my tears ricochet

Control over their family’s “High Council,” his father dead, and an heir that can carry on not only his genetic makeup but the power of the Danforth name. He wanted all of it, and before Ursula could get it first. That all began with the ritualistic Hunt that was taking place weeks from now. The first in two solar eclipses, this one signifying a sort of champion’s game. Those who had been surviving for years, killing since they were old enough to hold the weight of a weapon, carved out of stone and darkness. The last one standing sure to be promised the most influence and power among the High Council. And this year Titus would win—there was no other option. Kill or be killed, and he promised that as soon as it was decided, he would be the one seated at the forefront of that table come dawn. 

The only thing that stood between him, that title, and from killing the other ten high council heirs was you. Belonging to one of the newer elite families that hadn’t been around as long as all the rest—those who still needed to prove themselves—and you were their youngest. Far younger than him, decades younger, with soft, unmarked skin and a certain naive spark that intrigued him more than he would ever admit. Which is why he didn’t, not when Ursula would never let him hear the end of it for going after a young thing like you.

But some things are inevitable, written out in the stars, promised by the hands of Satan, sure to be sealed by the spillage of blood. Whether that meant you lived or died, he didn’t know yet, but he was sure he’d have it figured out by the time of the Hunt—when dusk finally fell, leaving the acres of land into a playground of darkness for the monsters to come out and play.

And so as weeks passed, social events being shoved down his throat by his father and the other high elite parents, he took the time to take in his opponents, to take in you. Among the glinting chandeliers and flutes of champagne as black market investors looked on, seeing which of the elite hunters they wished to invest their money into, he watched you. 

In weeks, he came to understand your routines, mannerisms, expressions—claiming he was looking for weaknesses to use during the Hunt, but a selfish part of him was trying to find the right moment to approach you. An opportunity that never came until one night, a week before their game of hide and seek, at a gala no less, where parents spent the night speaking highly of their children in anticipation of the slaughter, and those participating in it drank.

Drank in celebration. 

Some in grief. 

He found you late into the evening, tucked away in a corner, an emerald dress fitting you in all the right places, hair pulled up, revealing the smooth skin of your neck. Titus was unable to look away, couldn’t stop himself from devouring you while you remained oblivious. With two or three flutes of champagne having been washed down, your cheeks held a gentle rosy hue to them, the alcohol taking shape and form in your body. You stood talking to a server, a man who Titus killed later that evening with the man’s own serving tray, just because of the sight of you blinking up through the thick wisps of your lashes, smiling in such a way that he knew he was entirely fucked. If it wasn’t his brain that had made the realization, his dick definitely did in how it twitched, hardening slightly as you rolled your eyes.

Hours later, while sandwiched between Ursula and Tobias, another heir they had known since their childhood, he watched you slip out in between dances down the hallway. How he stared even when you were no longer in sight, only brought back by the cool touch of Ursula’s fingers slinking around his wrist, nails digging into his skin lightly. She raised a menacing brow, a warning—don’t even think about it. 

She noticed more than he had given her credit for. Titus pulled his arm free, downed his fourth flute of champagne, and sent his sister a tantalizing smile, one she was quite familiar with in all their years growing up with one another—one that said I don’t give a fuck. Tipping his head to Tobias, he excused himself and walked in the direction you had disappeared, with the sound of his sister spitting insults following him.

He found you on a balcony, sitting in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, dress blowing in the wind. Stray pieces of hair blew into your eyes as you peered down, picking at your fingernails, deep enough to draw blood. 

Your doe-like eyes looked up through the shadows at the sound of the door opening, shoulders stiffening at the sight of him—all broad and serious—so Danforth-like, intimidating you to a point that you felt you couldn’t move. As he stepped outside, his silver curls caught in the moonlight, and his deep gaze traced you up and down silently. You had never seen him like this—so close, so intimately—and you couldn’t help but just stare and keep picking at the torn skin around your fingernails. Blood smeared around your thumb, and he watched the crimson bead from the wound.

With his hands tucked behind his back, there was a certain curiosity laced between his wandering gaze and the tilt of his head. “Not having a good time?” 

“What makes you think that?” you asked, voice steady, steadier than either of you would’ve expected. “Have you been watching me, Mr. Danforth?”

God, he hated the way his surname sounded coming from your parted lips—the way his cock twitched again—realizing that you played into the innocence card, molded yourself into exactly what everyone else saw you as. The youngest elite heir—lucky, inexperienced, too pure to survive all of this.

“Mr. Danforth?” He chuckled, the sound deep, honest. “You must think you’re speaking to my father.” 

“As if you don’t like it.” You mused, raising an arched brow up at him. 

He cleared his throat. “Titus, is fine.”

You sighed, looking away, over your shoulder, over the estate—one that was beautiful, but far too small for the Hunt. One that you knew better than the Danforth’s, having spent more time here than there. 

Your mind turned on itself then, as you thought about it with the eldest and future board member of the high council standing there—you, the outlier, the youngest, least experienced, having only participated in two hunts before this one. Everyone was expecting your death. 

Even you. 

“I heard you won your last two hunts. Quiet on the ground, like a cat, experienced with a bow and arrow. You killed Senator Calcius’s son at the last hunt, right? He was what? 6 '3? And roughly 210? And you took him down one shot, one arrow, right to his heart.” 

You picked at another piece of skin, feeling it give away, blood forming immediately as you refused to look back at him. Your shoulders were raised and the images from that hunt came back, clearer than ever despite it having been over a year ago—a hunt that had taken the lives of your cousin and brother, each with a 3 inch hole in their skulls from another elite who had turned on the rest of the party. You had killed him right after you had taken care of the senator’s son. 

“That’s impressive,” Titus admitted, his voice warm, pooling in your stomach. “You know, for someone who’s twelve.”

Your head snapped towards him then, glaring in a way he found neither intimidating or serious. But your lips curled in on themselves and while he hoped for you to say something back, insult him, you only sighed and turned back to the garden below.

“You’re not excited for the Hunt?” he asked, the sound of his steps loud in your ears. 

You hummed softly standing and brushing your hands across the bottom of your dress, a few droplets of blood staining the silk material. Titus’s eyes dropped to the action before drifting back up your body, past your lips, and to your eyes. 

“How can you tell?” You crossed your arms, tone becoming snappy with him faster than he anticipated. 

He gestured to the balcony as if you escaping outside wasn’t telling enough but your expression did not shift, if anything it deepend further. Looking once over his shoulder, Titus stepped closer and then again when you didn’t move back. He moved until the tip of his shoe was touching yours. 

His hands were still behind him, not even tempted with the idea of touching, but he leaned forward, enough that his chest brushed up against your arms. Then your last name was falling off his tongue sweeter than you had ever heard it.

“You’re the youngest,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting so softly, just for you. 

Your walls fell just a little bit, your head tilting in a way that he was eating up—so innocent, naive, so enticing. Your tongue slipped out to wet your lips, and his eyes followed it. 

“Yes,” you admitted softly. 

Another step forward. This one coaxing you to take one backwards, your pulse rising, and you hating how he was able to catch it. Your back met the cool metal of the balcony railing, hand suddenly darting out to meet his chest, anything to keep some space between the two of you. His lips curled up further into a smirk, a dark look evolving across his face.

“So pretty,” he whispered. 

A gasp slipped from your lips, eyes narrowing up at him as the warm tip of his finger trailed up the side of your thigh, so gently, you weren’t sure if it was even real, until his palm grabbed the railing, caging you in entirely. 

“So young,” he continued, breath suddenly colliding with your lips. “A waste of a life to have in the Hunt. But it’s never fair is it? Hm, I am sure your blood will be pretty too, especially drenched across my hands.”

Titus was used to people cowering, the air shifting in a room at his mere presence, those groveling if he threatened their life. But you didn’t shudder or react, and it annoyed him that you were as lock and key as ever—hidden away from him—your humanity not there for the taking. You merely stared at him, just as intensely, not a lick of fear within you, not prey-like one. Single. Bit. 

But this wasn’t the first time you had been threatened by one of the large men of the elite family heirs. Your family hadn’t been around as long as the others, but around long enough to have a knife pressed to your jugular once or twice, and wandering hands trying to reach up your skirt. This life you were familiar with, and it had become a part of you at this point, your first hunt being when you were sixteen, and then the second when you were twenty. 

And you were still alive. 

So you smiled, instead. “I guess that all depends on if you can find me, Titus.”

“You mean when I find you?” 

You tutted softly up at him, your expression cracking only when you felt his knee wedging itself between your thighs. “I am sorry, but am I forgetting a time when you and I have been a part of the same hunt? Oh, right. We haven’t.” 

“You think that means I can’t hunt you down?” 

You shrugged. “I don’t know, Titus. I tend to pick the best hiding spots. It’s done me well so far.” 

His dick was completely hard at this point. The way you were saying his name over and over again, creating a response out of him that he couldn’t control.

Leaning forward, his mouth hovered over yours, his stare so dark now as they flickered between your mouth and eyes. “Except that I know every inch and crevice of the Danforth estate. You’re right, we haven’t been a part of the same hunt before, but you also have never done one on my property. So tell me, what’s going to happen when I find you?”

You thought about it for a second, heart beating loudly in your chest. Then you jutted your chin out, planning to defy him every second you could while alive. “We settle up and strike a deal.”

Chuckling, he smiled down at you softly, a new challenge forming in his eyes as he took a step back, body peeling away from you altogether. 

“I’ll see you at the Hunt, little lamb. I wish you luck. Rest assured, I will find you, and when I do, prepare to beg for your life.”

Then, as if the great Danforth’s eldest son had never been there at all, he slipped back inside, the glass door shutting softly, hinges creaking in a call and response. He disappeared down the hall, not looking back once, as he retreated into the boring party, to the lies that had beseeched everyone into a life of death and murder, but with more money than anyone could ever fucking imagine. His black suit reflected across the walls like a loose shadow, one begging you to run—run so far that the big bad wolf couldn’t get you. 

You knew what kind of hunter Titus Danforth was—he was intense in everything he did, ruthless, and most importantly, he didn’t fear death. He dances around, waiting for the day his blood will return to the earth, all of the darkness within him going back to where it came from. It was what made him the scariest contender out there. And although you were fairly certain he would catch you eventually—hopefully not before dawn, before the light can bargain for your life—you’d die trying to kill him before he could kill you.

The night of the hunt, you got ready, ate with your parents and your older brother, the last one of the two, as clouds billowed and moved through the area. The wind was picking up, and the air was humid, water droplets bubbling on your skin from the increase in temperature. 

“Great hunting weather,” you said, standing on the back porch of the estate, the screen windows revealing the shadows that loomed outside. “Easier to hide in. Covers up scents, tracks… won’t have to do as much to conceal my presence.” 

Your brother stood in the room, taking in the side of your face as you stared out at the dark green fields, already dressed in a dark long-sleeved shirt and black pants that hugged your body tightly. Eyes glassy, your fingertip traced over the scar at your collarbone, the first one you had ever gotten during your first hunt. 

Elias wasn’t chosen for the hunt this time around—it was a plus when families had lost multiple children and were running low on who could keep the lineage alive. He had tried to have them pick him over you, but Le Bali wouldn’t permit it.

You were mumbling now under bated breaths, feeling yourself spiral the closer to the witching hour it got, the closer you got to the start of the Hunt and the promise that Titus had made you. He wanted your blood, and what a Danforth wants, a Danforth gets. 

Elias whispered your name, it deep, drawing your attention back to him and the table full of weapons. Guns, knives, crossbows, an axe—anything you can imagine on one table. Your brother gestured towards the bow and the bag of arrows. It had been your chosen weapon for the first two hunts—the thing that had ultimately kept you alive. 

But this wasn’t just any other hunt. 

You walked around the table, fingers tracing handles, blades, the way triggers felt under your touch. Suddenly, as the first raindrop fell, your hand stopped near a five-inch hunting knife, the handle wooden and engraved with your family emblem. 

Picking it up, you tested its weight before slipping it into the guard at your thigh. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Thinking of switching it up this year." You shrugged, trying to dissociate as the clock got closer. 

“Are you crazy, sister? Take the bow.” Elias reached for the knife at your hip, but you stopped him. 

“This isn’t any other fucking hunt. Risking the bow would be risking my life.” 

“And you think the knife is any better? Look, I know you’re stronger now, but you should stick to what you know. That bow got you through your first two hunts.” 

You smiled sadly, running your palms over his shoulders. “When have you ever believed in superstitions?” 

He pleaded then, in a way you would’ve never expected from him—you knew what kind of life you guys were getting into when your parents were picked to be an elite family. Death would be a commonality, murder even more so. He even used to enjoy the hunt, enjoy how it felt to end someone’s life. No one had ever been innocent—not even you. But when Leo was killed by Titus’s cousin, something in Elias changed that day. Something shifted how he felt about the hunts.

“Elias, this is the champion’s hunt. Everyone here is either older than me, stronger, or has more kills than I probably ever will. The bow can’t save me if I get caught in close combat.”

He paused, frame relaxing under your touch, a few seconds passed, only to drift away at the sound of your father entering the room. The car was here. 

Squeezing Elias’s shoulder, you parted, only for him to call out your name as you reached the threshold of the doorway. 

Turning over your shoulder, you met his melancholy gaze. “Go for the throat, ribs, and the base of the skull. The hunting triad. I remember.”

You didn’t look back again and followed your father down the stairs of the estate, taking in the smell, the way it looked under dim canary lights, the staff who had been nothing but loyal for almost ten years—all just in case you wouldn’t come back. With one squeeze to your shoulder from your father—signaling that he didn’t even believe you’d live—you stepped out into the stormy dark abyss of the night, the light diminishing behind rolling clouds. Slipping into the black, sleek car sent for you, you leaned back into the seat, head rolling to the side, and you watched your home until it disappeared completely from view. 

Ready or not, you would be participating in a hunt tonight.

One weapon, one night, survive until dawn…again—how hard could it be?  

The first crack of thunder came a few mere minutes after the sky erupted in a bright light. It rolled across the Danforth estate like something alive. The trees shook against the windows, the darkness of the sky matching what darkness would commence on the ground. Clutching your knife against your thigh, you listened as the grandfather clock ticked away—the rest of the heirs standing around you with their weapons of choice. 

Chester Danforth was more than a member of the high council; he was the greatest—cold, detached, lacking an ounce of empathy that would stall his order on the world. He stood at the top of the entryway steps, a dark suit buttoned up with a bright maroon tie—hair white, he sneered down at the competitors, at the children of his most trusted associates, sure to have their blood spilled. 

His eyes flickered over you, the youngest of the heirs, having already survived two of your own; it didn’t create any more favorable odds the third time around. You knew he would beam, maybe even laugh at the sight of you dead, especially if at the hands of his eldest son. 

Titus stood next to him, leaning up against his axe, grinning as if he were a kid who had just stumbled across a carnival. Like a predator stalking his prey, he scanned the crowd, the cusps of his teeth chewing on his lip as every dark fantasy flew in and out of his mind—blood, so much blood, god, he wanted to be drenched in it by the end of it all. There was no smell, no feeling better than it. 

Something in you stiffened as Titus’s pupils locked onto you, dark and unblinking. His smirk widened, slow and predatory, as his gaze dragged down your frame, pausing at the hunting knife strapped to your thigh. Mr. Danforth’s voice droned through the hall—rules, warnings, the same ritualistic speech you’d heard twice before—but Titus didn't look away. Not once. His stare was ruthless, hungry in a way that made your pulse stumble. The words went in one ear and out the other, only appearing in shortened phrases.

…One weapon.

Dawn or until there’s only one…

Different release points onto the estate.

…Bell sounds, hunt begins.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you couldn’t look away. Not until a staff member brushed your elbow, drawing your attention from Titus. They were to guide you to your release point on the far side of the estate. You nodded and followed, not missing the small wink Titus sent your way as you passed him—a silent promise, or a threat, you couldn’t tell—deeper into the Danforths’ world that you were sure was about to swallow you whole.

And then Ursula’s voice cut through the marble hall like a blade, echoing off the high walls as she gagged in disgust. “Really, Titus? We’re minutes from the bell, and you’re already hunting the wrong thing.”

You didn’t hear his reply. 

And you didn’t want to.

The staff member led you through a side door and out into the storm. The air hit you hard. Thunder rolled across the estate grounds as the Danforth mansion loomed behind you, its windows glowing like the watchful eyes of Chester Danforth.

The older staff stopped at the edge of the treeline. 

“Here,” they said. “Wait for the bell.”

You peered up at the sky and slipped back into the shadows of the forest, rain soaking through your clothes in seconds. Your breath fogged in the cold air as you waited, trying to hear past the storm. The first thing that came to your mind was what always had, it getting you through the first two hunts—hide, wait, survive. Let the others kill one another while you disappear deeper into the dark. 

The bell tolled somewhere from the direction that you came—low, resonant, like one that you used to hear at church. It vibrated in your ribs, your teeth, in the wet air around you. For a moment, everything went still.

And you ran. 

The storm swallowed you within seconds. Rain soaked into you and blurred the world around you. Your boots tore across the lawn, the mansion shrinking behind you with every stride. Thunder clapped overhead, close enough to make you jump. 

You ran and ran, not stopping until the shapes of the estate garden rose out of the dark. The old stone fountain was overflowing with stormwater, the row of greenhouses standing like glass skeletons under the stormy sky. You slowed there, hands meeting your knees, lungs burning. 

But then the lightning split the sky again—a white, violent flash—and in that instant you saw them. Another one of the hunters could be Vance’s son, aged thirty-eight. He wasn’t far. Back turned and scanning the dark for threats that weren’t you. 

Your breath stalled, and then your fingers were curling around the hilt of your knife. Clutching it tightly, you felt your pulse quicken, and for a moment you hesitated. That childlike old instinct tugging at you, the one that said run, don’t stop, let them kill each other first. 

But something in you was stalling. It could’ve been the storm, the exertion, or the fear that hiding wouldn’t save you anymore. It was a Champion’s Hunt—they would find you. 

It could’ve been the realization that this was your third hunt, two since Leo was murdered. But whatever it was, it had you moving forward, timing your steps with the storm, moving when the sky spoke, holding your breath when it was silent. The rain masked your approach, suddenly becoming so close you could see the rise and fall of their shoulders, close enough to smell the wet fabric of their jacket.

When the next crack of thunder tore through the sky, you struck. It was quick, clean, up through the back of their skull, finding that sweet spot like it wasn’t the first time. The hunter collapsed into the mud, and the storm covered the evidence. Standing over them, rain running down your face, your knife slick in your hand, for the first time in any hunt, you felt no remorse. 

You didn’t shake, and you didn’t feel the guilt. 

Only a cold understanding. 

Eliminate them one by one. The more you killed, the sooner it'd all be over.

Wiping the blade on the grass, you began to move around the perimeter of the estate, moving close to the trees, you let the shadows of the night swallow you whole. The storm worsened after your first kill; it was more grueling, coming down like soft pellets. As you passed along the garden path and toward the old orchard, somewhere in the distance, someone screamed. 

The Hunt was already eating people alive. 

You kept moving. The ground was slick, the mud sucking at your boots. You slowed for a second time and listened, trying to steady your breath. There, a few feet away, you see another figure crouched by a tree, the lightning revealing their position to you, and you followed it like a beam. Waiting for the thunder, you reached around without any hesitation and slit the person’s throat, angling it to hit their carotid. 

It was quick, instinct, and gravity brought them down. You stood there, chest heaving, rain dripping from your hair, staring down at the body. This one felt messy. Desperate.

Your hands were shaking slightly now.

Two kills—two people suddenly unalive and no longer breathing. 

After that, you didn’t make it much further, just passed the orchard towards where the trees thinned when the ground suddenly sloped upward. Your energy was waning, but still strong, but that’s when you heard it. 

The voice deep, taunting, and cruel—a Danforth through and through. 

“Look at you,” he called, stepping out from behind a twisted apple tree. Lightning flashed, illuminating his smirk. “Didn’t think you’d make it this far.” 

Your ears perked up, chest stalling for a moment.

Titus’s cousin.

He stalked closer, looking you up and down and lingering on the cut on your arm and the blood that covered your clothes. He laughed; it was sharp, loud, and absolutely terrifying.  “Looks like someone got you there.” 

You tightened your grip on the knife, jaw clenched because there was no way you were going to die at the hands of this asshole. Tilting your head ever so slightly, your tone came out threatening, “Move out of my way, Arlo.” 

He grinned wider. “You know I can’t do that.” 

He lunged first, and you barely dodged him, slipping in the mud. At the same time, his blade came up and grazed your cheek, a hot sting that made your vision spark. He laughed again. Then he went for you, this time taking a hold of both your hips and slamming you down on the ground. You slipped, boots flying out from under you, your back hitting the ground, knocking the air out of you. The knife fell from your hand, and Arlo’s hands found a place around your throat.

You kicked and struggled, but he only squeezed harder, his fingertips pressing into your windpipe. He exhaled heavily, his weight crushing you. Your lungs burned, and you flailed your arms, trying to free yourself, trying to find something, anything that you could use to get him off of you. But as seconds passed, the air filling your lungs slowed, and with the feeling of a nearly crushed windpipe, the only thing you could think in that moment was I’m going to die.

It was then you saw it out of the corner of your eye. Your hunting knife. It was too far for you to reach, but still close enough if you were just able to move. As you struggled to get the air in, Arlo’s face was red above, his hands tightening again and again. You thrashed against him, hands clawing at his hands, moving from side to side so frantically that you managed to get your knee free from under him. You thrust it hard into his groin.

His hold loosened and fell away altogether, only for a few seconds, but enough for you to slip out slightly from underneath him, palm meeting the handle of the knife. The next thing you knew, it was twisted underneath Arlo’s ribcage, up and towards his chest cavity. 

He gasped, surprised as you drove him into the mud. He tried to grab your wrist, but you were already moving, pulling the knife from his chest and going in again and again. 

 He tried to push you off of him, but you were stronger in this moment than you had ever been in your entire life. And you didn’t stop, until his body had crumpled beneath you, until his breathing ceased, and the rain was washing over you both—like a cleansing of your sin. You sat there for a long second after that, chest heaving, hair plastered to your face, hands trembling. 

Your throat screamed as you still struggled to get air into your lungs.

But you were alive.

And you had managed to kill three of them.

But that’s when you heard it, the wind shifting, settling just for a moment, and the sound of ground moving under a footstep. You turned, and then you saw him. 

Titus. 

Standing at the edge of the orchard, soaked, blood-splattered, his axe resting casually on his shoulder. His eyes flickered from the body at your feet to the cut on your cheek, to the knife trembling in your hand. His brow arched up like he was almost impressed.

Almost. 

Light flashed behind him, turning him into a silhouette of death.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, a certain darkness in his eye that told you he had killed too. 

You sighed. You were exhausted. Your muscles were trembling, and the energy that carried you through the first few hours of the hunt and through three kills was running out. Still, you stood, wiping the blood from your cheek with the back of your hand. Reaching down, you pulled the knife from the body of Titus’s cousin at your feet, and you met his gaze. 

He smiled. Slow. Cruel

It was a smile that was meant to unravel you. Scare you into submission. 

“How many have you killed?” he asked. 

You didn’t hesitate.

“Three.” Your voice cracked, and your throat ached.

He nodded, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving yours. You raised your knife, something in your chest hardening at the playful glint in his expression. He was such a mind fuck. 

“You?” you asked. 

His grin widened, “Four.” 

The number caused a shiver to run down your back.

You tried to shift right but he lunged—moving faster than you—and his hand closed around your wrist before you could react. The world tilted as he yanked you off balance, the storm even louder in your ears now as your boots slid in the mud. Titus’s weight crashed into you, his broad body sending you down to the ground.

The knife dropped from your hand. 

And you fell on your back, hard, breath knocked from your lungs. Before you could scramble away, Titus was already on you, hips pinning yours and one knee braced in the mud. One hand held your wrist to the ground, pressing down hard enough to keep you from escaping. 

His other hand wrapped around your jaw, holding it steady, forcing your gaze up to his.

Rain dripped from his hair onto your cheeks as you struggled underneath him. His breath was uneven, eyes dark and searching. His hand was around your jaw, causing you to whimper out in pain. Keeping you still, his pointer finger found your lower lip. He brushed it so gently, his eyes boring down into yours, something in him softening just a little bit.

His grip tightened around you, but he didn’t rush. 

He wasn’t angry. 

Merely waiting.

“Just fucking do it, Titus,” you snapped, breath shaking, voice hoarse. “S-Stop dragging it out.”

He pinned your arms harder into the ground, but he didn’t say anything. Not one word, not a shift in his expression either. His eyes narrowed in a way that would’ve made you listen if you weren’t dying either way. “Be quiet.”

“No, no, Titus,” you cried out against him, lip trembling in a way that had his chest tightening ever so slightly. 

“Shut up,” he groaned, feeling a subtle shift in the air. 

“Just... just kill me.” 

But something changed in his posture then. His body pressed down harder, pinning you completely. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” 

Your mouth parted but no sound came as he clamped his hand over your mouth. He lowered his head and you could feel the hardness of him poking into you. It made you stiffen, the pressure of him, the heat of him becoming too much to bear quickly. His hand stayed over your mouth, his grip unyielding, as he looked out at the darkness around you.

There were footsteps. And they were close.

You felt his breath against your temple.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you hoped in that moment he would make it quick, but it was a feeling that never came. The footsteps lingered only for a moment before moving and fading up near the back of the estate.

You exhaled but still refused to open your eyes. If death were to come, you didn’t want to look at Titus as it did. But as a strike of lightning illuminated behind your eyelids, you never felt the blade come; the feeling of coolness, his touch remained where it had been before. Slowly, you peeled one eye open and then the other. He stared, eyes suddenly black as his chest heaved up and down, rain sliding down his face and his neck, curls matted to his head. 

He managed to reach your knife, and suddenly it was pressed into your side. You felt his hardening shaft poke harder, even harder than the hunting knife, only for a moment before he was loosening his hold. With his hands still tightly holding your wrists, he managed to haul you up onto your feet. The blade returned to your side, poking into the last intercostal space of your ribs. 

“You’re going to move, and you’re not going to make a fucking sound,” he whispered against your ear, his breath hot. 

He pushed you deeper into the forest, the land going back so much further than you thought it did. Over rough terrain, creeks, you felt all patience dying on your tongue—he was making his own little game out of this, and it was fucking cruel. Whereas he could end this, he could win this. But he let it stretch out, counted the minutes with you pressed up against him, the way you were so close as the storm raged on. 

But then he hauled you to a stop—in the distance the bell rang once, then twice, and finally a third time—signalling that there were only three of you left now. You were sure the third being was Ursula. She never missed out on a hunt. 

Releasing your arms, he pushed you forward, and you cringed at the soreness that you felt from how long and how tight he’d had your arms bound behind your back. He gestured with the knife towards the ground in front of the two of you. 

“There’s a hatch, open it!” 

You crouched down, fear taking hold of you now. The hours had long since passed from the start of the Hunt, but you had no way of knowing just how much, or if dawn was close. You also had no way of knowing what Titus was up to, but you were so tired, so hopeless. Your fingers matted into the soft ground, hands sinking into the mud. Pushing back soft ground, twigs, and branches, your heart stuttered as your skin felt the coolness of metal. 

You scrambled to move the branches, and you could hear Titus behind you tapping his foot impatiently. The rain was only getting worse as time went on, blurring your vision into shadows of silver and black. Managing to clear off the hatch, you pulled at it, but it didn’t budge. 

You tried again, but Titus stepped forward, gave you a look that had you staying put as he grabbed the handle, managing to open the hatch door away from the ground, the sound a soft creak amongst the storm. He motioned you forward, and you hesitated for a moment, peering down into the tunnel of darkness. 

He sighed, your name falling off his tongue menacingly, your knife still clenched tightly in his fist. “Go.” 

You listened because what else were you going to do? Running didn’t feel like an option. He was more likely to kill you sooner the less you cooperated. If you played into his little game, the closer you could get to morning. And if you had to decide between which of the Danforth twins to encounter, you’d pick Titus. 

You saw the way he looked at you, how attentive he was; with him, you could buy yourself time. Ursula would’ve struck as soon as she could—with him, you at least had a chance of survival, no matter how slim. 

As your feet found the hard ground beneath, you shivered as you stared into the dark tunnel. The latch fell shut above you. Titus locked it and dropped down behind you. A ringing echoed in your ears, the storm above still loud and deadly, and for a moment, you wondered if you were already dead, confined in the darkness now forever. 

But then the sound of a click filled your ears, once and then twice. A small light birthing through the blackness illuminated Titus’s face, a smile twitching as he took in the sight of you, soaked through and with fear flickering at the edges of your irises.

He looked like a lion through and through on his final hunt, having discovered his last prey. Stepping closer, the tip of your knife poked into your back, his other arm with the lighter winding around your shoulders, illuminating only a few feet in front of you. His hard, wet chest pressed into your back, his breath falling short along your ear as he urged you forward, slowly, one step at a time.

“Titus.” His name slipped past your lips in a soft whimper. 

“Shh, pretty. Just keep walking,” he replied, the knife kissing your skin a little closer. 

The further into the lion's den you crept, the more sure you were he was going to kill you—in what way you weren’t sure, but if you knew anything about Titus, he liked blood. The dark tunnel walls opened up, the air cooling with every step. The storm faded from above, replaced by the low hum of generators buried somewhere in the stone. When he finally pushed open the heavy steel door, the room inside suddenly felt like another world entirely.

Titus pushed you forward into the dark, the knife leaving your side. You tripped slightly but caught yourself as the light began to spread, forming across the walls and the floor. 

He lit a lantern while you struggled to gather your bearings. Silence echoed, confining you as the concrete walls were smooth to perfection. A cot with a thick mattress, crisp sheets, and a wool blanket was tucked into the corner. Metal shelves lining the other side of the room were stocked with water, food, and a Danforth jacket hanging up on one of the nails. A map of the whole estate was pinned up on the wall, and the most unsettling thing of all was a drain centered in the floor. You wondered if that’s where your blood would end up, under the Danforth estate, soaking back into the ground.

You turned to see Titus still near the door. He leaned his axe up against the wall, then dropped your knife down onto a metal table. His stare never left yours, not as he shrugged off his jacket, water droplets dripping onto the concrete floor below. 

He wore a black shirt, which stuck to his body, revealing even in the shadows, hard lines underneath. You wondered then if everything about Titus was sharp. 

You inhaled deeply, pressing yourself back against the cool concrete wall, stare darting back and forth from him to your knife. But then he was too close, as close as he had been the last time you saw him, his toes meeting yours. The only sound filling the room was the two of you breathing.

Hair stuck to your face and neck, your arm still bleeding, beads of red mixing with the water to become a muted pink. Despite the goosebumps that arose on his arms, you could feel the heat radiating off of him, feel the tension that was threatening to snap.

“Titus, this is cruel,” you said, finally speaking, the exhaustion in your voice palpable.

He tilted his head at you, taunting in more ways than one. 

“You’re being fucking cruel.” 

“Am I?” he teased. 

Your stare hardened then, chin tilting up defiantly. “What are you doing? Just why won’t you kill me?” 

He didn’t respond but only moved even closer, a gasp falling from your lips at the way his wet chest pressed against yours. Titus’s eyes were glazed over with a lens of darkness that softened ever so slightly. His hands hovered as if unsure of where to touch you. Seconds passed, and they remained raised at his sides, weaponless. He could feel your heart beating, meeting his, and he wondered if there was ever a way to have them, without all the mess, all the blood, conjoining into one.

“Entertain me,” he mused, his nose nearly bumping into yours. His finger reached up and traced the cut along your cheek, collecting the dried blood there. “You’re young, but I know you’re smart enough to connect the dots.”

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he sucked it clean. You gasped, every part of you equally afraid and intrigued. He was close enough now that you could see a scar peeking out from the collar of his shirt, specks of blood staining his skin, as a certain sort of reverence settled in his eyes. Your head pressed back into the stone wall, as far as you could, looking up at him so honestly, every raw part of you showing. He could see it all—your fear, your humanity, your soul. 

It was laid out bare. 

This was his favorite part of killing—you knew it was. And yet he didn’t strike, didn’t reach for your throat, your skull. He just stood staring, hands still hovering, and you realized then that if Titus was really going to kill you, if he wanted to as much as he did, he would’ve done it—out in the open without shame, showcasing his prize if it meant getting the recognition he always craved. 

“You’re not going to kill me.” 

The words scraped out of you, thin and uneven, like they’d been dragged across broken glass. You hated how afraid you sounded. You hated that he heard it. 

Titus didn’t answer at first. His hand lifted to your jaw, thumb tracing the line of it with a focus that made you stutter. Not gentle—just deliberate. Assessing. Studying you the way a predator studies something it hasn’t decided the fate of yet. 

“This,” he murmured, tilting your chin up, “is why you think I couldn’t.”

Your breath caught.

He smirked then, slow and sharp, brows lifting. 

“I could kill you,” he admitted, voice low, matter-of-fact. “You know that. And I won’t pretend I wouldn’t take satisfaction in it.” 

Your stomach twisted. He wasn’t bluffing. He never did.

“But,” he continued, “I need an heir. And you’re more useful to me alive than dead.”

Your lips parted, the feeling of him pressing into you mixed with his confession, had heat pooling at the bottom of your stomach. 

The merging of families—the merging of power—the idea of you becoming Mrs. Danforth, both delightful and delicious. The Lawyer advised you before, at one of the galas, of a loophole—if you were to offer up marriage, offer up a union between two of the high power families, your survival was almost imminent. The elite families were addicted to the smell of blood, feeling someone wither under their touch, but there was something they would always crave more… power. 

“You said you wanted to strike up a deal. This is me offering you one.” 

It seemed Titus had beaten you to the punch.

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh—sharp, disbelieving, exhausted—your patience having completely thinned after this hellish night. “A deal? You want me to…what? Become some kind of vessel for your legacy.”

He actually chuckled. “Not just that. No.” 

His eyes flickered over your face, reading every reaction. 

“I would’ve thought you knew me better.” 

Your pulse hammered. 

You didn’t know him at all. 

That was the problem.

“You’d be more,” he said. “Much more. Mrs. Danforth.” 

The title hit you like a blow. It was heavy, suffocating, impossible.

You swallowed hard then. “And if I say no?” 

He didn’t hesitate, tilting his head, a glint forming at the mere thought of it. “Then death is still on the table.”

The words landed with a cold, heavy finality. But there was something else beneath them—something he wasn’t saying out loud. He could kill you, but he didn’t necessarily want to. Not anymore. Not after everything that has been revealed tonight. 

Your gaze dropped for a moment, it all becoming too much too fast, as if this hadn’t been building between the two of you. You forced your stare back up to meet his. 

And you couldn’t deny it then—how handsome Titus was, even a few decades your senior. His authority, while terrifying, was doing something to you now, and you knew that if the heir of the Danforth name and estate was offering up everything under the sky, you’d be an idiot to say no.

“I don’t trust you,” you admitted instead.

It wasn’t a refusal. 

It wasn’t an acceptance of any kind but it was honest. 

His mouth curved—not a smile, not quite. It was more like an acknowledgement. His thumb pulled at your bottom lip, humming at the way it snapped back into place. “You don’t have to trust me. You just have to survive. And with me, you will.”

Titus didn’t move, letting his hands mold around your body. He didn’t blink, just watched you, the way he always did. Your breath hitched, thinking about the options as you had them, a life as Mrs. Danforth, a life with power, money, with Titus as your husband…or no life at all. 

He could see them weighing on you. 

“You’re afraid of me,” he said softly. “You should be.”

Your pulse stuttered at his words, the way his hips hitched forward, meeting yours, pulling out a gasp with ease. His eyes narrowed slightly, doing it again to get another reaction out of you. “But I know there’s more you’re hiding in there. A want, a desire.” 

Your chest tightened. 

Heat rose up your neck. You looked away again—instinct, maybe self-protection—but he guided your face back towards his with some force. 

“Look at me,” he said.

You did, unable not to. And it all hit you in that moment, after all this time denying, refusing that any of this could be true, it shifted deep into your chest. It wasn’t because he touched you, not because he leaned in, but because you finally understood what had been weighing so heavily all this time. 

You weren’t just afraid of him.

You were drawn to him.

You always have been.

Your breath trembled and his did too. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke—the hunt was nearly complete above you, but down here, it felt as if it was just beginning. 

It was then his knee wedged between your thighs, pressing up in a way that you had you leaning into his warm touch. You bit down on your bottom lip to conceal the whimper, and Titus grinned at the sight of it. 

“So, what do you say, pretty?” he asked, voice lowering, reaching down into places you didn’t think he had access to. “‘Til death do us part.” 

His lips brushed along your jaw, his knee pressing up further against your center, the pressure making your head spin. Holding your breath, your chest was rising and falling quicker than before. As his knee met the spot where you wanted him most, a small moan fell, and you were nodding then. Nodding, you bit down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. 

His thumb hooked the side of your mouth, stare blown out, and cock twitching within his pants. “Words, I need words.” 

His knee pressed against your clit again. 

“Y-Yes…fuck,” you sputtered. “Yes.”

Something in him broke then, his hand fisted your hair and pulled you forward, your chest pressing further into his. His lips fell messily on yours, consuming you in just the way that was so Titus, it had your head spinning.

You kissed back, mouth falling open, teeth colliding as if this wasn’t the first time. And he took you within seconds, his tongue slipping into your mouth. He groaned at the taste of blood that bloomed on your lower lip, mixing so well with the sweetness that was you and only you. He pulled back, just enough to suck on your lower lip.

It felt like sin, having him touch you like this. But you knew in the way you sighed, and you arched into him, that all your defenses were falling away. Hands wandering like loose canons, they slipped up under your shirt, finding bare, damp skin underneath. Your head was reeling, body flooding with every ounce of energy and feeling you had left—all of it suddenly screaming for Titus. 

Secretly, this had crossed your mind for years, starting after your second hunt. You had caught sight of Titus after the other heirs came to admire the winners. He had less grey in his hair then, but he was still just as beautiful as he was now. He was deadly, a name that held more power than you would ever touch, and it became a dying thought when you thought he wouldn’t go for you because of the age gap or that he would have more interest in killing you than fucking you. 

You were pulled back by the feeling of him groping at your hips, your sides, any skin he could grab—nails leaving crescents as his lips continued to kiss bruises into your lips.

“You smell like blood,” he mumbled as his lips found your jaw.

“I thought you liked that,” you teased, and as he chuckled, you felt it in your chest—almost as if the sound came from you instead. 

He didn’t respond. Instead, he reached down, hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting you as if you weighed nothing. Resting you on top of his hips, your feet hooked around his waist, and you smiled down at him—a real smile. 

The side of his mouth twitched as he lay you down on the cot, his thigh once again parting your legs. He kissed you again. This one slower, deeper, wetter. 

His hands dove under your shirt again, kneading, his lips moving across your jaw and down your neck, hesitating once they met the raw skin of your throat, two red handprints glinting back at him under the low light. 

Arlo’s hands. 

He glanced down at your shirt stil matted and damp from rain water and blood. 

Arlo’s blood.

He had only gotten there as you had managed to free yourself, hand wrapping desperately around the handle of the hunting knife. It was your kill, and he’d let you claim it. Instead, Titus stood back, watching with satisfaction as you thrusted the knife up and under Arlo’s ribs, gasping for this earth’s sweet, sweet air as you did. 

He had never liked Arlo anyway. 

Didn’t like how his touch was left on your skin. 

Titus moved slowly as he stared down at the marks. Hand hovering for a mere moment, his fingers traced them. You stiffened first under his touch, his hand so close to your throat, you cringed second at the feeling. A part of it excited him, how wide your eyes got, the spark of fear that appeared in them. 

His hand drifted up higher, finding the side of your head instead, brushing hair behind your ear. 

“Sh, it’s okay,” he lowered his voice, hips pressed against yours, his hardness pressing through his pants into your thigh. “What kind of husband would I be if I hurt my wife?”

You met his steady gaze, the way it traced over your features, hand resting at the side of your head. Wife. The word was so foreign, so thick, so enigmatic. Was this the right thing? Marry a man who proposed with ‘will you marry me, but if you don’t say yes, I will kill you.’ But you’d be a Danforth, married to the very man who had fantasized about your death. 

And yet you got it. 

Completely.

After all, you had thought about his death, too. The Hunt made you envision everyone’s death. How would you do it, for every possible scenario you could think of. You had wanted to kill him, too. 

But not now. Not as he reached up, hands grabbing at the back of his wet shirt. Not as he pulled it up and over his head in one swift motion, leaving him bare underneath. Your eyes dropped to the expanse of skin—broad-shouldered, freckle-coated chest, taut muscles under scars and wounds both old and new. 

You traced your fingers over the scar that was peeking out of his shirt before. It was so much larger now, extending from the top of his shoulder, along his collarbone, ending where the bone met sternum. He shivered, and it only made you want to push further. Dragging your pointer finger down his chest, you moved lower and lower. His stomach clenched as you found the waistband of his pants. 

“Fuck,” he swore, head dipping to meet yours. 

“What was that?” you teased. 

Titus shook his head, brows furrowed.  “You’re wearing too many clothes.” 

His hands pushed your shirt up and over your chest.

“So fix it,” you smirked, leaning up and nearly kissing him. 

He grinned then, pulling the shirt the rest of the way up and over your head. Titus’s stare dipped at the new expanse of skin, at the blood that stained through your clothes, your own scars, your own stories of near encounters with death. He took you in slowly, then, slower than he ever had, orbs taking you one inch at a time. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, fingers thumbing at the button of your pants. He popped them, and you involuntarily arched into his touch. 

“All I’ve ever wanted.”

Titus chuckled, and you lifted your hips just enough for him to get the material under your butt before pulling them the rest of the way down, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. His fingers twisted in the material, and you rubbed your thighs together. He noticed it, took in the sight of the wetness gathering at the center of your grey panties. 

Pulling his fingers free, he stared down at you, pupils blown, chest heaving, and with a look that made you realize he was about to ruin you—ruin you for anyone else. He reached for the front of his own pants, the zipper, and then the button. 

“You know,” he paused, eyes tracing the skin and bones of you, following them with his lips. “There's nothing I want more than to devour you.” 

His lips found the space right above your underwear. Your breath stalled, hands fisting around the sheets. He moved up further, placing another one below your navel. 

“What I would give to taste you, over and over. Stretch you out with my fingers until your legs are shaking.” 

Then, between the valley of your breasts, just above the band of your bra. He pushed his pants over his hips and down his knees. He kicked them off just as his lips met one of your nipples, your bra dampening under the hot wetness of his mouth. 

You whimpered, hips pressing up into his. 

His smile widened further. “There’s nothing more you deserve after tonight than to cum—” 

“Titus,” you moaned. 

“And, I haven’t even done anything yet,” he quipped, fingers dancing up your thigh to the front of your underwear. “Also, you shouldn’t interrupt. What kind of manners did your parents raise you with? Well, I can just fix that, can't I?”

His finger moved up along your lips, finding your clit with ease even over the cotton material.

“If you’re going to be my wife, I'm gonna need to teach you a few things.” 

He pressed down, and you arched into him again, palms wrapping around his arms, nails digging into his biceps. 

“So number one, if I'm talking, you're not, got it? Wives shouldn't interrupt their husbands,” he ordered, his finger beginning to move in steady circles.

As seconds passed, he circled faster, harder—head tilting as he took in the way your face moved, eyes squeezed shut, fingers digging into his arms that he hoped you drew blood. 

“Fuck, what I would give to see you like this all night, face twisted up, chest heaving, body slick just because I'm touching you. I'd make you cum again and again,” he whispered against the shell of your ear, pushing you further and further towards the edge. “But wouldn’t it be more interesting to leave that for the wedding night…”

Just as the coil in your stomach began to tighten, maybe even close to snapping, he pulled his fingers away. You gasped and swore, nails digging in deep then. He groaned at the pain, his lips falling down onto yours, saliva finding your tongue as he took everything that he could give. 

“Titus, I swear to—” 

Your words died at the feeling of his fingers tangling back into the sides of your underwear, this time pulling so hard, it dug into your skin before ripping altogether. The relief from the pain and the garment breaking away made you whimper. 

“You were saying?” he smirked, his hands leaving yours to push down the only thing left between you. 

His hard cock twitched as it slapped against his stomach. Leaking pre-cum onto your thigh, your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head, until his hand was back around your jaw, thumb pressing firmly into the divot of your chin. 

“Lose your voice, pretty?” His voice was condescending, dick warm and eliciting your walls to flutter, as if they could suck him inside of you. 

He didn’t move, content in that moment to take you just how he had you—your nipples peeking through the fabric of your bra, chest rising and falling, lips slick with his saliva and your own blood. 

You were getting impatient, and as the hours had waned into the early morning, you were desperate to seal this deal with him before the hunt was over. Before the blood dried and the storm ceased. 

His lips parted, and you knew he was about to make another remark, anything to make you suffer—because you could tell that Titus was the kind of guy who liked his partner like he liked his kills: desperate and begging. 

But you had lost your patience, body shaking, energy slipping out of your pores from the extent of everything you had been through. So before he could tease you further, you leaned back and spit in his face—pink and bubbly, it splattered along his cheek and at the corner of his lips. 

Titus’s hand tightened around your jaw, and you whined. His eyes darkened, but with his lips curled in satisfaction, he licked the side of his mouth clean. 

“Titus Danforth, if you’re not inside of me in the next few seconds, don’t think I won’t find a way to cut it off. Forget your heir—” 

Your words died suddenly at the feeling of his cock slamming up against your clit, then down through your folds. He thrusted inside, everything all at once, basking in how you clenched around him, jaw falling as a cry ripped free from your throat. 

The tip of him met your cervix, and you arched into him just at the rawness and the fullness alone—the heat from his body making you melt into a momentary bliss. His breath was heavy, meeting yours in a tangled mess of tension and near confessions.

“Forget my heir, huh? I guess then I can pull out right now, then.” 

Almost as if you were afraid he actually would, your legs tightened around his waist, keeping him sheathed tightly inside. His smirk widened at the response you gave him, so desperate, so wet, so completely his.

“That's what I fucking thought,” he grunted against your lips.

Titus then pulled back all the way before thrusting right back in, his tip hitting the same spot he was just resting. So like him to take in that moment, and you would let him. His fingers laced into your hair and pulled your lips up to meet his. He hummed then, setting a rough pace that already had you seeing stars. 

“You’re already taking to the role so nicely, Mrs. Danforth,” he grunted and then hissed as you clenched just as the name slipped off his tongue. 

His other hand slipped down to find your clit. Your fingers found his shoulders and dug in nicely. “You like that, don’t you? Mrs. Danforth.” 

You nodded, nails leaving creases close to breaking skin.

“It’s got a nice ring to it,” he continued, hips snapping forward, meeting yours with a soft chorus of skin meeting skin. “Fuck, there were so many things I thought about before tonight’s hunt—your smooth skin, the way it could slit open with the sharpest blade. How your body would feel going limp in my arms, my name the last thing you’d say on bated breath. I thought about killing you in every possible way.” 

You moaned, head thrown back as your nails finally broke skin—blood seeping under your nailbeds. Earlier, you would’ve cowarded, spat at him in disgust for this admission, and now it was bringing you to the point of an orgasm. 

His index finger pressed harder on your clit, cock twitching inside of you as your gummy walls pulsed and shook, desperate to suck him in as deep as he could—desperate for his seed, his DNA, him in any form you could get. 

“But I would also be lying if I hadn’t thought about this—if I hadn’t been thinking about this for months. You under me, taking my cock so well. So deep… after a hunt, during a hunt, covered in someone else’s blood—claiming you as mine and only mine.” 

Your head was spinning at this point, stomach clenching, that coil in you tightening further and further—the pressure building in a way you had never been able to get with your own fingers. 

His pelvis met yours rougher than before, and you knew you were both close—bruised, panting, bleeding. “Mine. You're all mine and don't ever forget that.” 

Just as he whispered that promise across your tongue, his finger circling your clit one more time, that feeling in you snapped. Your body tensed, legs quivering as your walls fluttered, the euphoria pulsing through you in a way you had never experienced.  

Titus didn’t stop but only thrusted hard into you over and over, your slick on his cock propping him forward, walls clenching him once and then twice as he tried to drive his own orgasm into you. “What do you say, we get ahead, put an heir in your womb right here, right now… getting you pregnant before the wedding, god that’d drive them all crazy.” 

Your bloody fingers laced into his hair, and you pulled him down as close as you could. Your eyes were lidded, your fucked-out expression paired with your pouting lips, had him tiptoeing across that edge. You pressed an open-mouth kiss against his, tongue rolling over his before the words left you with ease, with so much certainty, it had him. 

“Come inside of me, Titus. Fill me up—you, I only want you.”

That was all he needed to hear. Paired with your wet mouth, it had him stalling above you, his warm release shooting inside of you, mixing with your own. His head collapsed into your neck, his body crushing yours into the mattress. Silence filled the room then, both of you trying to catch your breath as the evidence of what the two of you had done, agreed on, began to slip out of you. 

It felt almost like a binding contract—as if you had already been at the altar, already cut your hand and released your blood into the golden chalice—as if you were already connected to him both body and soul. 

As he grew soft in you, he lifted his head, dark gaze meeting yours still somehow just as full of lust as before. Your stomach turned as the reality of it all washed over you slowly and then all at once—how had you gone from being the hunted, the one he wished to cut open, to being the one pinned underneath him who so willingly offered herself up to a life full of killing and devil worship?

It felt diminished in some way as her eyes, so doe-like, innocent, unwilling to be caught up in a war, stared up at him through her lashes. A blush appeared on her cheeks, the same soft pink that you had so clearly seen even that first day when she had met him. She was smitten with the general, and you had never cared, and yet at that moment, you felt the rage swell in your chest. 

He wasn’t paying attention, not to the way she oggled him or the small smile that appeared every time she noted the muscles of his bicep. He was too busy staring down at the latest casualty report one of the other soldiers had brought to him. It was long, at least five pages, three pages longer than it had been for most of the course of the time you had been here. Names and ranks littering them, sure to fade into the road of forgotten ones, only to be kept alive by the mark they left on wherever they came from. 

Your chest ached then for a moment at the thought, but it only hardened further as you heard the nurse’s soft voice fill the tense air of the tent. “General Skywalker, I was told you experienced some impact that was quite severe along your abdomen. I’m afraid I’ll have to take a look.” 

His blue eyes snapped up to hers, that stone-coldness commonly there met her kind ones, and you hated how your stomach turned involuntarily. You huffed slightly, brows knitting in so much anger. His glare flickered over to you, but only for a second, barely surveying your stiff posture. 

He sighed then, almost of disappointment, before nodding, “Make it quick, will you?” 

“Of course,” she replied, almost too enthusiastic. 

Anakin peered back down at the list of his soldiers, but his face hardened again as the nurse cleared her throat awkwardly. He looked back up at her. 

“I’m going to need you to remove your clothing, sir.” 

He didn’t look at you again, and you felt your arms drop in defeat. You were crazy; you knew that much, but it didn’t stop you from turning on your heels and storming out of the tent. He had asked you there to go over some details of the battle, and yet the five minutes you spent standing there had you feeling so out of place even though you had spent the night there two nights before. He was silently staring down at the reports for the entirety of those few minutes, but you couldn’t care, and you couldn’t stay. Too blindsided by the anger that filled your chest, eliciting your veins on fire from the sudden rush of your blood going straight to your balled fists. 

It was something that could surely wait because you were too afraid.

Afraid if you stayed any longer, you would do something that would have the nurse talking, sure to have the rest of the troop and brigade in a state of knowing. Sure, to go back to the Republic, then you both would be in trouble because, after all, Jedi had responsibilities, a code to follow, and work to do. And attachments weren’t allowed, even in a state of sadness, even in the darkest places where it’s the only form of comfort to have. 

You found the only way to really deal with this sudden feeling that seemed to consume you was to take it out on anything you could. It was why you had gone and trained, your lightsaber stretched out, meeting the clashes of another soldier you commonly fought with. Your blows were more forceful, fueled by the sudden rush of feelings you hadn’t known you could even feel. You hated it, the way it seemed to never fade, never fall to the back of your mind even as hours passed. Instead, only the images of her possibly tracing his bare chest and stomach with her fingers remained. 

It was hours upon hours of training, trying to tire yourself into a state of exhaustion, even with the possibility of having to go off into battle at any moment. You couldn’t care, knowing this had to be gone when that time finally came. Not only for your survival, for the mission but to keep him from ever knowing. 

General Anakin Skywalker, the chosen one, the professed hero of this war, could never know. Never know of the sudden feelings that had befallen you. 

That night, you stood in your own tent, far smaller than the General’s, you were getting ready to sleep. Bathed as well as you could manage, you were bundled in clean robes, ready to succumb to the darkness of sleep; it somehow more comforting than being awake. However, as soon as you were ready to do so, a soldier appeared at your door with a message.

“The General requests your presence.” 

It had taken all day, hours, for Anakin to ask for you, to seem willing to want to talk to you, and that seemed to enrage you all over again. Perhaps, he enjoyed the comforts of the innocent nurse warming his bed rather than you. Perhaps she was some sort of light, untouched by the true grit and devastation of war, having never truly left the camp. She had not met death, had not drained life from someone so carelessly. You, on the other hand, were tainted, left in a wallowing sense of pain that only others could understand who had watched death parade day in and day out. 

Yet he had called for you, as he did most nights, but you didn’t go. 

You couldn’t. 

Something you had never done. Something no one had ever done. When the General requested you, you went, no questions asked, and yet your feet were glued to the ground. 

A half-an-hour later, it seemed he became tired of waiting because he had appeared in your doorway, the tent falling closed enough that not even a sliver of the outside world could see inside. He stood in clean black tunics, grime washed free from his delicate features, but that stern look was still apparent. 

He was so breathtaking, like sin itself. 

“I called for you,” he said, voice breaking the air, sounding demanding. 

You stood, fingers carding through your hair, pulling free a knot, back turned towards him. “Did you?” 

His furrowed look only deepened, somehow confused if the message had gotten to you or if you had chosen to ignore it, “Yes, hours ago.” 

“Hm, it seems I must have forgotten.” 

He could hear the spite in your tone, it unable to be hidden. He became frustrated at that point, “Forgotten?” 

Stepping further into the tent, he approached and you felt his presence seem to wrap around you completely, leaving your heart an aching mess. “You don’t merely forget. When your general fucking requests you, you come. Do you understand me, Y/L/N.” 

You turned then, anger palpitating, sure to burst any second as you thought of just how much you were suffering. Your knitted brows met his glare intact, “I was merely giving you time, sir. Time for you to recover, have your wounds tended to.” 

It seemed your words, paired with the spite in your tone, revealed something to him because suddenly his expression was waning, collapsing in on itself into one of wonder. A single brow raised, lips almost lifting in a smirk. His hard exterior disappeared, the General in him no longer there, but only Anakin himself. The true twenty-one-year-old man he was. 

“Seriously?” he chuckled then, spotting how your chest rose and fell in frustration. 

“What?” you spat.

He seemed to be enjoying it, evident in the way his smile only widened, a look of pure amusement appearing. “I wasn’t sure at first if I was imagining it, but damn it seems I haven’t.” 

He had caught on, you realized then. You were unable to truly hide it, not when the fear filled you of what exactly this could mean. Caring for a man this much who you were sure to never see again one way or another when this war ended. Sighing, you turned away again, unable to face him. 

“You can’t just call me whenever you need a woman to nestle yourself into, Anakin.” 

It seemed your words had pulled all air of the room, the amusement he felt somehow falling away at the way your shoulders slumped into themselves. “Y/N.” 

You couldn’t reply then, too shocked, too afraid to. 

“Baby,” he corrected himself, the name only heard at night under the stars. You hated how it felt paired with the way his hands took hold of your arms, turning you to face him again. 

You couldn’t meet his stare though, instead focusing on his shoes. 

“Look at me.” 

You denied him again. 

“Look. At. Me.” This time, his thumb and forefinger took a hold of your chin raising it so your eyes were forced to meet his, the blueness the only comfort you had found in this life. He chuckled again, “You’re cute when your mad.” 

“This isn’t funny.” You huffed then, willing to push him away but his hands stopped you, taking a firm hold of your wrists. 

“Oh, but it is. You’re so clearly jealous.” 

The word awoke something in you, because you felt your glare appear in a moment of defense. “I am not.” 

“Are you sure about that?” he goaded and you felt your entire resolve crack, it so easy when his hands traced down your sides to your hips. They rested there comfortably.

A side only you got to see of the general somehow convincing enough. 

“Does it always have to be her?” you asked then, letting it all out, “I mean, every time a nurse is requested to check you over after you return from the front, it is always her. Every fucking time, and she isn’t good at hiding it either. She is so fucking obvious with how she looks at you. How she even touches you. It’s…”

“Not anything to be worried about,” he finished then, his hand coming up to cup your cheek softly. 

Your eyes met his and softened them almost immediately. 

“You really think that I would do that to you? To us?” 

“I don’t know what to think, Anakin.”

“Why is that?”

“This is wrong, and you know it. If the Council found out, what would come of you? Of me? It seems like a lot to risk just for sex.” 

“Just sex? Since when have I ever given you that impression?” 

You couldn’t answer, somehow feeling as if the weight of the world would crush you if you did. It was all too much once again. How you felt about him, about this predicament of life that had befallen you.

“You were never and have never been just sex to me. You must know that. The way that I feel is…” 

He trailed off as if trying to find the words, find how to say the exact things he had promised himself never to say, because of the code, of his Master, of fear of what would become of him. Leaning forward, his forehead met yours, and suddenly, you could only squeeze your eyes shut, breathing unevenly. 

“When I go out on the front every fucking day, when I have to leave everything else behind to ensure that I am giving everything to these men, to this mission, to the prophecy, one thing still remains. The only comfort I have in all of this is returning so I can see you. Living for the possibility of hugging you, seeing you, kissing you. When I first convinced you to fall into my bed, it was never just for sex. It was because I felt as if you could save me. Save me from the darkness that looms too close to my heart most days.” 

“Anakin,” you whispered in disbelief, in an ache of how much you truly cared, possibly loved this man. 

“You’re the future, the only future I can focus on day in and day out. So understand when I say you have nothing to worry about. No nurse, no other woman, could take the place of that, okay?” 

You nodded, eyes squeezed shut, trying to will the tears away, so desperately hoping they wouldn’t fall in front of him. You couldn’t let them, evident in the way your hands dug into his shoulders, as if afraid of him walking away. Leaving you as you always thought he would one day. Instead, he held you back just as tightly, his forehead pressed along yours.

You heard him chuckle again, though, remembering why you had been so upset. “I still think you’re cute when you’re jealous.” 

You couldn’t help it, not as your own laugh appeared, the tears falling then as you opened your eyes to meet his kind and loving stare. “She was all over you.” 

“I’ll make a note to ask for another nurse then. Or even better, ask that you are the one to take care of me. That way, you can be the one all over me.” 

You smiled, that ache falling away, somehow being buried back where it came from. Simply cured by the man before you. How inevitably screwed you were one way or another. 

“Now, can your general request you to his tent? Or are you going to deny him of that for the second time today?”