, grunting as Pero scowled

"Tuck your elbows in, friend, we ain't gettin' more space than this," he said in English, "But don't worry, if you don't get sold tomorrow, they'll find an even more uncomfortable spot for you."

Pero shrugged, and pulled his thin cloak up over his arms, but the Englishman nudged his side, and nodded towards a couple of the men at the front of the cage. They were trying to get the attention of the guards, who were pointedly ignoring them.

"Must be their first time at the thrall market. As long as we don't freeze to death, those guards won't do anything," he said and then looked over at Pero, "Not your first time being sold I think?"

"No," Pero grimaced, "Second."

"I'm on my fourth I think", the Englishman replied, "Can't seem to find a good owner."

He said the last with a chuckle as if it was a big joke, and Pero glanced over at him, wondering if the man might be soft in the head. But the man caught his look and chuckled again.

"I'm not daft, friend. But either I laugh at it, or I wallow in despair and die."

"You have a point," Pero said, "Do they hold these markets often?" he asked and the man nodded.

"In the spring, almost every day. When the snow and ice gives up its grip they all sail to the big trading ports and trade for what's needed for the new seasons, including humans. You haven't seen the market before?"

"Only once, when I first got here two years ago. But I was too busy trying to find a way to escape than to notice the market."

"I see that the escaping bit didn't go too well," the Englishman commented, tugging at his own cloak as the noise at the front of the cage died down.

Pero shook his head, and rested his chin on his arms, "Not yet," he replied.

The next day Pero learnt exactly how far and wide the Norse men traded as he watched men and women arrive at the market, and merchants began to fill up their stalls, both permanent and temporary, with wares.

The cages with thralls were strategically located just next to the main market square, and as the day warmed up he watched how even here, on what was the edge of the world to him, goods from almost every corner of the world were put up for trade. Stacks of pelts and furs seemed to be of interest to the men who were dressed like the Franks he'd served many times as a mercenary. The Franks in turn traded finer silks with the local lords, amber and silver changing hands.

Nearby three dark skinned men were trading spices. He could smell the dried thyme and garlic, so familiar from his childhood, and even a trace of cinnamon. It reminded him of his journeys far to the east, Constantinople and beyond. He never would've guessed that the vikings commanded such far-reaching networks.

A Norse lord strolled down the market, and stopped by the stall, pointing to the bulbs of dried garlic. He was dressed in fine wool clothes, and looked wealthy, like he had money to spend on some luxury to brighten his day. The edge of his cloak was trimmed with a pattern that looked more Byzantine to Pero than anything Norse, and he thought Nicholas could probably tell him more about the man if he'd been there.

The three spice merchants recognised the wealth too, and were immediately bowing low to the lord, waving him closer, and lifting up delicately carved spoons to let him smell their ground herbs.

Pero watched the display, the merchants smiling and flattering the lord as he haggled for the price. He was too far away to hear what they were saying, but anywhere in the world you would recognise the body language of a deal being struck. The lord and the merchants finally seemed to agree on a price, and the lord waved behind him, calling over a servant to settle the accounts.

Pero straightened up and grabbed the bars of the cage. The servant, dressed nicely and with an important air, was Godric, his friend from England who'd been taken as a thrall at the same time as Pero. He was standing just by the lord, holding a tablet and a purse of silver while an armed guard waited nearby. The two or so years since Pero last saw him hadn’t made much of a difference to his old friend, and he must have fared far better than Pero when he was sold here at Skiringssal at the end of their journey across. He looked well fed and well dressed, a thick wool cloak over his shoulders.

He was too far away for Pero to call out to without everyone noticing, and no matter how much he willed Godric to look over, he didn't turn. Godric handed over the silver, scribbled something on his tablet, and took a number of small bags from the merchants. They in turn bowed low to the lord, and then Godric and the lord turned and walked away. Pero ground his teeth in frustration as his old friend disappeared into the throng of people, but at least now he knew Godric had survived, and survived well, it seemed. Maybe Godric would spot him when it came time for selling the thralls, but what good it would do Pero, he didn’t know.

Towards the middle of the day, when the bright spring sun was at its highest, the men’s cage was opened. One by one the male thralls were led out, chained together, and pushed towards a rough hewed dais. Pero clenched his jaw and pushed down his urge to fight against the chains again as it was his turn to be forced to the front, this was not the time.

The auctioneer prodded him with a cane, forced his head back to show off his neck, and rapped it across his leg as if to gauge the quality of the flesh. Pero felt his temper rising, and glowered at the man, his fists closing. But the man only glanced over his features, prodded his shoulder, and lifted the back of his tunic, exposing the scarred flesh.

“A strong male, but dangerous and disobedient, fit for hard work in chains,” he said in Norse, calling out to the crowd of prospective buyers. “Will the mines take him? He’s already been whipped once.”

“We’ll take him,” a man replied. “Put him with the rest.”

Pero's gaze snapped towards the voice, it was the wealthy lord he'd seen earlier, with Godric, but from where he stood, he couldn't make him out in the press of bodies.

“Anyone willing to outbid the Falu men?” the auctioneer asked, and when no one replied, Pero was pulled to the side, unchained from the rest of the men, and shoved into a new cage. He gripped the bars and craned his neck to see if Godric would be the one paying for him, but there was no trace of the Anglo-Saxon.

By the time the sun had begun to slope westward, more men had been thrown in with him. Some snarled and spat at the guards, straining uselessly against their irons. Others said nothing at all, their eyes wide and hollow. Pero marked them without thinking; the ones who might fight, the ones who would break. Some would not last a day in the mines. Some would not even survive the journey there.

He shifted his weight against the wooden bars. Solid. Thick. No give in them. But he needed a way out, just not now, not while the guards watched every movement, not while he was penned like an animal among dozens of others. Any attempt now would end with him cut down before he took three steps. Better to wait.

Once the journey back to the mines started, there would be more opportunity to break free, or at least he hoped so. He had no other plan apart from this, and there were many unknown parts to it, too many. He leaned against the sturdy poles of the cage at the very back, watching the rest of the auction while his mind worked through his options. He didn't have many, and the ones he had were filled with holes. For now his best choice seemed to be to simply wait, and hope for an opportunity soon.

The market wound down as the sun began to sink, casting long shadows over the stalls. But people still milled around, fires were lit, and food was sold. Some food was brought to the men in the cage, but it was certainly nothing like the fat pork ribs Pero could smell being grilled on the other side of the market. A bowl of thin gruel and rough bread was shoved into his hands, but his belly still felt empty when he was done with it. The Falu miners didn’t seem to feed their thralls very well.

Crouching on his haunches in the back corner, he tried to keep off the wet mud seeping through the slats. He tipped his head back, just for a breath of rest, and glimpsed a face he recognised.

It was one of your family from Steinvikr. The one you'd said you’d grown up with, spent long summers with as a child. Pero couldn’t remember her name, but he remembered her standing at your side during the funeral, and the stories you had told him with a grin, the things you used to get up to with the hirdmen at Steinvikr.

A memory rose inside him, a stolen moment in the tack room at Steinvikr as you teased him, crouching down on your knees, his cock swelling, and he forced the memory down. It was almost too painful to think of you like that now, now that you were gone…

Pero watched the woman as she wandered between the stalls, touching some of the wares. She seemed to be on her own, but there were plenty of guards around Skiringssal, and he presumed there was no danger for a woman to walk alone here in the light spring evening. And she reminded him of you. The cut of the dress, the way her hair was bound, it pulled something tight in his chest, and he couldn't look away. She was your blood. The closest thing to you he might ever see again.

As she drew near, it was as if she sensed his eyes on her, or perhaps she simply caught a glimpse of the way he was staring from the corner of the cage. Her head turned, and recognition flashed across her face. For a few moments she met his eyes, staring at him too. Pero thought she would come over, but then she turned and continued to walk between the stalls, not changing her pace.

Pero looked down at his hands, clasped between his legs, and closed his eyes. He needed rest. Another hard night was coming, and he would need whatever strength he could keep hold of.

Twilight settled over Skiringssal, and Pero fell into an uneasy sleep, but when a hand touched his shoulder lightly, he jolted awake and stumbled to his feet . The market was still filled with people, rowdier now, but night had properly fallen. The cage was dark, and most of the men were huddled together in sleep.

"Shh, quiet," a woman's voice whispered close to his ear, and he turned his head towards it.

"You're Pero Tovar," she said, "I'm Saga, I know you."

"You're…" Pero began, but Saga shook her head.

"I don't have much time. I saw Thorsten earlier, she's on her way to England. He told me he caught the two of you at Ulvehi."

"I was reckless," Pero muttered, "And I've been sold to the Falu mines. I need to escape and go after her."

"I agree, that's why I'm here, Pero Tovar," Saga said, glancing behind her, "I need to find a way to get you out of here. My brother Assar is also in Skiringssal, he knows about you, and he swore to her that he'd help if he could."

"He knows?" Pero asked in surprise, and Saga nodded, smiling for the first time, and he saw that her lips curled in the same way as as yours did.

"He saw how she looked at you," she said, "and how you looked at her. You two were not very good at hiding it."

Pero groaned and dragged his hands over his face, but Saga grabbed his arm.

"It is done, Pero Tovar. Now you need to save her from that English lord. Help me find a way to help you out of here."

Pero looked around the dark market and the thralls sleeping in the cage, "I saw an old friend earlier, a man called Godric. He was with a wealthy lord who was buying spices. He had a cloak with a foreign pattern on the trim, with gold thread. He's the one who bought me for the mines."

"Halfdan Austrfarar," Saga replied immediately, "he owns the mines."

"If Godric works for him, maybe he can help. Can you find him?"

Saga nodded, "I know where he is staying. But what are you thinking?"

"If Godric can unlock the cage so that all the thralls escape, I can disappear in the chaos and hide on a ship to England. With all this trade, there must be many heading west."

"I'll go now, I need to find an excuse to talk to Godric," Saga replied, "I'll send Godric here, but I can't be seen with you, so be safe, Pero Tovar, and keep my cousin safe. And make sure you are worth all that she is giving up for you."

The last she said with a firm voice, squeezing his arm as Pero met her hard look, "Don't make her regret leaving her home behind for you."

"If she does, I'll bring her back, and she can sell me as a slave again," he said, meaning every word.

Saga studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.

"The Norns have set your path," she said, "Now walk it."

With that she hurried off, and Pero could only watch her dark cloak disappear into the shadows and hope that she'd find Godric in time.

All that was left now was to wait, and watch the guards move across the market as it emptied out as the hour grew late. He was too tightly wound to sit and relax, even though he knew he should conserve his strength. The nerves creeping along his limbs were familiar, always the same tingle as a battle drew near, his body preparing to fight, or be killed. He hoped he'd be able to sneak away without a fight, but something told him it would not be that easy.

Suppressing a wide yawn, he shook his limbs, trying to shake some warmth into them as the night grew cold. The sudden yell startled him, one of the guards calling to the others and pointing. Against the dark night sky flames could be seen in the town, just a street or two away. Shouts went up, and the guards began to run towards the light just as the first hint of smoke in the air reached Pero.

He looked around outside the cage as the other men began to wake, stumbling to their feet and mumbling as they spotted the fire. Calls could be heard from around the town as word spread, fire in a town made of wood would be a disaster.

Suddenly Pero saw what he'd been waiting for. Across the now empty market a dark figure came hurrying towards the cages. It was a moment's work for the man to unlock the cages and release both the men and the women.

"Hurry, help with the fire, we need all the hands we can get to pass the water buckets," he called to the thralls as they streamed from their enclosure.

"Why would we?" a man called back to him as he took off at a run, away from the fire, clearly set on escaping rather than helping. And almost everyone else of thralls had the same idea, like birds set free they scattered.

Pero was the last out of the cage, and the man grabbed his arm and quickly dragged him around a corner, into the darkness of one of the market stalls.

"Tovar! I thought you were dead. I didn't know what to think when Saga from Steinvikr came to find me!"

"Likewise, friend," Pero grinned, grabbing hold of his old friend's arms and looking him up and down, "And you've done well for yourself it seems."

"Better than you at least," Godric replied, "You look rough."

"I would tell you all, but I need your help to hide on a ship heading to England."

Godric nodded, and pulled off his cloak, handing it to Pero, "I know, but you won't need to sneak. I've bought you passage on Aelfric's ship, he's a cloth merchant, and I know he's sailing at first light, he had bad news from York."

"Godric, you're a true friend," Pero replied, he couldn't believe his luck as he pulled up the hood of the cloak, hiding his face, "If I can, I will make it up to you."

"I hope so, because I'm coming with you. I can't exactly set free my master's thralls without consequences," Godric said, reaching into a simple cloth bag hanging from his shoulder, "I've got some gold, hopefully enough to bribe Aelfric and his men to not mention a dark faced man with a scar. Come, we better get going while the fire still burns."

Pero nodded, and followed Godric as they set off. He knew the streets of Skiringssal well by now it seemed, and he led them through back alleys and dark paths down to the docks. The many ships moored were quiet, but around a few of them men were moving back and forth, preparing to set sail as soon as the wind picked up. Godric led Pero to one of the largest, a broad hulled sailing ship with a ramp leading up. As they approached, Godric hailed a man standing on the deck overseeing the loading.

"Aelfric, are you ready for us to board?" he called, and the man waved at them, urging them to cross the ramp.

"As soon as the morning easterly wind picks up, we're off," Aelfric replied, "Get yourself tucked down, I don't want any trouble leaving."

Godric and Pero did as he ordered, hurrying across the gangway and dropping into the sunken hold. Most of the space was taken up by cargo, but there was some space carved out for provisions and sleeping space, and they sat down next to the hull, huddling down to not be seen from land. Pero pulled his hood down further over the scar that made him so damn recognisable, and silently urged the wind to pick up.

Soon, very soon, he'd be back on the ocean and finally sailing west, following you.

"Aelfric! Alefric!"

An all too familiar voice called up towards the ship, and Pero lifted his head as Godric looked over at him.

"Someone you know?" he asked in a low voice.

"Thorsten," Pero whispered, "He's the leader of the hirdmen at Ulvehi, the farm I was sold to."

"The tall blonde who was there that day? I remember him," Godric replied, "Keep your head down, we can't let him see you."

"But he has my sword," Pero growled, "I need it."

Down on the dock Thorsten was talking to Alefric about the thralls that had escaped, and the fire that was still burning.

"It's almost out, it only took two houses and a barn, the town was lucky. But now we must get men together to chase after the thralls who escaped."

"I'm setting sail to England as soon as the morning wind picks up, I don't have time to chase after some dumb thralls," Aelfric replied, "You should trade in cloth, Thorsten. Cloth bundles don't have legs, and they don't need feeding."

"I'll remember that the next time you need protection for your ships," Thorsten said, and even from up on the ship Pero could hear the annoyance in his voice.

Aelfric must've waved him off, because soon they heard the merchant call orders for more supplies and goods to be loaded as Thorsten stalked off.

"Your dagger," Pero said to Godric, holding out his hand, "Give it to me."

"Tovar, don't…" Godric replied, but Pero snatched the dagger from his belt and carefully stood up, glancing over the railing.

"I'll be back in no time, I just need to get my sword, and kill him if I can."

"Aelfric won't wait, you can get a new sword in England," Godric hissed, reaching out to grab his arm, but Pero shook it off.

"I'm not letting that bastard walk around with my sword," he replied, "I'll be back soon, just stall Aelfric if the wind changes."

"Tovar, he won't wait!" Godric protested, but it was too late. Pero jumped over the opposite edge of the hull and landed with a soft thump on the dock planks. In the distance he could see the dark shape of Thorsten disappear down one of the narrow pathways leading towards the edge of town.

This was rash, too rash, he knew it, but the sight of the sword, his sword, at Thorsten's side had filled him with rage. And now this bastard was within range, and Tovar was unchained and armed. This opportunity wouldn't come again. He could kill him, take the sword back, and leave with at least a small sense of revenge for the past two years.

His fingers flexed, finding a good grip on the dagger hiding under his cloak, and he felt his body changing, his mind finding its focus as he slipped back into his old self.

The mercenary followed Thorsten down the path, sticking to the shadows and keeping his steps light and soundless. He needed to choose a place to call out his challenge, a spot for a quick fight, and a swift retreat. The narrow road ran between the rocks at the water's edge, and a few sheds. Narrow enough to make fighting with a sword difficult, but perfect for a fight with daggers.

"Thorsten!" Tovar called, stepping out from the shadow of the shed as he shook off the cloak, the dagger held behind his back as if his arms were still tied.

The tall Norseman turned around, his surprised look turning to a grin when he saw Tovar standing behind him.

"Hauknefr, I knew you were behind this, but I thought you'd be hiding in the woods by now," he called back, taking a few steps towards Tovar and drawing his sword, "Or are you trying to get back to Ulvehi?"

"Where is she?" Tovar asked, his voice grim, taking a step back as Thorsten moved forward.

"Not at Ulvehi, dog," Thorsten snarled, his face turning dark at the mention of you, "You won't see her again, and you should've kept running."

He took another step, pointing the sword at Tovar's chest, "But now I can kill you, and keep the money for selling you."

Tovar let him move closer, the dagger behind his back tight in his hand, "She told me about you, that you wanted her and she spat in your face. It must sting, amigo, to see her choose me instead. The thrall, huh? The dirty, unwashed thrall with nothing but his cock to boast of."

Thorsten snarled and lunged at Tovar, who swiftly stepped to the side, bringing up the dagger and jamming it up into the other man's side with a satisfied grin. Thorsten grunted and stumbled as Tovar tried to push the dagger in. But it caught on the chain mail hidden under the tunic, and Thorsten shoved Tovar's arm away, swinging his sword. Only the close quarters stopped the sword from slicing Tovar open, it bounced off his hip as he yanked the dagger loose.

Now the element of surprise was lost, and Tovar stepped back as Thorsten lifted his sword, his other hand patting down his side where the dagger must've bruised him.

Tovar watched Thorsten's steps, circling around, aiming to get him too close to the slippery rocks by the sea shore. But Thorsten wasn't an inexperienced fighter, and he grinned as he realised that Tovar only had a dagger and no protection, taking a step closer. He kept him at range, forcing Tovar back, step by step.

"This is more poetic, thrall," Thorsten said, "Don't you think? The gods love a good fight!"

"I don't give a shit about any gods," Tovar snarled, "I just want to see you dead."

Thorsten attacked, fast and hard.

Tovar stumbled back, barely dodging the blow. He jumped over the slick rocks, scrambling back onto the path. He felt the air move as the sharp blade rushed past his ear, but it didn't hit.

He was slow, too slow. Two years away from the blade showed in every step, even now when the rush of the fight had his blood hot, he could feel the sluggishness in his limbs. Finding his balance again, he held the dagger up as a shield, ready to block or dodge when the big bastard Norseman attacked again.

Thorsten was still grinning, and he gave no pause. Attacking again, and again, he pushed Tovar backwards. Twice the long sword struck the dagger, making Tovar grunt as the hits made the bones in his arm tremble. But he was pulling Thorsten in towards the back wall of one of the sheds that lined the path. With a quick step to the side at the next attack, he managed to dodge the sword and in the opening, his dagger slid across Thorsten's cheek, splitting it open and drawing blood.

Thorsten roared and swung his sword wildly, but Tovar had already jumped back. Under his breath he was cursing. Thorsten was tall, and the dagger was difficult to get in where the chain mail didn't cover him.

With the sword up, Thorsten charged on Tovar, forcing him back across the path, towards the rocks and the ocean. He carved the air with brutal swings, any one of them would've sliced his arm clean off, and Tovar scrambled back, trying to find an opening. The ground under his feet turned slippery, sea weed wrapped around his ankle, dragging him off balance. He stumbled, going down on one knee, catching himself with one hand as he held up the dagger against the next wild swing. Behind him the ocean lapped at his feet, and he threw himself in as Thorsten stabbed towards his chest.

The sword caught him this time, but he kicked out, connecting with Thorsten’s leg as pain bloomed across his arm.The other man lost his balance and for a moment, he teetered on the edge of the slippery rocks, and Tovar jerked himself up, out of the water, scrambling clear of the blade.

Panting he found his footing again on the shore line as Thorsten turned to him. His face was triumphant now as Tovar suddenly realised; the dagger was gone.

"So much for the mercenary," Thorsten mocked him, "How would you like me to kill you? A cut to the front and watch your guts spill, or in the back, as you try to run?"

A trickle of fear ran up Tovar's back as the wind suddenly picked up, and Thorsten advanced on him. The way to the dock, it was behind Thorsten. Behind Tovar was only the edge of town, and then the endless forests.

He took a step back, and Thorsten's grin widened as he lifted the sword.

"Tovar," a voice suddenly called, heavy footsteps coming down the path as Thorsten frowned and looked behind Tovar at the newcomer.

Tovar risked a glance behind himself. Another Norseman was jogging down the path, his sword already drawn. He was tall, towering over both of them, and his wide shoulders seemed to fill the narrow path behind him.

"You know this dog, Assar?" Thorsten called in surprise, but the tall blonde man ignored him.

"You shouldn't be here, Pero Tovar," he said.

Tovar's brows rose high as he recognised the man. He'd only seen him at a distance at Steinvikr, but he knew who he was.

Your cousin.

And Saga's brother.

It dawned on him as Thorsten called out to Assar again.

"He's about to die, Assar. He's claimed our Jarl's daughter in secret, as if he were her equal."

"I know what he did, and what our Jarl did to my cousin. And if you try to stop Tovar from getting her back, it will be you who dies here, Thorsten," he replied coldly. His sword arm was up, and the sharp tip aimed at the man did not waver.

"What…"

Thorsten glanced at Tovar again, and Assar gave a small shake of his head.

"You were always a rash fighter, Thorsten."

That seemed to shift his focus, hesitation rather than rage as he looked back at Assar. He took a step back, but his heel found only wet stone beneath him. It gave way under his weight, and the moment his balance went, so did his control.

The wind rose along the shore, sharp now, pulling at their cloaks, and filling the narrow path with salt and noise.

Tovar moved before any thought could catch up, closing the short distance while Thorsten still tried to find his balance. It was the only moment he needed. His hand closed around the hilt of the sword, the other shoving Thorsten back, into the cold water and rocks.

His sword.

The weight of it in his grip was almost disorientating, like something long lost snapping back into place, and for a heartbeat he simply held it while Thorsten realised what had happened.

Thorsten’s expression stayed with Tovar; rage breaking into fear as the mercenary lifted the blade and drove it through his throat. Slipping in just where the chain mail left him exposed, dark blood gushed out as he gave a choked, broken cough. He collapsed onto the wet stones, his eyes emptied, turning blank.

For a moment, Tovar stood over him, breathing hard, sword still in hand, and then reality of everything beyond the fight returned.

Then the wind pulled at him again.

The ship would be leaving.

And there was no more time.

Chapter 17

Another cliffhanger! But at least now Pero is free, and Thorsten is dead. Some small revenge at least...

I really went back and forth over this chapter, writing and re-writing the final fight between Tovar and Thorsten, and I hope you enjoyed it and that it was as tense as I wanted it to be! Writing fight scenes is really fun, but it's also hard and I try to make the visuals clear so that you can see the fight in your head as you read it (I hope).

Hours must've passed, and Pero's hands opened and closed as he tried to calm his breathing. The energy running through him made them tremble as he paced the small building he'd been thrown into. It was used for either sick thralls, or those who were being kept in isolation, and was never meant to be comfortable. But now it was colder than ever, and not just for the lack of a fire in the hearth. His head thumped, his ribs ached, but luckily not broken, and he could feel blood drying on his face as the cut on his cheek slowly stopped bleeding. No one came to check on him, but he hadn't expected it. He knew he'd made probably the worst mistake of his life, risked everything for both you and himself.

He sank down with his back against the wall, facing the door that he knew was barred from the outside. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm himself again, and think through his next steps, what he'd do in every scenario he could think of. If they came to execute him, he'd fight. If he was that close to death, he'd rather take his chances at fighting his way out of Ulvehi than to go meekly to slaughter. He'd take some of them with him before he succumbed.

If he was to be kept alive he'd be back in chains again, he was sure of it. Then he would have to find another escape once he knew what had happened to you. Or maybe he'd be sold, he couldn't imagine the Jarl keeping him at Ulvehi now. But most likely, he'd hang, or however the Norse men killed thralls. If he could, he'd fight his way out, but chances were slim, if it came to that, he knew he'd probably die here.

With a deep sigh he slumped down against the wall. He'd promised he'd find you, but in truth, he didn't know if he'd get out of this alive. He may never see you again, and the thought made him clench his fists again, forcing back the tremors as something caught in this throat.

I'm not dead yet. And they won't see me go quietly. But, please, let me see her again. Let me at least see her safe.

Nicholas hadn't been back since his hurried visit to this temporary prison. All he'd had time for was to scribble a few words on the parchment and tell Nicholas where the small statue was hidden under his bedding in the thrall's quarters. Hopefully he'd been able to get it to you, but Pero wasn't even sure of that. You might've been shipped off to England without another word from him or Nicholas. And for the first time in his life, Pero was afraid of dying. Things were unfinished, his life was unfinished. He'd had a brief spell of some sort of happiness, even here as a thrall, and he was afraid to lose it all too soon. And he had a promise to keep.

And a child…

You'd told him, and then everything had happened so fast, he'd barely had time to tell you what that meant to him. But there was a child growing inside you that shared his blood, something he thought he'd lost any hope of many years ago. But you said it, a part of him and a part of you, a small family. A small family for him again.

The thought made him squeeze his eyes shut, a sharp feeling rising in his chest as his nails dug into his palms.

Our child…There has to be a way, somehow, to keep them safe.

Sleep did not come easily, but he forced it upon himself the same way he had when he was a mercenary. His body and mind needed rest for the next few days, no matter what came. So he would take any sleep he could now even as his mind flitted back and forth, drifting back to your face whenever he drifted close to sleep.

The next morning it was the heavy steps approaching his prison that woke him from an uneasy slumber. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, rolling his stiff shoulders and flexing his hands. Whatever came next, if they meant to kill him, he would not go without a fight.

But there was no chance to fight, Thorsten stood in the doorway with a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Put his legs and arms in chains, beat him if he resists," he ordered the four men who'd come with him, "But don't break any bones, he won't sell if he's damaged. Although…" he added as two of the men roughly grabbed Pero's arms and forced them in front of his body, "A broken nose probably won't make much of a difference now. She'll never see you again, and I'll make sure you never see any other woman again. No women where you're going, thrall."

The last part he said with a grin and Pero bit his tongue, the sharp iron biting into his wrists as the lock clanked shut. If he was being sold he would wait for his chance, better opportunities for escape would come, he was sure of it. Thorsten was baiting him, hoping for a fight, but behind Pero's scowling face, he felt almost elated with relief. Being sold was the best outcome right now.

A ring of iron snapped shut around his neck too, and shackles were fastened around his ankles, a chain running from feet to neck and making his steps hobbled. One of the hirdmen tugged at the chain, and Pero shuffled forward, struggling to clear the high threshold out from the small building.

"Move, thrall," Thorsten spat, clearly not pleased with the lack of reaction from Pero at his needling, and gave him a sharp shove as Pero managed to step outside. The short chain pulled up short between his feet, and he fell, landing heavily on his arms, his face smacking down into the mud. Sharp pain stung his nose, and he felt the taste of warm blood in his mouth as someone grabbed his neck ring and yanked him up again, making him choke and cough as the force cut off his breath.

"Fall again and I'll drag you by that ring all the way to the dock, thrall," Thorsten snarled, as Pero took another stumbling step. Cold mud was sticking to his tunic and his skin, blood dripping from his lip, and maybe his nose, but he tried to keep his balance, focusing on the ships down by the fjord.

It took all his self control to not rage against the chains as he had when he first arrived, or to rage against Thorsten, at being called 'thrall' again like it was his name. One short step in front of the other, the way from Ulvehi lay on that ship, there was no escape just now. But soon…he kept that thought in his head as Thorsten yanked on the ring again, making the sharp metal cut into his neck.

Pero was roughly shoved onboard, pushed down in a corner of the deck and left to shiver in his wet and mud caked clothes. He watched Thorsten join the crew, and he wasn't sure if he was pleased about that or not, and for a moment he thought the Jarl would join them too, but he only jumped aboard and stepped up to Pero.

"I considered having Thorsten whip you until you bled out, like I should've that first time," he said, fixing Pero with his cold blue eyes, "But it would've been too easy. You'd die too fast, Hauknefr. For how you betrayed me, this family, I want you to die slowly and in pain. And I'm in luck, the foreman from the Falu copper mine comes to Skiringssal every spring to buy any strong thralls for sale," the Jarl said, pausing as he waited for Pero to react, leaning closer, "Do you know about the copper mines, Hauknefr? Did the other thralls ever tell you about them?"

Pero didn't reply, he just looked at the Jarl, fighting to keep his mind calm, but he could feel the scowl on his face, his tight eyebrows pulling at fresh cuts and bruises.

"The mines are where we send thralls to die," the Jarl told him when he realised Tovar wouldn't reply, "Forgotten by everyone, left to rot when their breaths give up from hot fumes and cold rocks. You won't die fast, you're too strong for that, but you'll die, and you'll never see my daughter again. Tell them this is what Jarl Agnar Björnsson does to thralls who dare to cross him."

"No moriré. Mi hijo crece en ella, mi sangre es ahora suya," Pero replied, spitting out the words he knew the Jarl wouldn't understand, but he still wanted to tell him; I will not die. My child grows within her, my blood is hers now.

The Jarl paused, as if trying to work out how he'd been insulted, and then pushed to his feet, sneering, "Your foreign insults won't do you any good, Hauknefr," he said, scowling as Pero forced himself to grin in defiance as the old man's knees protested, and the Jarl huffed.

"Thorsten! Get a good price for him, but not too good, won't do to let him be too valuable."

Thorsten nodded as the Jarl jumped off the ship and on to the dock again.

"I'll send the ship back with the money from the sale, Jarl, and then I'll ready Blodormr and set sail for Vinland."

"It'll be a great adventure for you and your crew, and I know you're worthy of this."

The Jarl paused and put his hand on the pommel of his sword, the great long sword he'd bought from the same man that had sold him Hauknefr. He'd told Hauknefr he'd kill him with his own sword if he tried to run, but this seemed more fitting. As Thorsten watched, he pulled the sword from its sheath and held out the pommel towards him.

"You're taking this treacherous thrall to his well earned fate, and then you're sailing on to your own. You should have the sword that was his, take it to Vinland and win us new land and wealth. He was not man enough to hold on to it, it's only fitting that you have it now."

"Jarl…" Thorsten said, bowing his head low, "This is a great gift. I will ask Thor to give strength to this blade and honour you on my journey."

The Jarl nodded, as Thorsten held the sword, looking at the sharp blade.

"The gods approve when we use the swords of our fallen enemies to win new victories, and this blade is thirsty, it hasn't seen blood in a long time."

Thorsten bowed again, and ran his hand over the steel, scraping his thumb over the cross on the pommel.

"I'm honoured, my Jarl, but I might need to scrape off this Christian symbol."

The Jarl chuckled, clapping Thorsten on the shoulder, "Do what you will with it, Thor will always give your sword arm strength enough to kill our enemies. Now, ready the men, they have many hours to row before their, and your, adventure really begins. Bring us home stories worthy of the sagas, Thorsten, Sigurd's son."

Thorsten grinned and stepped on to the ship's deck, Pero's sword at his waist, and he missed the look of rage that passed across the chained man's face at the sight of the sword, "I won't fail you, Jarl, we'll come back with stories and wealth."

Soon the ropes were cast, and Ulvehi began to shrink behind the ship as the men's oars dipped into the dark water and gave speed to the slim ship. Pero glanced back at the farm, craning his neck to see over the ship's edge. He'd hated the place since he first saw it, but at the same time, it was the place where he'd first met you, and, against all reason, fallen in love with the daughter of his captors. The kitchen garden looked fresh with the early spring green, the place where so many conversations between the two of you had taken place. He couldn't hate it anymore simply because of the memories it held with you, but still, he didn't want to return. You were no longer there, and more than ever he knew that he would need to find you again, to find some sort of peace. To see you disappear across the ocean and into the hands of some Anglo-Saxon lord was not how he intended to let this end.

He looked away, closing his eyes and leaning against the rough planks. This was not how he'd imagined his departure, but this was where fate had taken you both. Now he needed to remember, quickly, who he was before his thralldom, and call upon his years of experience to survive the next few weeks. His muscles would need to remember how to fight, and kill, without hesitation if he was to survive this, and reach England. And reach you.

The thump of the ship's side bumping against the dock at Skiringssal was what roused Pero from his uncomfortable slumber many hours later. It was late afternoon, and the sounds of the bustling trade port drifted up to him. The ship had been tied to the dock and soon rough hands pulled him to his feet. The long spring evening was turning into dark blue night, and after his chains were removed, he was shoved into a cage similar to the one he'd spent his first night in Skiringssal in. There were other men in it, and women in the next cage over.

As Pero tried to find a spot to rest in the cage, more men were brought in, shoving for space as it got crowded. A large dark haired man squeezed himself down onto to the wooden slats next to Pero, grunting as Pero scowled

"Tuck your elbows in, friend, we ain't gettin' more space than this," he said in English, "But don't worry, if you don't get sold tomorrow, they'll find an even more uncomfortable spot for you."

Pero shrugged, and pulled his thin cloak up over his arms, but the Englishman nudged his side, and nodded towards a couple of the men at the front of the cage. They were trying to get the attention of the guards, who were pointedly ignoring them.

"Must be their first time at the thrall market. As long as we don't freeze to death, those guards won't do anything," he said and then looked over at Pero, "Not your first time being sold I think?"

"No," Pero grimaced, "Second."

"I'm on my fourth I think", the Englishman replied, "Can't seem to find a good owner."

He said the last with a chuckle as if it was a big joke, and Pero glanced over at him, wondering if the man might be soft in the head. But the man caught his look and chuckled again.

"I'm not daft, friend. But either I laugh at it, or I wallow in despair and die."

"You have a point," Pero said, "Do they hold these markets often?" he asked and the man nodded.

"In the spring, almost every day. When the snow and ice gives up its grip they all sail to the big trading ports and trade for what's needed for the new seasons, including humans. You haven't seen the market before?"

"Only once, when I first got here two years ago. But I was too busy trying to find a way to escape than to notice the market."

"I see that the escaping bit didn't go too well," the Englishman commented, tugging at his own cloak as the noise at the front of the cage died down.

Pero shook his head, and rested his chin on his arms, "Not yet," he replied.

The next day Pero learnt exactly how far and wide the Norse men traded as he watched men and women arrive at the market, and merchants began to fill up their stalls, both permanent and temporary, with wares.

The cages with thralls were strategically located just next to the main market square, and as the day warmed up he watched how even here, on what was the edge of the world to him, goods from almost every corner of the world were put up for trade. Stacks of pelts and furs seemed to be of interest to the men who were dressed like the Franks he'd served many times as a mercenary. The Franks in turn traded finer silks with the local lords, amber and silver changing hands.

Nearby three dark skinned men were trading spices. He could smell the dried thyme and garlic, so familiar from his childhood, and even a trace of cinnamon. It reminded him of his journeys far to the east, Constantinople and beyond. He never would've guessed that the vikings commanded such far-reaching networks.

A Norse lord strolled down the market, and stopped by the stall, pointing to the bulbs of dried garlic. He was dressed in fine wool clothes, and looked wealthy, like he had money to spend on some luxury to brighten his day. The edge of his cloak was trimmed with a pattern that looked more Byzantine to Pero than anything Norse, and he thought Nicholas could probably tell him more about the man if he'd been there.

The three spice merchants recognised the wealth too, and were immediately bowing low to the lord, waving him closer, and lifting up delicately carved spoons to let him smell their ground herbs.

Pero watched the display, the merchants smiling and flattering the lord as he haggled for the price. He was too far away to hear what they were saying, but anywhere in the world you would recognise the body language of a deal being struck. The lord and the merchants finally seemed to agree on a price, and the lord waved behind him, calling over a servant to settle the accounts.

Pero straightened up and grabbed the bars of the cage. The servant, dressed nicely and with an important air, was Godric, his friend from England who'd been taken as a thrall at the same time as Pero. He was standing just by the lord, holding a tablet and a purse of silver while an armed guard waited nearby. The two or so years since Pero last saw him hadn’t made much of a difference to his old friend, and he must have fared far better than Pero when he was sold here at Skiringssal at the end of their journey across. He looked well fed and well dressed, a thick wool cloak over his shoulders.

He was too far away for Pero to call out to without everyone noticing, and no matter how much he willed Godric to look over, he didn't turn. Godric handed over the silver, scribbled something on his tablet, and took a number of small bags from the merchants. They in turn bowed low to the lord, and then Godric and the lord turned and walked away. Pero ground his teeth in frustration as his old friend disappeared into the throng of people, but at least now he knew Godric had survived, and survived well, it seemed. Maybe Godric would spot him when it came time for selling the thralls, but what good it would do Pero, he didn’t know.

Towards the middle of the day, when the bright spring sun was at its highest, the men’s cage was opened. One by one the male thralls were led out, chained together, and pushed towards a rough hewed dais. Pero clenched his jaw and pushed down his urge to fight against the chains again as it was his turn to be forced to the front, this was not the time.

The auctioneer prodded him with a cane, forced his head back to show off his neck, and rapped it across his leg as if to gauge the quality of the flesh. Pero felt his temper rising, and glowered at the man, his fists closing. But the man only glanced over his features, prodded his shoulder, and lifted the back of his tunic, exposing the scarred flesh.

“A strong male, but dangerous and disobedient, fit for hard work in chains,” he said in Norse, calling out to the crowd of prospective buyers. “Will the mines take him? He’s already been whipped once.”

“We’ll take him,” a man replied. “Put him with the rest.”

Pero's gaze snapped towards the voice, it was the wealthy lord he'd seen earlier, with Godric, but from where he stood, he couldn't make him out in the press of bodies.

“Anyone willing to outbid the Falu men?” the auctioneer asked, and when no one replied, Pero was pulled to the side, unchained from the rest of the men, and shoved into a new cage. He gripped the bars and craned his neck to see if Godric would be the one paying for him, but there was no trace of the Anglo-Saxon.

By the time the sun had begun to slope westward, more men had been thrown in with him. Some snarled and spat at the guards, straining uselessly against their irons. Others said nothing at all, their eyes wide and hollow. Pero marked them without thinking; the ones who might fight, the ones who would break. Some would not last a day in the mines. Some would not even survive the journey there.

He shifted his weight against the wooden bars. Solid. Thick. No give in them. But he needed a way out, just not now, not while the guards watched every movement, not while he was penned like an animal among dozens of others. Any attempt now would end with him cut down before he took three steps. Better to wait.

Once the journey back to the mines started, there would be more opportunity to break free, or at least he hoped so. He had no other plan apart from this, and there were many unknown parts to it, too many. He leaned against the sturdy poles of the cage at the very back, watching the rest of the auction while his mind worked through his options. He didn't have many, and the ones he had were filled with holes. For now his best choice seemed to be to simply wait, and hope for an opportunity soon.

The market wound down as the sun began to sink, casting long shadows over the stalls. But people still milled around, fires were lit, and food was sold. Some food was brought to the men in the cage, but it was certainly nothing like the fat pork ribs Pero could smell being grilled on the other side of the market. A bowl of thin gruel and rough bread was shoved into his hands, but his belly still felt empty when he was done with it. The Falu miners didn’t seem to feed their thralls very well.

Crouching on his haunches in the back corner, he tried to keep off the wet mud seeping through the slats. He tipped his head back, just for a breath of rest, and glimpsed a face he recognised.

It was one of your family from Steinvikr. The one you'd said you’d grown up with, spent long summers with as a child. Pero couldn’t remember her name, but he remembered her standing at your side during the funeral, and the stories you had told him with a grin, the things you used to get up to with the hirdmen at Steinvikr.

A memory rose inside him, a stolen moment in the tack room at Steinvikr as you teased him, crouching down on your knees, his cock swelling, and he forced the memory down. It was almost too painful to think of you like that now, now that you were gone…

Pero watched the woman as she wandered between the stalls, touching some of the wares. She seemed to be on her own, but there were plenty of guards around Skiringssal, and he presumed there was no danger for a woman to walk alone here in the light spring evening. And she reminded him of you. The cut of the dress, the way her hair was bound, it pulled something tight in his chest, and he couldn't look away. She was your blood. The closest thing to you he might ever see again.

As she drew near, it was as if she sensed his eyes on her, or perhaps she simply caught a glimpse of the way he was staring from the corner of the cage. Her head turned, and recognition flashed across her face. For a few moments she met his eyes, staring at him too. Pero thought she would come over, but then she turned and continued to walk between the stalls, not changing her pace.

Pero looked down at his hands, clasped between his legs, and closed his eyes. He needed rest. Another hard night was coming, and he would need whatever strength he could keep hold of.

Twilight settled over Skiringssal, and Pero fell into an uneasy sleep, but when a hand touched his shoulder lightly, he jolted awake and stumbled to his feet . The market was still filled with people, rowdier now, but night had properly fallen. The cage was dark, and most of the men were huddled together in sleep.

"Shh, quiet," a woman's voice whispered close to his ear, and he turned his head towards it.

"You're Pero Tovar," she said, "I'm Saga, I know you."

"You're…" Pero began, but Saga shook her head.

"I don't have much time. I saw Thorsten earlier, she's on her way to England. He told me he caught the two of you at Ulvehi."

"I was reckless," Pero muttered, "And I've been sold to the Falu mines. I need to escape and go after her."

"I agree, that's why I'm here, Pero Tovar," Saga said, glancing behind her, "I need to find a way to get you out of here. My brother Assar is also in Skiringssal, he knows about you, and he swore to her that he'd help if he could."

"He knows?" Pero asked in surprise, and Saga nodded, smiling for the first time, and he saw that her lips curled in the same way as as yours did.

"He saw how she looked at you," she said, "and how you looked at her. You two were not very good at hiding it."

Pero groaned and dragged his hands over his face, but Saga grabbed his arm.

"It is done, Pero Tovar. Now you need to save her from that English lord. Help me find a way to help you out of here."

Pero looked around the dark market and the thralls sleeping in the cage, "I saw an old friend earlier, a man called Godric. He was with a wealthy lord who was buying spices. He had a cloak with a foreign pattern on the trim, with gold thread. He's the one who bought me for the mines."

"Halfdan Austrfarar," Saga replied immediately, "he owns the mines."

"If Godric works for him, maybe he can help. Can you find him?"

Saga nodded, "I know where he is staying. But what are you thinking?"

"If Godric can unlock the cage so that all the thralls escape, I can disappear in the chaos and hide on a ship to England. With all this trade, there must be many heading west."

"I'll go now, I need to find an excuse to talk to Godric," Saga replied, "I'll send Godric here, but I can't be seen with you, so be safe, Pero Tovar, and keep my cousin safe. And make sure you are worth all that she is giving up for you."

The last she said with a firm voice, squeezing his arm as Pero met her hard look, "Don't make her regret leaving her home behind for you."

"If she does, I'll bring her back, and she can sell me as a slave again," he said, meaning every word.

Saga studied him for a long moment, then nodded once.

"The Norns have set your path," she said, "Now walk it."

With that she hurried off, and Pero could only watch her dark cloak disappear into the shadows and hope that she'd find Godric in time.

All that was left now was to wait, and watch the guards move across the market as it emptied out as the hour grew late. He was too tightly wound to sit and relax, even though he knew he should conserve his strength. The nerves creeping along his limbs were familiar, always the same tingle as a battle drew near, his body preparing to fight, or be killed. He hoped he'd be able to sneak away without a fight, but something told him it would not be that easy.

Suppressing a wide yawn, he shook his limbs, trying to shake some warmth into them as the night grew cold. The sudden yell startled him, one of the guards calling to the others and pointing. Against the dark night sky flames could be seen in the town, just a street or two away. Shouts went up, and the guards began to run towards the light just as the first hint of smoke in the air reached Pero.

He looked around outside the cage as the other men began to wake, stumbling to their feet and mumbling as they spotted the fire. Calls could be heard from around the town as word spread, fire in a town made of wood would be a disaster.

Suddenly Pero saw what he'd been waiting for. Across the now empty market a dark figure came hurrying towards the cages. It was a moment's work for the man to unlock the cages and release both the men and the women.

"Hurry, help with the fire, we need all the hands we can get to pass the water buckets," he called to the thralls as they streamed from their enclosure.

"Why would we?" a man called back to him as he took off at a run, away from the fire, clearly set on escaping rather than helping. And almost everyone else of thralls had the same idea, like birds set free they scattered.

Pero was the last out of the cage, and the man grabbed his arm and quickly dragged him around a corner, into the darkness of one of the market stalls.

"Tovar! I thought you were dead. I didn't know what to think when Saga from Steinvikr came to find me!"

"Likewise, friend," Pero grinned, grabbing hold of his old friend's arms and looking him up and down, "And you've done well for yourself it seems."

"Better than you at least," Godric replied, "You look rough."

"I would tell you all, but I need your help to hide on a ship heading to England."

Godric nodded, and pulled off his cloak, handing it to Pero, "I know, but you won't need to sneak. I've bought you passage on Aelfric's ship, he's a cloth merchant, and I know he's sailing at first light, he had bad news from York."

"Godric, you're a true friend," Pero replied, he couldn't believe his luck as he pulled up the hood of the cloak, hiding his face, "If I can, I will make it up to you."

"I hope so, because I'm coming with you. I can't exactly set free my master's thralls without consequences," Godric said, reaching into a simple cloth bag hanging from his shoulder, "I've got some gold, hopefully enough to bribe Aelfric and his men to not mention a dark faced man with a scar. Come, we better get going while the fire still burns."

Pero nodded, and followed Godric as they set off. He knew the streets of Skiringssal well by now it seemed, and he led them through back alleys and dark paths down to the docks. The many ships moored were quiet, but around a few of them men were moving back and forth, preparing to set sail as soon as the wind picked up. Godric led Pero to one of the largest, a broad hulled sailing ship with a ramp leading up. As they approached, Godric hailed a man standing on the deck overseeing the loading.

"Aelfric, are you ready for us to board?" he called, and the man waved at them, urging them to cross the ramp.

"As soon as the morning easterly wind picks up, we're off," Aelfric replied, "Get yourself tucked down, I don't want any trouble leaving."

Godric and Pero did as he ordered, hurrying across the gangway and dropping into the sunken hold. Most of the space was taken up by cargo, but there was some space carved out for provisions and sleeping space, and they sat down next to the hull, huddling down to not be seen from land. Pero pulled his hood down further over the scar that made him so damn recognisable, and silently urged the wind to pick up.

Soon, very soon, he'd be back on the ocean and finally sailing west, following you.

"Aelfric! Alefric!"

An all too familiar voice called up towards the ship, and Pero lifted his head as Godric looked over at him.

"Someone you know?" he asked in a low voice.

"Thorsten," Pero whispered, "He's the leader of the hirdmen at Ulvehi, the farm I was sold to."

"The tall blonde who was there that day? I remember him," Godric replied, "Keep your head down, we can't let him see you."

"But he has my sword," Pero growled, "I need it."

Down on the dock Thorsten was talking to Alefric about the thralls that had escaped, and the fire that was still burning.

"It's almost out, it only took two houses and a barn, the town was lucky. But now we must get men together to chase after the thralls who escaped."

"I'm setting sail to England as soon as the morning wind picks up, I don't have time to chase after some dumb thralls," Aelfric replied, "You should trade in cloth, Thorsten. Cloth bundles don't have legs, and they don't need feeding."

"I'll remember that the next time you need protection for your ships," Thorsten said, and even from up on the ship Pero could hear the annoyance in his voice.

Aelfric must've waved him off, because soon they heard the merchant call orders for more supplies and goods to be loaded as Thorsten stalked off.

"Your dagger," Pero said to Godric, holding out his hand, "Give it to me."

"Tovar, don't…" Godric replied, but Pero snatched the dagger from his belt and carefully stood up, glancing over the railing.

"I'll be back in no time, I just need to get my sword, and kill him if I can."

"Aelfric won't wait, you can get a new sword in England," Godric hissed, reaching out to grab his arm, but Pero shook it off.

"I'm not letting that bastard walk around with my sword," he replied, "I'll be back soon, just stall Aelfric if the wind changes."

"Tovar, he won't wait!" Godric protested, but it was too late. Pero jumped over the opposite edge of the hull and landed with a soft thump on the dock planks. In the distance he could see the dark shape of Thorsten disappear down one of the narrow pathways leading towards the edge of town.

This was rash, too rash, he knew it, but the sight of the sword, his sword, at Thorsten's side had filled him with rage. And now this bastard was within range, and Tovar was unchained and armed. This opportunity wouldn't come again. He could kill him, take the sword back, and leave with at least a small sense of revenge for the past two years.

His fingers flexed, finding a good grip on the dagger hiding under his cloak, and he felt his body changing, his mind finding its focus as he slipped back into his old self.

The mercenary followed Thorsten down the path, sticking to the shadows and keeping his steps light and soundless. He needed to choose a place to call out his challenge, a spot for a quick fight, and a swift retreat. The narrow road ran between the rocks at the water's edge, and a few sheds. Narrow enough to make fighting with a sword difficult, but perfect for a fight with daggers.

"Thorsten!" Tovar called, stepping out from the shadow of the shed as he shook off the cloak, the dagger held behind his back as if his arms were still tied.

The tall Norseman turned around, his surprised look turning to a grin when he saw Tovar standing behind him.

"Hauknefr, I knew you were behind this, but I thought you'd be hiding in the woods by now," he called back, taking a few steps towards Tovar and drawing his sword, "Or are you trying to get back to Ulvehi?"

"Where is she?" Tovar asked, his voice grim, taking a step back as Thorsten moved forward.

"Not at Ulvehi, dog," Thorsten snarled, his face turning dark at the mention of you, "You won't see her again, and you should've kept running."

He took another step, pointing the sword at Tovar's chest, "But now I can kill you, and keep the money for selling you."

Tovar let him move closer, the dagger behind his back tight in his hand, "She told me about you, that you wanted her and she spat in your face. It must sting, amigo, to see her choose me instead. The thrall, huh? The dirty, unwashed thrall with nothing but his cock to boast of."

Thorsten snarled and lunged at Tovar, who swiftly stepped to the side, bringing up the dagger and jamming it up into the other man's side with a satisfied grin. Thorsten grunted and stumbled as Tovar tried to push the dagger in. But it caught on the chain mail hidden under the tunic, and Thorsten shoved Tovar's arm away, swinging his sword. Only the close quarters stopped the sword from slicing Tovar open, it bounced off his hip as he yanked the dagger loose.

Now the element of surprise was lost, and Tovar stepped back as Thorsten lifted his sword, his other hand patting down his side where the dagger must've bruised him.

Tovar watched Thorsten's steps, circling around, aiming to get him too close to the slippery rocks by the sea shore. But Thorsten wasn't an inexperienced fighter, and he grinned as he realised that Tovar only had a dagger and no protection, taking a step closer. He kept him at range, forcing Tovar back, step by step.

"This is more poetic, thrall," Thorsten said, "Don't you think? The gods love a good fight!"

"I don't give a shit about any gods," Tovar snarled, "I just want to see you dead."

Thorsten attacked, fast and hard.

Tovar stumbled back, barely dodging the blow. He jumped over the slick rocks, scrambling back onto the path. He felt the air move as the sharp blade rushed past his ear, but it didn't hit.

He was slow, too slow. Two years away from the blade showed in every step, even now when the rush of the fight had his blood hot, he could feel the sluggishness in his limbs. Finding his balance again, he held the dagger up as a shield, ready to block or dodge when the big bastard Norseman attacked again.

Thorsten was still grinning, and he gave no pause. Attacking again, and again, he pushed Tovar backwards. Twice the long sword struck the dagger, making Tovar grunt as the hits made the bones in his arm tremble. But he was pulling Thorsten in towards the back wall of one of the sheds that lined the path. With a quick step to the side at the next attack, he managed to dodge the sword and in the opening, his dagger slid across Thorsten's cheek, splitting it open and drawing blood.

Thorsten roared and swung his sword wildly, but Tovar had already jumped back. Under his breath he was cursing. Thorsten was tall, and the dagger was difficult to get in where the chain mail didn't cover him.

With the sword up, Thorsten charged on Tovar, forcing him back across the path, towards the rocks and the ocean. He carved the air with brutal swings, any one of them would've sliced his arm clean off, and Tovar scrambled back, trying to find an opening. The ground under his feet turned slippery, sea weed wrapped around his ankle, dragging him off balance. He stumbled, going down on one knee, catching himself with one hand as he held up the dagger against the next wild swing. Behind him the ocean lapped at his feet, and he threw himself in as Thorsten stabbed towards his chest.

The sword caught him this time, but he kicked out, connecting with Thorsten’s leg as pain bloomed across his arm.The other man lost his balance and for a moment, he teetered on the edge of the slippery rocks, and Tovar jerked himself up, out of the water, scrambling clear of the blade.

Panting he found his footing again on the shore line as Thorsten turned to him. His face was triumphant now as Tovar suddenly realised; the dagger was gone.

"So much for the mercenary," Thorsten mocked him, "How would you like me to kill you? A cut to the front and watch your guts spill, or in the back, as you try to run?"

A trickle of fear ran up Tovar's back as the wind suddenly picked up, and Thorsten advanced on him. The way to the dock, it was behind Thorsten. Behind Tovar was only the edge of town, and then the endless forests.

He took a step back, and Thorsten's grin widened as he lifted the sword.

"Tovar," a voice suddenly called, heavy footsteps coming down the path as Thorsten frowned and looked behind Tovar at the newcomer.

Tovar risked a glance behind himself. Another Norseman was jogging down the path, his sword already drawn. He was tall, towering over both of them, and his wide shoulders seemed to fill the narrow path behind him.

"You know this dog, Assar?" Thorsten called in surprise, but the tall blonde man ignored him.

"You shouldn't be here, Pero Tovar," he said.

Tovar's brows rose high as he recognised the man. He'd only seen him at a distance at Steinvikr, but he knew who he was.

Your cousin.

And Saga's brother.

It dawned on him as Thorsten called out to Assar again.

"He's about to die, Assar. He's claimed our Jarl's daughter in secret, as if he were her equal."

"I know what he did, and what our Jarl did to my cousin. And if you try to stop Tovar from getting her back, it will be you who dies here, Thorsten," he replied coldly. His sword arm was up, and the sharp tip aimed at the man did not waver.

"What…"

Thorsten glanced at Tovar again, and Assar gave a small shake of his head.

"You were always a rash fighter, Thorsten."

That seemed to shift his focus, hesitation rather than rage as he looked back at Assar. He took a step back, but his heel found only wet stone beneath him. It gave way under his weight, and the moment his balance went, so did his control.

The wind rose along the shore, sharp now, pulling at their cloaks, and filling the narrow path with salt and noise.

Tovar moved before any thought could catch up, closing the short distance while Thorsten still tried to find his balance. It was the only moment he needed. His hand closed around the hilt of the sword, the other shoving Thorsten back, into the cold water and rocks.

His sword.

The weight of it in his grip was almost disorientating, like something long lost snapping back into place, and for a heartbeat he simply held it while Thorsten realised what had happened.

Thorsten’s expression stayed with Tovar; rage breaking into fear as the mercenary lifted the blade and drove it through his throat. Slipping in just where the chain mail left him exposed, dark blood gushed out as he gave a choked, broken cough. He collapsed onto the wet stones, his eyes emptied, turning blank.

For a moment, Tovar stood over him, breathing hard, sword still in hand, and then reality of everything beyond the fight returned.

Then the wind pulled at him again.

The ship would be leaving.

And there was no more time.

Chapter 17

Another cliffhanger! But at least now Pero is free, and Thorsten is dead. Some small revenge at least...

I really went back and forth over this chapter, writing and re-writing the final fight between Tovar and Thorsten, and I hope you enjoyed it and that it was as tense as I wanted it to be! Writing fight scenes is really fun, but it's also hard and I try to make the visuals clear so that you can see the fight in your head as you read it (I hope).

You didn’t set out to hire a contractor with the sole purpose of cheating on your husband. It just happened.

In all fairness, he cheated first. Consistently and repeatedly. His ongoing affairs are the reason you’ve found yourself in this situation in the first place. 

In truth, it started long before his infidelity had. You knew marrying him was a mistake the moment he showed just how little he cared for you and your needs, miniscule as they may be, in your opinion. 

You married Jeremy straight out of college, which was your first miscalculation. Guys your age never quite met your standards of what a healthy and loving relationship should be. But you married him anyway because you thought it’s what you had to do.

His job in finance allowed you to buy the house of your dreams, though it definitely needed some work. He promised you – insisted – that he could take care of the repairs himself despite having the financial means to hire someone else to do it and zero experience doing any sort of manual labor. Your career was just as lucrative as his, so between the two of you, there was no reason you couldn’t afford to hire someone to do the job. You lost track of the amount of times you’d fought him on the topic.

Just hire someone! No, I can do it myself! When? I’ll start soon, I swear!

He never started soon. And now, it’s been five years

The home itself was perfect – full of mid-century modern charm, large, bright windows, sleek, low-pitched roof, open floor plan. You loved it. You did not love the orange shag carpet or the lime green cabinets in the kitchen, nor were you a fan of the square teal tiling covering every inch of both bathrooms. But those problems could be easily resolved. 

Your husband, cheating, vile, misogynistic scumbag that he is, was considerably less simple to deal with.

When you discovered his habitual adultery, you were surprised to feel nothing but anger. Not hurt. Not betrayal. Just pure, unbridled anger.  You hadn’t been happy in years, and quite frankly, you weren’t sure you ever were. 

It sparked a thirst for retaliation in you that couldn’t be quenched without taking full and total control of your life again. 

First on your to-do list was filing for a divorce. You had all the proof you needed to back up your claims of his infidelity – texts, phone calls, receipts for motels – Jeremy was not smart, nor was he careful, which made the task incredibly simple. Seeing as he fucked anything with a pulse, you had plenty of evidence to go on. Your lawyer was astonished, either at his stupidity or the sheer amount of women Jeremy has been caught with, you weren’t sure.

Next, you gathered the funds you needed in order to complete the renovation to your home, and luckily, you’d been saving for that specific task. You wanted him to be dumbstruck when he saw the final product, and then you would hand him the divorce papers and tell him to get the hell out.

Finally, you had to hire the right contractors to get the job done. This proved to be your most ardent task yet. 

It took you weeks to find a suitable contractor to take on your project. You vetted and price checked and examined their work with a scrutiny that would impress even the most seasoned detectives. You took recommendations, avoided certain ones entirely, and finally landed on Miller & Miller Construction.

Their website had no flair. No pizazz. No gimmicks. It was plain, clean, and it showcased their work in stunning clarity. You were impressed. The custom cabinetry was just what you’d been looking for, the craftsmanship simple, but precise. Their eye for design, their workmanship, everything spoke to you. You set up a consultation and met with them as soon as you could.

Joel and Tommy were two completely opposing entities that you weren’t quite sure how to read. Tommy did most of the talking, his smile easy and bright, immediately likable, while Joel sat quietly, eyes trained on you, not exactly frowning, but there was no smile to be had on his face either. You liked them, despite how quiet the elder Miller was, grizzled hair, trimmed scruff on his jaw and chin, mustache flecked with grey.

Something about him made you squirm. 

You could tell immediately how their dynamic worked. Tommy was the salesman, the entrepreneur, the frontman. And Joel was the brawn, the craftsman – it showed in the rough edges of his features, his hands, his discerning eyes. Though, you’re sure they both put in their fair share of hard labor.

Tommy had a tablet in front of him, typing out the details of your project. Joel paced the kitchen, measuring, examining, testing. You watched him, admiring the slope of his broad shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint hints of grey in his beard, rippling muscles hidden under a flannel and a t-shirt.

You blinked out of your haze when Tommy spoke.

“Full-scale kitchen remodel. Custom cabinetry. Updated appliances. Marble counters – that won’t be cheap,” Tommy muttered, but you waved your hand.

“It’s covered. I’ve been saving for years.”

His grin flashed, warm and friendly, “Don’t worry, we won’t drain it all.” He types something else out, muttering, “Hardwood floors, new trim, drywalling, tiling..” he trailed off, listing out everything the two of you had discussed for the entirety of the house. When he was done, he looked across at you with a smile, “I’ll get you an estimate in about a week or so.”

You almost bounced in your seat, giddy with the prospect of your home finally coming to life. You were so ecstatic you almost forgot about the wreckage of your marriage.

“We’ll have our design team set up a consultation, pick materials, colors and such, and then we can get you a fixed timeline. Do you have any questions for us?”

Your eyes darted between him and his stoic older brother before shaking your head, “No, thank you so much.”

In all of your searches and meetings with various contractors in the area, it was the first time you felt seen. They didn’t ask if you needed your husband’s approval. They didn’t ask if he wanted input in the project. Didn’t even ask if you had a husband. But it was clear in your surroundings – the framed picture of you two on your wedding day situated right behind you on the china cabinet, the men’s tennis shoes discarded by the door, the ugly recliner just visible in the living room. Your wedding ring.

Your meeting with their design team went even better – though team was a bit of an overstatement. A woman your age, friendly, bright, excited to help you design your kitchen. Her name was Winona, and she was bubbly without being obnoxious, smart without being a knowitall. And best of all, she took your design ideas and turned them into something spectacular. You loved her.

Jeremy was on a business trip, probably fucking anything that moved, when you signed the final contract to get the house started. And the progress was swift. Efficient for two guys who did all the work themselves. You wondered, briefly, how many projects they normally took on. If they had a crew doing work elsewhere. But it didn’t matter. They were working on your house. 

And Tommy was right. The estimate he provided didn’t drain all you’d saved for the project. You had just enough left over to tuck away for your lawyer fees for your inevitable divorce. Something you were wildly ecstatic about.

Over the course of two weeks, Tommy and Joel arrived at seven am on the dot, ripping apart your house piece by piece, hauling things away, cleaning up the site, and working at a scarily efficient tempo.

By the end of the first week, they’d had the upper level of your home completely bare, painted in the soft, off-white color you’d chosen for the hallways, and the corresponding colors you’d chosen for your office, bedroom, and guest room. You slept on the couch while the upstairs was under construction, and by the end of the second week, you were back in your bedroom, adding the decorative touches you’d been working on while they did the hard labor.

Now that your primary living space was completed, they’d moved on to the rest of the house, spending two weeks alone on the bathrooms, and another full day hauling debris from your house.

You enjoyed seeing them bright and early every day. Tommy’s friendly smile, Joel’s gruff nod. After just under a month, you’d grown accustomed to them. You offered them coffee, brewed in your home office instead of the kitchen, and had bagels and fruit out on the kitchen table for them to enjoy at their leisure. Tommy ate the bagels and fruit. Joel guzzled coffee like it would cure whatever had him looking so grumpy all the time. 

You chatted with Tommy during your lunch breaks, and you were surprised to find that you enjoyed his company. He was charming and friendly and sweet and nothing like his quietly cantankerous brother. You were lucky if you got more than two words out of Joel in a day, but Tommy was quickly becoming the highlight of the entire project.

You learned a lot about him, and incidentally Joel, every time the two of you sat down for lunch. He told you about their construction company, the scale of their work, and how business has really picked up over the last couple of months. He told you about his wife, Maria, and how she was due to give birth any day now. He expressed his excitement, his trepidation, and joy at becoming a father. He’d had a lot of practice with Joel’s daughter, but she was grown now. That surprised you.

You couldn’t picture Joel getting close enough to someone to have a child with them.

While Joel cut lumber on your back patio, you lowered your voice and asked, “He’s married?”

Tommy took a heaping bite of his sandwich and shook his head, “Nah, wife ran off a couple months after Sarah was born. ‘S just him now that Sarah’s gone off to school in Washington.”

You could see Joel through the patio door, hunched over a piece of lumber, marking it with a pencil, brows furrowed in concentration, eyes focused. You hadn’t let yourself examine him very closely, but watching him work, you were struck by how handsome he was. You’d thought so when you first met the pair of them, but you were so focused on getting the project off the ground, you paid little attention.

His green flannel drew tight over his shoulders and biceps, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He tucked the pencil behind his ear as he maneuvered the piece of wood into place and ripped it through the saw. His forearms tensed, fingers deft and precise as he pulled the wood through. His jaw clenched as he examined it, flicked away the sawdust, eyes singularly focused on his task. 

“Easy, sugar,” Tommy drawled, snapping you out of your trance, “He’s a surly old bastard. Don’t wanna get mixed up with that.”

You gaped at him, cheeks coloring, pressing a hand to your chest, “Excuse me? That would be highly inappropriate.” You tried to sound glib, but Tommy was right. You were attracted to Joel. And you were aching for someone to touch you. 

You hadn’t had sex in nearly a year thanks to Jeremy’s exploits. You were not interested in contracting an STD from him, and you were so disgusted by him, the thought of having sex with him turned your stomach.

In the month since the project began, Jeremy had only been home twice, complaining about the mess and the dust and screaming at you for going through with the renovation when he’s perfectly capable of doing it all himself.

“Who’s paying for all of this anyway?” He asked derisively. You crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at him. Joel and Tommy were downstairs, completing the tile work for the guest bathroom, and you knew they could hear every word. “I bet they’re taking you for a ride. Women always get scammed by contractors, are you stupid?”

“Shut the fuck up, Jeremy!” You shouted at him, unable to contain your fury. “Why don’t you just go back to fucking your assistant and keep your shitty opinions to yourself!” You stormed out of the room, slamming the door in his face and retreating to the back patio where Joel was hunched over a wet saw, lining up a tile to cut with with the precision you’d come to expect from him.

He looked up at you, his face neutral, lips set in a firm line, dark eyes assessing.

“Everying alright?”

Stunned by his gentle voice, you’d been unable to speak, simply nodding your head and watching as he nodded back and hunched over the saw again.

Jeremy left, and hadn’t been back since.

Between your frustration at your husband, and Tommy’s comment about Joel, a spark of determination lit inside you like dry shrub in a wild fire. Your previously controlled, distant admiration of Joel transformed into a cloying, desperate urge, and he was the one and only thing on your mind.

But that didn’t mean anything would happen. Not with Joel’s sour disposition and gruff exterior. Talking to Tommy was easy. Talking to Joel – well, there was very little that came out of his mouth, so you weren’t sure it could be qualified as talking. Which is why it was so shocking to you that he’d spoken to you in the first place.

You tried. You really did. Every time he came to your office for a coffee refill, you immediately dropped what you were doing in order to strike up a conversation with him. But he never budged. Just grunted, gave one word answers, sometimes even just stared at you like you hadn’t spoken at all. You wondered why he even bothered coming into your office in the first place. Why not just send Tommy to get his refills if it was such a burden to talk to you?

His silence perturbed you. And you were determined to get his attention. 

You were so desperate, you started wearing less. Instead of yoga pants and a conservative pull over sweater, you switched to shorts and loose t-shirts that hung off your shoulder. It was an easy switch to make as the last remnants of chilly spring weather finally succumbed to the prickling heat of summer.

If Joel noticed your slowly deteriorating selection of moderate clothing, he didn’t let on. And the more he ignored you, the more you wanted him.

Instead of letting him come to you for coffee, you brought the pot out to him, low cut, form fitting, spaghetti strap top displaying your perky breasts. Your shorts barely covered your ass. And he didn’t even blink.

“Coffee?” You ask coquettishly, lifting your chest just a touch. His eyes stayed on yours, steadfast, hard, and determined, as he held his mug out for you to fill.

“Thanks,” he grunted, taking a large gulp. 

“Hot today,” you point out, the beginning of summer making its presence known. “You sure you don’t wanna come inside? Take a break?”

His eyes never strayed. Not once. He shook his head, “Tommy should be back with more lumber any minute.”

It’s the most words you've heard leave his mouth in a consecutive string. It emboldens you.

You nod at the comfortable, air conditioned living room just on the other side of the French doors, “Just a quick break. I can get you something cold to drink. Lemonade? A beer?”

You were pushing, and he wasn’t conceding, turning back to the makeshift work table he had set up under the shade of your patio; three saw horses with a large piece of plywood acting as the tabletop, “‘M alright, darlin’. Why don’t you go cool off?”

Darlin’. That subtle Texas drawl, syrupy smooth, deep and rich like honey. He’d called you Darlin’. 

You shouldn’t devote too much thought to it. Tommy calls you ‘Sugar’ all the time. Even goes as far as ‘Sweetheart’ on some occasions. But it was natural coming from him. Harmless and utterly platonic. He’s a smooth talker and a schmoozer. From Joel, it was so foreign, so out of character, you didn’t know what to do. He’d hardly said two words to you in the past, and now he’s giving you sweet nicknames. Calling you Darlin’ was just as harmless as Tommy calling you Sugar, but it did something to you.

You left him on the patio and shuffled back to your office, dazed. 

You liked it, you realized, skin flushed and heat simmering low in your belly. You wanted him to do it again. Call you by more endearing pet names. Even in your five years of marriage to Jeremy, he’d only ever addressed you by your name or a condescending ‘babe’. You hadn’t realized how pathetically you’d been yearning for more. Something softer, sweeter, kinder. Not until Joel.

But he didn’t seem interested. Should you be more direct? Ask him, outright, if he was attracted to you? Should you strip naked and throw yourself at him? No, no. That was too direct. You had more self respect than that. Maybe. Probably not.

Jeremy had neglected you for so long, your mind was spinning out of control. You want to be wanted. You want to be touched. And you want Joel.

When Tommy returned with the lumber, you watched them unload it from his pickup truck. Joel shed his flannel and was now clad in a white t-shirt that hugged his biceps, his back spotted with sweat and his muscles bulging with the effort of lugging wood into your home. Fuck, you couldn’t stand it.

You have to do something about this ache between your legs. The sudden, unquenchable thirst you feel for him. If skimpy outfits and shy invitations to join you for coffee don’t do it, you know what will. And it’s just about as close to stripping naked as you could get.

When Joel arrives the next day, without Tommy, you greet him with a smile, a fresh pot of coffee, and a question in your gaze that asks where his brother is.

“Wife went into labor late last night. I’ll be finishin’ up without him,” he grunts, though without any of the typical irritability that comes with the need to socialize. Maybe the birth of his nephew had softened him.

You’re a little sad you won’t get to see Tommy, but thrilled to have Joel all to yourself.

As you step aside to let him in, you don’t miss the way his eyes flit down your bare legs. You hadn’t bothered getting dressed, still clad in your oversized sleep shirt that barely hangs down past your ass. 

As he sets about getting his bearings from where he left off the previous day, you pour him a cup of coffee and toast and butter a bagel for him, knowing he doesn’t much care for the indulgence of cream cheese or jelly. He thanks you with a grunt and shuffles his way onto the patio to get started. Your eyes linger on the way his navy t-shirt stretches across his broad, muscular back.

After you change into a revealing tank top and the shortest shorts you own, you coop yourself up in your office to get some work done. But when you’re done for the day, you can’t help yourself. You check in on him, peering through the back doors and asking if he wants something to eat. You expect him to decline, but when he graciously accepts, you bounce giddily to the kitchen to make him a sandwich. 

Today is different. You can feel it. 

When you present him with the sandwich, he dusts his hands on his jeans and nods at you in thanks, but doesn’t say anything. He only watches you, eyes flitting to your cleavage so quickly, you think you imagine it. But then he looks you dead in the eyes as he takes a bite of the sandwich and chews it slowly.

Something in you snaps and your blood heats, making your skin flush. You rush away from him, and as you retreat inside, you swear you hear him chuckle.

With your heart racing and an idea bubbling to life in your mind, you race upstairs and start digging through your closet until you find exactly what you’re searching for. If he wants to tease you, you’re going to tease him right back.

You pull on a white and blue bikini with strings that tie at the hips, around the base of your neck, and at the middle of your back. After applying a nude gloss to your lips and dabbing a light amount of makeup across your cheeks, you pull on a black sheer coverup, that flows down past your ankles, leaving it open. It does little to hide your scantily clad body as you tiptoe back downstairs with a book and a bottle of tanning oil in your grip.

You walk past the back door as deliberately as you can, making sure to catch his attention as you carefully maneuver your way through your deconstructed kitchen to fill a glass with ice water and lemon slices. With your sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose, you finally step onto the patio, your tits on display, legs bare and gleaming, and smile coy and searching.

”I’m going to lay out by the pool for a bit. If you get hungry or thirsty, help yourself to anything you like,” you tell him, feigning disinterest. Acting like you don’t see the way his throat bobs and his eyes greedily drink you in. He doesn’t say anything to you as you take the three short steps down to your yard and traipse over to your pool.

The early summer sun is blazing hot, and sweat prickles your skin the moment you lay out on your teakwood lounger, the white cushion comfortable but warm from the heat of the day. Your eyes dart toward Joel to make sure he’s watching, and you slowly slip out of your coverup, intentionally dropping it and bending at the waist to pluck it off the stone pavers surrounding your pool.

It feels almost comically pornographic to resort to this type of temptation, but with the blatant way he watches you, it’s worth it.

You lean back on the lounger, snatching up your book and flipping to the page you’d left off on. It’s some tawdry romance novel with a shirtless cowboy on the front. Painfully transparent with little to no plot, but you’re not reading it for the plot, anyway.

Your skin prickles with awareness, your eyes darting toward Joel every few minutes to catch him watching you for the briefest moment before he returns to the meticulous work of assembling your cabinetry. 

When your ice water is half gone and too warm to enjoy, you decide to take a brief dip into the pool. You stand, adjusting your bottoms, pulling them up just a touch, before wading slowly into the rippling water. The effect is instant, the water immediately cooling you and making goosebumps pebble across your skin, tightening your nipples. 

You’re careful not to get your hair wet, brushing it aside as you drift further in, then back toward the shallow end. A quick glance in his direction makes you frown. His back is to you, broad shoulders leaned over his plywood table. 

The power saw buzzes to life, then quiets. He blows away the sawdust, t-shirt damp with sweat. Biceps straining as he joins two pieces of wood together, fastening them with a clamp. You’re enraptured by his focus. Envious of your very own cabinets and wishing he’d look at you with such deliberate intent and concentration. House be damned.

When you can tell he’s about to turn in your direction, you climb out of the pool, allowing the water to trickle off your frame and slick down your body. You run a hand down your stomach, briefly toying with the pink jewel at your naval, then adjust your bottoms again as you strut back to the lounger.

Under the dark, impenetrable lenses of your sunglasses, your eyes dart to him. He’s staring, his throat bobbing, hands tight around the clamps he’s using to fasten the cabinets together. 

You hide your smile, laying out on your towel to let the sun soak up the water from your skin. You feel his eyes on you more prominently than the moisture coating your body. With a sly smile, you push your sunglasses down your nose to look at him.

“Hey, Joel?” Voice dripping with honey and mischief.

“Yeah, darlin’?” He calls back, still watching. Not even bothering to pretend anymore. And he calls you that name again. Darlin’. Your core clenches.

Biting your lip, you give him a coquettish look that’s all sin and wicked intention, “Will you help me put on some sunscreen?”

Straight out of a porno. The oldest trick in the book. Painfully, achingly transparent. You’re inviting him to touch you. And even from afar, you can see his resolve snap. Eyes darkening, posture going rigid.

“You sure about that?” He asks, voice tight and rough.

You nod, biting your lip for good measure, “Uh huh.”

He shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s about to do, and a devilish smile spreads across your face, triumphant. Joel dusts his hands off on his jeans, trudges down the patio steps, and prowls over to your lounger. His tall, broad frame eclipses the sun, casting shade over you. You grin and roll onto your stomach, acutely aware of the way your ass looks in your tiny bikini.

“Sunscreen, there,” you point to the bottle of tanning lotion on the teakwood table next to you. It’s more of an oil with UV protection, but the idea is the same: you want him to rub it all over your body, and then fuck you senseless.

The scent of pine and leather wraps around you as he sits on the edge of the lounger, careful not to touch you. He grabs the oil and huffs a laugh, “This ain’t sunscreen.”

“It has UV protection!” You argue.

“This is nothin’ more than body oil.”

“Still. Please?” You ask, looking back at him and resting your cheek on your arms. He shakes his head, cheeks dimpling against the smile he’s trying to fight off.

“Ain’t payin’ me to lather you up, honey,” he says under his breath, flicking the cap of the oil open and drizzling it along your back.

“That’s okay. You need a break.”

He hums, setting the bottle aside. Your entire body tingles with anticipation, waiting for his skin on yours. You wait and wait, feeling the oil drip along your spine, your shoulders. Then, finally, the coarse surface of his work roughed hand meets your skin and you shiver.

“S’it okay if I untie this?” He asks, voice so low, so smooth, you’re sure you imagined it. But then you feel his fingers playing with the ties at your neck and you nod, frantically, too eager. “Of course it is.”

You almost giggle. He knows what you’re doing and he’s still placating you. You wiggle a little when he unties the neck, then the back, leaving you bare from the waist up. The moment his hands are back on you, you gasp. Pressure firm, but gentle. Sure and thorough as he spreads the oil around your skin. Brushing your hair aside, he massages the oil into your neck. You peek at him to see that concentrated look on his face. Like tearing him away from his task would undo him.

Then, both of his palms press into your back, eliciting a moan straight from your lips. You clamp your mouth shut, but the pressure is so divine, you almost do it again. 

“Feels okay?” He mutters, hands skimming down your body, your waist, your lower back, and then up again. His fingers graze the sides of your breasts and you nod again. God, if he stopped now, you think you’d cry.

Every pass of his hands turns you to jelly, and soon, he moves down to your legs, first starting at your ankles, then up your calves, careful not to go much further than the bend in your knee. You’re soaked. Skin humming with the effects of his firm, soothing touch, heated by the sun, and glowing faintly with the sheen of oil.

When you feel his hand inch up the inside of your thigh, you suck in a breath.

”Relax,” he coaxes, moving from the top of your thigh down to your knee and back up again. Over and over and over, pressing a little firmer on the way up, and stopping just short of the gusset of your skimpy bikini. “You told me to help myself to anything I liked.”

You did say that. And then you called him over to you to touch you freely. You grin, peeking up at him, cheek resting against your arms, “And you like me?”

His cheeks dimple, his smile so soft, so sexy, you almost say to hell with your little ruse. Something between a grunt and a laugh escapes him, “Darlin’, you got no idea.”

Darlin’. You don’t think you’ll ever get tired of it. You feel yourself grow damp as he moves his hands to your other thigh, repeating the same, torturous ministrations. But this time, he goes so much higher, you think he’s going to graze the covered, soaked apex of your desperately neglected pussy. He never does. Massages right below it. There’s no reason to put oil there, but he does it anyway. His thumbs get closer, massaging circles into your skin, very nearly grazing you, teasing, refusing to give you what you want.

When his hands leave you, you almost cry out in protest, but then he’s nudging your hip, “Turn over for me, sweetheart.”

As you lift up to turn, you toss your bikini top aside, having no desire to feign modesty any longer. He knows it, and you know it. You want him to fuck you.

His eyes spark with interest as they land on your breasts, perky and waiting, nipples tight from your dip in the pool. You lie back, making yourself comfortable as he stares. 

He chuckles, deep and smooth, “Not bein’ shy no more, are you?”

You grin in response as he grabs the oil and drizzles it over your chest, your stomach, and along your arms. He starts at your hands, making sure you’re fully covered, his large ones engulfing them completely in his grasp. The texture of his fingers is rough, but you like it as he moves his way up your wrists, your forearms, and then toward your shoulders, massaging along the way.

“Mm, Joel,” you sigh, his hands rubbing the oil into you completely before moving on. He presses his thumbs into your shoulders, then your collar bones, then the tops of your breasts. He still doesn’t touch you there, but then one hand wraps around your throat, resting, thumbing your pulse point where it hammers rapidly against your skin.

“Lookin’ so pretty,” he says quietly, keeping one hand on your neck while the other finally finally covers your breast. The initial touch is feather light, thumb grazing your nipple. Then, he presses firmer, his entire hand covering you with his palm while he kneads and massages. His hand leaves your neck only to cover your other breast, and you’re giddy with need as he works you into a whimpering, keening mess. “That feel good, darlin’?”

“So good,” you nod, grabbing his wrist to keep him there, demanding more.

He hums, keeping the hand you’ve now possessed on your breast, while the other moves down to rub oil into your tummy. His hands are a work of art, skilled in so many ways. You’re trembling by the time he reaches the top of your bikini bottoms. His pinky slips under the hem, making you gasp. He withdraws and does it again, rubbing back and forth until your hips move up to seek his touch.

“Want me to take these off?” He asks, tugging at the strings, already knowing your answer before you nod rapidly.

“Off, please. Take them off.”

His reply is a deep grunt, and you think that must be his grumpy little way of teasing you, “Needy little thing.”

The bottoms come off, and you’re bared to him, your center slick with need and ready to be fucked. But you just know he’s going to take his time. Simultaneously, you can’t stand it, but you also yearn for it. Being teased and molded into a whimpering mess, desperate for his touch. Your husband has never made you feel like this. Sexy. Desirable. Loved.

“Fuck, look at that pussy, baby,” he groans, still not touching you where you really, really need it. He’s massaging your hips now, leaning over you in a way that’s almost obscene as he gets closer to your slick heat. His thumbs press into your hips, then down your thighs until he’s rubbing oil into your legs, still neglecting you, even though every pretense of professionalism has all but burned up in the wake of your arousal.

“Joel,” you whine, arching your hips.

“Patience,” he answers sternly. And that’s that. Nothing more. 

Every stroke up and down your leg is torture as he repeats the same teasing he’d done to the backs of your legs. Getting closer and closer to your pussy, but never fully touching. You’re so eager, your slick coats your thighs, and on a final pass, he rubs it into your skin before his fingers finally graze your clit. You suck in a sharp breath, your hand shooting out to grab him again. To keep him there. Because if he stops now, you think you’ll actually die.

You look up at him, his eyes dark, his grin wide. You’ve never seen him smile like that, and it’s blinding, warm, and teasing. He rubs circles over your clit delicately, not pressing too hard, not too light. It’s so perfect and you’re so on edge that it has you on the precipice of your orgasm faster than you can blink.

And then he eases up, halting your peak so quickly, your hips buck, making you moan in protest, “No, no, no, don’t stop, please, Joel.”

“Ain’t plannin’ on stoppin’, baby,” he says softly, “Just need to get a better look at you.”

And then he shifts, gently lowering himself to the ground, knees probably screaming in protest, and grabbing you by the hips to pull you to the edge of the lounger, slightly askew on the cushion, but still comfortable. He lowers his head, making you squirm, lips brushing against your hip, across your tummy, briefly pausing to kiss around the pink belly button piercing. You arch your hips, enticing him.

“So eager,” he grumbles, one hand spreading your thigh, hooking it onto his shoulder, the other running up your opposite leg, kneading and massaging you into a puddle.

“I need — I need—“ you breathe, one hand clutching the teakwood, the other reaching for him, digging into the muscles of his shoulder.

“What do you need, baby?”

Your chest is heaving as he plants another kiss below your bellybutton, still massaging your leg while his other hand keeps your thigh firmly planted over his shoulder. 

“Fuck, you smell so sweet,” he sighs, inching down. It’s torture. It’s pure, unbridled torture — waiting for him. You’re a slick mess, oiled up, pussy wet, walls fluttering around nothing. “Tell me what you need,” he repeats.

“I need your tongue,” you gasp, the prickle of his beard on your skin driving you insane. You never would have guessed this. That Joel Miller is a fucking tease. That he’s slow and methodical. That he enjoys making you squirm. But here he is, peppering kisses all across your body, everywhere except your aching core, “Please, make me cum. Please, Joel.”

His chuckle is deep, a hint of red coloring his cheeks and neck, either from the sun or arousal, you don’t care.

“Since you asked nicely.”

And then his mouth is on you, hands spreading your thighs wide, keeping you open for him as he drags his tongue from your weeping cunt to your clit where he sucks, teasing you, making you gasp for air, arching your back off the lounger.

Your burrow a hand into his hair — it’s damp with sweat, but that doesn’t bother you in the slightest. 

His mouth is devastating against you, licking stripe after stripe up your slit, pausing briefly to suck and nibble at your clit until you’re sobbing with need. And then, just when you think it can’t get any better, he pushes one, thick finger into you, stretching you. The burn makes you cry out, the slow drag sending prickles of lightning up your spine.

“This is what you wanted, right, darlin’?” He asks, voice rough with arousal, eyes nearly black as he slowly pumps his finger into you. “It’s why you’ve been walkin’ around lookin’ like that. No pants on. Shorts barely coverin’ you, askin’ me to touch you. Askin’ to get fucked.”

You can’t answer. Your voice stalls in your throat. You can only nod, frantically. He adds a second finger and it almost undoes you. You’re so fucking close. He pushes them deep, leaning down to tease your clit again with his mouth, sucking hard, groaning.

“How do you think your husband would feel if he knew his pretty little wife was gettin’ fucked by the help?” 

He twists his fingers, curling them just so. He prods at the sensitive, soft spot inside you, making your arch.

“Ex. Ex — husband. Soon.”

He hums, “Judging by that ring, he’s no ex.”

It takes every ounce of will power you have to rip your hand away from him and tear the ring off your finger. It glints in the sun and clatters on the table next to you when you slam it down. Then your hand is back in his hair, urging him back to your cunt where he grins and licks you again, this time not pausing, not slowing.

Your orgasm is volcanic, blinding. You think you scream. You know your fingers clench around his hair so tight, you’re in danger of pulling it out of his scalp. And he just keeps going. Finger fucking you into oblivion, tasting your release on his tongue, moaning against you as you ride the waves of your climax into bliss.

You’re trembling when he lifts himself off the ground, fingers still probing deep, hunting for another orgasm. He leans over you, bracing his other hand next to your head, and kisses you. You whimper into his mouth, tasting yourself on his lips, tongues stroking and breaths mingling.

“Joel,” you moan when he removes his fingers, leaving you empty and limp. But he’s not pulling away. He’s kissing down your neck, sucking a spot just below your ear that drives you crazy that your husband always neglects, and undoing his belt.

“Tell me what you need,” he says into your neck. But he already knows. You know he knows. You’ve been begging for it this entire time.

“Fuck me, Joel,” you whine, hands searching for the end of his shirt. They slip underneath, and you moan at the way his muscles feel under your fingertips. He’s warm and rough and you want to see him. “Off.”

He hums, leaning up to pull his shirt over his head and toss it somewhere among your discarded bikini. He comes back to you, lips hot on yours while you concentrate your efforts on getting his jeans undone. He’s hard against your hand as you pull the zipper down, aching and needy.

Once his cock is freed, you break away to take him in, and you almost shrink. He is huge, leaking from the tip, resting heavy against your thigh. Even with how wet you are, you don’t know if he’ll fit. But God you want to try. 

“Don’t worry, baby, I got you,” he grunts, shoving his jeans and boxers off. He straightens you on the lounger, making room for himself as he climbs over you. He’s golden and glistening in the sun, slick with sweat and your arousal shimmering on his chin. 

The sight of his broad, hard form over you almost makes you cum again. 

He catches you gawking and you could swear he’s trying to fight off a smug smile, but his lips only twitch in amusement instead. Taking his cock in hand, he drags the tip through your folds, making you shudder and reach for his hips, holding him as he hovers, nails pressing a little harder than you intend. He doesn’t seem to mind.

As his tip catches your entrance, he groans, “Nice and wet for me, aren’t you?”

You can only nod, speech evading you as he slowly, cautiously sinks into you. The stretch is everything. You’re so full, so wet, and inconsolable, it makes you mewl in delight. 

“What’s that, darlin’?”

”So — so big. Your cock is so big, Joel,” you sigh, shifting your hips, taking him deeper. The burn is exquisite, but you need him to move. Need him to fuck you into another reality. ”Please..”

”Such pretty little manners,” he tells you, withdrawing slowly.

The first thrust is devastating. The second is mind numbing. And after the third, you’re holding onto him for dear life. It doesn’t take long for you to melt underneath him, arching your hips so he hits at just the right angle. 

“Tightest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had, baby,” he pants, leaning down to mutter profanities into your ear, nibbling and kissing your neck, “That husband doesn’t take care of you at all does he?”

”No, no, no, never,” you chant, every part of you ready to snap.

“Bet he hasn’t fucked you proper in years,” he grunts, the sound of your skin slapping together downright obscene. “That’s all you needed, huh, darlin’?”

“Uh huh,” you yelp, almost a broken sob leaving you as he drives into you, “Fuck me, Joel..”

“Nothin’ to worry about now, I’ll take real good care of you.”

You could cry from the relief of it. The way his hips slam into you, how deep he is, how attentive. Even at the strongest point in your marriage, it’s never been like this, and it’s ecstasy.

Pleasure pools low in your belly, his cock hitting that sweet, sensitive spot inside you so perfectly, the precipice of your orgasm is on you in an instant. Just as you’re about to cum, he stills, breath heaving, your walls trembling, clenching around him.

“Joel,” you whine, breathless and wanting.

“Not yet, baby,” he tells you, voice syrupy and thick. Pressing a kiss to your neck, then your lips, he sits up on his knees, takes you by the thighs and lifts your hips to grind against him. The position is utterly indecent, back arched, him holding your thighs for leverage while he begins snapping his hips against you. And it’s like he never stopped in the first place.

Your orgasm crashes into you, hands reaching for his wrists to hold on as he towers over you, giving you everything he’s got. The power of his thrusts knocks the breath out of you.

“Take it, baby, fuck, you’re such a good girl,” he grounds out, sweat slicking his muscled chest, dripping down his temple. “You got me so wound up, darlin’, prancin’ around looking sexy as sin. Now I’ve got you all to myself.”

“Don’t stop, please,” you keen, desperately grasping for air, your climax driving away all rational thought and composure. “It’s so good, please, don’t stop.”

“Gonna make me cum, sayin’ things like that.”

You think, then, that you’d be fine with it. Letting him cum inside you, or paint your oiled up body with his seed. Mark you, stake his claim on you. He can cum wherever he wants, you decide, as long as he promises to do it again.

“Ain’t gonna let that piece of shit husband touch you again,” he declares, pinning you with a solid, steady stare, “You’re mine now, darlin’.”

You tell him, then, “Cum inside me, Joel,” nearly sobbing as his powerful thrusts drive you toward another orgasm with blinding speed. His movements are precise and deliberate, his eyes going dark at your words.

You know he wants to do it, that he can’t stop himself even if he wanted to. Even if you weren’t begging for it.

“Yeah?” He huffs, hooking his arms a little higher around your thighs to gain better leverage. You shift your hips, cry out as his cock goes deeper, spearing into you so completely you never want him to leave.

You’re almost sobbing with the approach of another orgasm, one that will undo you and wreck you for the rest of your life. All you can do is nod and gasp and hold onto him as he fucks you deeper. Your neighbors are going to hate you.

“Shit, darlin’,” he grunts, the buck of his hips frantic as he chases his release. When your nails bite into his forearm, the tight coil of his control snaps like a cable and you feel warm ropes of cum fill you. A final orgasm paints stars across your vision, and you faintly hear a guttural moan leave him as you tighten around him once more. He doesn’t stop fucking you until you’re both spent, your muscles aching and fingers sore from how tightly you have them wound around his wrists.

He collapses on top of you in a heap, your bodies slippery with sweat and oil. His hot breath fans over your neck, the weight of him both grounding and comforting. The scruff of his beard prickles your skin as he peppers kisses along your chin, down the column of your throat.

”Ain’t gonna be able to finish those cabinets today,” he grunts.

A slow smile spreads across your lips, ”Why not?”

He lifts his head to gift you with a warm smile of his own, captivated, even after the way he’d fucked you. Surprised that he gives it so willingly now that you’ve had each other in the most physical and intimate manner possible.

”Wanna take you out. Dinner. Will you let me?”

His offer stuns you into silence. 

Yes, you’d practically begged for him to fuck you. Asked him to cum inside you. Told him you were as good as divorced. And yeah, you have every intention of having sex with him again.

But a date? That says something. It speaks volumes to his intentions. Which both frightens and thrills you.

Despite you throwing yourself at him for weeks on end and finally getting what you want, he wants more. And not just your body. 

Your hesitation draws his eyebrows down, “We don’t have to ––“

”I want to,” you answer quickly. But there’s still that lingering sense of doubt. Of trusting someone with yourself only to be stabbed in the back. Betrayed in the most visceral sense. You didn’t have sex with him because you wanted to move on from Jeremy right into another twisted, sickly excuse for a relationship. You just needed attention. And Joel gave it.

He lifts himself off of you and pulls on his jeans, “It’s fine if you don’t wanna ––“

”Joel.”

”I’m too old to be playin’ games, darlin’. If I wasn’t clear before — I like you. More than I should. And I know you’re married, but that didn’t stop us, did it? So if you want this, I’m here. If not, no hard feelin’s.”

He’s half dressed now, jeans buttoned, belt still hanging loose, t-shirt hanging over his broad shoulder. His wide frame blocks the sun, allowing you to see him clearly. No man has ever been as direct and straightforward with his needs. Not like that. It’s… different. Refreshing. Almost unheard of.

You almost want to pull him back down and let him have his way with you again, but you’re a woman of control and poise. You can articulate your needs just as clearly as he has. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t at least a little bit interested in seeing what manifests.

”Dinner would be lovely,” you begin, keeping your expression controlled, “When Jeremy gets back from whatever trip he’s on, I’m serving him the divorce papers.”

You can see the moment when your words sink in, the pleasant twitch of his lips, the way he leans over you and brushes his lips against yours. This kiss is tender and sweet in a way you haven’t experienced from your own husband in years. But it’s what he says next that turns your body into mush and your mind pliant and docile.

“Good girl.”

I apologize for the length of this

"Pero!"

You gasped his name, a strangled sound as Pero spun around at Thorsten's roar.

The man's face was triumphant, grinning at you and Pero as he called to the hirdmen.

"Men! Behind the stable, seize the thrall!"

You grabbed Pero's shoulder from behind, hanging on to his shirt as he put himself in front of you, his arms coming out as if to shield you from the malice on Thorsten's face.

Bile rose in your throat as you heard the sound of the hirdmen's boots, and the door of the long house slamming open as your father stepped out, calling Thorsten's name.

"Behind the stable, my Jarl."

Pero suddenly turned, grabbing your arms and locking eyes with you, his fingers digging into your flesh.

"I'll find you, amor. I'll find you, anywhere. Keep the child safe."

"Pero, no, no…"

Rough hands were pulling him away, forcing his hands from your arms as the hirdmen dragged him backwards, towards Thorsten. That man was still grinning, looking at you with glee as your father came hurrying around the corner.

"I just found them, Jarl," he said, gesturing at Pero who was held by three men, his head forced back by a strong arm around his neck, as if he was about to run. Your heart was beating high in your chest, panic filling your head with a buzzing sound as you tried to get out of the grip of the hirdman who'd grabbed you. But Pero wasn't fighting, he was still looking at you, his dark eyes quietly pleading with you, to calm your rapid breathing as the hirdmen pulled his arms tight.

"Were they…?" your father asked, letting the question hang in the air as Thorsten nodded.

"Yes, Jarl, and planning their escape, I heard them."

Your father's face darkened, stepping in front of you so that you could no longer see Pero, his large frame filling your vision, forcing you to look up at his flushed face. With a hiss he raised his hand, making you flinch as he stopped himself just in time. Instead he closed it into a fist and let it drop, his shoulders heaving as he stared at you.

"Put him in chains, in the old earth cellar. I'll deal with him later," he said, his eyes dark with rage, as he addressed the hirdmen. His voice was cold and flat, hard, and behind him you heard the hirdmen acknowledge and pull Pero away. When you tried to step to the side to look at him, your father shoved you back, grabbing your arm the way Pero had, but this time it hurt.

"Another free man I could've forgiven you for, even one of the greenest in my hird," he hissed, his voice low so that only you could hear, "But this, a thrall, bought with my silver? Not even a man, just a pig rooting when it should be slaughtered."

"He's not a thrall, he's a warrior, better than any of those in your hird," you spat back, anger suddenly surging up, your temper squashing down your fear as you struggled against his grip, "He's a better man than any of your hird."

Your father's face was red with anger, but behind him you saw Pero, blood trickling from his mouth as he looked desperately at you now, his eyes suddenly wide and fearful.

"Pero!" you called, shoving your father back and he stumbled, "Pero!"

You saw him move as he heard you, suddenly throwing himself back to break from the hirdmen's grip, his arms slipping from theirs, and you ran towards him. But he was still being held from behind, the hirdman's arm around his neck pulling tight, forcing his head up. Slipping in the mud of the dung heap, you staggered, calling his name again.

A shadow moved in the corner of your eye, and pain shot through your head, the world going dim as wet mud slapped against your cheek. Pero struggled, shouting loudly, and then his voice cut off.

You were pulled out of your daze as someone put you down onto your bed, almost tossing your body onto the covers, the impact jolting you awake. Pain flared up through your cheek as it hit the pillow, and you groaned, pushing yourself up.

"Bar her door, she's not to leave," you heard your fathers voice as he stepped out of the room "The bruise will fade before she gets to England."

Thorsten was still standing by the door, looking at you with a smirk, but at your father's words he turned to the jarl.

"She's still to go to England? Will the lord still want her now?"

"The lord won't know," the Jarl replied, "I'll talk to the men, no one is to say a word. And none of those men will escort her across, you can take some of them to Vinland."

"I thought you might keep her at Ulvehi, can you trust her to marry the English lord?" Thorsten glanced at you, and you realised he still had other plans, or hopes even.

"She'll marry as soon as she arrives in Jórvik, and then she's his property under Christian law."

"I won't marry him," you gritted out as you bit back at the pain in your check and stood up, glaring at Thorsten, "And not you either, Thorsten."

Your father came back into the room, and the rage on his face from before had shifted into something darker as he stared at you.

"You root around with a thrall and think you can decide your future?" he snarled, taking a step towards you as you steeled yourself to not flinch, "I am Jarl of this clan and I own him. And I own you too, daughter. He is cattle at this farm, and maybe I should sell you as cattle too? See how well you'd fare as a thrall?"

He looked at you, shaking his head as he drew a deep breath, "You should thank God I'm letting you marry while you can still give me English grandsons."

He turned again, and left before you could spit a reply at him. Instead Thorsten slammed the door as you rushed to it, thrumming your fist on it.

"I won't marry him!" you shouted, banging on the door, but the old oak planks didn't even rattle, "I won't! I'm a free woman, I can choose myself! This is not our way! Father! Let me out! Father!"

Your hand hurt as you slammed it against the hard wood, shouting your throat raw as you felt it close up, tears dimming your vision. Nothing on the outside stirred, no one came running, your father held too much power over his people for anyone to risk his anger in this long house.

Sinking down against the door, you sobbed, fighting against the panic in your chest. Being forced to England to marry wasn't even the worst. You were sure you'd be able to escape before you even got to Jorvik. But Pero…Pero…

You feared what your father would do to him, and most of all you feared that you'd never see him again. He could be killed, and you wouldn't even know. He could already be dead, and you still wouldn't know. Your fingernails dug into your palms as you tried to stop yourself from screaming again, choking back panic at the very thought.

How could you have been so reckless? All you needed to do was to keep away from him for a few more weeks at most, and then you'd both be free. Now he was certain to die, and all you could do was to throw yourself from the ship and hope you'd join him. Once you were married to the lord and in whatever stronghold he lived in, your life wouldn't be worth anything anyway.

The Jarl glared at Thorsten as they entered the great hall, his daughter's comment about not marrying him either hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Select your men, make preparations, Thorsten. Asgeir will bring her to England, you will take the thrall and sell him in Skiringssal. The men from Falu will soon be arriving to buy thralls for the mine and he's strong. At least I can make back some of the money he's cost me, and the added pleasure of knowing that he will have a slow death."

"Yes, Jarl," Thorsten replied, nodding and waiting for his lord to dismiss him. But the Jarl kept him in place with his gaze, studying the younger man.

"Do well on this mission to Vinland, and you will get your reward. It won't be my daughter, she is too valuable, and she doesn't have many years left to bear children. But you'll have a good and beautiful wife to honour your status when you return."

"Yes, Jarl, thank you," Thorsten nodded, and hesitated before he spoke again, "The thrall, Hauknefr…will selling him to the mines be enough punishment? What if he escapes? Why not make an example of him here?"

"What do you know of the Falu copper mine, Thorsten?" the Jarl asked, and Thorsten shook his head in reply.

"Not much, Jarl. Asgeir says their metal is as pure as it gets."

"The men in the valley there dig deep holes into the ground, like the dwarfs in the sagas. The thralls are sent into the holes to burn great fires against the mountain walls, cracking the stone and digging it out. They haul it up in baskets on their backs, and those who don't die from illness caused by the smoke, are often killed by the mountain collapsing on top of them. Hauknefr won't last a season, and he will either die swiftly crushed by a rock, or he'll die slowly as his breath is taken from him by the smoke. Don't worry, I'm not being merciful to a thrall who claimed my daughter."

Sleep was fitful throughout the night. Through the smoke hole you watched the sky darken for a few hours before the short spring night turned to dawn again. From the outside you could hear the clear sounds of preparation and departure, and your own chest of clothes had already been packed and brought down to the ship. It was to take you from Ulvehi to Skiringssal, and then across the western sea to Jórvik in England together with a group of Ulvehi's hirdmen. Your time was running out, you had a day left, maybe just hours.

A sudden, sharp, knock on your door made you jump up from the bed as the guard pushed it open and stepped in.

"Be quick about it, Nicholas," he told the man who waited on the threshold.

"My lady," Nicholas said, bowing his head before approaching you. The guard remained by the door, holding it open and watching you both.

"Nicholas, why are you here?" you asked, fighting to keep your voice neutral, as you pressed your hands together, but the look of panic was hard to miss in your face.

"I'm here to return my writings on healing that you commissioned me, lady", Nicholas replied in Norse, "I thought you would want to bring them to England, I hear you are leaving today."

So it was to be so soon, Nicholas had confirmed it, and he saw your eyes widen in fear as you took hold of the carefully wrapped bundle of parchment he handed to you.

"I have taken the liberty of adding my own knowledge of…" Nicholas paused, frowning as if he was looking for a word, "I'm sorry, my Norse is not good enough to discuss the plants."

"In English then?" you asked, switching language as the guard looked on, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"I've added my knowledge of plants, but some of it might be incorrect. If you find it lacking, please scratch out my scribbles. And the writing tools are in there too, thank you for lending them to me. But please be careful when you unwrap them, they might fall out."

Placing the wrapped parchment on the bed behind you, you felt something bulge under your hands, more than just a writing tool. Keeping your face plain, you turned back to Nicholas.

"Thank you, your knowledge about healing and plants will be very useful for the English too," you told him, and he nodded. You longed to ask him directly about Pero, but some of the hirdmen spoke English, and you didn't know if this one did or not.

Nicholas bowed, "Save travels, my lady."

Outside of the door someone called for the guard and he glanced behind him and stepped out. You could still see his back, but he was speaking to someone, raising his voice, and you took your chance.

"Pero? Tell me," you whispered.

"Alive, bruised, but alive," Nicholas mumbled, "The rumour is that the Jarl is selling him to the copper mine. Don't do anything rash, my lady, Pero will tear down that mountain and come for you. And he made the dog himself, he was meaning to give it to you."

"Thank you, Nicholas," you breathed out, temporary relief filling your chest, "Thank you for everything. I'll send word to you if I can."

The guard stepped back into the room, his boots scuffing on the threshold, and Nicholas bowed again.

"My lady."

And then he was gone.

There was no time after that. You wrapped the bundle of parchment Nicholas had given you into another piece of cloth and tied it tight, putting it at the bottom of your small chest of personal belongings. You held it tight under your arm as you were escorted down to the ship, walking past your brother and his wife without a glance. Not a word had your brother said to help you, not when you were shipped off with Grim, or when plans were made for England. He was as bad as your father, and his wife under his thumb. There was no help coming from that direction, and you didn't even want to look at him as you walked across Ulvehi for the last time.

Your father was standing on the docks, his face grim, as you prepared to step on to the ship. Remembering something you suddenly turned to him.

"Father, I need to say goodbye to Aska before I leave," you said, giving Asgeir your chest to place on the ship.

He hesitated for a few moments, looking up as if to check on the wind, or to gauge if you had found a way to run. But he couldn't find any reason to say no.

"Quickly then, before the wind changes," he said, waving his hand at you.

You ran across the yard, the hirdman your father sent after you rushing to keep up, but you stopped him as he caught up with you at the door into the stable, barring his way.

"I need a moment alone with Aska, you know what she means to me."

The hirdman looked back over his shoulder, but nodded, and then took up post outside the door. It was ridiculous, where would you even run to if you could? Pero wouldn't be here, he'd be held in the small building he'd been confined to before, after he ran the first time.

The stable wasn't empty, a few thralls were going through the morning routines, clearing the stalls and feeding the horses. Aska was eating, the soft crunch of hay coming from her stall as you walked into it. Ravn followed close behind, your perpetual shadow even now, and the horse dipped her head and snorted at the large dog. She'd raised him as much as you had, nipping at the young dog when his energetic leaps and bounds became too much for her. Now he slipped inside, sniffed around the hay and lay down, his head on his big paws. He knew there was a change coming too, and he wasn't happy about it.

You buried your face against Aska's shaggy coat, wrapping your arms around her neck. Her thick winter coat was shedding, and you felt the hairs tickle your nose as you inhaled her scent. She wouldn't understand your goodbye, just wonder why you never came to see her again, but you knew you'd always miss her. Your first horse, the offspring of your mother's favourite mare, that you'd raised yourself from the day she was born. She was getting old now, she didn't have many years left, but you wished you could've been with her until the end. Not be forced to leave her behind because of your father's greed for power and influence.

Aska turned her head and nudged your shoulder before going back to her hay, and you squeezed her neck again and took a deep breath, forcing back the tears that were beginning to spill.

"You'll be waiting for me in Fólkvangr, Aska. I'm sure Freya will take us both," you mumbled, scratching her thick mane, "Stay safe until then, I'll miss you, girl."

Taking another deep breath you let go of her neck, turning away quickly before you changed your mind. You quickly rubbed your palms over your face, wiping at the tears as you swallowed the lump in your throat. Ravn whined next to you, bumping his nose against your leg, but you ignored him. There was no other choice but to force yourself into a detached space, pushing down the panic, grief and anger that had been simmering in you since that dreadful moment with Pero behind the stable.

The stable door closed with a dreadful finality as you stepped out through it and glanced over at the small building you knew Pero would be in. Could you run to him? Or would it make things worse? 'Don't do anything rash', that's what Nicholas had said, but could you leave Pero behind without even trying?

You paused your step, stopping in the middle of the farm yard and looked around you. Whatever happened, it would be your last time at Ulvehi, you were sure of it. The long house on your right, the thick old logs darkened by many years of harsh weather, the dock down by the fjord, flanked by those impenetrable mountainsides that had kept you and Pero so trapped for almost two years, and on your left, the thrall house, the kitchen and the garden behind it, and then the climbing slopes up towards the high peaks.

"The Jarl is waiting," the hirdman behind you said, his voice low, but his tone clear; don't do anything foolish.

You looked down at the dock again where you could see your father and the rest of your family waiting. The decision was already made, and with one foot in front of the other, you walked back across the yard, leaving Pero behind.

The young hirdman walked behind you, and followed you up onto the ship, as you walked past your father without a glance. It was a small act of defiance, he would get no farewell from his daughter this time. Everyone at Ulvehi knew you were forced into this, again, and you refused to make it easier for him, to save his face. So you left him standing, and sat down on the ship, your back turned against him and Ulvehi as the crew pushed out into the fjord.

The ship's name was Mánaskip, one of your father's largest long ships that could weather the journey across to England in under a week with fair winds. In just a few days you would again be far away from all that was familiar. The journey down to Skiringssal passed in a daze as you sat on one of the benches of the long ship, Ravn's head in your lap.

The tall mountainsides of the fjord were slipping past, and you wanted to look back at Ulvehi, a glimpse maybe of places where you'd met, and fallen in love with, someone so unlikely as Pero Tovar. But you bit down hard on your lips, holding back the tears that were burning behind your eyes, keeping your head high and looking past the dragon head at the bow of the ship, refusing to look back.

He would follow, he would. There was no other way this could end.

He had to follow.

And you would be as strong as he needed you to be, until he found you again.

As the ship finally passed Skiringssal many hours later, the large port at the mouth of the fjord, you barely noticed, still keeping your eyes fixed on the horizon in front of the ship. Asgeir put his hand gently on your shoulder and made you look at him.

"My lady, we're passing Skiringssal, if you want to ask for a safe journey."

"Why?" you asked bluntly, "There is no safety for me. Let it sink and take us all to Náströnd."

Asgeir shook his head, "Your father is doing what is best for the family, for Ulvehi. You have a part to play in that, as his daughter."

"You don't even believe that, Asgeir;" you said, standing up as Skiringssal began to shrink behind the ship, "You know he is wrong in this, but you owe him too much of your life to say it."

You heard him sigh behind you, shifting his weight on the creaking planks of the deck, as you left him standing and retired to the small cabin reserved for you, your composure failing as you closed the door.

The men who sailed Mánaskip, your father's hirdmen, would sleep in shifts on deck, but this small cabin, a storage room really, would house you on the journey. You hadn't settled yourself there during the journey down to Skiringssal, while there was maybe some hope that the ship wouldn't sail on past it. But now the port was already shrinking behind you and the ship, and the next stop was Jorvik, and the man you were supposed to marry.

Sinking down on the bed, the panic you'd kept at bay made your hands tremble as you drew a deep breath, tears making your vision hazy. Ravn put his large head on your lap, whining softly at your discomfort, and you buried your face in his shaggy fur as he tried to lick your cheeks. To have him with you was a relief at least, it felt like you were bringing a friend with you as you left everything else behind, every gust of wind pushing the ship further away.

It wasn't until late in the night of the first night on the ship that you remembered the package Nicholas had given you. He'd filled it with sheets of parchment filled with his neat script, writing names of plants and their properties in both English, Latin and Norse runes. You carefully flipped through them, looking for another familiar scribble.

At last you found it, tucked into a folded down page, a small piece of scrap paper, easy to overlook.

'Amor, te trobaré. Te lo prometo'

The foreign words almost mocked you on the page. Pero had only written short messages in English to you before, a place, or a time. He'd never been taught how to write in English, but this was his own language. It was similar to the little bit of Latin you knew, but still too different for you to understand. He must've written it in a hurry, without time to think about the translation.

You stroked the bold ink marks on the page, his handwriting much more sure of itself in Spanish. You could almost see him in the way the rushed lines chased across the parchment, strong, confident, intelligent. The man he was underneath the thrall that you first saw. But underneath there was more of him, another side you knew not many had ever seen since he left childhood; tender, passionate, and warm. The way he cupped your check and ran his thumb over it, his dark brown eyes looking at you with such warmth, you’d never have guessed that the sullen face he showed the world could soften into something so tender when it was just the two of you. 

Mimicking his gesture, you ran your thumb over the words again, and the few words that you could understand; 

Love

Promise

He always called you the first, and the second was what Nicholas had told you; Pero would tear down the mountain to come to you, he'd find you, that was his promise. You just had to keep believing it.

Folding up the parchment, you tucked it into your dress, hiding it beneath your clothes for safe keeping. Picking up the package again, you carefully moved the writing tools aside and lifted up the final bundle. Wrapped in a cloth was the small object that you'd felt as Nicholas handed you the package. Your finger touched hard bone as you unwrapped it, and your eyesight grew misty again as you saw what it was.

Three days. That’s how long you've been in here, counting by the rhythm of the ration slot and the heavy clank of boots that come once per shift change. Three days since the bounty hunter who calls himself Vane dragged you off your transport with a vibroblade at your throat, smiling like he'd won a sabacc pot. He hasn't told you what he wants yet, clearly being the kind of man that likes to make a woman stew.

You shift on the metal bench that passes for a bunk, drawing your knees up to your chest. The durasteel wall behind you is cold even through your shirt, but you press your shoulder blades into it anyway, because the cold is a real thing, and real things are rare in here.

That’s when you hear him move.

The cell next to yours was empty when they put you in. You'd stared at the dividing wall for the better part of a day, watching the seams, listening for breathing, and there had been nothing. But somewhere in the long stretch between the last meal and the dimming of the lights, they must have brought someone in, because now you can hear the unmistakable scrape of something heavy against metal, the dull clink of what can only be armour settling.

You hold your breath and hear a long exhale on the other side – mechanical, filtered. Like it’s passed through a vocoder before it reaches air. You know that sound. Every spacer this side of the Rim knows that sound.

A Mandalorian.

You don't know what possesses you to speak. Loneliness, maybe, stupidity, definitely and you turn your face to the wall.

"Hey."

There’s nothing for a long moment, just that mechanical breathing, even and slow, like a man who’s been in worse places than this and is conserving himself for whatever comes next.

"You're awake."

His voice lands in your chest like a stone dropped down a well. Low, rough at the edges, made stranger by the helmet's modulator, carrying that slight metallic burr that turns every consonant into something with teeth. It should have been off-putting, but it isn’t. It’s the first voice you've heard in three days that isn’t Vane's oily purr, and your whole body leans toward it before you've even decided to.

"Can't sleep," you reply. "How long have you been in there?"

"Couple hours."

"I didn't hear them bring you in."

"They didn't want you to."

You press your palm flat against the wall, as if you can feel him through it. You can’t, of course, the durasteel thick enough to stop a blaster bolt. But you imagine him on the other side, sitting the way you’re sitting, his helmet tilted toward the sound of your voice.

"Are you hurt?" you ask.

He pauses. "Nothing that matters."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the one you're getting."

You smile, in spite of everything. "Fine. Don't tell me your name either, then."

"I wasn't going to."

"Of course not." You let your head tip back against the wall. "So, what do I call you for the purposes of this limited conversation?"

"Mando works."

"Very original."

"It’s functional and descriptive."

You laugh, a tiny breath of one, surprised out of you because it’s been a long time since anything has made you laugh. You hear him shift on the other side of the wall, a slow grinding of beskar against metal that you feel more than hear, the vibration humming through your spine.

"What did you do to end up in here?” he asks.

"Wrong cargo on the wrong ship. You?"

"Wrong face on the wrong wanted poster."

"Yours or his?"

"Mine, apparently."

"Hm." You trace a finger along a seam in the wall, following its line down to where it meets the bench. "Are you going to kill him when you get out?"

"Yes."

He says it the way another person might say I'm going to get water. No inflection, no heat, just the flat statement of a future fact. You should be frightened of him, but you’re not. There’s something steadying about that voice, that certainty. As if the universe is a problem he’s already solved, and you’ve only stumbled into the middle of his working.

"Take me with you," you say, before you can think better of it.

"You don't know me," he replies, with the shape of a laugh through the modulator.

"I know you're not him."

"That’s a pretty low bar."

"It's the one I've got."

He goes quiet for a while after that. Not an uncomfortable quiet, rather the kind that feels like company. You listen to him breathe, slow and even, and try to match your own to it, and find after a few minutes that you have. You inhale when he inhales and exhale when he exhales, as if you’re sharing a single set of lungs through the wall.

"What's your name?" he asks.

You tell him without thinking, the syllables just leaving you, soft, into the dim red dark.

"That's a good name.”

"It's just a name."

"There’s no such thing as just a name."

You turn your face to the wall and press your cheek to it. The metal’s less cold now, or you’re warmer – one of the two.

"Say it again," you whisper.

There’s a pause long enough to make you think he might refuse. Then his voice comes, lower, slower, and he says your name the way you've never heard it said before, like it has weight, like it’s a thing he’s setting down carefully on a table between you, where you can both look at it.

Something flutters low in your belly, and you tell yourself it’s hunger. Three days of nutrient paste can do things to a person.

You know it isn’t the hunger.

"Tell me something," you say, mostly to fill the silence. "Anything, I don't care."

"Like what?"

"Like…what's the last good meal you had and on what planet. I don’t know, anything."

You can hear him thinking about an answer before he speaks. "Tiingilar. On Nevarro. But there was too much spice, and it burned my tongue for an hour."

"You eat through that helmet?"

"Not in front of you, I wouldn't."

The phrasing is so specific, so oddly intimate, that it makes your face hot. In front of you. As if he's thought about it. As if you’re a person whose presence would change what he does with his mouth.

"Why not?" you ask, voice careful and quiet.

"It's the Way. No one sees my face."

"No one?"

"No one living."

You let that sit and take in the whole shape of it — the loneliness baked into it, the discipline, the strange tender violence of a vow that old. You think about a man who hasn't shown his face to anyone in years, who eats alone, who sleeps alone and who would die before he breaks that code.

You think about what it would mean if he ever did break it for someone.

"What about touch?" you ask, and you can hear your own pulse in your ears now. "Does the Way say anything about that?"

He pauses for a single beat. "No."

"No, it doesn't say anything? Or no, you don't…?"

"It doesn't forbid it."

"Oh."

The silence after that has a different quality, the silence of two people who’ve both noticed the same thing at the same time and are waiting to see who’s going to acknowledge it first. You feel your fingers curl against the wall and the wall against the line of your thigh through your trousers, the cold of it sinking through and meeting the heat of you.

"Mando," you say finally.

"Yeah."

"When's the last time someone touched you?"

The modulator catches his exhale and turns it into something like static. He doesn’t answer right away and so you wait. You can be patient when you need to be, and right now, with your cheek to the wall and your blood loud in your throat, you need to be.

"It’s been a long time," he admits finally.

"How long?"

"Longer than I'm going to tell a stranger."

"I'm not a stranger, you know my name."

"That doesn't make you not a stranger."

"Doesn't it?"

You imagine him in the cell next to yours, that helmeted head bowed, his gloved hands resting on his thighs. You imagine his shoulders pressed back against the same wall you’re pressed against, the only thing between his skin and yours a few centimetres of durasteel and a lifetime of bad decisions.

"What about you?" he says.

"What about me?"

"When's the last time anyone touched you?"

The directness of his question startles you. You've been the one playing this game and somehow, he’s taken the cards out of your hand without you noticing.

"A while," you admit.

"How long is a while?"

"Long enough that I think about it when I shouldn't."

"When shouldn't you?"

"Now," you say, "for instance."

You hear the soft sound through the modulator that you decide, immediately and with some certainty, is a laugh, or the closest thing he allows himself to one. It’s a warm sound and it goes straight down your spine and pools at the base of it.

"You're thinking about it now?" he asks.

"You asked."

"I did."

"Are you going to ask what I'm thinking about?"

"I think I'd rather you tell me."

Your face is suddenly on fire and you’re grateful for the wall, grateful for the dark, grateful for every centimetre of durasteel that keeps him from seeing the colour you must be. You press your forehead against the metal, close your eyes and feel the steady, mechanical sound of his breathing on the other side.

Fuck it, you think. You’re never going to see him and he’s never going to see you. If you both die in this place tomorrow, the only thing left of this night will be the air it’s moved through.

"I'm thinking about your voice," you say.

"My voice?"

"That's where I'd start."

"Where would you start with it?"

You wet your lips. "I'd want you to keep talking. I'd want you closer to the wall. I'd want…I'd want to put my ear right up against it, and I'd want you to put your mouth right up against it on your side, and just…talk. About anything. I just want it in my head."

You hear him move, hear the scrape of beskar against the wall, and you know, even though you can’t see him, that he’s shifted closer, that the helmet is nearer to you now than it had been a minute ago. That if there were no wall, he would be a hand's breadth away.

"Like this," he says, and his voice is lower than it had been, the vocoder rasp gone soft, almost a whisper, and impossibly intimate for that. "This close enough for you?"

"Yeah," you breathe. "Yeah, that's…that's good."

"Tell me what else."

"I'd…" You swallow. "I'd want you to tell me what you'd do."

"What I'd do?"

"If there wasn't a wall."

He takes his time with the answer. You can hear him thinking, hear him deciding, hear the moment he gives himself permission to say what he wants to say. It comes through the helmet as a small exhale, almost a sigh.

"I'd put my hand on your throat," he says.

Your breath catches.

"Not to hurt you," he adds. "Just to feel it, your pulse. You've got it going pretty fast right now, I bet."

"How can you tell? It's…it's not the only thing it's doing."

"No?"

"No."

"Tell me."

You press your thighs together, the friction of the rough fabric almost too much. You haven’t realised how wound you've been, how three days of fear and adrenaline has sat in you with nowhere to go, and now his voice is a key turning in a lock you haven't known was there.

"I'm wet," you say, quiet, into the wall. "I've been wet since you said my name."

The sound he makes then isn’t modulated. It is – for just a fraction of a second – something raw that slips through underneath the vocoder, a breath that turns into something else, and you want to live in that sound, want to wear it.

"Show me," he says. "Tell me. Whatever you're doing…tell me."

"You first."

"I'm hard."

The directness of it punches the air out of you. He says it the way he said yes, I'm going to kill him, flat and true, a simple fact of the universe.

"Are you touching yourself?" you whisper.

"I want to wait."

"For what?"

"For you."

Oh. Oh. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from making a noise that will carry. Some part of you is still aware that there are guards somewhere in this facility, that Vane is somewhere in this facility, and that anything either of you does or says too loudly could be heard. But the bigger part of you, the part that’s been starving for three days and probably longer than that, is already past caring.

"Together, then," you say.

"Together."

You work your hand under the waistband of your trousers. The fabric’s stiff and unfriendly, but underneath it, you’re soft and slick and so ready that the first brush of your own fingertips makes you gasp into the metal.

"Talk to me," you say. "Mando…keep talking."

"I'm undoing the belt," he says. "Just the cod, the rest stays on. You can't be careless in a place like this."

"Yeah."

"I’ve got my hand on it."

"Tell me…tell me what it looks like."

"It's hard. It's been hard since you asked me about touch. And it’s leaking a little at the tip. I'm wiping it with my thumb."

"Are you…are your hands gloved?"

"I took the right one off – for you.”

You whimper softly, and don’t even try to hide it. You have two fingers circling your clit now, slow, the way he’s talking – slow and deliberate, with that mechanical control that you suspect is the only thing keeping him from coming apart already.

"What about you?" he says. "Tell me what you're doing."

"I've got my hand down my pants. My fingers…” you exhale. “I'm so wet, Mando, I can't…I'm circling, just circling, slow."

"Slow's good."

"I want it to be your hand."

"What would my hand do?"

"It would be slower than mine and heavier. You'd make me wait. You'd make me…you'd make me ask."

"Would you ask?"

"Yes."

"Ask now."

You can’t think because you can barely breathe. The wall against your forehead is wet from your breath, the metal smelling faintly of iron. “Please."

"Please what?"

"Please touch me. Please…please don't stop talking, please put your fingers in me, please…"

"How many?"

"Two, start with two."

"Tell me when."

"Now. Mando, now…"

You push two fingers into yourself and the sound you makes is hot and high and you press your other hand over your own mouth to muffle it. On the other side of the wall you hear a sound through the modulator that’s almost a groan, but not quite. He’s holding it back, but you hear the shape of it, hear the way it cracks the calm in his voice.

"That's it," he says. "Tell me how it feels."

"Tight. Hot. I…Mando, I haven't…I haven't done this in so long, I…"

"I've got you."

"What are you doing?"

"Stroking, slow. Long strokes. My grip's tight, I…fuck…"

That word through the modulator, low and almost involuntary, is the most vulgar thing you’ve ever heard. It makes you clench around your own fingers, and whine into your hand.

"Say it again," you beg.

"Fuck."

"Again."

"You feel that good?"

"Yes."

"What if it was me? What if it was my hand inside you?"

"It is. Right now, it is. Tell me you're thinking about it."

"I am. I'm thinking about…about pushing you up against this wall where you can't move. Where I can hold you there with one hand and use the other…"

"How many?"

"Three. You'd take three."

"I would."

"You would. You'd take everything I gave you, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I'd take everything you gave me."

You add the third finger. It’s a stretch, just on the edge of too much, and that edge is exactly where you want to be. Your thumb works your clit in tight circles and you pant against the wall, against your own palm, and on the other side of the durasteel a Mandalorian is stroking his cock to the sound of your voice and you’ve never, in your entire life, been so undone by a man you’ve not seen.

"Mando."

"I'm here."

"I'm close."

"How close?"

"Close. Close, I…keep talking to me, please, please, just…"

"Listen to me," he says, and his voice has dropped to something so quiet it’s almost a breath, almost prayer. "Listen. You feel like silk. You feel like the best thing I've put my hand in in years. If I were there, I'd have my mouth on your throat right now. I'd have my teeth on the place where your pulse is. I wouldn't bite hard, just enough that you'd feel it for days. I'd have my fingers in you all the way to the knuckle, and I'd be working you open, slow, until you were begging me, until you were saying my name…"

"I don't know your name."

There’s a pause. A long one, during which you almost stop breathing.

"Din," he says. "It's Din."

Something cracks open in your chest. He’s given you something he’s not supposed to give, given you something that, by his own laws, no one should have. And he’s given it to you with his hand on his cock and your name in his throat and a wall between you. And you understood, in that moment, that you will never, not as long as you live, hear that name said in that voice again without falling apart.

"Din," you say.

"Yeah."

"Din…Din…"

"Say it again."

"Din, I'm…"

"Come."

You come around your own fingers with his name in your mouth and the metal of the wall against your forehead, and you bite down hard on the heel of your hand to keep from screaming. On the other side of the wall, you hear the shape of his climax through the modulator, the cracked-open sound of a man who hasn’t let anyone hear him in a very long time. It goes on, and on, and on, and when you finally collapse back against the bench, you’re trembling all over, slick with sweat, your fingers still inside yourself, your breath coming in pieces.

For a long time, neither of you speak, but you can hear him breathing. You lie back on the bench with your trousers half-undone and your hand against your chest and your heart hammering up into your palm and listen to him do the same on the other side of the wall.

The dimmed red lights buzz faintly overhead and somewhere far down the corridor, a door cycles. The world is still in here, the way it always was – but underneath the stillness, something new is sitting between you that hadn’t been there an hour ago. You can feel the weight of it and suspect he can too.

"Din," you say, just to see if you’re allowed to say it again.

"Yeah." His voice is rougher than it has been, the modulator doing its best to flatten it out and failing. "I'm here."

"Are you alright?"

"That's my question."

"I asked first."

"I'm alright."

You smile at the ceiling. There’s something so absurdly him about it – a man who has just come apart with a stranger's name in his throat and is now answering you in two-syllable monosyllables, the way he probably answers everyone about everything.

Your fingers are still tacky, your face still hot and you feel, somehow, like you’ve just survived something rather than enjoyed it.

"I'm alright too," you say, in case he’s waiting for it.

"Good."

"Din?"

"Yeah."

"You shouldn't have given me that, should you?"

He’s quiet for a long time and you let him have the quiet. You've learned, over the course of the night, that his silences are a kind of speech, that he’s a man who turns things over thoroughly before he sets them down.

"No," he says finally. "I shouldn't have."

"Are you sorry?"

"No."

"Good."

You roll onto your side, facing the wall, draw your knees up and tuck your hand under your cheek. The metal is warm now where you’ve been pressed against it, warm with the warmth of you, and you imagine that on the other side of it some matching patch of beskar is warm too, warmed by a helmet that’s been resting against the same plane of durasteel for the better part of an hour.

"Are you really going to kill him?" you ask.

"Yes."

"Tomorrow?"

"As soon as I get the chance."

"Will I get to see it?"

"You'll be out of the cell before it happens, I'll see to that."

You close your eyes. The certainty in his voice is a strange thing to lean against, but you lean anyway. It’s the most solid thing you've had to lean against in three days, maybe longer.

"Din?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me something else. Anything, just…keep talking, until I fall asleep."

"What do you want to hear about?"

"Anything that isn't this place."

You hear him shift, heard the soft sigh of the helmet against the metal as he thinks about it and settles him in.

"There's a marsh moon," he says, "out past Trask. There’s nothing on it, no settlements, just water and reeds as far as you can see. The water glows at night. Some kind of bioluminescent thing in it. You walk through it and your boots light up the whole pool, blue, like you're walking on stars."

"Have you been there?"

"Once."

"What did you do there?"

"I refuelled, sat on the ramp of my ship for a while and watched the water."

"Alone?"

"Yeah."

"I'd like to see that."

"I'll show you."

Your chest does a thing it has no business doing, given the circumstances. You press your cheek harder into the wall, not rusting yourself to answer, because if you answer, your voice is going to do something embarrassing.

"Keep going," you say when you can. "Tell me more."

So, he does.

He tells you about a desert at dawn on a planet whose name you don’t catch, where the sand turns the colour of beaten copper in the first light. He tells you about a forest where the trees grow so close together that you have to turn sideways to walk between them, and about a kind of bread they baked on Sorgan that you eat with your hands.

You don't know when you fall asleep. You only know that somewhere in the middle of a sentence about a city built into a cliff face, your eyelids give up, and the last thing you remember is the steady metal-edged sound of his voice telling you about the way the wind moves through the canyon at night and, for the first time in three days, you’re not afraid.

****

You wake to white.

Not red, not the bruised dim red of the night cycle, but the cold flat white of the day lights, full and unflattering and merciless on your gummed-shut eyes. You squint and sit up, your body protesting in a hundred small ways and you put your hand to the wall before you've even fully remembered why.

"Din?"

Nothing.

You frown, sleep still thick in your throat.

"Din,” you cough. “Are you awake?"

Nothing.

The breathing’s gone, that’s the first thing you notice, the absence of the slow, even, modulated breath that has become, over the course of the night, as familiar to you as your own pulse. The cell on the other side of the wall is quiet. Not the quiet of a man sleeping, but the quiet of a room with nothing in it.

Your stomach drops.

You scramble off the bench and go to the front of the cell, pressing your face to the narrow slit in the door, trying to angle your eye to see down the corridor. You can’t see much, but you notice the edge of the next cell's door…

…which is open.

Not forced or blown, rather open the way a door’s open when someone’s unlocked it and walked out. The interior, what little of it you could see, is empty. No figure on the bench, no silhouette by the wall, no beskar.

"Din?"

Your voice comes out smaller than you mean it to.

You stand there for a long time with your forehead against the cool metal of your own door, and you try to talk yourself into the reasonable explanations. He’s escaped and he’s going to kill the man who put him here, and a man who says a thing like that the way he said it isn’t a man who stays in a cell longer than he has to.

He said he would see to it that you got out before it happened.

He said I'll show you.

You believe him. You had believed him at the time, and you believed him now, in the cold white morning, with your hair stuck to your face and your hands trembling slightly from cold or hunger or the aftershock of a night you’re still half-convinced you dreamed.

You go back to the bench and sit down. You put your hand against the wall, except it isn’t warm anymore. It’s cold all the way through. He’s been gone for hours, probably, since not long after you fell asleep, because that’s the kind of man he is – the kind who waits until you’re safe in sleep before he does what he has to do, so that you won’t have to lie awake listening to him do it.

You wonder if he said goodbye. If somewhere in the dark, between one of his sentences about canyons and the next, he said something soft to the wall, and you hadn't heard it because you were already gone. You hope so. You hoped he'd put his gloved hand against the metal one last time and said your name the way he'd said it the night before.

You draw your knees up and wrap your arms around them. Then you press your forehead to them and you breathe, slow, in and out, the way you’d breathed with him in the dark, except now you’re doing it alone, and the rhythm doesn’t match anything but the memory of him.

It’s then that you notice it.

A small thing, set on the floor at the base of the dividing wall, on your side, where it must have been pushed under through the narrow gap between the wall and the floor – a gap you haven’t noticed before, a gap barely wide enough for a finger but wide enough, evidently, for this.

You pick it up.

It’s a sliver of beskar, no bigger than your thumb, cut clean, the edges smoothed. A scrap, probably, from some repair he's done to his own armour a long time ago and kept in a pouch for reasons that are his and not yours. The metal’s warm in your hand, even though it shouldn't have been.

Wrapped around it, twice, is a thin strip of leather. And on the leather, scratched in with the point of something sharp, in letters small and precise and careful, he’s written you a message.

Wait for me.

That’s all. No name, no instructions. no promise more elaborate than those three words, in a hand that has pressed hard enough into the leather to scar it.

You close your fingers around the beskar and shut your eyes. You press your closed fist to your mouth and sit there in the cold white morning of the cell that has held you for three days, and you don’t cry, because you’ve not cried in years and you’re not going to start now. But something in your chest does a thing that’s very close to it – a hot, full, aching thing that wants out and can’t get out and so just sits there, glowing, like the water on his marsh moon.

Down the corridor, very faint, you hear footsteps, heavy ones, coming closer.

You open your hand and look at the sliver of beskar once more, and then you close your fist around it again and tuck it into the inner pocket of your shirt, against your skin, where no search would find it without finding you first. You straighten your spine, wipe your face with the heel of your hand and set your jaw.

You wait.

Because he's asked you to. Because he’s coming back. Because a man like that, a man who said yes the way he said it and I'll show you the way he said it and Din – Din, it's Din – into the dark, to a stranger, through a wall, breaking a vow he has kept his whole life – that man doesn’t say wait for me unless he means it.

The footsteps get closer then stop outside your door.

You hear the soft electronic chirp of a lockpad being overridden – not the heavy clang of guards cycling a door open in the normal way, but the cleaner, quieter click of someone who knows exactly which wires to cross and which ones to leave alone.

The door slides back and there he is. Beskar from helm to boot, the morning light off the corridor lamps making a hard silver line down the curve of his pauldron. Blaster holstered at his thigh, vibroblade still wet at the tip. He fills the doorway like he’s been built to fill it, and the visor turns toward you. You stood up so fast you nearly crack your head on the underside of the bunk.

"Took your time," you say.

The modulator catches the tired amusement before he's even spoken. "There were six of them."

"And Vane?"

"Five."

You snort because you can’t help it. He steps into the cell, glances at you, glances at the wall, glances – pointedly – at the floor where the sliver of beskar had been. He doesn’t say anything about it because he doesn’t have to. The angle of his helmet says, good, you found it, and the small tilt that follows says come on, and you’re moving before he's finished the gesture, ducking under his arm into the corridor.

"This way," he says.

"I know which way."

"Then go."

You know the layout of this facility because you’ve spent three days memorising the sliver of it you could see through the door slit, and because, it turns out, you also saw the schematics two weeks ago in a briefing on the Crest – a briefing you had pretended to listen to while throwing ration wrappers at the back of his helmet.

You take the left at the junction and he covers your back. Then you take the service stairs down two levels, through the maintenance hatch and out into the cold dawn air of a landing platform where a familiar gunship sits waiting with its ramp already down, because he landed it himself before he came for you and he isn’t the kind of man who leaves a door closed when he might need to run through it.

The ramp clangs shut behind you, the engines spool and you brace yourself against the bulkhead as he takes the pilot's seat and throws the Crest up off the platform with the kind of brutal efficiency he uses for everything. The planet falls away under you, the stars come up, and you’re free.

You stand in the cockpit doorway, breathing.

"Don't say it," he says, without turning around.

"Don't say what?"

"Whatever you're about to say."

"I wasn't going to…"

"You were going to."

"I was going to say thanks."

"No, you weren't."

You laugh, finally. It comes out shaky, the adrenaline leaving you in a slow drain. You let yourself slide down the bulkhead until you’re sitting on the deck with your back against the metal, and you put your hands over your face and laugh until your ribs hurt.

He punches the coordinates in, sets the autopilot, then stands up, slowly, the way he stands up when his back hurts and he doesn’t want you to know. But you know, because you've been flying with him for nine months and you know every small tell his body makes through the armour.

He crouches in front of you and puts his gloved hand on your knee.

"You alright?"

"Yeah."

"Look at me."

You take your hands off your face and look up at the visor. The T-shape of it is the same as it’s always been. The same as it’s been across a hundred campfires and a thousand cantina tables and the dozen times he’s sat across from you in this same hold and cleaned his weapons while you cleaned yours.

The same, and not the same.

"We really need to stop doing this," you say finally.

"Doing what?"

"The wall thing. The talking through the wall every time a job goes sideways, and they put us in adjoining cells thing. This is…Din, this is the third time."

"Fourth."

"What?"

"Fourth. You're forgetting Ord Mantell."

"Ord Mantell was a closet, not a cell."

"Still a wall."

"Still a wall," you allow.

He huffs, his hand still on your knee. The leather of the glove is warm from the inside of his fist, and you can feel each individual finger, and that he’s not lifting it away.

"It's because we don't talk like this anywhere else," you say. "You know that, right?"

"I know."

"You only get like that when there's a wall."

"I know."

"It's ridiculous."

"I know."

"Din..." you hesitate. "That's the first time you've told me your real name."

"Yeah."

You lick your lips. "Fuck me."

The hand on your knee tightens, just a fraction, just enough that you know he heard you.

"Don't," he says

"Fuck me. Let’s get it out of our systems. Once, properly, with nothing between us and…and I swear to you, I swear, the next time some Hutt-licking bounty hunter shoves us into a holding block, neither of us is going to need to do the wall thing ever again, because we'll have done it, and the tension will be gone, and we can go back to being…"

"Being what?"

"Whatever we are."

"You think that's how it works?"

"I think it's worth finding out."

You watch the visor, watch the way his shoulders move when he breathes, watch the long, calibrated stillness of a man who’s already decided what he’s going to do and is making himself take an extra second to be sure of it.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he says.

"I do."

"You don't."

"Din, I had three fingers in myself last night while you talked to me through a wall. I think I have some idea."

The sound that comes out of him isn’t a laugh, it’s something rougher, something he doesn’t quite catch in time, and his hand leaves your knee and goes to your jaw, gloved thumb against the corner of your mouth.

You stop breathing.

"Stand up," he says.

You stand he stands with you, and you have to tip your head to keep looking at the visor. He looks down at you for a long moment, and then his other hand comes up and he hooks one gloved finger under the collar of your shirt and tugs, gently, until you take a step toward him, and another, and then his back is against the bulkhead and yours is against him and his arm is around your waist.

"Once," he says.

"Once."

"And it doesn't fix anything."

"Probably not."

"And you're going to have to be quiet, because the autopilot doesn't know what to do if you scream and trip the proximity alarms."

"Din, I am going to scream."

"Then I'll cover your mouth."

You go hot all the way through and feel your own pulse in places that have no business having a pulse. You press your forehead against the cold beskar of his chest plate breathe in the smell of him – leather and weapon oil and metal warmed by the body underneath.

"Bed. Bunk. Somewhere. Now."

He picks you up, one arm under your thighs and the other across your back, like you weigh nothing, like he's been waiting a long time for the excuse to find out exactly how much you weigh. He carries you down the short ladder into the hold and through to the narrow alcove where his bunk is set into the wall and sets you down on the edge of it. Then he stands between your knees and starts, with great deliberation, to undress.

The pauldrons came off first, heavy clunks against the deck. Then the vambraces, the chest plate, the cuirass, the thigh plates. He sets them all aside in the order he always sets them, the order you’ve watched him set them in a hundred times, and the familiarity of the ritual mixes with the unfamiliarity of what’s happening making your head spin a little.

The flight suit comes off next. Black, snug, all the seams you’ve stared at across many a hold while pretending to read. He peels it down to his waist and you see the long lean torso of him, scarred in a dozen places, a constellation of old hurt, a body that has been keeping itself alive for a long time and has the receipts.

There’s scant hair across his chest, dark and soft-looking, narrowing down toward his waistband and a long pale scar that wraps around his ribs like a vine. There’s a tattoo, small, on the inside of his left bicep – a mythosaur skull, no bigger than your thumb – that you have absolutely never known exists.

He keeps going. Flight suit all the way off, boots, trousers and the under-layer beneath. Everything. Every stitch.

Except the helmet.

He stands there in the low light of the bunk alcove, completely naked from the neck down, hard already, his cock heavy against his thigh, and the beskar catches in the dim light off the bulkhead in a way that makes the helmet seem almost a separate creature from the body that’s offering itself to you.

"Din...”

"No."

"I didn't…"

"You were going to."

"I wasn't…"

"You were."

"...I was."

"No."

"Just the eyes. Just…just let me see your eyes."

"No."

"Please."

"No."

He says it gently with no heat in it, as a feature of the universe, not a refusal of you. And then he steps closer and takes the hem of your shirt in both bare hands and pulls it off you, slow, then drops it on the floor on top of his own.

"You have me," he says. "All of me. Just not that."

"Din…"

"All of me," he says again, and he puts his bare hand flat over your sternum, between your breasts, hot palm and rough fingertips against your skin, and you forget what you had been going to say. "Everything else. You can have everything else. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Say it."

"I understand."

"Then take it."

He kisses you.

Or…the helmet does. He presses the cool flat front of the beskar to your forehead first, the way he had once or twice before in moments you’ve not allowed yourself to think too hard about. Then he tilts his head and brings it lower, pressing the brow of the helm to your mouth, just for a moment, just enough that you feel the cold kiss of the metal on your lips, and then his hand is sliding up to cradle the back of your neck and he tips you back onto the bunk.

He kisses everything else with his hands.

The pads of his fingers move down the line of your throat. His thumb skates across your collarbone. His palm cups the underside of your breast and his mouth – the front of the helmet, the smooth lower edge – drags slow against your nipple, cool and unyielding, and you arch up off the bunk with a noise that you try, and fail, to keep quiet.

"Shh," he says.

"I can't…"

"You can."

"I can't…"

His hand comes up and his fingers slip into your mouth. Two of them, the same two, and you bite down and moan around them and he makes a low sound through the modulator.

"Good. Like that. Quiet."

He keeps going down, the helmet tracking down the line of your sternum, the soft place under your ribs and the flat of your stomach. His other hand works your trousers open and shoves them down. You kick them off, and your underthings with them, and then you’re naked under him, and the cold metal of the helmet presses against the hot skin of your inner thigh and the contrast makes you whimper around his fingers.

"Din…"

He doesn’t answer with words. He answers by taking his fingers out of your mouth and replacing them, slowly, between your legs. Two fingers, the way you’d asked for last night. He finds you slick and ready and he hisses, audibly, through the modulator.

"All night," he says. "Like this?"

"Most of it."

"Greedy."

"For you, just for you."

The fingers push in slowly, deeper than yours had gone, longer, more deliberate, and you make a sound that starts high and would go higher but for him pressing the front of the helmet to your sternum.

“Quiet, I told you."

"I'm trying."

"Try harder."

He fucks you on his fingers for what feels like a small eternity. Long, slow, brutal strokes, his thumb finding your clit with the precision of a man who knows where every nerve in a body lives and where to put pressure on each of them. You’re drenched, shaking, biting the back of your own wrist to stay quiet and he’s watching you do it, the visor angled down at your face the whole time, and you know – you know – that behind that visor his eyes are on your mouth.

"Din…Din, please, I want…"

"Tell me."

"You inside me, properly. Now."

He takes his hand away and shifts upwards, bracing one hand on the bunk beside your head and the other on his cock. You feel the blunt heat of him drag through your slickness and your hips buck up of their own accord and he makes a low strangled sound.

"Wait. Wait, look at me."

You look at the visor.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Din."

"Say it."

"I'm sure. Fuck me, please."

He pushes in slow, so slow you think you’re going to die of it. He pushes in to the hilt and then holds there, his forehead – the brow of the helmet – against yours, his bare chest against your bare chest, his hand on your jaw and the metallic rasp of his breathing the loudest thing in the world. You can feel him trembling, just slightly, with the effort of not moving.

"Alright?" he asks.

"Move."

"Alright?"

"Move, Din…"

He moves the way he does everything – efficiently, without waste, with the calibrated intensity of a man who’s decided what he’s going to do and is now doing exactly that, and nothing else, and nothing less. He sets a rhythm that’s deep and steady and merciless, and you wrap your legs around his hips and your arms around his shoulders and press your face to the side of the helmet, to the place where his ear would be, and you say his name into the beskar over and over again because you can’t say it into his mouth.

"Din…"

"I'm here."

"Din, harder…"

"You'll bruise."

"I want to bruise. Please, Din, please…"

He fucks you harder. He braces both hands on the bunk now, one on either side of your head, and drives into you with the long, full strokes of a man who’s been holding himself in check for nine months and has finally been given permission to stop. The headboard of the bunk knocks, softly, against the bulkhead in time with each thrust, and your hands roam his back as you map him by feel.

The helmet stays on.

You beg, somewhere in the middle of it. When the pleasure has stripped your inhibitions down to nothing, you put your hands on the sides of the helmet and say, "Please, Din, please, just…just let me see…" and he catches your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head.

"No. Not that. Anything else. Anything else but that."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

So, you take the anything. You take his hand off your wrists and put it around your throat, light, the way he said he would in the dark. You feel his fingers settle there, careful, finding the pulse, and he makes a sound that’s almost a groan, almost the sound you heard through the wall last night, and his thrusts falters for one stroke and then comes back harder.

"Like that?" he asks.

"Like that. Like that. Din…"

"You're close."

"Yes."

"Stay quiet."

"I can't…"

"You can."

He puts his other hand over your mouth. Bare, hot, dry and rough and you moan into it. He fucks you through it, hips snapping against yours in a rhythm that’s losing its precision, finally, after how long you can’t say, and you feel him start to come undone above you – felt the small involuntary movements he’s no longer controlling, feel the way his head bows and the helmet presses to your temple, feel the choked sound through the modulator that you’ve now heard five times in your life and will, you suspect, hear a great many more times before you’re done with each other.

"Come for me," he says, against your ear, against the metal between your ear and his mouth. "Now. Now, sweetheart, now…"

You come around him with his hand over your mouth, his other hand at your throat, his cock buried to the hilt and his forehead against yours, and you scream into his palm. He feels you go – feels every pulse of you around him – and he makes a sound you’ve never heard him make before, a real one, a whole one, unmodulated and choked and human, as he comes inside you, hard, in long pulses that you feel all the way up into your stomach.

Then he collapses – not all the way, catching himself on one elbow carefully – but his full weight comes down on you in a way it hasn’t, and the beskar of the helmet rests cool against the side of your face. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and hold him, his bare back slick under your palms, his breathing wreckage.

"Din," you say when you can.

"Yeah."

"You called me sweetheart."

He freezes fractionally. "I did."

"And...I lied."

"About what?"

"The tension. It's not gone."

His forehead – the brow of the helmet – presses harder against yours.

"No," he agrees. "It's not."

"What are we going to do about that?"

"Try again."

"Now?"

"Give me five minutes."

You laugh into the side of his helmet and feel his shoulders shake, just a little. You run your hand up the back of his neck to the very edge of the helmet – the place where the beskar meets the skin – and let your fingertips rest there.

He doesn’t stop you or pull away. He lets your fingers stay at the line where his hidden self begins, and he lets you keep them there, and that, you understand, is a different kind of yes.

You take it, close your eyes and keep your hand where it is.

Five minutes, he said.

You can wait five minutes.

You have, you reflect, gotten very good at waiting for him.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰🚀➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

PART TWO