Grace’s Musings

Thragg is not one to grovel. His pride does not allow his anger does not make it a possibility. It is only you who is able to bring him to his knees. The woman you are and the mother you will be leave a gape in his chest and a tremble in his voice. When he sees you it feels as though his heart has stopped- it's only then he realizes how rapidly his pulse has been. He stands before you a shell of a man and lowers his eyes to meet yours. Your eyes swim with worry and he knows that what comes next will drown him. He gets on his knees kneeling before you. His voice has a slight edge. “My love, I’ve failed. We’ve no land, no people, just will. Our children will have no home because of my failures. For this I feel” he pauses and whispers a shaky breath “remorse.” 

The Emperor of Viltrum on his knees before you he does not serve his people he serves you.  

“Thragg” you say voice the same as ever-sure as ever. “You may consider today a failure but there is no limit to your merit as Emperor. You will succeed. We will get our justice. We shall prevail; we are without end.”  

After your discreet exit from the palace, you hadn’t expected your step-family to return so soon. You had hoped for a few hours of solitude to bask in the memory of the King’s touch—to hold onto the feeling of his lips against your skin before reality reclaimed you.

But Beatrice wouldn’t even spare you that small courtesy.

When you had tentatively mentioned your surprise at their early arrival last night, Beatrice had ripped her gloves off with a look of pure agitation—already in a bad mood.

“The King cleared the entire ballroom,” Beatrice snapped, her voice trembling with indignant rage. “Apparently, some woman he was seeking went missing without his notice, and he turned into a madman. He ended the festivities right then and there, nearly throwing the delegates out of the palace in his haste to find her. The Prince had to deliver the King’s order because of how upset he was.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, unaware of the way your heart quickened anxiously at her words.

“A complete waste of a perfectly good gown. All because of some nameless little tramp who didn’t know how to stay put.”

Beatrice paused, her tirade dying in her throat as she noticed your hesitation.

She took a slow step toward you, the sharp clack of her heels against the floors made you snap back to a reality you weren’t ready to face.

“I’m surprised you’re still awake,” she pointed out suspiciously. Her eyes trailed over you, scanning from your head to your toes as if searching for a single hair out of place.

You blinked, forcing your spine to straighten despite the ache in your muscles.

“I—I had only just finished the kitchen,” you stammered. “I was about to climb into bed when the door opened.”

Her eyes narrowed into thin, venomous slits, and you swore you saw her eyebrow twitch as if she realized something. She stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could smell the expensive perfume. For a terrifying heartbeat, you were certain she would call you out, strip you of your dignity, and banish you from your own home and onto the streets to fend for yourself.

But she didn’t.

Instead, a cruel, satisfied smirk curled her lips.

“Good girl,” she said, the praise sounding more like she was addressing a well-trained hound than a human being.

And now, with the morning sun rising over the large windows, you find yourself on your hands and knees again, the soaked sponge scrubbing against the marble floors. You were scrubbing a surface that should have already been polished—had Agnes not stomped across the foyer in her muddy riding boots without a care in the world.

“And don’t forget to polish the shoes right after! I’m going riding again later.” Agnes called out, kicking her boots off haphazardly.

They tossed in your direction, hitting the floor with a heavy thud that splattered even more fresh droplets of muck across the area you had just cleaned.

You winced at the sound, your shoulders aching with a deep, bone weary exhaustion. Your body was utterly spent, and your mind was miles away, still lingering in a dark study filled with the scent of ink, papers, and sex.

You remembered the way the King’s body had pressed into yours, the feel of his salt and pepper beard tickling your chin just before his lips collided with your own. He was a King who never knew what it was like to be hungry, yet he took you and made love to you like a man starving.

Agnes let out a tired groan, dragging her feet to meet her sister Margaret on the couch. She slumped down next to her, tossing her head back against the cushions with a weary sigh, acting as if she even knew what a truly hard day felt like.

“I can’t believe it,” Agnes whined, her voice high and grating. “Such gorgeous dresses wasted on a night that lasted a mere—what? Three, four hours? Ugh, I just can’t believe it!”

“Tell me about it, sister,” Margaret sighed, flipping the page of a book she was hardly reading. “Prince Jamie throws the most beautiful ball—and then his father comes in with a snap of his fingers and ruins it all.”

“I didn’t see much of King Barnes last night either,” Agnes added, leaning in closer like she’s sharing a secret. “He appeared for the toast and then vanished like a ghost. He didn’t even acknowledge the receiving line!”

Margaret let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “King Barnes is always out and about, hardly ever present at his own balls, much less his son’s. Makes you wonder why he ended it early in the first place. You know, I hear His Majesty has been messing around with several women behind closed doors.”

You felt your body go rigid.

“Margaret! You mustn’t speak of the King that way!” Agnes giggled, though she didn’t look the least bit offended.

“What? It is true! There are rumors,” Margaret insisted, smiling wide. She leaned in, using the book as ‘cover’, though her whispers were anything but quiet.

“They say he’s a coldhearted rake who keeps a string of nameless girls in the west wing just to pass the time. He probably found a new plaything in one of the corridors and decided the ball was no longer worth his attention.”

You squeezed the scrub brush until your knuckles turned white, the soapy water burning the small cuts on your hands. Every word out of their mouths made you feel sick—almost disgusted with yourself.

They were talking about the man who had held and kissed your hand with such kindness, the man who had looked at your burn marks and seen beauty instead of a blemish.

But to the world, he was just a predator who took what he wanted simply because he could—and you were nothing more than a nameless rumor to be laughed at over morning tea.

“Now, ladies,” Beatrice’s voice rang from the stairs, echoing off the high walls.

Her hands gripped the railing as she stared down at everyone from above, slowly making her descent. With each step, the sharp clicks of her heels sounded like a threat.

“That’s not the way to talk about our King,” she warned.

“It wasn’t fair!” Agnes continued anyway, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “The Prince didn’t even look our way. He spent the entire night dancing with that… that nobody.”

“A random woman,” Margaret scoffed, finally shutting her book with a sharp snap. “She wasn’t even that beautiful. Her hair was far too simple, and that dress? It looked like something from a past decade. Where was she from, anyway? Some… obscure foreign land?”

“She must have been,” Agnes added, her voice rising to a whine. “Did you see her? She could hardly even dance! The Prince asks you to dance and you can’t even deliver? Ridiculous.”

Margaret leaned forward, her eyes malicious. “And the Prince only had eyes for her. But that wasn’t even the scandalous part—she danced with the King, too! Right in front of the entire court.”

Agnes blinked, as if piecing something together. Then, she let out a sharp gasp that made you jump.

“What if Prince Jamie is no better than his father? What if they’re just alike? Perhaps they shared her in a corridor in the west wing before the night was through.”

They both broke into fits of snickers, their hands covering their mouths as they giggled at the mental image of your degradation.

You just wished the marble floors would open up and swallow you whole.

To them, the most beautiful and profound moment of your life was nothing more than a dirty joke.

Beatrice met them in the living room, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fret not, ladies. She was probably some impoverished Duchess from the North, trying to sink her claws into the crown before the night was up.”

You kept your head down, your fingers tightening around the damp handle of your scrub brush. Your skin crawled as they picked apart your appearance, your dancing, everything. They were completely unaware that the so called ‘impoverished’ woman they were mocking was currently kneeling in the dirt at their feet.

Every insult only felt like a splash of cold water, reminding you that in their world—and Bucky’s—you were merely an interloper who didn’t belong.

From the corner of her eye, Beatrice noticed the frown on your face. A slow, cruel smile tugged across her red lips. To her, your grimace was nothing more than bitter jealousy. She turned to you, smoothing her skirt as her eyes locked onto yours with a sympathy so forced she might as well not have bothered.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t have gone,” Beatrice said, her voice sweet and fake. “The palace was truly beautiful. The way the light hit the gold… it’s a world you can’t even begin to imagine, isn’t it, dear?”

You bit your tongue so hard you tasted copper. You wanted to tell her. You wanted to look her in the eye and tell her that not only had you shared a dance with the Prince they sought after, but the King had worshipped you.

He had called you his girl.

He hadn’t ‘ruined’ the ball—he had ended it because he couldn’t stand a single second of it without you by his side.

But you knew that arguing with the ignorant would get you nowhere, so you did what you did best, which was staying silent and unassuming.

“But then, someone has to stay behind and make sure the house doesn’t fall into ruin. We can’t all be Princesses for a night.” Beatrice let out a small, airy laugh—as if this was all just a joke to her.

“Anyway, back to work!” She suddenly commanded. “Agnes’ riding boots won’t clean themselves, and I expect the foyer to be spotless before afternoon tea.” She glanced at her daughters slouching on the couch. “Up, girls. It’s time for piano lessons.”

Agnes and Margaret pushed up from the couch, giving you glances they would as if it giving it to a insect—though, they’d probably look kinder than that.

You dipped your brush into the bucket, the cold water stinging the raw skin of your hands. You had dreamt of him in the few short hours of peace you’d found in your bed, and even now, amidst the dirt and cruel insults, your mind was still entirely consumed by him.

You could still feel the phantom sensation of his touch against your waist and the husky rasp of his voice calling you his.

His girl.

And even though you knew deep down that a maid had no chance of being with a King, a small, stubborn part of you couldn’t help but wonder.

You wondered if he was standing in that cold, empty study right now, staring at the empty space on the desk you’d left behind. You wondered if, despite the crown and the kingdom, he was still thinking about you all the same.

Back at the palace, the morning sun bled through the towering windows, but the light felt intrusive. Bucky stood eerily still, staring out over the kingdom that belonged to him, his tired gaze fixed on the town below.

He hadn’t changed his clothes. He hadn't slept.

In his hand, he held your white lace glove. He squeezed it so tightly his knuckles turned white, the delicate fabric bunching against his palm. He kept finding himself closing his eyes, bringing the lace to his face to inhale the fading scent of rosewater that still clung to the threads.

Every time he exhaled and opened his eyes, those icy blue orbs were filled with a dangerous mix of both yearning and fury.

How dare you leave him?

He had marked you. He had claimed you. And yet, you had slipped through his fingers like smoke, leaving him with nothing but a scrap of lace and a hollow, agonizing ache in his chest.

He knew he should sleep. He should take a hot bath, wash the scent of the night off his skin, and finally eat—but he couldn’t.

Not when you were still clawing your way into his mind, nearly driving him mad.

A set of footsteps approached him with caution. It was the same attendant from last night, looking pale and trembling.

Bucky knew he should have sent the man to the gallows the moment he realized the attendant had helped you escape. It would have been easy. But it also would have been unreasonable—the man was simply doing his job and doing what he was used to with… Bucky’s shameful previous moments before you.

“Sire,” the man stammered, bowing so low he nearly tipped over. “Regarding the girl... and the abrupt end to the ball.”

Bucky didn’t bother turning around. “Speak.”

“It seems Prince Jamie also ordered the ballroom to clear shortly after you left the dais,” the attendant whispered. “He told the guests it was by your direct command—that the King demanded the palace be emptied for a search. He spent the remainder of the night with the captain of the guard, scouring the lower gates for a ‘missing guest.’”

Bucky’s grip on the glove tightened until the lace threatened to tear.

Jamie.

His own son had used his name to chase after the same woman. Bucky’s jaw clenched so hard his molars ached. The boy gets one dance with a pretty woman and he forgets himself. He forgets who he is—and more importantly, who his father is.

“He did, did he?” Bucky’s rumbled.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The silence between them was so still and heavy, that the faint ticking of the clock across the room sounded like a hammer against an anvil. The attendant remained rooted to the spot, standing so rigidly perfect that his spine began to ache, his breath held in his chest as he waited for the King’s next move.

“Bring him to me,” Bucky finally ordered. He glanced at the attendant over his shoulder. “My son. Bring him to me. Now.”

“Y-yes, Your Majesty!”

The attendant gave one final, frantic bow before scrambling away to fetch Jamie. Left in the sudden quiet, Bucky turned his gaze back to the window, his mind a turbulent storm of a million different thoughts.

Bucky had always prided himself on being a good King. He was a man who ruled with a steady hand, treating his people with a fairness that was rare for his station. He gave everything to the land and asked for very little in return; he was hardly ever a selfish man.

He took that same pride in his role as a father. He had raised Jamie with meticulous care, shielding him from the hardness of his own past. He had taught the boy how to be a gentleman, how to be polite, and above all, how to treat a woman with kindness—all the virtues Bucky himself had lacked growing up.

But now, staring out at the kingdom he had built, Bucky realized that his own teachings had backfired.

He had taught his son how to recognize a woman of worth, and now, they were both hunting the same girl.

“Father,” Jamie panted, the words catching in his throat as he reached the top of the stairs. He came to a halt behind Bucky, maintaining a respectful distance between them—the gap between a Prince and his King.

“You called for me?”

Bucky turned slowly to face his son. He didn’t offer a greeting; rather, he simply watched, his eyes tracking the way Jamie’s shoulders rose and fell with every labored breath. He took note of the sheen of sweat on the boy’s forehead and the way he struggled to compose himself after the lengthy climb.

Bucky pursed his lips, a small pang of disappointment hitting his chest as he judged his son’s lack of stamina.

Perhaps he hadn’t been such a good father after all. Because as he stood there, watching Jamie stumble over his own exhaustion, the only thing Bucky could think was that the boy was outmatched.

Jamie was too soft, too unseasoned. He could never hope to catch up to a woman like you—and he certainly wouldn’t be able to catch up with you in bed.

“I hear that you cleared the guests out shortly after I performed the toast,” Bucky said, dangerously calm. “I couldn’t quite remember if the invitation mentioned the ball ending at midnight. I found myself wondering why the palace was being emptied with such… urgency.”

Jamie stayed quiet.

Bucky took a step closer.

“I was also told that you ordered every guest to leave under my command,” Bucky added, his tone dropping deeper and quieter. “Using my name to finish a party that you were so excited to host. Why is that, son?”

Jamie stood up straighter, his own blue eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that made Bucky’s eyebrow twitch. He didn’t see the storm brewing in his father’s expression; he only saw an opportunity to confide in the man he looked up to.

“I had to, Father,” Jamie admitted, a small, sheepish smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “There was a woman. I’ve never seen anyone like her—she wasn’t like the usual court vultures. She was... magnetic. But she vanished the moment the clock struck twelve.”

Jamie took a deep breath, his chest puffing out slightly as he warmed to the subject, completely oblivious to the fact that his father was slowly losing his grip on his patience.

“I used your name because I knew the guards wouldn’t question it. I needed the halls clear so I could find her before she slipped past the gates. I just… I couldn’t let her go without knowing who she was. I think I might be in love with her, Father. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

Every word out of Jamie’s mouth felt like a personal insult—a boy’s shallow infatuation trying to claim territory already conquered by a King.

A desperate part of him hoped, prayed, that the woman Jamie was describing wasn’t you. He wanted there to be a small, flickering chance that Jamie had met someone else, anyone else, who wasn’t the girl in the silver blue dress.

“In love?” Bucky repeated bitterly in disbelief. “You shared a single dance with a stranger, and you’ve decided it’s love?”

“It was more than a dance,” Jamie insisted, his voice rising with that same stubbornness Bucky had at his age. “There was a connection. I could tell she felt it, too. She was shy, hesitant, but there was a fire in her. Surely, you understand? You danced with her, too.”

Bucky felt like he wanted to punch a wall.

“You saw her up close. She was beautiful—even underneath the mask. Her eyes were so kind—”

Bucky couldn’t stand to hear another word.

“—and her laugh was hypnotizing. She didn’t even know how to dance, but she was the sweetest thing in the room—”

Bucky felt like he was going insane. He had never, ever hated anyone as much as he hated his own son in this very moment. Each compliment Jamie uttered felt like a hand reaching for a prize that Bucky had already locked away in his soul.

“Son—”

“—I want to marry her, Father,” Jamie interrupted, his voice suddenly stern and determined.

His blue eyes—so like Bucky’s own—met the King’s with a steady gaze, and Bucky felt a wave of nausea roll through him.

“I finally found her—my Princess. I want her to stand by my side at court as my wife. She would be the most perfect woman for it,” Jamie continued, a small, subtle blush creeping onto his cheeks at the mere thought. “Princess Barnes…”

Princess Barnes?

Bucky scoffed, a rude, incredulous sound that escaped his throat before he could stop it. Jamie’s head tilted, noticing the reaction, but Bucky was far beyond caring about appearances. Princess was a title for a girl playing at house. It was a secondary rank, a title that lived in the shadow of another.

No. That wasn’t right at all. You weren’t meant to be a Princess. You were meant to be a Queen. Queen Barnes. His Queen. His equal, his partner, his obsession. Not his son’s plaything.

Bucky forced himself to reel back, drawing a slow, heavy breath into his lungs. He was a father first, a King second. He needed to speak carefully, to dismantle this before it ruined them both.

“Do not be a fool, Jamie,” Bucky said. “You are talking about a woman you do not know. You are rushing into a fantasy. Marriage is about stability, about the crown—not about a girl who didn’t know how to waltz... or… or one who didn’t even have the decency to stay!”

It was cruelly ironic. He was lying through his teeth, and the taste of it was bitter. Every criticism he hurled at you felt like a sin, but he had to dissuade his son.

He had to make you sound small, sound insignificant, so that Jamie would stop looking for you.

“Wait for the reports,” Bucky continued, his voice biting and harsh. His hand tightened around the lace, his grip crushing the delicate fabric more with every word.

“Do not waste your time. Focus on your duties. Do not go chasing shadows in the—”

“Father,” Jamie interrupted suddenly.

“What?” Bucky snapped, his patience fraying.

Jamie took a step forward. The moment Bucky saw his son’s eyes lock onto the white fabric clenched between his fingers, his blood ran cold.

“That glove,” Jamie whispered, his eyes widening with shock. He looked back up at his father, his breath hitching. “I recognize it. It’s hers. I held that hand while we danced... I know the pattern of that lace by heart.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, his entire body coiling like a spring. He braced himself for the explosion. He expected Jamie to yell, to seethe in betrayal, to realize that his father had been hiding the woman he ‘loved’ just a room away last night.

But instead, a bright, hopeful smile tugged at Jamie’s lips. His eyes sparked with a pure, joyous relief.

“You found her,” Jamie breathed, letting out a small, huffing laugh of disbelief. “You found her for me, didn’t you? You saw how much I wanted her... and you went and found her.”

And now, Bucky wished Jamie would’ve just yelled at him instead.

Before he could even respond, Jamie was already beaming with glee. Any other father would relish seeing their own son happy, but for Bucky, he felt like he was suffocating.

“We must arrange a carriage for her at once!” Jamie exclaimed, already pacing the rug. “I need to have her here—in this palace. I have so much to say to her, I—”

Bucky shut his eyes tight, his mouth shuddering as he felt the delicate lace of your glove crushing against his palm. Right now, it felt like it was the only piece he had left of you.

“Son. Enough—”

“This is incredible! I… I never expected you to go out of your way for me like this, Father. I thought you were disappointed, but you were actually—”

Bucky’s heart was clawing its way out of his ribs. It was a frantic, taunting thud that made him feel like he was about to collapse under his own deceit.

“Jamie. Stop it—”

“Thank you, Father! Truly. Once we bring her back here—the moment she steps off that carriage—I’m going to propose. I’ll give her the world. I’ll—”

Propose?

Give you the world?

He wanted to give you the world?

Jamie didn’t even know your world. He didn’t know the way you tasted, or the way you trembled when a real man laid hands on you.

Bucky had given the order to the attendant the moment you vanished. He had planned to have his men quietly intercept you, to bring you back to his private chambers before your carriage could even take you past the palace gates. But Jamie’s ‘fake command’ had ruined everything. The sudden, chaotic crowd of hundreds of guests—the horses, the carriages, the shouting—had created a wall of bodies and steel that Bucky’s men couldn’t penetrate.

The guilt Bucky felt was suddenly swallowed by a surging, irrational wave of resentment. This was Jamie’s fault. All of it.

His son’s childish interference was the reason you were gone. His vanity was the reason Bucky was standing here with an empty heart and a stolen glove.

Bucky’s restraint vanished completely. His arm moved in a blur of pure, enraged adrenaline. His fist collided with Jamie’s jaw with a sickening crack, the force of the blow sending his son stumbling back in pain.

“Goddamnit, Jamie!” Bucky barked, his thunderous voice echoing off the high walls like a cannon firing away. “I said that is enough!”

Bucky’s chest heaved, his eyes widening with horror as dark crimson began to leak between Jamie’s fingers, staining his pristine white cuffs. The adrenaline that had fueled the punch evaporated instantly, leaving behind a cold, sickening hollow. He stared at his own knuckles, then back at the blood on his son’s face.

“Fuck,” Bucky cursed. He took a frantic step forward, his hand reaching out. “Jamie—”

“Don’t!” Jamie hissed, flinching away from the touch. He looked up, his eyes glassy with tears he refused to let fall. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, but the blood only smeared across his cheek, making him look even more broken.

“I just wanted to make you proud, Father. That’s all I’ve ever tried to do,” Jamie muttered, his gaze dropping to his boots.

“Jamie, that isn’t—”

“I thought you’d be happy!” Jamie’s voice broke. “I thought you’d finally be glad to see me take a wife, to see me grow up. I thought this was my duty—to find a woman who could lead by my side. But… but I can never win with you, can I? No matter what I do, it’s never enough. I’m never enough!”

Bucky felt like his chest was being stepped on.

He had hit his own son.

In all the years of training and discipline, he had never once raised a hand to the boy in anger. The glove remained clenched in his palm—the very thing that had started this—and it suddenly felt as heavy as lead.

“Jamie, please,” Bucky’s voice grew quieter, shakier than it had ever been. “You have to understand. It’s… it’s not that simple. There are things you don’t know—”

“I understand plenty,” Jamie spat. He glared up at his father, a look of such pure resentment that Bucky had never seen before. He wanted to die right then and there.

His own son no longer looked at him like a hero, but like a villain—a tyrant guarding his hoard.

“You don’t want me to have her,” Jamie said, his voice turning to a cold, final whisper. “You don’t want me to have anything.”

“Son, I—”

Before Bucky could grab his arm, Jamie turned and bolted for the stairs. His footsteps thundered down the hall, each heavy stomp of his boot against the cold floor echoing like the heartbeat in Bucky’s aching chest.

“Jamie! Jamie, wait!” Bucky called out, his voice cracking.

He started to follow, but he only made it halfway before he stopped, watching his son disappear around the corner and out of his reach.

You were out in the town again, but the atmosphere felt different, and almost suffocating. As you moved through the market, you couldn’t help but notice the royal guards posted at every corner.

Usually, the guards were a lazy fixture of the town—slumped at tavern tables playing cards or nursing drinks, doing a halfhearted job at best. But today, they were different. There were far more of them than usual, all standing with rigid shoulders, their steel armor gleaming with a sharp, intimidating light against the dusty cobblestone walls.

At first, the way they scrutinized the passing crowd—specifically the women— seemed merely inappropriate. But as you stole a glance, a chill settled deep in your bones.

They weren’t just watching; they were searching.

You saw them whispering in low, urgent tones, gesturing toward various girls and pointing to the shade of a woman’s hair… or the curve of a jawline as if comparing them to a mental checklist.

They were looking for someone with very specific features.

They were looking for you.

You quickly averted your eyes, tucking your chin and clutching your wicker basket against your chest like a shield. You weaved through the morning crowd, trying to make yourself as small and unassuming as possible, desperate to melt into the shadows of the common folk.

You were just steps away from the safety of a produce shop when a commotion at a nearby bread stall caught your ear. Usually, you would have kept your head down, but the desperation in the young man’s voice made you pause.

A boy with a deep hood pulled low was caught in a heated argument with the stall keeper. Even from a distance, you could see his hands were shaking. A dark, ugly bruise was already blooming across the bridge of his nose, accompanied by a faint smear of dried blood.

“It’s just a loaf of bread and some cheese!” the young man argued, his voice surprisingly prideful for a man who’s supposed to be hungry. “You’re charging me five times the worth!”

The stall keeper let out a harsh, mocking laugh, leaning over his counter with a sneer.

“Well, when you’re wearin’ a brooch like that,” he pointed a greasy finger at the glimmering silver pin tucked under the boy’s cloak, “it means you’ve got money. Or you stole it. Either way, pay up or move on, fancy lad.”

“I told you, I don’t have the coin on me! I… I left in a hurry,” the boy muttered, his fingers instinctively clutching the brooch. “I won’t give you this. It’s a family heirloom.”

The keeper scoffed, pulling the tray of food back. “Then starve. I don’t run a charity for runaways.”

The boy looked so small in that moment, his shoulders slumping with a defeat that felt all too familiar to you. Despite the danger of the guards nearby, your heart ached for him. You knew exactly what it was like to be seen as insignificant, to be at the mercy of someone more powerful.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you stepped forward. You pulled a few copper coins from the deep pocket of your skirt and dropped them onto the wooden counter.

“That should cover it,” you said. “And the change is for your trouble. Let the boy have the food.”

The keeper’s eyes didn’t even glance at you nor the copper. They remained glued on the glimmering silver pinned to the boy’s chest.

“I don’t want your coin, girl,” he grunted, his gaze narrowing with greed. “I want that brooch. That silver alone is worth more than my entire stall.”

The young man bristled, his hand tightening over the heirloom, but before he could snap back, you spoke first.

“Come on, Gary,” you said softly, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “Didn’t you used to pride yourself on making your craft affordable for the needy? You’ve helped me out plenty of times when the month was lean. Surely, you can lend a hand to someone else in need.”

Gary finally shifted his eyes away from the boy. When he realized it was you standing there, his harsh expression faltered just slightly. He took a long look at you, then back at the battered, hooded boy, and finally at the humble copper coins on the counter.

He knew you; he knew you worked hard and rarely asked for favors.

“Fine,” Gary grumbled, snatching the coins off the wood with a reluctant huff.

He wrapped a loaf of bread and a thick wedge of cheese in a rough cloth and shoved it roughly toward the boy. “You owe her one, spoiled brat. Don’t let me see you around here again.”

The boy lifted his hands hesitantly to grab the parcel. He swallowed hard, shifting his attention toward you. His face flushed, and you couldn’t tell if it was the humiliation of a common maid helping a man like him, or simply the throbbing pain of his injury.

“Thank you, miss—” he began.

As he tilted his head back to look at you, the sunlight caught the high curve of his cheekbones and the unmistakable cool shade of blue in his eyes.

The Barnes eyes.

Even with the dark, jagged bruise across his nose, there was no mistaking that it was him.

The blood drained from your face so fast, you felt your head spinning. You froze, your hands tightening on the wicker basket. Your heart, which had been steady just now in your confidence with Gary, now thrashed against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“I… I—” you stuttered. You took a step back, bumping into a frantic man who yelled, “Watch your step!” but you paid no mind. Your gaze darted to the guards huddled at the end of the street.

It was no wonder why there were so many of them posted today. They weren’t just looking for you. They were also looking for Bucky’s son.

If they saw you talking to him—if they realized who he was and who you were—it was over.

You braced yourself for Jamie’s face to light up, expecting him to seize your hands and declare he’d finally found you. But instead, his brows furrowed in confusion. He took in your messy hair, your trembling lip, and your simple, soot-stained maid’s uniform.

To him, you were just a kind girl of the working class—a far cry from the elegant vision of silver, blue, and lace he had held in the golden ballroom.

Jamie leaned in slightly, his gaze searching yours with a look of dawning and haunting familiarity.

“Are you quite alright?” he asked softly. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he studied the shape of your face—the curve of your jaw, the fullness of your lips, the depth of your eyes. “Wait…”

He trailed off, and you felt your stomach turn.

“Do I know you from somewhere? You look... strangely familiar.”

“I… no,” you stammered, forced a short, brittle laugh that sounded more like a gasp of air. “It’s a small town. You must have me confused with someone else. I—uh, have a good day, Your Highness—I mean, sir!”

Jamie’s face shifted, a flicker of recognition sparking in his eyes. You sucked in a sharp breath, mentally cursing yourself for that slip-up. Before he could voice the realization, you turned on your heel and bolted, weaving through the thicket of market-goers frantically.

“Ma’am, wait!” Jamie’s voice called out from behind you, sounding strained and breathless.

You didn’t look back. You kept your head down, convinced that every second spent in his presence brought you a second closer to a prison cell.

If the guards found you and dragged you back to the King, the rumors would devour you. You’d be branded a whore. Your step-family would throw you onto the streets without a second thought. The King would never provide for you; he was a King, and you were a maid, for God’s sake. And now, you weren’t just caught up with the King, but with the Prince as well.

“Please, wait!” Jamie’s voice grew more distant and more desperate the further you pulled away.

You rounded the corner into a narrow alleyway. Just as you were about to disappear around the far end to lose him for good, curiosity—or perhaps lingering empathy—made you glance over your shoulder.

Jamie wasn’t running anymore. He was halfway into the alley, his body swaying dangerously. His face, already pale, had turned a sickly shade of grey. He reached out a trembling hand, catching himself against the damp brick wall to keep from collapsing.

You stopped. You were ten feet away from freedom, but you couldn’t move. You watched as his knees buckled, his head dropping as he fought a losing battle to stay conscious.

You hissed a curse under your breath. You were a commoner, a maid who had no business meddling with anyone associated with a crown.

Yet, your feet were already moving back to him.

You hurried back to him, slipping into the shadows just as he began to slide down the wall. You caught him by the shoulders, your wicker basket dropping to the cobblestones as you struggled to stabilize his weight with yours.

“Sir? Sir, look at me,” you cooed, but Jamie didn’t answer.

He instinctively leaned into your touch, his head rolling forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. He was bigger and far heavier than you expected. Realizing you couldn’t hold him up for long, you allowed him to slide down the wall, sinking to the ground with him to act as his support.

He smelled of expensive cedar wood and the sharp, metallic tang of blood. A soft, pained groan escaped his lips, and he weakly gripped your forearms, his fingers digging into the rough fabric of your sleeves.

“I... I have you,” you murmured, shifting your body to support him. “Just breathe. You’re alright.”

Jamie let out a jagged, shallow breath, his eyes squeezed shut as he leaned more heavily into you.

“God… this hurts like hell,” he rasped.

A small frown creased your brow. Despite the danger, the sight of him—so young and so clearly suffering—pulled at a maternal instinct you couldn’t suppress.

“Hush now,” you murmured.

Reaching up, you gently pushed back the heavy fabric of his hood. It fell back, revealing the full extent of the damage. The bruise was even worse up close. A deep, angry purple had swollen the bridge of his nose. You reached out, your fingers brushing his sweat dampened hair away from his forehead to get a better look at his face.

Up close, the resemblance to the King was haunting, but where Bucky’s features were hardened by duties and age, Jamie’s were still soft and pure.

You wanted to ask what happened—how a Prince who was always protected, who had likely never raised a hand in a real fight, had ended up looking like that in a place like this, so far from the safety of the palace.

“Stay here. Don’t move,” you commanded softly when he tried to shift.

You stood up and reached for the clean rag tucked into the waistband of your skirt—a bit of linen you used for work—and hurried to the small stone well tucked into a nook near the alley entrance. The pulley creaked as you splashed the fabric into the bucket, the water coming up icy and clear.

Wringing it out, you rushed back to his side and sank back down onto the cobblestones. Jamie’s head was lolling against the brick, his eyes half open and glazed.

“Here,” you whispered.

You pressed the cold, wet cloth gently against his nose and forehead. He hissed, flinching at the initial sharpness of the cold, but then his eyes fluttered shut as the chill began to numb the throbbing ache.

“Thank you,” he breathed, his hand coming up to weakly cover yours, holding the rag in place. He stayed like that for a long moment, leaning into the coolness and your presence.

Then, without opening his eyes, a small, pained smile touched his lips. “You have very kind hands, for a stranger.”

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the damp cloth. “That’s just what we do in this town,” you spoke softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “We help each other. Even strangers.”

There was a soft, moment of silence in the damp alleyway. Gradually, Jamie’s ragged breathing began to steady into an even pace. He seemed stable enough now to be left on his own—you could leave, you should leave—but for some reason, your feet wouldn’t move. The way his shoulders had completely slumped was a sign that he felt safe.

Safe simply because of your presence.

“Yeah,” Jamie breathed, the word trailing off into the quiet air.

He didn’t open his eyes yet, but his head tilted slightly toward you, his skin appearing ghostly white against the dark, angry bloom of his bruise.

“But you’re not a stranger, are you?”

You froze, your hand still trapped beneath his on the wet linen rag. You didn’t dare look at him, terrified that the recognition in his voice would be reflected in his eyes.

“I… I don’t know what you mean, sir,” you managed to say, though your heart was beating so loudly, you were certain he could feel it through your hand and up your arm.

“Your hands,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “they feel familiar. Hands I’ve held before. And your voice…” He sucked in a shallow, shaky breath, his eyelashes fluttering as he finally opened his eyes to look at you. “It’s soothing. Just like hers.”

You knew there was no point in playing dumb any longer. Prince Jamie was smart—and he had already seen right through you. Continuing the charade in front of an injured man—much less a Prince— felt less like a safety measure and more like rubbing salt into an open wound.

With a defeated sigh, you tried to pull your hand away, but his grip tightened to keep you there.

It seemed that being unyielding and possessive were simply the many traits of the Barnes bloodline.

“Your Highness—”

“Please,” Jamie interrupted, his voice weak and tired. “Just call me Jamie. I… I hardly look like a Prince at the moment, and I certainly haven’t been acting like one.”

Your frown deepened. You found yourself relaxing under his touch. He looked utterly defeated—lonely, exhausted, and stripped of the regal armor he usually wore so well. Your heart ached for him, and the question slipped past your lips before you could think to stop it.

“What happened, Jamie?”

Jamie’s shoulders tensed, and you regretted the question the second it left your lips. But before you could retract it, he surprised you by actually answering.

“I had an argument,” he began, his voice sounding hollow. “With the King—my father.” He paused, a flicker of pain crossing his features that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. Then, his eyes locked onto yours. “We had an argument about you, actually.”

You held your breath, not daring to speak.

“I wanted to find you,” Jamie continued. “I wanted to find you and make you—” he swallowed hard, a sudden flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “—I wanted to make you my wife. I thought you were the perfect woman to stand by my side on the throne. I assumed you were a noble woman in hiding.”

“Oh, dear…” you muttered before you could stop yourself.

Jamie caught the remark and huffed a dry, self-deprecating laugh. He seemed to realize in that moment just how naive his assumptions had been.

“I just wanted to make my father proud. I wanted to do my duty as his son—to finally choose a bride. But when I told him I had decided it would be you, he…”

Jamie’s jaw clenched as he remembered the look in his father’s eyes—the look of a man who had no intention of letting his son claim the woman he wanted for himself.

“I’ve never seen him act like this,” he continued. “He hasn’t slept, eaten, or even changed his clothes since the ball ended. When I told him I was adamant about finding you, he raised his hand to me. And… I left. I couldn't stay in that palace a moment longer.”

He tried to sit up a little straighter, groaning.'

“My father is usually a cold, composed man. To see him lash out like this… to see him unravel over you—it made me realize that I wasn’t the only one who wanted you. And who am I to compete against a King?”

He let out another laugh, though there was no humor in it. Only sadness.

“My father,” Jamie swallowed hard, his sad blue eyes meeting yours. “He loves you. And I can see why. You’re kind, gentle, and…” he looked down at your frayed, dirty dress before tracing back up to your face, “even though you’re a maid, you’ve captured my father’s heart. Terrifyingly so.”

“Jamie,” you sighed, forcing a reassuring smile. You reached up, your hand gently cupping his cheek to try and calm him. “The King doesn’t love me. He loves the woman he saw at the ball. Nothing more.”

Jamie tilted his head, his brows furrowing. The look he gave you was hauntingly similar to Bucky’s—that same piercing, knowing gaze, as if he were silently calling you out on your bullshit.

“He didn’t fall in love with the woman at the ball,” Jamie corrected softly, his eyes searching yours. “He fell in love with the woman he saw at Martha’s dress shop.”

You froze, blinking at him in sheer disbelief. “M-Martha? You know her?”

“Martha is a long-time family friend,” he explained, his voice finally steadying. “She was the first person I ran to after I fled the palace. She told me everything.” He let out a weary, ragged sigh. “Turns out there’s a lot I don’t know about my father these days—like how he often sneaks out of the palace alone just to linger around her shop as a commoner.”

You bit your lip, the memory of that day rushing back vividly. You remembered him acting as a commoner who had been so charming, stumbling over his words as he spoke to you.

To say you hadn’t fallen for him right then and there would have been a lie.

With a tired sigh of your own, you shifted closer, looking him directly in the eye with the firm authority like someone scolding a stubborn child.

“Jamie, you need to go home,” you lectured softly. “There are guards posted everywhere looking for you. Your father must be worried sick in that lonely palace of his.”

You watched his eyes carefully, noticing the deep well of hurt and loneliness they held. It made you want to stay, to protect him—because you knew exactly what it felt like to be cast aside and alone.

“Your injury would be healed much faster by proper medics at the palace, not by one of my cheap rags and cold well water,” you added, offering a small smile and a forced, lighthearted laugh to ease the mood.

But Jamie didn’t budge.

“Probably,” Jamie whispered, his voice so vulnerable that it made your heart ache. He shrugged so weakly that it looked more like a shudder. “But this feels far better. It feels like I’m being cared for by a mother I never had.”

For a moment, you felt as if the air had been knocked out of your lungs.

For a man who held such a prestigious title and a legendary bloodline, he looked so small—so utterly defeated. Every word that left his lips felt like a needle pulling at the strings of your heart.

With a soft, resigned sigh, you knelt back down in the dirt in front of him. You couldn’t leave him like this; you couldn’t send him back to a cold palace when he was clearly starving for even a shred of genuine warmth.

“I know that feeling all too well,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as a sad, knowing smile touched your lips.

“I live in a house that feels far too big for the little space I’m allowed to occupy. I live among people who look at me but never truly see me—who see a pair of hands to do their bidding rather than a heart that’s breaking. I know what it’s like to starve for a kind word in a home that’s supposed to provide shelter.”

You looked at the dark bruising on his face, your own chest aching with every breath he took. “But Jamie… your father isn’t like my family. He doesn’t look at you and see a servant. I saw the way he looked at you at the ball; I heard the speech he made in your honor. He doesn't just love you—he lives for you.”

“He struck me,” Jamie whispered, his lip trembling.

“And you should’ve struck him right back,” you added firmly. “And God knows, if I had been there, I would’ve struck him, too.”

Jamie couldn’t help but laugh—a genuine, breathy sound—at the absurdity of the image. “Strike the King? Do you truly wish for a death sentence for the both of us?”

You couldn’t help but giggle, and the sound seemed to make Jamie’s heavy shoulders ease just a little more. “He wouldn’t do that to you—he values you too much. Me, on the other hand? I’d be ‘off with my head’ before I could even blink.”

He rolled his eyes again, though his lips remained curved in a soft, lingering smile. “Don’t be ridiculous. He wouldn’t dare.”

“So, you understand how kind your father is, despite everything?”

Jamie chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze dropping to the dirt wedged between the cobblestone. He knew the answer—but just like his father, his pride was a stubborn barrier, refusing to let him admit it aloud.

“I’ll return to the palace,” he said instead. “But only on one condition.” He reached out, taking your hand in his again. “I want you to come with me. My father… he’s been searching for you since the moment you left that ballroom. He’s going insane in there, and he needs you.”

“Jamie, I can’t,” you whispered, pulling back slightly. “I’m a commoner. A maid. I don’t belong in those halls.”

Jamie didn’t argue. He didn’t try to persuade you with logic this time, or even use his title to his advantage.

He simply slumped back against the damp brick wall and crossed his arms over his chest with the indignant, brooding pout of a stubborn child.

“Then I won’t go,” he declared flatly, that princely entitlement coming back into his tone. “I’ll stay right here in this alley. I’ll rot in the dirt and let the guards find me like this. And it will be all your fault.”

You blinked, stunned. “You can’t be serious—”

“Oh, but I am.”

You stared at him, realizing that for all their power and prestige, the Barnes men were impossibly, infuriatingly stubborn. You glanced toward the mouth of the alley where the guards were pacing.

You cared for him, but you had to put yourself first.

If Jamie returned, the hunt might end. The streets would clear. You could complete your chores without looking over your shoulder every five seconds.

You forced a smile and stood up, brushing the dirt from your skirt before grabbing your basket. You reached out a hand to him, and he looked up at you, his eyes wide and shimmering with sudden hope.

“Fine,” you nodded. “Let’s go back to the palace then. Together.”

Jamie blinked at you, his expression frozen for a second as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d actually agreed.

Then, a bright, genuine smile broke across his face. He gripped your hand, using it to hoist himself up—though he was clearly doing most of the heavy lifting—and began brushing the alley dust from his trousers.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Let’s go.”

You let go of his hand and motioned to the end of the alley, where the silhouettes of the guards were still visible against the sunlight. With the wicker basket tucked carefully into the crook of your arm, you gave him a playful bow.

“Lead the way, Prince Charming.”

Jamie couldn’t help but snicker, the sound light and boyish.

As he led you out of the alley, his chin held high and his hood pushed back, the market noise began to ripple and change. The chaotic noises of bartering died down, replaced by whispering as people realized exactly who was walking among them.

“Is that Prince Jamie?”

“Look at the bruises on his face!”

“What is Prince Jamie doing outside of the palace?”

“Is that why there are so many guards?”

One of the guards finally spotted him as the crowd parted like a sea of fish.

“Prince Jamie!” he shouted, stumbling forward as his eyes went wide. “Your Highness! The King has been worried sick—he’s nearly razed the palace to the ground—”

Jamie raised a hand, stopping the guard’s rambling. “I am here, and I am safe,” he said calmly. “Now, arrange a carriage immediately. For me and the maiden. We are going home.”

The guard blinked, visibly confused. “Y-your Highness?”

Jamie raised a brow, the Barnes temper flaring just slightly. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping! I said arrange a carriage for me and—” he turned halfway, gesturing to the space at his side where you had been standing just a second ago. “—the maiden.”

But as Jamie looked back, the space was empty.

You were nowhere to be seen.

You found yourself back on your knees in the living room, tending to the flickering flames of the fireplace.

Ever since you’d returned, Beatrice had been even snappier with you than usual. Your encounter with Prince Jamie had made you much later than intended, and for Beatrice, whose patience was already paper thin, this was the final straw.

“Hurry up with those flames,” Beatrice barked from behind her teacup. “And once you’re finished, we need a fresh pot. Make it quick—you’re already falling far behind schedule.”

“Yes, ma’am—”

You hissed as a stray spark leapt from the hearth and bit into your finger. You dropped the iron poker in pain, the metal clattering loudly against the stone.

“Incompetent girl,” Beatrice sneered in disdain. She set her saucer down on the side table with a sharp clack and swept out of the room, leaving you alone in the dim light of the rising fire.

It had been days since Jamie returned to the palace. You felt a twinge of guilt for breaking your promise to go back with him, but you told yourself it was necessary. He was a smart boy— surely, he would understand that a dirty maid couldn’t simply walk through the front gates of a large, pristine palace.

With Jamie home, the number of guards roaming the town had decreased significantly. It was exactly what you had hoped for, yet a small, desperate part of you realized something that hurt.

Bucky hadn’t been looking for you all this time.

He was looking for his son.

Your eyes pricked with tears, though you tried to hide it behind the pain stinging your fingers from the fireplace spark.

It was selfish.

It was sad.

It was pathetic for you to crave the feeling of being desired—of being wanted by the King—yet push away every advance both he and the Prince had given you.

As you pushed yourself up to start a new pot of tea, Beatrice’s voice rang out from the other room, shrill and demanding. “The floors are disgusting! Clean them this instant!”

You called out a quick, “Yes, ma’am!” and retreated outside to the well. After fetching a heavy bucket of water and mixing in some soap, you began to scrub. The water, which had been clear only seconds ago, was already turning a murky gray. You had just deep cleaned these floors yesterday—what could they have possibly done to make them this filthy again so quickly?

As you scrubbed, your body began to ache with every movement. You leaned back on your heels for just a small moment of respite, trying to catch your breath. The sudden sound of horses’ hooves clacking against the cobblestone made you instinctively look out the window.

Your eyes widened as you saw the carriages—fancy, polished, and several of them in a row.

The horses looked powerful and well fed, taken care of far better than you were.

Through the glass, you watched as the carriage door opened, and you felt your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.

King Bucky stepped out, looking every bit the sovereign in his dark, tailored suit. For a moment, you didn’t believe a word Jamie had said about his father lacking sleep or refusing to change his clothes. This was the exact man you had encountered in the garden the night of the ball—clean, determined, and terrifyingly intimidating.

But it wasn’t just his appearance that caught your breath.

It was the small, delicate flash of white tucked into his breast pocket. Peeking out from the dark fabric was a lace glove.

Your glove.

“What are you doing? Did I tell you to stop?” Beatrice’s voice shrieked from the hallway, sharp enough to shatter your moment.

You flinched, tearing your gaze away from the window. “Sorry, ma’am,” you murmured, your voice trembling as you gripped the scrub brush.

You forced your head down, focusing entirely on the floor as you tried to make yourself invisible. You couldn’t understand it—why was he here?

He had already retrieved his son, hadn’t he? What more could he possibly want?

Why couldn’t he just leave you alone?

Three solid knocks echoed through the house. Beatrice let out an agitated groan as she stomped toward the door, completely oblivious to the royalty standing just outside. “Who could be here, disrupting my peace?”

As she swung the door open, her annoyed scowl instantly collapsed into a jaw drop.

“Y-Your Majesty!” she stammered, her face turning red in shock.

At the sound of the title, your stepsisters came tumbling down the stairs, silk skirts rustling as they shoved one another for a better view. You didn’t even need to look back to know they were vibrating with glee.

“The King is here!” Agnes whisper yelled into her sister’s ear.

“What is he doing here?” Margaret stood on her tippy toes, straining for a better view. “My, he’s even more handsome in person!”

Agnes’s eyes widened, grabbing her sister’s arm and bouncing. “Do you think the Prince is here, too? Do you think he’s calling on us?”

“He must be!” Margaret beamed, her smile so wide it looked painful.

They both smoothed their hair, convinced the Prince had finally sent his father to claim them after the ball. You wanted to snort at how ridiculous they were. After your time with Jamie in the alleyway, you knew for a fact he would never look twice at those two.

Bucky stood just right outside the door, his presence so massive it seemed to suck all the air out of the foyer. He didn’t look at the daughters. He didn’t even acknowledge Beatrice’s low, trembling curtsy. His eyes were already scanning the interior of the house, sharp and predatory.

“I am looking for someone,” Bucky stated. “A lady who I believe lives in this household. May I come in?”

Beatrice blinked, her hands fluttering nervously at her throat.

She looked back at the living room, where the bucket of gray water sat and you were still huddled on the floor. “Oh, Your Majesty... please, the house is quite a mess. Our maid is currently cleaning the floors—it’s hardly fit for a King—”

Bucky’s eyes snapped to hers, cold and dangerous. “Are you denying your King entry?”

Beatrice’s breath hitched, and she let out a small, terrified squeak. “N-No! Never, Your Majesty! Please... forgive me.”

Reluctantly, with her hands shaking, she stepped aside. Bucky crossed the doorframe with a heavy, purposeful stride, the heels of his boots clicking against the very floors you had just been scrubbing. He stopped in the center of the room, his gaze landing directly on you.

His stare was so heavy, it felt suffocating. Yet you didn’t dare lift your head. Beatrice scurried to his side.

“Are you here for my daughters, Your Majesty?” she gestured toward Agnes and Margaret, who were still lingering by the staircase. “Agnes, Margaret, come here—”

Bucky raised a hand, silencing her instantly. “No.”

Beatrice’s gaze followed the King’s, and when she saw how intently he was watching you, she let out an awkward chuckle. “I apologize. My maid must be in your way.” Then, her voice sharpened, loud enough to make you flinch. “The floor needs scrubbing over here!”

“Y-yes, ma’am,” you muttered, keeping your head down as you dropped the sponge back into the bucket. You groaned, trying to heave the heavy wooden bucket to the other corner of the room. Bucky watched you, his expression pained as he saw the dirt on your skin and the exhaustion in your movements.

“Well?” Beatrice urged, her voice tight with a forced smile. “Be quick! Don’t get in the King’s way.”

As you hurried your footsteps, your shoe caught a wet spot on the floor. With your arms aching from the weight of the bucket, you lost your balance. You gasped as the bucket tilted, and a wave of dirty, murky water splashed directly over the King’s pristine, polished shoes.

“Oh… my… God—” Agnes gasped from behind, her hand flying to her mouth in horror.

“That imbecile!” Margaret hissed, her eyes wide with shock.

Terrified, you didn’t even dare glance at Beatrice. Your head tilted up instinctively, your gaze locking onto Bucky’s with worried, pleading eyes.

In that split second, you didn’t think about statuses or your station; your eyes gave away everything.

Please, don’t be mad at me.

She’s going to kill me.

Save me, Bucky.

His expression remained completely unreadable, a mask of stone that made you feel utterly alone. Out of all the mistakes you could have made, this was the worst. This was enough to get you thrown onto the streets. All the hiding, all the rejecting the Prince and King’s advances—it would all be for nothing because you were clumsy enough to spill murky water all over the King’s pristine shoes.

Weakly, your voice trembled, so quiet that only he could hear. “B-Bucky—”

But before you could say anything else, Beatrice’s voice barked out like a whip crack. “What the hell are you doing just standing there, girl!”

You finally turned to face her. Her features were scrunched into such an ugly grimace of rage, you felt like you could collapse.

“Clean his shoes!” she commanded, her finger trembling as she pointed at the mess.

“I…”

“Don’t be stupid! Polish the King’s shoes this instant!”

Bucky swallowed hard, his voice thick. “That won’t be necessary.”

But you were already too far gone in your panic. Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring your vision as you dropped frantically to your knees. Your heart was beating so hard it actually ached. All you could think about was the cold rage in Beatrice’s eyes and the threat of being cast out, leaving you with nothing but the clothes on your back.

You grabbed the hem of your apron, reaching out to scrub the murky water from his leather boots with trembling hands.

Bucky’s jaw clenched so tight, he felt a muscle leaped in his cheek. His heart throbbed with sharp, visceral pain. He had spent every waking moment since the ball dreaming of seeing you again—of finally finding you—and now, here you were.

You were finally right in front of him, but you were on your knees. In tears.

In any other context, the sight of you beneath him might have stirred a much darker and hungrier feeling in his blood. But seeing you like this—utterly broken, terrified, and humiliated—only made him want to burn the house down with everyone else inside it.

“Get up, my dear,” he murmured gently.

His voice was so soft, intended only for your ears.

It was so gentle it felt out of place in this cold room, but you didn’t even hear him. You let out a small, pathetic sniffle, wiping a stray tear away with the back of your palm before returning to the frantic scrubbing. You were a mess of desperation at his feet, and Bucky couldn’t bear it.

“Sweetheart, please,” he pleaded.

You ignored him again, your hands moving in a blur as you kept scrubbing and scrubbing.

Bucky didn’t care about his suit or his dignity anymore.

He dropped to one knee right there in the dirty scrub water, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. His large hand shot out, firm but incredibly gentle as he always was with you, and clamped around your wrist to force you to stop.

“Darling,” Bucky’s voice broke, his brows pulling together, pleading. He sounded like a man on the verge of crumbling himself. “Please. Enough.”

As your chin was tilted upward, the wall you’d built around yourself finally crumbled. Your face scrunched up, the effort to stay composed failing as the tears spilled over your cheeks.

You were so tired. Your body ached, and your heart yearned for the very man in front of you.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, the words broken and barely audible, a raw confession that you’ve been holding in for years now.

Bucky let out a ragged, shaky sigh—a sound of pure heartbreak—and pulled you forward. He didn’t care how dirty you were, or that the murky water was soaking into his expensive suit. He had never cared about that. All he cared about was you.

He gathered you into his arms, crushing you against his chest as if he could shield you from the very walls of this house.

“Oh, my dear,” he cooed, nuzzling his nose into your hair and breathing you in. “You have no reason to be afraid anymore. I have you.”

Beatrice watched the scene, her face contorting into a mask of absolute horror.

To her, this wasn’t a reunion; it was a scandal.

She saw her foolish stepdaughter throwing herself at the King, threatening the family’s entire existence.

“What do you think you’re doing to our King!” she shrieked, taking a frantic step forward. “Get up, girl! You’re making us look like a disgrace—Your Majesty, please, forgive her, she’s touched in the head—”

“Silence, you wretched harridan!” Bucky seethed. The insult was so sharp it made Beatrice’s eyes bulge out of her head. “The only thing that is a disgrace in this household is you.”

He stood up slowly, bringing you with him, his arm firm around your waist to keep you steady. He looked down at Beatrice and your sisters as if they were nothing more than insects beneath his boots—exactly the way they had always looked at you.

“You have treated this woman—the daughter of this house—as nothing more than a slave. In truth, you have treated her like trash,” he bit out harshly.

“I’ve read the family ledgers. Your husband—her father, may he rest in peace—was a nobleman of the highest order. This girl is a proper Lady of the house. She has noble blood in her veins, making her more significant than the whole lot of you. You, on the other hand, are nothing but a commoner who married into a title you don’t deserve.”

Beatrice gasped in disbelief, her hand flying to her heart as if she were the victim. “Y-Your Majesty!”

“Enough,” Bucky raised his hand, silencing her. “I don’t want to hear another syllable from you. I came here for one thing—and that was her. Now that I have her, we are leaving.”

He looked over his shoulder, beckoning to the line of attendants waiting by the door. “Collect her belongings. Every last item. Whatever she decides to keep, whether it be as large as a trunk or as small as a ribbon, package it into the carriages. We are returning to the palace immediately.”

All the attendants nodded, bowing low to their king. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

The attendants rushed into the house in a quick blur, you could barely process the shift in your reality.

Only minutes ago, you were on your knees in the dirty water. Now, the world was rearranging itself around you.

Bucky looked down at your sniffling face, his heart visibly breaking as he leaned down to bring himself eye to eye with you. His thumb, rough yet incredibly tender, brushed away the tears that traced your cheeks.

“You’re okay now, my dear.” Bucky cooed gently. “I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go again.”

You had spent so much time pushing him away, fearing the consequences or the class divide, but now, even under the scrutiny of your step-family, you no longer cared. You felt your heart pulling toward his, and being in his arms felt like the only sanctuary you had ever known.

Behind you, Agnes and Margaret crept forward, clutching at their mother’s sleeves, their faces pale and twisted with confusion.

“Mother, what is happening?” Agnes whimpered. “Why is His Majesty touching her like that?”

Beatrice ignored them, her eyes locked on the King in a state of pure denial. She shook her head, her voice rising to a shrill squeak.

“Y-You’ve fallen for her, Your Majesty? Truly? B-but she’s just a maid! She’s a servant who spends her days in the kitchen and the dirt! She is nothing!”

Bucky stood back up to his full height, keeping you tucked securely against his side.

“She was a Lady long before you even knew how to spell the word,” Bucky growled, his hand tightening protectively on your waist. “And as for her being a maid? That ended the moment I stepped through that door. From this breath forward, she is the woman who holds the heart of the King. From this moment on, she is your Queen—and you will treat her as such.”

The room suddenly went very quiet.

You looked just as surprised as Beatrice, your breath hitching in your throat. He was actually going to do it. He was making good on every promise he had made to you in the dark room of his study.

Before you could even find your voice to speak, Bucky’s hand found itself on your lower back, guiding you toward the door.

“Come, my dear,” he gestured, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re leaving.”

As he led you out of the house that had been your prison for so long, you couldn’t resist stealing one last glance over your shoulder. You weren’t looking to offer sympathy or a farewell, of course. You simply wanted to see if a fly might find its way into their mouths, given how far their jaws had hung.

Outside, a prestigious carriage awaited you. The doorman snapped to attention and pulled the door open as you and Bucky drew closer. Jamie was already waiting inside, seated comfortably on the plush velvet cushions.

Poking his head out, he beamed the moment he caught the sight of you. The bruises on his face already looked a million times better. It was clear that since returning to the palace, he had received the proper care and rest he so desperately needed.

Jamie scooted over, patting the velvet seat beside him with an enthusiastic grin. “I was going to step out to help, but I thought it’d be better if I stayed in here. Your stepsisters would’ve driven me up the wall the moment they saw my face.”

“Jamie,” Bucky interrupted. He stood at the carriage door, one hand on the frame as he leaned in, looking grumpier than ever.

“Out,” Bucky commanded, giving a sharp nod toward the slightly smaller—though still very fancy—carriage waiting behind them.

“What?” Jamie’s brows furrowed. “But we have plenty to talk about! I haven’t even told her about—”

“You can discuss it at dinner,” Bucky said, letting out a heavy, weary sigh. “Right now, I am tired. I want to sit with the woman I just spent three days hunting for without my son’s constant commentary. Move.”

“Oh, I see.” Jamie drawls, eyeing the both of you suspiciously. “The Great King Barnes finally finds his Lady and suddenly his favorite and only son is chopped liver? Is that how it is?”

“Son, consider this a mercy,” Bucky rumbled. “Think of it as punishment for using my name under a false command at the ball. Your sentence could be a lot worse than a private carriage and a bit of silence. Now, move.”

“Truly, the heart of a tyrant,” Jamie muttered.

After a roll of his eyes, he slid out the door, but as he passed his father, he stopped for a brief second. He turned to you, his gaze softening from playful to genuinely warm—like he missed you. He gave you a small little knowing smile—one that said he was glad you were safe, and even gladder that you were finally exactly where you belonged.

“See you at the palace.” He said to you softly.

With that, Jamie hopped down from the steps and retreated to the carriage behind yours. Bucky watched him go until he was settled, then stepped aside and raised a hand to help you up into the plush interior.

As you sat, Bucky occupied the seat across from you. He leaned back tiredly, the carriage creaking softly. For a long while, he just looked at you, his head tilted slightly as he let out a slow, exhausted breath.

Silence filled the carriage. Despite him already declaring you his Queen—his partner—you couldn’t help but sit up straight, folding your hands primly over your lap out of habit and respect for the King of Brooklynne.

You didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t know if you should thank him for dragging you out of that hellhole you called a home, or if you should apologize for the trouble he had gone through to do it.

“Your Majesty—”

“Sweetheart, please,” Bucky interrupted, his voice sounding almost agitated. “I lost sleep over you. I couldn’t eat. I… I couldn’t even think. I felt like I was losing my sanity every moment I was in that palace and you weren’t there.”

He paused, the clip-clopping of the hooves against the cobblestones filling the space for a second.

“My heart burns for you,” he rasped, almost painful. “The least you can do is offer me the decency of calling me Bucky—just as you did earlier.”

You swallowed hard, your pulse fluttering in your throat. Bucky’s eyes were a cold blue storm of conflicting emotions. You felt as if he were picking you apart, piece by piece, intending not only to love you but to devour you.

He said he couldn’t eat without you, and now that you were here in front of him, he looked as though you were going to be his next meal.

“I’m sorry. I… I just wanted to say thank you,” you admitted softly. You couldn’t maintain his intense gaze, so you looked down, your fingers fiddling anxiously with the coarse fabric of your skirt.

“Thank you for helping me out of that house, and thank you for never giving up on me.”

Your face flushed with a mix of warmth and embarrassment as you continued, still refusing to make eye contact.

“Both you and Prince Jamie have been nothing but kind to me—a mere maid with rags for clothes.”

You huffed a small, incredulous laugh, one tinged with sadness for yourself. “You both extended your hands to me and showed me worlds I never thought I’d experience. In your presence, despite the gulf between our social standings, I have never felt alone. And for that... I am truly grateful.”

Bucky’s frown tightened as he leaned forward, his large hands catching yours and squeezing them firmly to still your fidgeting. The movement forced you to go still, and when he hooked a thumb under your chin to tilt your face up, there was no escaping him anymore.

“Enough,” he rasped, almost desperate. “Enough of this talk about social standings. You know none of that matters to me, not when it comes to you.”

Those piercing blue eyes searched yours, his thumb brushing warmly over the curve of your cheek.

“When I told you I was falling for you in that study,” he continued, lowering himself to one knee in the narrow space between the seats, “I meant every single word with every beat of my heart.”

While one hand remained on your cheek, the other began a slow descent. It traced the line of your ribs down to your waist, giving your hip a firm, possessive squeeze through your dress before trailing lower to rest over your thigh.

“You aren’t a ‘mere’ anything,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over yours. “You are the very air I’ve been gasping for. Ever since the night of the ball, my body and my heart have been craving you. And now that you’re finally here…”

His hand found the hem of your skirt, lifting the fabric slowly, inch by painfully agonizing inch, past your knee. His tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip, a small groan escaping him at the sight of your bare thigh.

“I finally get to have you.”

Bucky leaned forward, his head dipping low as he pressed his face against the skin he had just uncovered. You shuddered at the feel of his stubble pressing against your leg, and he snickered.

He started at your knee, his lips brushing against your skin.

A low, vibrating growl tickled against your thigh as he began to work his way upward. Each kiss was slow, wet, and worshipful. He moved with a starvation that made your breath hitch, his tongue darted out to taste you, marking you as his over and over again.

“These legs,” he growled, his voice muffled by your skin. “I missed feeling them wrapped tight around me. I missed the soft feeling of them in my hands. Did you miss that too, my dear?”

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs as you looked down at the King of Brooklynne worshipping your body.

“I-I did, Bucky. I missed that too… being touched by you.”

“Good,” he soothed, his heavy, warm palm dragging up and down your leg possessively. “That’s my good, perfect girl.”

As he continued to worship the curve of your leg, his hand reached beneath the bunched up fabric of your skirt. His fingers hooked into the edge of your thin, worn undergarments, but he didn’t rush; he wanted to savor every second of your undoing.

With a slow tug, he began to peel them down, his knuckles grazing your hips and sending a wave of shivers through you. He watched your face the entire time, his blue eyes dark and hooded, waiting for the exact moment your composure finally shattered.

Bucky was barely holding on. His jaw hung slightly, his lips slick from the way he had been kissing and licking the skin of your legs.

It was an unbelievable sight—the King on his knees, panting over you like a loyal, starving hound.

“I want to break you,” he rasped. His words were threatening, yet his voice was coarse but soft spoken. “I want to see you cry for me while I ruin you. I want to see you come apart for me, just as I did for you when you left me.”

He looked up at you then, still kneeling between your legs, his chest heaving as he took in the sight of you completely vulnerable in his carriage.

“God,” he breathed, taking in your wet slit hidden just beneath the hem of your flimsy skirt. “Is that so wrong of me to want? To see my own woman completely broken for me?”

Bucky’s grip on your thighs tightened, while his other hand went down to cup his own erection through his pants.

“I should hurt you,” he sighed, his voice pent up with frustration. “I should pull you over my knee for daring to leave me... for making me endure that kind of agony. I should bind your arms together so you never even think about defying me again.”

He let out a shaky and jagged breath, his forehead dropping against your knee for just a second before he looked back up, his eyes searching yours, his cock already throbbing at the sight of your pleading face.

“But I won’t,” he whispered, his thumb tracing the smooth flesh of your inner thigh. “I love you and respect you too much to ever truly lay a hand on your pretty little body in anger. You’re my Queen. You’re my soul.”

A dark, self-deprecating chuckle caught in his throat as his gaze dropped back to where he had bared you to the cool carriage air. His fingers twitched, hooking into the waistband of his trousers.

“But fuck, I’m already disrespecting you, aren’t I?” he moved closer, his body hot as he crowded your space, his chest heaving against your knees. “Because we’re nowhere near the palace, and I’m about to fuck you right here in this carriage. I’m about to claim you again before we even reach the front gates. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

“You said I was yours, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite how hard you tried to keep it steady. “So you can do whatever you want to me. I’m not running anymore. I’m here to stay.”

Bucky let out a low groan of satisfaction, burying his face against your thigh for a moment as if trying to catch his breath. Every word you spoke was like music to his ears.

“Lean back,” he commanded in a rough, broken rasp. “Lean back against the seat and hold on.”

You obeyed excitedly. The moment your back hit the plush velvet cushion, he grabbed your leg, his large hand wrapping around your calf as he hoisted it up, propping your knee over his broad shoulder. The position left you completely open and vulnerable, your thin skirt bunched around your waist as you exposed your cunt to him.

Bucky didn’t waste time with a preamble. He ducked his head between your thighs, his tongue finding the sensitive peak of your clit. Your body jolted at the sudden, wet heat of the contact. He licked you with long, firm strokes, his tongue heavy and wet as he tasted your arousal.

A sharp, needy cry escaped your lips, echoing in the small space. You could only hope the driver was too disciplined to look back.

“Ah! Bu-Bucky…” your hands flew down to his hair, fingers tangling in his brown locks as your toes curled in the air.

Bucky only growled against you, his hand sliding up from your thigh to grip your hip, holding you steady.

His tongue continued to trace eagerly over your wet folds, sucking and lapping in ways that were anything but royal or noble. He was taking everything from you—your pleasure, your scent, the taste of your arousal.

He wanted everything.

When he finally lifted his head to look at you from below, you felt like your heart could leap out of your chest at the sight of him. Drool collected around his chin and his lips were slick and swollen from making out sloppily with your cunt.

Bucky’s smirk was slow and predatory as he took in the sight of you—chest heaving, face warm, and eyes glazed with the pleasure only he was giving you. He looked like a man who had finally reclaimed his throne, but the only kingdom he cared about in this moment was the one between your legs.

“Look at you,” he taunted. “Dripping all over my clean carriage.” He clicked his tongue. “Naughty girl.”

He lifted his hand, his long middle finger dragging slowly up the length of your slit, tracing the seam of your cunt from bottom to top, gently rubbing at the clit before dragging back down and poking his nub against your entrance.

He did it again and again, teasing the entrance until you were whimpering, your hips bucking on reflex for more of him.

“You’re so wet, sweetheart,” Bucky rasped, his pupils blown wide with desire. “Are you this desperate for your King?”

“Bucky, please,” you begged, arching your back against the seat. “Enough with the teasing. I can’t—oh!”

Before you could finish your sentence, Bucky buried his finger deep inside you.

The air left your lungs in a jagged gasp. You were agonizingly tight, your walls clenching and fluttering around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse that spoke of how long you’d been empty without him. You gripped his shoulder, your nails digging into the expensive fabric of his coat as you tried to pull him closer, your body trying to swallow his finger whole.

“Already making demands out of me,” he scoffed, though he was grinning. “You’ve got no shame, do you, my dear?”

He felt the internal squeeze of your muscles around his digit, making his jaw tighten so hard the bone looked ready to snap.

“God, you’re so tight,” he choked out, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow, deep circles against it. “Clenching around my finger like you’re never going to let me go. You’re going to break me before I even get my pants off, aren’t you?”

Your vision blurred as you felt yourself getting embarrassingly close. Your hips stuttered against his hand, your breath coming in shallow and broken hitches as you prepared to shatter all over his finger.

“I’m—I’m going to—don’t… don’t stop—”

But just as the peak approached, the sensation vanished.

Bucky abruptly retracted his hand, the wet, sliding sound of his finger leaving you squelching in the carriage. You let out a cry of pure frustration, your body slumped back against the velvet, twitching and unfulfilled.

“Bucky,” you panted in agitation, “why would you do that! I was close!”

He sat back on his heels, still kneeling in the narrow space between your legs. He looked up at you with a wicked light in his eyes, his chest heaving as he reached for the buckle of his belt.

“Not yet,” he teased. “I didn’t give you permission to finish, did I?”

His fingers worked the leather of his belt and the buttons of his trousers irritatingly slow, his gaze never leaving yours. He watched the way you squirmed on the seat, your legs still draped over his shoulders, trembling and desperate for the contact he had just stolen away.

“Look at you,” he scoffed softly, though his hands were shaking slightly with his own restrained need. “So impatient. I spent my time hunting the city for my Queen, and the moment I get her in my carriage, she’s already trying to come without me. Where are your manners, sweetheart?”

Once he finally freed himself, his length sprang forth, thick and pulsing with a bead of pre-cum bubbling at the tip.

You watched, enamored, as his left hand wrapped around your leg, giving it soft, possessive squeezes, while his other hand wrapped firmly around his cock—giving himself slow, deep pumps that made the veins in his forearm jump.

“Fuck, you missed me, my dear?” Bucky’s thumb catching a bead of his pre-cum and smearing it against your aching clit. “Did you spend every night thinking about this? About how I’d feel inside you again?”

You couldn’t even find the words to argue. You just nodded frantically, your head thrasing against the velvet cushion as you let out a broken whimper. Bucky absolutely loved seeing you like this—completely unraveled, stripped of your prim, timid manners, and desperate only for him.

“Good.”

He positioned himself, the slick head of his cock catching against your wet entrance. He paused for a second to catch his breath, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the seat, before he slowly—inch by torturous inch —slid inside.

“Fuck,” he gritted through clenched teeth, the word sounding both like a prayer and a curse.

You were so tight—Bucky had to squeeze his eyes shut, his neck muscles flexed with every powerful effort to not simply snap and bury himself in you all at once.

He wanted to savor all of this.

He wanted to feel every ripple of your body as it stretched to accommodate him.

But fuck, you weren’t making it easy at all.

As he tried to maintain a slow, steady pace, your walls began to clench around his cock in desperate pulses. You were squeezing him so hard it was a wonder he could move at all.

“God... sweetheart, stop,” he choked out, his composure fracturing little by little. “If you keep... clenching like that...”

You couldn’t help it. You had missed Bucky, and your body missed being filled by him even more. Every deep, ragged pant he let out—driven by how unbearably good you felt—only made your muscles flutter and tighten more. He was so big, the feeling of him stretching you made your eyes roll back.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, your nails digging into the firm muscle of his back through his clothes for support. “I can’t help it. I—I missed you. I missed this.”

“Christ...” the groan escaped Bucky’s lips as his head fell back.

He didn’t even try to be gentle anymore.

His hips surged forward, his massive hands sliding from the edge of the seat to your thighs and then your hips, his fingers digging through your dress as he kept you in place. He drew back just enough to gain momentum before slamming into you again, making your body jump against his.

“Ah!” you cried out as Bucky fucked into you again and again, driving his hips deeper each time.

“So… tight. Fuck,” he groaned, his voice a broken rasp of disbelief.

The carriage groaned under the violence of his movements. The wood creaked and strained, the vehicle rocking so violently that no one could possibly excuse the motion as a bumpy road. You were being jostled and slammed against the velvet cushions, the sheer size of him stretching you until you were sure you’d break—and yet, it wasn’t enough.

You wanted more.

He needed more.

“Bucky! Ah—!”

The sound echoed off the carriage walls, dangerously loud. Bucky’s eyes flared with as he quickly brought his hand up, his palm slamming over your mouth to stifle your cries.

“Shhh,” he hissed against your ear, though his own breathing was a series of ragged, wet gasps. “This is a royal carriage, my dear. All eyes are on us right now. Do you want the whole kingdom to hear me fuck you like a slut?”

He quickened his pace, his cock disappearing and reappearing in a blur of friction as he drove himself deeper into your sensitive pussy.

“If that’s what you want… then I’ll just drag you out of this carriage myself,” he threatened, his voice dropping to a dark, possessive growl. “I'll fuck you right there on the gravel where the whole kingdom can watch their King ruin his sweet little wife. Is that what you want, my dear?”

Wife.

You felt like you could collapse from just hearing the word.

The heat and smell of his warm palm against your lips only made you more frantic. You let out muffled, desperate whimpers into his hand, your eyes rolling back as your walls fluttered and spasmed around him. You were seconds away from release yet again, squeezing his cock so tightly he nearly choked on his own breath.

Bucky leaned in even closer, his teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he inhaled the scent of your skin—a intoxicating mix of salt, sweat, and the heavy musk of sex filling the carriage.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your neck. “You’re cumming already? Just from this?”

He taunted you, and although he would never admit it aloud, but he was barely hanging on. He was simply a determined King wanting to watch you shatter first.

“I—mmph, can’t,” you whined into his palm. Your legs hooked around his waist, ankles locking behind his back to pull him even deeper, inviting him in to breed and fill you right there.

“M’gonna—mph—cum…”

Your mind went dizzy, your breath hitching sharply against his hand as the world outside the carriage ceased to exist.

You no longer cared about the palace or the guards. You only cared about the burning sensation of coming around Bucky’s cock. It was explosive—a kind of release that your body had been starved of.

He felt the way you were milking him, the desperate, crushing tightness of your climax nearly forcing him to join you then and there. But he ground his teeth, refusing to let go just yet.

“This is just the beginning, darling,” he rasped, his palm still firm over your mouth to catch your muffled, high pitched cries. “After this, I’m going to fuck you in every inch of the palace. In every room, against every window, on the cold marble floors until you can’t even remember your own name.”

He pulled back just an inch, his eyes dark and blown wide, searching your face to ensure you understood the delicious lack of mercy waiting for you behind the palace walls.

“The next time I see you on your hands and knees, it won’t be for scrubbing floors,” he growled. “It’ll be with your pretty tongue out, servicing my cock.”

Between the sensitive aftermath of your climax and the filthy possessive promises pouring from his lips, your senses were screaming and overstimulated. Every time his cock thrusted back into you, it felt like he was branding your soul.

He slowed his pace slightly once he felt himself getting close. His hips grounded against you in a circular motion that made you whimper for mercy. He leaned down, his lips wetting your cheek as he began to recite your future.

“From this second on, no one touches you but me. I’m going to take such good care of you, my dear. You’re going to have the finest silks, the softest beds, and the heaviest crown—but you’re going to spend most of your time right here, pinned under me.”

He delivered a sharp, shallow thrust that made your hips twitch.

“I’m going to make you my pretty, perfect wife,” he continued, his hand moving from your mouth to cup your jaw, forcing you to look into his blown out, hungry eyes. “And I’m going to spend every single night making sure I knock you up. I want you heavy with my heirs, so round and beautiful that you’ll never even think about running away again. You’re going to be so full of me that there won’t be room for anything else.”

The thought of it, that same reminder of being his Queen, his wife, and the mother of his children—sent a fresh jolt of lightning through your core.

You were a mess of tears and sweat, clinging to his shoulders as he began to pick up the pace again, his movements becoming more desperate, more frantic.

“I’m going to fill you so deep, you’ll feel my love in your chest,” he hissed, his cock pulsing inside as he felt himself get closer. “My wife. My Queen. My life.”

Bucky’s body suddenly went rigid, his muscles locking tight as he let out a final, guttural grunt of your name. His hips slammed into yours one last time, burying himself so deep it felt as though he was trying to merge with you as one.

“Fuck... cumming!” he choked out almost painfully.

His head snapped back, his eyes rolling back as he finally let his body go. His hips froze as his cock pulsed and throbbed. Then, you felt the scalding, thick ropes of cum pumping into your core—a seal on every promise he had just made.

“Mine,” he panted, holding you close. “All mine.”

He stayed buried deep inside you, his heavy chest heaving as he crushed you into the velvet cushions, his heart beating frantically in time with your own.

For the remainder of the ride, Bucky refused to let even an inch of space come between you, like he was scared of losing you again.

He pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your shaking, overstimulated body. His large hands, which had been so rough and demanding only moments ago, were now impossibly gentle as he stroked your hair and traced the line of your jaw.

Between the sounds of heaving breathing and the trotting of horses, he kept his lips pressed to your temple, murmuring soft, sweet promises into your ear, “My sweetheart,” “I finally have you again.” “My precious, darling girl.”

When the carriage finally lurched to a halt in the palace courtyard, the footman stepped forward, swinging the door wide and offering a steadying hand as Bucky allowed you to step out first.

Just in time, Jamie had hopped out of his own carriage and met up with you both, huffing a breath of relief.

“Finally!” Jamie called out. “That carriage ride felt so long—” he paused, stopping a few feet away, squinting as he took in the sight of you.

Your hair was a bird’s nest, both of your lips swollen, and Bucky’s collar was half-undone and his hair was disheveled with gray locks sticking out in unusual directions.

“Good grief,” he remarked, completely oblivious to the carnal acts that just happened inside the carriage.

“You guys look rough.”

thank you for all the love you guys showed for part one, and thank you for taking the time to read yet another lengthy fic <3 i wasn't planning on writing a sequel at all, let alone this soon, but the new season of bridgerton got me twirling my hair. i hope you guys like it!