Lady Wura

The evening had started so well, that was the thought you kept returning to, later, as you lay in the dark with the blankets pulled up to your chin and the silence pressing in around you like a living thing. The evening had started so well, and now here you were, staring at the canopy overhead, your body still aching, your cheeks still tacky with dried tears, your mind turning over and over the thing that had just happened.

Supper in the great hall had been a lively affair. The long trestle tables had been crowded with household knights and visiting bannermen and the usual retinue of servants and attendants, and the noise of conversation and clattering plates had filled the vaulted space with a warm, convivial din. You had been seated at Ormund's right hand, as always, your chair positioned just slightly closer to his than was strictly necessary, a placement that made you feel cherished or like a possession on display depending on the situation.

The children had been in good spirits. Even Lyonel.

Lyonel, your stepson, who at seven and ten was caught in that awkward limbo between boyhood and manhood, his limbs too long for his body and his voice prone to cracking at the worst possible moments. He had been sullen when you first arrived in Oldtown, retreating into silence whenever you entered a room, answering your attempts at conversation with monosyllables and shrugs. You had understood. You were only two years older than him, a stranger who had married his father and taken his mother's place, and he did not know what to make of you. But lately, slowly, things had been thawing. Lately, he had been looking at you with something other than resentment. Lately, he had been smiling.

Tonight, he had been positively animated, he had leaned forward across the table during the second course, his dark curls falling into his eyes—the same dark curls as his father—and asked if you might teach him some High Valyrian.

"Father says you speak it fluently," he had said, his voice earnest. "And I thought it might be useful. For when I am lord someday. For diplomacy and such."

You had been genuinely, sincerely pleased. This was progress. This was the connection you had been hoping for, the bridge between you and these children who were now, legally and spiritually, your own.

"I would be honored," you had said, smiling. "It is not an easy language, but you seem clever enough to manage it. We can start with the basics tomorrow, if you like."

His face had lit up. "Truly? I would like that very much. Thank you, my lady."

"Call me Y/N," you had said, and you had reached across the corner of the table and touched his arm. Just a brief touch, your fingers brushing the sleeve of his tunic. A gesture of encouragement.

You had not noticed the way Ormund's knife had stilled on his plate. You had not noticed the way his jaw had tightened, the way his eyes had fixed on the spot where your fingers had brushed his son's sleeve, the way his knuckles had gone white around the handle of his cup.

You had been too happy. Too comfortable. Too secure in the belief that you had done nothing wrong, now you were paying for it.

The walk to your chambers had been silent. Ormund had not spoken a single word as you climbed the winding stairs of the Hightower, your footsteps echoing on the ancient stone. He had walked a pace behind you—usually he walked beside you, his hand on the small of your back, a gesture of guidance and possession—and the absence of that touch had felt like a warning.

You had tried to fill the silence with chatter, nervous and light. "Lyonel seems to be doing well. His studies are progressing, I think. He has a good mind for languages—he asked about Valyrian declensions, the fact that he asked me and not a measter—"

Ormund had said nothing. "He has been much warmer lately," you had continued, your voice growing thinner with each unanswered sentence. "I think he is finally starting to accept me. It has been difficult for him, I know, with his mother gone and a new wife in the household, but I really do think we are making progress—"

Ormund had said nothing. You had reached the door to your chambers. He had opened it and gestured for you to enter, and you had stepped inside, your heart beginning to beat faster, your palms suddenly damp. The room was warm but you felt cold. Cold in the way you always felt cold when he looked at you like that.

He closed the door behind him. The latch clicked into place with a sound that was very soft and very final, he walked to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of wine. He did not offer you any. He drank it in one long, slow swallow, his back to you, his shoulders rigid. Then he set the cup down with a deliberate, careful motion that was somehow more frightening than a slam would have been.

"Ormund?" Your voice came out small. Uncertain. "Is something wrong?"

He turned, the look on his face made your stomach drop. It the look of a man who was holding himself in check, who was savoring the anticipation of what was to come. "Take off your dress," he said.

"Ormund, what—"

"Take. It. Off."

You had obeyed. You always obeyed. Your fingers had moved to the laces of your gown with a trembling urgency, fumbling with the ties, and the silk had pooled around your feet in a whisper of fabric. You had stepped out of it, standing before him in your thin shift, your bare arms prickling with goosebumps. The fire was warm at your back, but the cold was inside you.

He crossed the room slowly, the footsteps of a man who had all the time in the world. When he reached you, he took your chin in his hand and tilted your face up to his. His grip was firm. Just shy of painful. "You were very friendly with Lyonel tonight," he said.

Your brow furrowed in genuine, uncomprehending confusion. "Lyonel? He asked about Valyrian. I told him I would teach him. He is finally warming to me—I thought you would be pleased—"

"You touched him." His thumb pressed into the soft flesh beneath your jaw. "You put your hand on his arm. You leaned close to him. You smiled at him as if he were your suitor, not your husband's son."

"Suitor?" The word came out as a startled, incredulous laugh—not because it was funny, but because it was so absurd, so utterly ridiculous, that your mind could not process it as anything else. "Ormund, he is ten and seven. He is a child. Your child. He has spots on his chin and his voice still cracks when he gets excited. I was being kind to him because he is my stepson and because I want our family to—"

"Our family." His voice was ice. "You are not his mother. You are my wife. And I will not have my wife making eyes at a boy barely out of the nursery."

"I was not making eyes—"

"You were." His grip tightened, and the words died in your throat. "I saw you. Everyone at that table saw you. Leaning toward him like a flower toward the sun, touching his arm, batting your lashes. Do you think I am blind? Do you think I am a fool?"

"I think you are being insane." The words slipped out before you could stop them, fueled by frustration and disbelief. "Lyonel is your son. I have never—I would never—the very idea is disgusting—"

"Disgusting." He released your chin and stepped back, his expression unreadable. "Yes. It is disgusting. And yet you did it anyway. You sat at my table, in front of my household, and you made a spectacle of yourself with a boy who is young enough to be your brother."

"He is two years younger than me. He is practically my peer—"

"Precisely."

The word hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Your peer. Someone your own age. Someone young and unlined and full of the vitality that you should have been sharing with a husband who was not twenty years your senior.

"You are my wife," he said, and his voice had dropped lower now, rougher. "You belong to me. And I will not have you forgetting that. I will not have you behaving like a—"

He stopped himself before the word came out. But you heard it anyway, hanging in the silence like a foul smell.

Whore. He had been about to call you a whore. Again.

Something in your chest crumpled. Your eyes burned with the threat of tears, and you blinked rapidly, trying to hold them back. You did not want to cry. You did not want to give him the satisfaction, but then his hands were on you, pulling at your shift, dragging it over your head, and there was no more time for thinking. No more time for arguing. Only the cold command of his voice and the rough insistence of his touch and the overwhelming, suffocating weight of his body pressing you down onto the bed.

His hands were rough, his grip too tight, his pace punishing and fast. He positioned you the way he wanted you—on your stomach, your face pressed into the pillows, your hips raised—and he took what he wanted without preamble, without any of the whispered endearments that usually accompanied your coupling.

"You are mine," he said, his voice strained and harsh against the back of your neck. "Say it."

"I am yours," you gasped.

"Louder."

"I am yours."

"Good. And do you know why I have to do this?" He punctuated the question with a particularly hard thrust that drove the breath from your lungs. "Do you know why I have to remind you who you belong to?"

"Because I forget," you said, the words coming out in a sobbing gasp. "Because I forget who I belong to."

"Yes." Another thrust. "You forget. You smile at other men. You touch them. You lean close and let them look at you and you forget that you are mine. So I have to remind you. This is what happens when you forget."

"I did not forget," you whimpered, your fingers clutching at the sheets, your body rocking with each brutal thrust. "I was only being kind—"

"You were being careless." His hand fisted in your hair. "Thoughtless. Reckless. The same way you were careless with that dress, the same way you were careless with Aegon at the feast. You never think. You never consider how your actions reflect on me, on my house, on my name. So I have to think for you. I have to correct you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," you sobbed, though you did not understand, not really. You did not understand how a touch on the arm could be worthy of this—this cold, punishing, relentless taking that felt nothing like love and everything like retribution.

"Good. Now be quiet. I am not finished with you."

You were crying. You had been crying for a while now, you could feel the tears streaming down your cheeks, soaking into the pillow beneath your face, mixing with the sweat that slicked your skin. Your body was trembling, overwrought and overstimulated, caught somewhere between pain and a pleasure you did not want to feel. You hated that your body still responded to him. You hated that even now, even like this, he could coax a reaction from you that you could not control.

He was saying something else but you were not listening anymore. You had stopped listening. You had retreated somewhere deep inside yourself, somewhere safe, somewhere his words could not reach. 

"Fuck," he said, it was a groan. A pained, breathless, agonized groan. The kind of sound a man made when something had gone very, very wrong.

You turned your head, confused and lost, your vision still blurry with tears, your body still trembling, your mind still struggling to catch up with what had just happened. He had rolled off you and was sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to you. His posture was wrong, hunched and contorted, his spine curved at an angle that looked almost grotesque. One hand was pressed hard against his lower back, his fingers splayed and rigid. His shoulders were up around his ears. Somehow still half-hard. His breathing was ragged and uneven, each exhale tinged with a barely suppressed sound of pain.

"Ormund?" Your voice came out as a croak, hoarse from crying and muffled by the pillow. "What—what happened?"

"Nothing." The word was bitten off, sharp and defensive. "I am fine."

He was clearly, patently, absurdly not fine. He tried to straighten, and another spasm of pain shot through him—you saw it happen, saw his whole body seize up, saw his teeth clench so hard the muscles in his jaw stood out like cords. He made that sound again. That awful, old-man sound. A grunt of pain that was half gasp and half groan.

"Did you—" You pushed yourself up on your elbows, your hair a tangled mess around your face, your skin sticky and damp. "Did you hurt yourself?"

"I pulled a muscle." The words came out through gritted teeth, each one a separate, painful effort. "In my back. It seized up. It is nothing."

You stared at him, and the tears were still wet on your cheeks, and your body was still aching from the force of his thrusts, and your mind was still reeling from the accusations he had hurled at you. And now—now he was sitting on the edge of the bed, half-naked and hunched and groaning, clutching his lower back like a decrepit grandfather who had tried to lift something too heavy.

Your husband, your powerful, commanding, dominant husband, hunched over like a gargoyle on a rooftop, his spine contorted, his face twisted in a grimace of pain and humiliation.

Because he had pulled a muscle. During sex. While he was trying to punish you. While he was trying to remind you who was in control. The absurdity of it hit you like a wave. A hysterical, disbelieving, almost giddy wave that rose up from somewhere deep in your chest and threatened to spill out of your mouth in a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. You bit your lip hard, forcing it down, forcing yourself to stay quiet.

"Can you—" Your voice came out strange. Thick. "Can you move? Should I fetch a maester?"

"No." The word was almost a snarl. "I do not need a maester. I do not need anyone. I just need—I just need a moment."

He tried to straighten again. The muscle seized again. He made that sound again—that grunting, gasping, humiliating sound—and hunched even further forward, his hand pressing so hard against his lower back that his knuckles went white.

You should have felt sympathy. You should have felt concern. A good wife would have rushed to his side, would have helped him lie down, would have sent for a warm compress and a maester and done everything in her power to ease his suffering.

But you were not feeling like a good wife right now, you were feeling like a woman who had just been accused of trying to seduce her stepson. A woman who had just been taken roughly and coldly as punishment for a crime she had not committed. A woman who had been crying into her pillow while her husband grunted and thrust and called her careless and thoughtless and forgetful.

And now he was the one who could not move.

You watched him, and something strange was happening inside you. Something you did not have a name for. A cold, distant detachment. You were looking at him and you were seeing things you had not noticed before.

The way his shoulders were not as broad as they once were. The way the skin on his back was beginning to sag, just slightly, around the edges of his shoulder blades. The way his hair—when had his hair gotten so grey? Not just at the temples anymore, but threaded through the dark, spreading like frost across a winter field. The way his body was not the body of a young man, not the body of the knights in the songs and stories, but the body of a man who had lived nearly four decades and was feeling every one of them. He was old.

You had always known, that your husband was older than you. Twenty years older, to be precise. It had been a fact, a number, something that other people commented on but that had never felt real to you. He was your husband. He was Ormund. He was the man you loved, the man you had chosen, the man who had courted you and won you and made you his.

But now, looking at him—hunched and groaning and utterly, pathetically vulnerable—it was suddenly, viscerally real.

He was old.

His body was failing him. His back had given out in the middle of a sexual act. He had been trying so hard to be dominant, to be powerful, to be the man who could punish his young wife for her supposed transgressions—and his own body had betrayed him in the most intimate, most humiliating way possible.

Your husband was clutching his back like a decrepit invalid because he had been too vigorous in his attempts to put you in your place, and he looked pathetic.

You pushed the feeling down, horrified at yourself. This was your husband. This was the man you loved. You should not be feeling this. You should not be looking at him like he was a stranger, like he was something pitiable and slightly repulsive. You should be sympathetic. You should be concerned. You should be a good wife.

But the feeling would not go away. It sat in your chest like a stone, heavy and cold and immovable. He tried to shift his position, and the muscle seized again, and he made that sound again—that grunting, gasping, old-man sound—and something inside you curled up and died.

"I am going to lie down," he said, his voice strained. "I just need to—I just need to find the right angle—"

He eased himself down onto the mattress in a series of awkward, ungraceful movements. First onto his side, then rolling slowly, carefully, onto his stomach, his hand never leaving his lower back. He ended up face-down on the mattress, his head turned to one side, his arms braced awkwardly beneath him. He looked like a turtle that had been flipped onto its back and was struggling to right itself. He looked like an invalid being arranged by a maester. He looked, frankly, pathetic.

And he knew it.

That was the worst part. That was the part that made the silence so thick and suffocating. He knew exactly how humiliating this was. You could see it in the rigid set of his shoulders—shoulders that were still, even now, too stubborn to fully relax. You could see it in the way he would not look at you, would not turn his head, would not meet your eyes. You could see it in the tips of his ears, which had gone a deep, mortified red.

He was embarrassed. He was utterly, completely, devastatingly embarrassed.

And he should be, a small, vicious part of you whispered. He should be embarrassed. He just spent the last quarter-hour accusing you of trying to seduce his teenage son. He just took you like a brute, made you cry, called you careless and thoughtless. And now he is the one who cannot move. Now he is the one who is pathetic and weak.

You did not say any of this. You did not say anything at all. You just lay there on your side of the bed and watched him struggle.

"Are you—" he started, his voice muffled by the pillow. "Are you all right?"

"I am fine," you said, your voice was flat. 

Silence.

"It was the angle," he said suddenly, his voice defensive and tight. "I was at a bad angle. My leg was twisted, and the muscle just—it just seized up. It could have happened to anyone. It has nothing to do with—with anything else."

"I am sure," you said.

"It is not because I am old." The word came out like a curse, sharp and bitter. "If that is what you are thinking. It is not. It was a bad angle. That is all."

You said nothing. He turned his head on the pillow, trying to look at you, but you were on his bad side and the movement pulled at the muscle. He winced and gave up, settling back into his awkward, face-down position.

"I am not old," he said again. Quieter this time. More to himself than to you.

You did not answer. You did not know what to say. You did not know how to tell him that it did not matter whether the pulled muscle was because of his age or because of a bad angle. What mattered was that he had been inside you—cold and cruel and punishing—and then he had made that sound. That awful, grunting, old-man sound. And now you could not unhear it.

You pulled the blankets up to your chin and turned onto your side, away from him. The fire had burned down to embers, and the room was growing cold. You could feel the chill seeping through the stone walls, through the thin sheets, through the thin barrier of your own skin.

"I hope your back feels better in the morning," you said. The words were polite. Proper. The words of a dutiful wife.

"Y/N—"

"Goodnight, Ormund."

You’ve been destined to become Princess Becca’s helper since you were born. Your mother had served the family for two generations; you were born in the palace, raised in the hustle and bustle of the castle with all the live-in staff. You spent years refining your cooking skills in the kitchen that seemed to function twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, decades toiling away in the garden with the landscaper to take care of the queen’s prized roses, and occasionally sneaking into the palace library for a quick novel or two when your mother took her eyes off you.

It was a natural pathway for someone who wasn’t born to nobility yet was constantly surrounded by it. 

Fortunately, growing up in this kingdom that is governed with kindness and compassion means that there are paths to advancement that you never anticipated, mainly becoming Becca’s lady-in-waiting. The two of you had been raised together, joint at the hip, to the point where you may not even distinguish which of you is the real princess. The king and queen had welcomed you as if you were one of their own. 

Of course, you know that it’s far from the truth. Despite their accommodations and generosity, you’ve always known your place in society. There is a reason why Becca is the one covered in silver and gold, while you’re handstitching the holes in your clothes. She’s seated at a table for twelve with a wide array of dishes and pastries all created to her liking, while you join your fellow staff members for a family meal, cramped together in a table meant for half of you. 

You’ve always drawn that line, regardless of how many times Becca tries to cross it.

“Come now, you must come with me to Viscountess Romanoff’s ball!” She huffs, stomping her feet as she always does when she does not get what she wants.

You let out a sigh and Becca’s face falls as she prepares herself for your disappointing response. “Princess—” she glares and you bite your tongue, “Becca, that is not my place.”

“Of course, it is! Many ladies-in-waiting go to these balls.”

“Ladies-in-waiting that were born into nobility,” you correct her with a look. 

“It doesn’t matter. You’re my lady-in-waiting and I need you there to— to— fix my dress!”

You know it isn’t true — well, it is only true to the extent that Becca may become ridiculously inebriated and has to be stowed away before she can go as far as risk the royal family’s reputation, and you somehow have become the most reliable person for those circumstances. 

However, there are many there that will surely keep her on her toes — literally, including her brother. 

“Did you hear that? She needs you to fix her dress. You simply have to attend now.”

The interruption brings both of your attention to the door where Bucky is leaning against the doorway, a smirk curled on his lips. His eyes skip past Becca and land on you and — heaven almighty. 

He drinks you in, you in your simple gown, yet his sapphire eyes warm all the same. They darken like the evening has arrived far too early and the moon is nowhere in sight. His smile dims slightly, if only for him to clamp down on the inappropriate sound that climbs up his throat. 

Bucky has never been good at subtlety. 

You drag your eyes away and back to the lady that you’re supposed to be waiting on. The lady who is currently huffing and puffing as she plops down on the sofa with a scowl. “Will you please convince her to come, Buck?”

He steps further into the room. The air is a little heavier, like his presence has sucked all the oxygen out of the space — but only for you. Your fingers twist quietly together in front of you as you force yourself to stand upright, force yourself to keep looking ahead when his arm brushes yours — an inappropriate proximity for a prince and a member of the staff. 

Discreetly, you take one step to the side, just enough to put distance that allows you room to breathe, lest you risk Becca suspecting something transpiring between the two of you.

“You should come,” Bucky murmurs. His gaze is warm on your cheek. His blue eyes no doubt soft as they take you in. 

You resist and instead address Becca. “That would be unacceptable, Pr— Becca. Please. The crown prince will be in attendance and the viscountess’ staff are more than capable. I’ve met many of them and you will be in good hands.”

“Well, the crown prince would appreciate his ability to drink the viscountess’ liquor supply for the night without worrying about whether his dear sister can control her alcohol,” Bucky chimes in, which earns a roll of the eyes from Becca. 

“I can control my drinking, Bucky. Can you control your deviant desires in the presence of all the other women in the ton?”

Your heart skips a beat. A little nick in your chest to draw blood. You can practically hear the smile wipe off Bucky’s face, his face red as he grits his teeth. “You know that’s not true, sister dear. I’ve never once laid a hand on them.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t try,” Becca shoots right back.

Another scratch, enough to peel back another layer to your bleeding heart. 

It shouldn’t — doesn’t — matter. There has never been anything between you and Bucky. He is the crown prince and you were born to be a lady’s maid at best; it was only the queen’s philanthropy and Becca’s friendship that you were granted this promotion. 

Bucky is meant to marry a princess from another kingdom, or at the least someone born to a proper, respectable family with titles. 

Neither of which is you.

“Rebecca Marie Barnes.” Bucky’s voice is sharp; it slices through the air and straight towards Becca whose face goes cold the moment it lands. 

Becca’s lips purse in annoyance. “I’m going to look for a dress for tonight.” Then she’s lifting her dress and stomping away.

You make a move to follow, only for Bucky to swiftly take your hand. You don’t turn. Bucky forces you to when he tugs you towards him, spinning you around so you land against his chest. You’re quick to flatten your palm on it to push yourself away, but instead, he catches your hand and presses it over his heart. 

“It’s not true,” he murmurs. “I’ve never once shown any of them any interest.”

Don’t cry. You’d be a fool to cry over a prince. You steel your gaze as you look up at him. “It would be in your right to do so. A crown prince is meant to take a wife.”

Irritation flickers across his eyes. “There’s only one woman I wish to take as a wife but she seems to deny me that right at every turn. What say you to that?”

“A crown prince is meant to take a proper wife. One fit for the ton.”

“I don’t give a damn about the ton.”

“Bucky!” The chiding comes out on instinct, his name sliding on your tongue like water. Habit — one that you should’ve curbed a long time ago if it weren’t for the two of them always insisting that you call them by their names. 

Bucky’s face thaws, mouth curving into a delighted smile. You try to extract yourself from his grasp again but fail to do so when he ducks his head, lips brushing the shell of your ear. A shiver snakes up your spine as he drags you closer to him. “I love when you say my name. I’d love it even more if you called me your husband.”

Your traitorous heart slams against your ribs. Foolish desires plague your very being. It’s been decades since you were first introduced to Bucky, ten years since you first defended Becca against Bucky’s teasing, and far too long since you first fell for the crown prince. 

It’s not as if your feelings are not reciprocated; Bucky has made it clear from the start that he adores you dearly. Adores you in a way that is far from acceptable for a prince. But your mother has reminded you time and time again that, no matter how intimately acquainted you are with them, you will never be one of them. 

And Bucky deserves a partner — an equal. Someone who can stand tall and proud beside him without the risk of gossip and mockery. You would only give him grief and he would certainly bore of you in the future once the thrill of the chase is done. 

So you exert more effort this time to push him away. “Prince Barnes, I must ask you to maintain some semblance of decorum. If you’ll excuse me, I have to tend to the princess.” You do a small curtsy, ignoring the flash of pain in his eyes as you walk away.

This is how it’s supposed to be. This has always been your fate.

“You have to try this on. Please? For me?”

It begins as an innocent enough request. Becca was in the midst of selecting her gown for the evening and that meant that you were right by her side, providing her with the necessary words of affirmation for her to make a decision. 

These are the most challenging questions that royalty have to deal with. Sometimes you dream of living such a comfortable life, pampered daily with the sweetest of treats and lavishing yourself with the praise of society. However, you know that things aren’t so simple. There are restrictions that come with being part of this family.

You saw firsthand how many classes Becca had to take as part of her education — in addition to the typical academic courses, she had to spend hours learning proper etiquette, how to sew, how to play a musical instrument, how to entertain and host a gathering. They had to prepare her for her future as a wife. While options are limited for women in society, they are practically a straight-line path for a princess who is not in line for the throne. 

Her career, her future, her partner — everything is almost pre-destined.

One day, Becca will marry someone. While she dreams of a happily ever after, she also understands the political nature of matrimony. To maintain power, you have to seek power. She may not be here a few years from now when she’s officially married off to extend her father’s reign. Her parents have insisted that they would never force her to marry, but Becca has always had a strong sense of responsibility.

You both admire and hold sympathy for her. 

Unfortunately, in this very moment, you would like to push her out of the carriage so you too could make your escape. Somehow, she has managed to rope you into going to the ball — in one of her dresses. 

“This is completely inappropriate,” you hiss. “I should not be here.”

“I want you here.”

“Becca,” you exhale deeply, “if your parents knew about this.”

“It’s a masquerade ball! Nobody will know.”

“I’m coming with you! I fear that makes it quite obvious.”

“I’ll tell them you’re one of our very distant cousins — one from a land far, far away.”

You pinch your nose as the carriage rattles, the silk of your glove glides along your skin. Pulling your hand away, you can’t help but look at the delicate fabric on your skin. 

When you first tried the clothes on, you could hardly believe your eyes. You didn’t even look like… you. Gone were your well-worn gowns. The tightness of the corset has you a little breathless, but the dress adorned with intricate sequins and embroidery sliding over your body like water. The silver shimmers underneath the moonlight that spills past the curtains of the carriage, white camellias sewn in a river down your shoulder to your waist. 

You reach up to tuck your hair behind your ear, only for your fingers to brush over the diamond necklace that Becca has so thoughtfully loaned you. The gems catch light, winking at you as if they’re letting you in on a secret. Then your fingers catch on your mask, a combination of beads and lace trimming, the same flowers framing the corners of your eyes. 

In all your life, you could never have even dared to dream of wearing such things. You never imagined that you would be swimming in such luxury. 

If your mother could see you now, she would absolutely murder you. She would bury you six feet under before the royal guards could even get to you. 

You know that neither the queen nor king would mind, but what would the rest of them think if they knew? What if they found out that you were no more than a girl born into somewhat fortunate circumstances? That your blood was redder than most of them. Common. 

A hand lands atop yours. Becca peeks at you with a nervous smile. “Hey, it’ll be fun. You’ve never been to one of these. Please try to enjoy yourself. I promise that nobody will say a thing.”

“What if I stand out? What if they know that I don’t fit in with the rest of them?” You whisper. 

Becca squeezes your hand. “If you stand out, it’s because you look far more beautiful than the rest of them. If you stand out, it’s because they are looking at you with envy. You could’ve easily been the diamond of the season.”

Warmth creeps up your neck as the carriage pulls to a stop. You can already hear the music filtering through the entrance; the sound mingles with the fast rhythm of your heartbeat in a symphony that echoes through your mind. 

“Showtime,” she beams.

Now, as someone who has been directly involved in the planning, decorating, and organizing of the extravaganzas, you’ve seen your fair share of ridiculously opulent displays. The palace is, after all, renowned for hosting the grandest of balls, bringing together only the who’s who of society. The guest list is selective, both for security and exclusivity reasons. It is the most sought-after invitation of the season. So when you walk into the viscountess’ home, you didn’t think you would be impressed.

However, you have never been happier to be proven wrong. Every inch of this place has been meticulously swathed in a color scheme perfect for the summer. Florals in every shade of the sunset draped across banisters, hanging over the staircase leading down to the dance floor, and standing tall in structures that do not look humanly possible.

Butlers and maids dressed head to toe in fine fabrics float around the room carrying hors d'oeuvres that look more like miniature works of art. Macarons that match the colors of the flower arrangements, tarts with crusts that crumble perfectly on your tongue, bonbons in perfect spheres dusted in cocoa, and fruits plucked from the vines at their ripest, sweetest point.

The stars twinkle above you to complement the tiny candles that string across the railings to illuminate the room, only outshone by the chandeliers with flickering flames hanging above you. Guests in their Sunday bests drift around the room in excited chatter, spreading the newest gossip that will surely make the papers by morning.

Heads turn as you and Becca enter the room and, before you can duck behind her, she’s linking her arm through yours and pulling you forward into the crowd.

“Becca—”

“Breathe, this will be fun. Enjoy the treats and the wine. The viscountess has exceptional taste, she has gathered the best chefs in the kingdom in her kitchen. Mother simply adores visiting her for tea for the food alone.”

Becca walks through the room with the confidence of someone who owns it. Everyone knows her as the princess even hidden behind the mask, murmurs of awe rippling across the crowd. The men pay particularly close attention, eager to get hers. The women speak of her in resentful admiration.

Becca — the belle of the ball. You, her companion.

“They’re looking at you,” she giggles quietly in your ear.

“No, they’re looking at you, Princess.”

“I’ve been in enough of these rooms to know when people are looking at me. While some are focused on me, most of them are keeping a close eye on you.”

“Likely to see when they would have the opportunity to speak to you alone no doubt,” you mutter under your breath.

Becca frowns at you. “Must you be so cynical? You look absolutely stunning. If you gave the room a chance, you’d know how many of them are keen on dancing with you. In fact, why don’t we put it to a test?”

Right as you’re about to ask her what she means, Becca moves away from you, pretending to be drawn by the dessert that appears to be running away from her. Her name leaves your mouth but you don’t get very far when three men approach you. All of them impeccably dressed, all of them handsome — at least, from what you can see with the mask.

“My lady, would you grant me the honor of joining me for a dance?”

Your lips part in surprise, eyes darting around the room to search for the princess. Becca stands off in a corner, grinning proudly to herself as she nibbles on a cream puff. You bite down the urge to curse before politely turning to the men. “My apologies, I should be getting back to my companion. I can’t leave her for far too long.”

You take a step and one of them moves directly in your path. “I’m sure she’ll find the company of others just as pleasant. Please, you must grant each of us a dance. It would be a privilege for us.” 

Although you’ve danced before, it’s mostly to help Becca with her training. You have no idea how these dances work during the balls — the coordination, the etiquette. Your heart begins to race as your throat closes in a panic.

“I can’t—”

“One. One song is all I ask.”

“Then mine next.”

“And then me.”

Your chest flares as you search around the room for Becca again but she is nowhere to be found. Your skin begins to burn as your survival instincts kick in. The last thing you need is for these men to notice and question how they’ve never seen you before at such events, and you would have to craft a convoluted fib that you would be forced to maintain.

Just as you are about to deny them again, a hand presses against the low of your back.

“My lady.”

The voice grounds you in a familiar presence. You look up to find Bucky — even through the mask, you’d know it was him. His favorite cologne clings to the threads of his jacket and his hair, thick and styled, is one you can practically feel on your fingertips. Those days spent by the riverbend, his head on your lap as you read him sonnets—

No. This is not the time to be sentimental.

“Your royal highness.” The men stumble over each other to greet him, their energy shifting to nervous jitters as they look amongst each other.

“I believe the point of the masks is anonymity,” he says smoothly. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I would like to invite this lovely lady to a dance.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, he simply takes your hand and whisks you into the crowd. You don’t have time to think about the consequences of this, more relieved that you’ve escaped that sticky situation.

“Thank you,” you breathe out.

“I believe I should be thanking you for this dance,” he grins.

“How did you find me?”

“I could find you even if you were across the world, mon cher.” You roll your eyes and Bucky huffs a quiet laugh. “I don’t think you’re supposed to respond that way to the crown prince.”

“Perhaps if the crown prince didn’t use such predictably embarrassing lines.”

His lips curl again. “I noticed you the moment you walked into the room. Most beautiful woman tonight. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, in fact.”

“Haven’t you been taught that dishonesty is unbecoming on a man?” You snip back.

“You wound me,” he gives a little shake of his head, “Out of everyone, you know that you would be the last person I would attempt to bathe in false affirmations. I know you can see through those pretenses.”

“Then why try?”

“Oh ye of little faith. If you wanted praise from me, you could just say so—”

You balk, snapping back in surprise. “That was not my intention!”

Bucky squeezes your hand as he shifts you around the room. It is then that you realize he’s been guiding your movements all along, every one of your steps falling in line with the others around you. He’s always been a good dancer, far better than Becca who had resisted these lessons for the longest time.

“You look absolutely ravishing tonight,” he ducks his head to whisper in your ear. The smell of him infiltrates your senses, his warmth, the brush of his hair against your cheek. “Of course, you could’ve worn nothing at all and you would undoubtedly still be the most fetching person in this room.”

“If I wore nothing at all, then I’m sure I would fetch the eyes of everyone in this room,” you tease with a small quirk of your lips.

Bucky goes momentarily taut, stiff as he spins you and then pulls you in even closer. His hands tighten around you, like he’s fearful you would slip away at any moment. “Thank the heavens you opted for clothing today. I would rather not imagine anyone else seeing you in such a state. I’d have to dramatically increase this kingdom’s beheading rate. If I do that, what kingdom would I have left to rule?”

“Because you’d have to eliminate the witnesses to my humiliation of the royal family?”

“Because I have limited self-restraint when it comes to you.” You cock an eyebrow in question. “I would have to eliminate anyone who has ever seen you in such an intimate state. I’m a tad possessive you see, I’d rather be the only person alive who’s ever seen you in all of your raw beauty.”

Heat flushes along your skin, a sudden rise in temperature that rarely occurs at this time in the evening. “You’ve never seen me in such a state.”

“I would be the first and the last, my dear. I’ve never been very good at sharing.”

“I am not an object to own, your royal highness,” you bite out with a sour curl of your lips.

“You’re not,” Bucky murmurs softly, “but my heart belongs to you and I was hoping that yours to me — and your affection is the one thing I refuse to ration.”

You look up to meet his eyes. Earnest blue eyes that are far too honest for your liking. That gaze that’s dripping with the kind of affection he cannot counterfeit. Your movements nearly falter, your knees suddenly weak, but Bucky holds onto you even tighter.

“Bucky, I—”

Your gaze snags on the view behind him — a line of women watching the two of you, glowering green seeing your frame tucked against Bucky’s. Women who undoubtedly come from near and far in search of a notable husband to match or increase their standing in society. What better catch than a prince?

Instead of investing his time looking for a proper candidate for a wife, he is instead wasting these minutes with you. It’s been three songs, far from appropriate for two acquaintances, suspicious enough that you can hear the whispers of speculation begin to circulate the room. As the song comes to an end, you’re quick to curtsy in front of him.

“Thank you for the dance.”

You whirl around before he can say another word and disappear into the throng, leaving Bucky to be swarmed by women who are far better suited for him.

Becca stands by a corner, having watched all of this transpire. She’s barely paying any mind to the gentlemen suitors around her. When you come around to her, she’s immediately distancing herself and rushing towards you. Her gaze is eager, far too eager.

She’s had at least two drinks then.

“How was it? I saw you out there.”

“It was fine,” you mutter.

“You’ve only had one dance and it was with my brother. Methinks it’s time to expand your registry. How about the Duke? I hear he gets a little bit handsy and a little fun can do no harm.”

After your conversation with Bucky, you seriously doubt that. You would rather avoid this ball turning into a beheading festival tonight — or Bucky ruining his pristine reputation with society when he decides to do an execution in the middle of the dance floor.

Bucky is many things but he is not a liar. Whether he exaggerates is up for debate but that is not a theory you want to test tonight.

“Or shall we have a few more to drink in the meantime? Their champagne is quite lovely. I heard the viscountess had sourced all of the vintages from her favorite year.”

“Ladies.”

Speak of the devil. The two of you find yourselves in front of the viscountess. Even beneath the mask, her vibrant ruby hair is an easy identifier. She is cloaked in a glimmering black fabric with touches of red, breasts pushed up with the tight wrap aroung her waist. Spiders are stitched into her mask, crawling up the sides.

“Lady Romanoff,” Becca cheers, “what a lovely ball you’ve thrown. This is stunning, our chefs simply must learn from yours, otherwise I’d be tempted to sneak a few of those macarons up my sleeve before I leave.”

The viscountess laughs. “Princess, if you desire the macarons, I shall ensure that they are delivered to the palace by the morning. I believe your queen mother is also rather fond of the bonbons I source from France, I’ve already arranged for it to be sent tomorrow and I’ll make sure we include your macarons with that delivery.”

“You are most kind and gracious.”

Then she turns her eyes to you and you freeze. “And I do not believe we’ve met. Your name, dear?”

Your eyes flick to Becca momentarily before returning to her. You should lie. You should give her another name, but the viscountess has been known to be shrewdly intelligent. If you were caught in a fib, you would likely have your tongue cut out. There have been rumors of what she has done outside this kingdom, things that are far from proper; still, nobody has been brave enough to validate any of that gossip.

So you tell her your name.

“And I presume you are the princess’…” she trails off for a second and you go rigid once more, her gaze sharpens a fraction. “…cousin from far, far away?”

“Um, yes! She has decided to do an impromptu visit because she missed me so. I hope you don’t mind my bringing her, my lady.”

Lady Romanoff smiles like she knows — and you have a feeling she does. She simply doesn’t care. After all, she has always danced to her own tune, including how she’s wearing all black tonight that would be typically reserved for funerals.

“Not at all. I hope you enjoy your visit and my ball tonight. I would avoid Lord Smith, he’s in desperate search of a wife and may latch on to the one new face who appears unaware of the reputation of his temper.” Then she laughs.

“Fair advice, Lady Romanoff, thank you,” you murmur.

With one last squeeze of your arm, she brisks away from the two of you. As you follow her movements, you also spot Bucky as he makes his own escape with a few of the gentlemen you’ve seen come around the palace. He turns in time to catch your eye, his mouth curling into a smile as he winks at you from the distance, right as he disappears out the door.

“Now, shall we indulge in more treats?”

You’ve always been a quick study and there are three things that you now understand about the nature of these functions.

The first is to eat your fill — between the champagne and the specially mulled wines, intoxication is a friendly foe that rears its head far too fast. You have to learn to balance properly.

The second is that the marriage market appears dreary. None of the ladies are interested in the gentlemen, no matter how desperately they try. It appears that the women in the room aren’t too afraid of waiting a tad bit longer if it means they could find the one. This means that the gentlemen are far too preoccupied with harassing the help to keep themselves entertained, not that Lady Romanoff tolerates that behavior; she’s kicked out a number of them already.

Last but not least is that Becca is a social butterfly. While you’ve always been familiar with her friendly nature, seeing her out and about like this, crafting budding friendships with every single person in the room, you’re once again reminded of why the two of you were fast friends. Becca has always been more welcoming, conquering all five love languages on top of the three spoken and written ones that she’s already studying. However, following her around, you are also reminded that you are, in fact, not like her and these interactions are beginning to wear you down.

There are only so many ways you can talk about your dress before the discussions start to sound inane.

There are also so many times you can tolerate the way these women look you up and down. What happened to camaraderie? The catty looks are one thing you don’t expect. In your eyes, you’re a nobody who just happened to be playing dress-up thanks to a good friend. However, you can see how you seem from their perspective — close enough to the princess to attend this ball, apparently attractive enough for the crown prince to steal you for more than a handful of minutes.

You swallow the urge to scream, “I’m nothing more than the help!”

“The prince does have peculiar taste, doesn’t he?” One of them comments and you have to resist rolling your eyes, lest you offend her publicly. 

“What do you mean?” Becca asks as she nibbles on her third tart of the night.

Expectedly, the girl’s eyes flick to you for a brief second before her lips stretch into smirk. “I assumed he would take a wife by now. Have an heir to continue the lineage. However, it doesn’t seem that anyone in this room suits his preferences. He hasn’t asked anyone to dance yet — and not for a lack of trying from our part.”

“He did have one dance—”

You clear your throat to interrupt Becca. She looks at you quizzically.

God bless her heart. Becca means well but sometimes she misses some of these cues; she’s too trusting, which is why you have to be the exact opposite.

“Apologies, I meant a dance that would count—” she smiles saccharine sweet. “—that would matter. You’re a visiting relative, right?” This question she directs towards you.

All eyes turn to you. The attention has your cheeks burning. “Correct.”

“She’s actually a very dear friend, but she’s practically family. She knows Bucky very well.”

“Is that so?” You don’t appreciate the way the woman’s gaze flashes with something akin to amusement. “Practically a sister then. I don’t believe I recall where you’re from. I haven’t heard anyone speak of you either.”

“I didn’t say.” Your lips twist up in an irritated smile.

Awkward tension falls upon the conversation. Becca looks nervously between the two of you; this cue is far too hard to miss. “That doesn’t matter! What matters is that we are here now. How about we get some lemonade? It’s quite warm here, isn’t it?”

As Becca busies herself with resolving the tension, which is the last thing a princess should be doing, you take this opportunity to slip away from the suffocating atmosphere of the room.

Perhaps the garden can be healing this time of night.

Bucky would rather be anywhere else but here. Let him correct himself — there is exactly one place he would rather be than here and it would be to be back inside. With you. Dancing. Fetching you drinks. Keeping those overly-excited, unworthy vultures away from you.

The moment you stepped through those doors, he knew he was in for a long night of suffering. Time and time again, you’ve rejected his advances. He knows you feel the same way, has felt you leaning into his touch before you would pull yourself away. Your stubbornness has always been endearing, but Bucky yearns for the day when he finally breaks through those walls.

It’s not an if, it’s a when.

Because Bucky has always achieved everything he’s dreamed of and you are his most important one.

However, for now, he is instead subjected to the debauchery of his peers. Dukes, viscounts, and fellow noblemen who have far too much time on their hands to be exploring substances that shouldn’t be explored. Sam is in the midst of lecturing their tight-knit group about this vial he procured while out in the countryside, some fermented liquid that supposedly produces the most vivid, imaginative visions that have you questioning reality.

The others ooh and aah in fascination but Bucky’s eyes continue to stray towards those double-doors where you stand on the other side.

“Your royal highness, I have something that may be of interest to you.”

To that, he does turn with a raised brow.

“I specifically obtained this one for you. I am sympathetic to your cause—” Sam teases and Bucky responds with a withering glare that does nothing to deter his friend. “—and when the time comes and you hope to last, this will be immensely beneficial.”

“His cause is hopeless if he doesn’t do anything about it,” Steve laughs.

“I appreciate your vote of confidence, Rogers. Believe me, it’s not for a lack of trying,” Bucky mutters as he leans back against the stone pillar.

Sam grabs his hand, slips it into his palm and closes his hand around a small tin. “Very potent. I wouldn’t recommend more than a pinchful at a time. A pinchful should last you through an hour, but what a delicious hour it will be.”

He doesn’t know how to tell him that Bucky doesn’t need this sort of chemistry to make him last. Every time he’s near you, his pants tighten like a schoolboy again. Thirteen and realizing that this desire to kiss you isn’t a result of friendship. As he got older, he realized that these urges aren’t those that should be held against his sister’s lady-in-waiting.

Urges that blossomed into far more when he feels his chest constrict, breath stolen from his lungs, whenever he catches a whiff of that perfume. Or how he can’t resist peeking at you from around the corner whenever you sneak into the library, wondering what book has absorbed you this time, how quickly he could read it to spark conversation with you. Or how desperately he tries to make you laugh just to hear that tinkling melody that loops like the nation’s best symphony in his mind.

There are days that Bucky wishes he wasn’t born into this family, that he could be normal, so he wouldn’t be forced upon societal standards that he has no desire to follow. He could pursue you and you wouldn’t constantly put this chasm between you.

But then if he hadn’t been born into this life, then he would’ve never met you. He would have never known what it means for love to consume his very soul, how one person could mean the world to him, to a point where he would give it all up — the riches, the rule — to be with you.

Fate is a funny thing.

“I don’t need this, Wilson,” Bucky grunts as he tries to push it back into Sam’s hands.

Sam raises them. “No, sir. Think of it as an early coronation gift. Perhaps once you can change the rules of the kingdom, you would be inclined to follow them too.”

“Think he’s a jester,” he mutters to Steve with a roll of his eyes.

“In another life, my prince, perhaps in another life,” Sam grins cheekily. “You simply have to breathe it in. Like the usual stuff. Again, very powerful so be careful. Otherwise, you’d be trapped in that state for hours on end and your only relief would be to…”

Bucky’s eyes rise to meet his. Sam only wiggles his eyebrows in response. He makes a face of repulsion. “That’s how you rid yourself of the effects?”

“The more you finish, the lighter the effects will be. However, if you don’t find any form of… relief, then it could last for hours and you’d be hurting everywhere — and I do mean everywhere. It’s the strongest form of desire that can be relieved if you fulfill it.”

Bucky looks down at the tin again. Unassuming. Small. How powerful could this little thing be? He tucks it inside his coat, if only to appease his friend, and lets them resume with the conversation.

By the time they adjourn, Bucky is sufficiently exhausted. All he wants is to go search for you. It’s only been an hour and he already misses you. What a fool he is — if only the kingdom knew that the crown prince’s only weakness is a woman who doesn’t even want him.

As the other men filter back indoors, Bucky moves to follow. That is, until your perfume tickles his senses. You’re outside. He whips around to try and find you but you’re nowhere in sight.

Perhaps this is his chance. The two of you would be in Lady Romanoff’s prized garden, far away from the prying eyes of the palace or the rest of the ton. He looks at Steve and Sam, waves them away. “Go on. I’ll enjoy the fresh air a little bit more.”

“Alright, don’t look too thrilled that all those women inside are waiting for their prince to return.”

Bucky winces. Of course, he’s felt their hungry gazes all night. All of them practically vibrating where they’re standing, fanning themselves a little faster, batting their eyelashes a little more rapidly. He has zero inclination to humor any of them because the one person he wants to dance with is the one who won’t even look at him.

With one final gesture, he begins to prowl further into the grounds, further away from the mansion, to find you.

Little does he know that the tiny tin rattles like a cry against his chest, lid loose as he walks at a pace that’s far from careful.

After exploring the gardens for a bit, you almost wish that Lady Romanoff would adopt you under her wing to understand her excellent taste in design and decoration. The architecture is as old as time. Each brick feels intentionally placed like it’s meant to be part of history. The stream that sits quietly further away from the palace brings a touch of natural life to the otherwise manmade masterpiece.

A boat sits swaying in the gentle evening breeze and you’re half tempted to paddle yourself out to the middle to find some form of peace. However, given how deep it is into nightfall, you assume you’d have to eventually make your way back to find Becca. She’s promised not to touch another drop of champagne for the evening so you trust her to make good decisions.

Just as you turn to begin your journey back to the mansion, the last person you expect is standing before you.

“Bucky, what are you doing here?”

In the darkness, he stumbles towards you, mumbling incoherently. You strain your ears to decipher him but it’s near impossible when his words blur together. He’s clearly intoxicated. You wonder how much liquor Steve and Sam have fed him and lord knows what else.

When he finally stands where the moonlight shines across the concrete, you see the flush that sprawls like an illness across his skin. His breathing is labored and his fingers continue to tug at the collar of his shirt, clawing almost desperately. With his mask long gone, you can see how his pupils are blown wide as they drink in the sight of you, a mix of relief and desire in the constantly shifting shades of his ocean eyes. 

He breathes out your name like a prayer when he sees you. “Gods, you look…” he trails off again as he moves towards you, walking side to side as if his legs can’t bear the weight of him.

You catch him before he can topple over, his entire body draped over yours. You thank the heavens that you’ve done enough manual labor in your life that you’re able to prop him up, pushing him up against the wall. Your hands on his shoulders as you frown at him.

He doesn’t smell too heavily of liquor but there are strange particles on his coat that you suspect are the reason why he’s behaving like this. You bite back the urge to scold the crown prince of all people to be more responsible. When you look up at him, he’s looking down at you with a lazy smirk.

“Bucky, what did you take?”

“Y’smell…” he leans forward again, nearly tipping over but his nose ends up buried in your neck. You feel him inhale, deep, before a long, extremely indecorous moan rumbles against your skin. Heat slithers up your spine, pushing your blood south between your legs. “Fuck, you smell so good.”

Biting your tongue, you try to push him back against the wall but he’s faster. His arms wrap around you, holding you tight against his chest as his mouth trails warm against your skin. He whispers your name again — like a promise. “Bucky, please, I can’t help you like this.”

“Need—” he chokes then, whimpering.

“What do you need? Tell me.”

“You.”

You stroke his hair gently as he continues to mumble words you cannot hear against the pulse in your neck. “I know, I’m here. Tell me what you need.” Worry torments your heart as you press the back of your hand against his forehead. “Heavens, you’re burning up.”

“So hot,” he whines, “so, so warm.”

Without removing himself from you, he begins to shed off his tailcoat first, casting it aside. Then his fingers reach for the buttons of his waistcoat, fingers seemingly too uncoordinated to undo them.

“Please. Help,” he pleads.

How can you say no when he asks so sweetly? But at the same time, you really shouldn’t be doing this. “Bucky, this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think you should—”

“Help me.”

Gods, you’ve never been good at saying no to this man, not when he sounds like he’s in pain. Your gloved hands reach towards him as you begin to unbutton him slowly, revealing more and more of the linen underneath. Then Bucky pushes it off his shoulders.

“My shirt next.”

“Bucky!” you gasp, “That’s completely out of the question. I couldn’t possibly.”

“It’s so warm, mon couer. Please.”

He’s never played a fair game, but particularly when he addresses you so charmingly in French. You remember when he first started calling you those terms, practicing the foreign language on his tongue in a way that had you leaning in to listen for more. You asked him what they meant, and he said, “Only the truth.”

My love. My heart. Your heart feels like it’s been lit on fire when you read the translations.

You never questioned it further. Becca always took it as teasing, like Bucky’s being his usual charismatic, mischievous self. But every time he calls you that, you know that it is the truth. A truth you keep contesting for the sanctity of your mind.

Because if you accept that you are his love and that you are his heart, you don’t know how much of your resolve would be left.

And Bucky deserves more than that. He deserves the world, which he already has. You can’t be the reason that he loses all of it.

“We should head back. Becca’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“Becca can be patient,” he murmurs as he finally finds the strength to rip his shirt open, the buttons flying off as the fabric is torn off his body, leaving him bare in front of you. His abdomen ripples with the kind of muscles that come from the hours spent training, the hours you spent watching him practice. 

Saliva pools on your tongue and you feel like a dog taught to drool at the sight of its master. You’ve seen him shirtless before, of course — god knows the man loves to be fully exposed to the sun in seasons like this. However, something about him is different this time. He’s practically soaked through his shirt, his body glows with a sheen layer of sweat. 

“You have a fever, Bucky. You need help.”

“Need you,” he repeats, clearer this time. His brows then meet in the middle as he looks down at you. He tugs the mask off your face, letting it drop to the floor as he searches your eyes. Deep blue, bluer than the summer sky. “There you are,” he says softly.

Your heart stutters as you shy away from his gaze, his fingers catching your chin to tilt you to face him again. His eyes fall to your lips, your lips separate, sticky with whatever Becca had swiped onto you earlier.

Then he slants his lips over yours and you feel the fireworks explode inside your chest. Bucky’s moan spills down your throat as he kisses you deeper, harder. Ravenous is the only way you can describe it. He’s chasing after your lips like you’re the last drop of water for a parched man. He breathes the air from your lungs, an intimate exchange that has noises you’ve only made in the quiet of your room — alone — rising from your stomach.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined, and so much more. You spent nights picturing what this could feel like in painstaking detail, hoping that it may happen one day — in the slightest of chances.

But then that anxiety seeps back in, creeping under your skin enough to wake you from this dream. 

“Bucky—” He kisses you again, quashing whatever rational thought you’ve only just begun to formulate.

“Tastes so sweet, even better than I thought,” he murmurs. “So sweet, my love. Gods, I could kiss you for days and I’d never tire of it.”

“We shouldn’t—” Your protest once again dies in your throat as Bucky begins to kiss along your jaw, placing a wet trail of fire as he mouths down your neck, counting your racing heartbeat. Your palms flatten against his chest, damp and humid. He’s sweating bullets but you don’t get the chance to interrupt again.

“I need you,” he groans, “lord, I need you.” His fingers catch your hand and press it against his chest. Your heart pushes against your ribs. “You smell so good. I can’t stop thinking about you. Thinking about what it would be like to kneel at your feet, your leg over my shoulder, and bury my face in that pretty pussy of yours.”

A gasp wrenches from your throat as you jerk back. “Bucky, that is— oh my god, that is unacceptable!”

“It’s the truth,” he growls, “I can practically smell you between your legs, your sweetness on my tongue. I want you to press your hips against my face and let me feast like a king. Slip my fingers in there and feel how you resist me, how you act like you don’t want this but you’re dripping all over my fingers.” 

The moan that climbs out your chest is involuntary and it’s all Bucky needs before he’s flipping you around and he’s pressing your back against the pillar. A gust of wind blows, providing some semblance of reprieve to the sudden sweltering heat that blankets you. It does nothing to soothe Bucky who looks at you like you’re the perfect prey, skin exposed to him with your hair twisted up like the forbidden fruit. 

Bucky isn't a godless man, but in that moment he swears there isn't a higher power who could stop him from having you.

He silently asks the heavens to turn their gaze away from the sin he's about to commit. Because whatever happens next, he won't be seeking forgiveness.

He will only offer his thanks.

He kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips just as he swallows your surprised sound. His tongue strokes against yours, licking up and pressing against it until you’re trembling against him. 

You no longer have authority over your body, how every ounce of energy dissolves into thin air against him, knees nearly sending you crumbling to the ground if it weren’t for his own strength holding you up. One of his hands is ont he back of your neck, keeping you close, and the other on your hip. His mouth continues to move against you as if he’s savoring every inch of you.

Distracted by the taste of him and his seemingly contagious fever, you barely realize when Bucky peels back layer upon layer of your eveningwear. The weight of the fabric pools around your feet with a soft thump. His fingers are frantic as he pushes each piece off your shoulders, leaving you only in your shift and your stay. The corset is tight around your body and Bucky snarls to himself when he can’t seem to untangle the loops. 

Then you hear it, the sound similar to clicking tongues as Bucky tears it off your body. When the haze clears just enough for you to realize what’s been done, you shove him away from you, but your power doesn’t throw him very far.

“Bucky, this is indecent. I can’t be—”

“We’re too far past decency, my love.” He stalks back towards you, capturing your lips in a languid kiss that eviscerates your objections into ash. “Beautiful. You had the eyes of everyone in that room tonight. I loathed seeing you surrounded by all those men earlier. Undeserving creatures who think that they have an opportunity with you.”

“I—I wasn’t interested in any of them,” you whine as he works his way down your neck, teeth and lips marking slow, deliberate claims against your skin. Ones that spell out mine.

“I know,” he murmurs against your pulse, smiling as if the answer was never in doubt. “You don’t need to fret. You’re mine. I wouldn’t let them near you. I wouldn’t even allow you to look their way.”

His mouth drags lightly over your skin again. Unhurried, certain.

“Only me. Always me.”

It’s not a question, nor an order. He’s stating a fact. For as long as you can remember, regardless of how many handsome bachelors walk through the palace doors — or even through the staff entrance, you haven’t spared any of them a second glance. Your heart and eyes have always belonged to him. 

Bucky takes your hand and gently removes your gloves. He brings your hand up to his lips, placing one gentle kiss after another. First on your wrist, then up your forearm, to your bicep, until he’s on your shoulder. He moves this final layer to the side just enough for him to press wet kisses on your collarbones.  

However, despite his attempts to divert your attention away from the actual matter at hand, you can’t help but worry. His temperature is a far cry from normal, you fear what would happen if he weren’t observed and provided the necessary remedies. 

“You’re sick, Bucky. Please let me take you back to the palace. Let me fetch your carriage so we can at least summon the royal physician to assess you.”

“No, won’t help,” he grunts, “need to— need to—” and the next word that slips from his lips has your heart slamming against your ribcage— “fuck.”

Your mouth dries and your own desires begin to overwhelm you. This isn’t right. He’s not himself. He’s not in his right mind. What he needs is a doctor and a bed and—

“Sam said,” he exhales harshly, “I need to get it out. To stop this.”

“Get what out?”

“Need to finish.”

Finish. Fuck. Your throat suddenly feels like sandpaper. 

He needs to climax. 

“Don’t think I’ll be satisfied with finishing once,” he huffs honestly as his hands reach up to cup your breasts. He lets out a little pleased noise as he feels up your soft flesh, the shape of your breasts molding to his hand as he massages them. With only one barrier left between the two of you, it feels as if there’s nothing at all there. “My gorgeous girl with her gorgeous tits. I always knew you’d fit so perfectly in my hands. You don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, putting my hands on them, pinching these lovely pert nipples—” he moans as he tugs on your nipple, electricity coursing through you in a zing straight down to your core. “How it would feel to have my cock tucked in between your tits.” 

You don’t have the voice to argue, nor the mind. All you can think about is how delicious it feels for Bucky to be touching you. Your head leans back as your eyes slide shut, your mind lost in the sensations of his touch. 

“Please, let me have you, my love. I need— I need you.”

His hand doesn’t wait for an answer, they begin to bunch up your skirt, pinning them against your hip with his wrist as his fingers trail up your inner thigh. You fight against your shudder and he lifts his mouth back to your lips to kiss you, just as his fingertips make contact with your core.

You’re sticky down there already, a mess from the proximity and his scent and his feverish warmth. This is still Bucky — your Bucky — but he’s also different, like all of the chains that have held him back, that have granted him the patience all these years, have been shattered. This is the result of all the times you’ve rejected him again and again and again. All of the times that you have rejected these feelings within yourself.

Now the dam has been destroyed and all those times you’ve swallowed your pride and your wants, they’re finally being released and they completely drown you.

The moon reflects off the water, illuminating Bucky’s face in a shifting series of ethereal colors. Even with the glimmer, his eyes are dark. A fog clouding his judgment. His desire is unwavering. The more you touch him, the more you let him touch you, the stronger the effects of his fever. 

If possible, he grows even warmer. His skin practically searing against yours but nothing burns more than his fingers between your legs, the delicate stroke of your lips, moist with the evidence of your lust. 

“You’re drenched down here, my sweet girl,” Bucky moans, “is this all for me? Were you thinking of me the same way I was thinking of you?”

“Bucky, please,” you jolt, hips rising when he dips a tentative finger inside you. 

It’s almost embarrassing how easily he slips himself in there, aided by the slick between your legs. He pushes a finger in as he gulps down your pleasured sound, a desperate little cry as his fingers stretch out your insides. 

You’ve never had anyone else touch you like this. You’ve barely even touched yourself like this; even when left to your own devices with nothing more than your imagination and the lingering scent of Bucky’s cologne on your threads, shame still restricts how much pleasure you allow yourself.

However, out there, with Bucky in control, you relinquish that power to him. You let him determine how much pleasure you experience, how much gratification you can get under his ministrations.

Bucky’s fingers are skilled as they work you open, scissoring you open until your teeth sink into his shoulder. “My pretty girl, look at you. I want to hear you cry for me, want to know how good I make you feel.”

Obediently, your lips split open in a wail that shakes the air. 

“Let me have a taste of you,” he murmurs and draws his hand away from you. The loss is almost instantaneous, a sudden chill where his touch had been, but it’s replaced by the fire that burns bright in your gut the moment he drags his wet fingers along his lips. He breathes it in like he’s memorizing the scent of you before he slides his fingers over his tongue. “God, you’re perfect. Sweet, as I expected.”

Then Bucky sinks to the ground and there’s something about the crown prince on his knees before you that has you faltering. Someone whose blood is bluer than the ocean shouldn’t risk scraping his knees for a mere maid — and yet here he is. 

“Hold your skirt up for me, sweet girl.” 

You want to protest. You want to say no. You want to remind him again that this isn’t a good idea but there’s determination in his eyes that have you whimpering, fingers reaching for the hem of your skirt to reveal yourself to him. 

Bucky drags a finger along your slit again, collecting the moisture and wiping it on his tongue with another moan. He leans forward and your eyes slide shut, heart thrumming in anticipation with the steady pulse in your veins. He kisses you slowly at first, making his way up your thigh but his patience is thin and soon enough he’s burying his face between your legs.

His tongue strokes up your pussy, legs still clamped shut in your apprehension. Bucky looks a little irritated when he can’t seem to properly taste you so, with one hand, he holds one of your legs up by the thigh and opens up your leaking cunt to him. He curses under his breath when he sees you glisten in the flickering night. 

The stars in the sky blend in with the ones behind your eyes when he finally lays his lips on you. He mouths at you hungrily, like he’s wolfing down his last meal. His tongue presses eager strokes along your walls that have your legs closing in around him again — only for his hand to pry them open once more to grant him access to the nectar between your thighs. 

“So sweet, so soft,” Bucky groans against your pussy. His lips suckle eagerly, the lewd slurps ricocheting off the surfaces in this quiet night. In the distance, the music continues quietly, but here — you’re accompanied by the sound of your quickening heartbeat and Bucky’s delighted grunts.

Each time he licks you, he buries himself deeper and deeper, until his nose bumps against your clit and his face glistens with your arousal. Your fingers tangle in his thick hair, damp with the sweat from his fever. When you tug on it slightly, Bucky sticks his face in even deeper, moans even louder. 

You can see how his erection only grows underneath his trousers, needy for attention, and yet satisfied all the same by your own pleasure. He tilts his face to reach new angles, his fingers pushing inside of you to keep you full while his tongue flicks that sensitive bundle of nerves.

It doesn’t take you long fall apart, walls closing in around his tongue and his fingers, spasming with your orgasm — the first of the evening.

For a moment, guilt enters your system and you’re forced to look down at Bucky remorsefully that he didn’t even achieve what he set out to do. However, you notice the shaking of his shoulders, a shudder wracking through him as his hips twitch upwards. A pulse down there. 

“Y-you finished?” 

Bucky nods, unabashed as he comes to a stand. “Do you see what you do to me? Cumming untouched in my trousers like a prepubescent boy who can’t even control himself.”

“I didn’t— I mean, you didn’t even touch it.”

“The mere thought of you finishing around my mouth like I’ve always dreamed is enough for me, my love.” He tucks a loose strand of your hair, one that have fallen loose from your updo, behind your ear. “However, I’m far from done. This fever — I can’t break it without you. I have to have you.”

Again, he doesn’t wait for your permission as he steals the air from your lungs with a passionate kiss. This time, you can taste the sweetness of champagne on his tongue along with something a little more unique. Something that belongs solely to you and now also belongs to him. 

“I’ve been leaking for you all night, sweet girl,” Bucky mumbles, “I couldn’t stop thinking what you look like underneath this dress. How soft and supple your body would be. Apparently, everyone else had the same thought. I could see how they looked at you. I should have them all stripped of their titles and banished from the land.”

“Bucky,” you chide, warmth flaming your cheeks. “That would be incredibly rude. Nobody did anything.”

He rolls his eyes as he presses you back against the pillar, reaching down to his pants. You hear the fabric shifting as he holds you up and frees himself. You’ve never seen one in real life before, only those diagrams that Becca likes to tease you with. 

And the real thing looks far more intimidating.

It stands upright, a thick vein running along the top as the head strains red. It looks almost as if that line pulses, encouraged by the purplish lines that sit underneath the surface. A new pearl sits at the tip of him, pearlescent as it rolls down the length of his cock, already sticky and stained creamy white from the mess in his trousers. It’s fat and it’s long and you can’t imagine that fitting inside you. 

You must’ve voiced your fears aloud because Bucky is then saying, “Don’t worry, mon couer. We’ll make it fit.” 

He lifts you up, drawing a squeal from your lips, as he wraps your legs around his waist. The head rests against your entrance, the sight of it already has your pussy drooling over the tip, like it’s preparing for his cock. 

“She’s excited to have me,” he muses quietly, “she’s dripping. So eager to have me. You haven’t been filled before, have you? You’ve never had another man touch you?”

You must’ve taken a moment too long to respond, too preoccupied with the incredulity of the situation.

The low roar sounding from Bucky’s chest has you looking at him. Fury claws at his eyes, the usual bright blue shifting darker as he sneers. His hands tighten around your hips. “Has anyone else touched you? Who is it? Is it the stableboy? I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve been meaning to replace him—”

“Bucky, god, no. Nobody!” You pant, “Where would I find the time?”

“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you? I know your good heart would want to protect them.”

Your lips curl. “No, I would have no reason to lie to you. 

“Good, because I fear the dire action I would’ve had to take if you told me otherwise.” 

“I’m not yours to own, Bucky,” you snap.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweet girl. You’ve always belonged to me, whether you knew it or not. You’re mine and I’ll kill anyone who even dares to think about you.” Another surprised sound escapes your lips and Bucky only smirks. “This pussy especially. I’ll shape it to the size of me, you won’t ever know pleasure with anyone else. I’ll train her to only please me and only me.” 

Before you can admonish him for acting so barbaric, Bucky notches the tip into you. You can already feel the stretch, your pussy resisting the entry of something so… large. So imposing. But he pays it no mind; instead, he uses your own juices to lubricate his entry as he pushes slowly into you, inch by inch. 

He drives deep inside of you, swift and merciless the first time, to yank a gasp from your throat. Another expletive leaves his lips as his head rolls back, eyes slamming closed as he relishes in the feel of your cunt wrapping around him. 

Your entire body is under a spell, experiencing something otherworldly that no language you know could describe. It burns like you’ve been placed on a stake to be set ablaze, like every atom in your body is being torn apart and rearranged. It’s divine deliverance in the pain, but one that provides you with the kind of relief you don’t expect. 

“You feel so—” he chokes as he drags himself out before pushing back in, faster this time, the slide easier. The ache still screams between your legs but you let them fall apart anyway, allowing Bucky to take control over the situation. 

His name falls from your lips — this time as a plea, but you can’t tell if you’re begging for him to stop or to go faster. You want to get past the hurt, want to feel the sort of pleasure that you’ve only heard whispers about. But at the same time, a small piece of you relishes in that pain — it reminds you that you’re human, that this is new, that this is real, and that Bucky is right here with you.

“So tight, so fucking wet. You’re completely soaking my cock, sweet girl. I always knew you were meant for me, this pussy was made for me. No one else can ever see you like this, do you understand me?”

Bucky jerks his hips forward, his arms under your knees, hands on your ass as he presses you against the wall. The surface is solid against your spine, holding you upright as he fucks up into you. His grunts are muffled into your neck as he breathes you in, like your scent fuels the fire in his veins. 

When you don’t respond, too drunk off the sensations of Bucky driving into you at a pace that has you delirious, he punctuates one thrust particularly hard.

“I asked, do you understand me?”

A sob crawls out of your throat as you nod, tears leaking down your eyes. He doesn’t apologize for your cries, he knows you better than that. These tears are from the overwhelming waves of emotion, the heightened tension that grips your lungs until you can’t seem to find the capability to breathe. 

“You feel like heaven, my love. I’ll fuck you to the shape of my cock, until you can’t take anyone else but me — until you won’t even consider taking anyone else. I’ll ensure everyone in this kingdom knows that I’ve defiled you, that you’ve taken my mark on your skin and inside of you. I’ll ensure that you will only be mine.” 

The shame settles hard and fast in the pits of your stomach. If everyone could see you like this, pinned outside against a wall by the prince, fucked like a whore in heat with your pussy clamping down around him, you could never show your face again. A desecrated maid who couldn’t keep her legs shut for a prince. 

Anyone would be lucky to have him, but no one in their right mind would let even the crown prince take them before marriage. They would rather die than be labeled a slut. A harlot. You would be the bane of your family, no one would speak of you again and you would be banished to the outerlands. 

But this is Bucky and even the concept of him keeping you as his dirty little secret only sends thrills through your veins. 

“Bucky, you can’t—”

He laughs, dark and sinister. Like the idea of him unable, unallowed to do anything is absurd. “I’m the crown prince, sweet girl. I am the future of this kingdom. What I say goes. If I say you are mine then it is true. No one will come within a foot of you. Not after I’m done with you. I’ll make sure everyone sees the marks of my affection for you. I’ll imprint them in places everyone can see and other places that nobody will ever see.” 

His words have your heart clenching in mortification and a humiliating level of arousal. The debasement of your character, the degradation of your morality — apparently none of it means anything if it means you have Bucky between your legs and his cock buried deep inside your cunt. 

“I’ve laid my claim on you. No one else will ever touch you. You—” thrust “—are—” thrust “—mine.” 

Staying true to his promise, his fingers dig deep into your flesh. Deep enough that you’ll surely carry those bruises with you for some time. The litter of prints on your neck and above your breasts will have to be covered by your high necklines, gowns that would only raise suspicion in the summer. 

But most of all — the taking of your virginity, your purity plucked from your hands and placed into Bucky’s — is the kind of mark you will never undo. 

Bucky is too lost in his own pleasure, too focused on delivering you to your second peak of the night to recognize the telltale signs of your climax approaching. Your whines crescendoing, the stutter of your heartbeat as your fingers sink into his shoulders. His name spilling from your mouth in an uneven rhythm. 

“I will cum in you, sweet girl. I’ll fill you up with so much cum, I’ll have you dripping all the way home, I’ll make sure you’re leaking all over the carriage before I take you again in my chambers. Gods, I’ll tie you to my bed, make sure that you’ll never deny me again.”

Your heart smashes into your chest, threatening to catapult out with his warning. For some godforsaken reason, the idea of being Bucky’s plaything — tied up with no other purpose than to serve his pleasure — has you gasping in desire, your legs closing in around him as you feel your senseless craving crescendo. 

“You want that, don’t you? You just want to be my pussy. Keep your legs open, this pretty cunt dripping yours and my cum all over my sheets. My darling girl is nothing but a whore who wants cock to keep her plugged up at all times. You won’t have to worry about a thing ever again.”

“Bucky, please—”

“I’ll breed you until you carry my heir.”

That jars you awake and you’re scrambling, a conflicting concoction of pure, unadulterated want with the terrifying fear of the consequences to follow. “You can’t! Bucky, you have to stop. You can’t get me—” you hiccup, “—you can’t get me pregnant. Your heir has to come from a proper bloodline.”

“I no longer care about propriety and bloodlines. They have kept us apart long enough. I’m the crown prince and, what I want, I get. What I want is you and you alone. Why would I need some uptight, prissy noblewoman who doesn’t know how to cum around her husband’s cock?” 

“Bucky!” You gasp as he fucks you hard and fast. His pace is unrelenting and every slide of his cock inside you scrambles every single sensible thought in your mind. 

“And I have you — I can feel your pussy choking me. You — while you’re getting fucked outside with the risk of someone finding us. Yet, look at that, you’re squeezing me even tighter, my love. I always knew you were made for me. Every inch of my depravity, you take it even further. You complete me.”

Your stomach coils with something deep and tight, an unknown force set out to subject you to the strongest cut of humiliating pleasure. As a proper woman, you shouldn’t take such words, even from a prince. You shouldn’t stoop so low as to attain this form of high. 

However, your mind and your body and your heart do not align. While your rational mind screams at you to put a stop to this, your adoration for Bucky — now forced to surface after years of stomping on it and swallowing it with guilt — and your pure primal need — what many consider to be your purpose — join and meld to push you to keep going.

To chase after this sought-after pleasure that few can even dream about. If the cost of is to reduce your dignity and pride, then so be it.

“And now, I will complete you,” Bucky murmurs sweetly before he shoves himself inside you over and over again until you’re a weeping mess, your legs quaking as your body slides up against the wall with every thrust. Tears leak down your face, destroying Becca’s efforts to make you look beyond yourself. 

But all that physical destruction is worth it when your insides are being remade. 

With one final thrust, Bucky spills inside you. Warmth coating every part of your walls, thick, clinging onto your skin like it’s marking you with a permanent mess. Your second climax twists inside your gut, rising up to your chest to constrict your lungs as your pussy curls tight around him. His need to complete you is complemented by your own need for the same. Your walls keep him in, trapped, until every single drop is milked from his cock and buried deep inside your cunt. 

Bucky doesn’t let up, he fucks into you until he’s groaning sensitive against your neck. His breathing is even hotter than before, each exhale like a furnace in the middle of the desert. 

“I’m not done with you yet.”

Those words no longer spark fear, but zealous anticipation. 

Then Bucky takes you again — you on your feet, him behind you as he fucks you against the wall, your breasts in his hands to hold him steady as he cums into you again, the milky white seeping out from where you two are joined. But then he misses your face too much so he grabs your chin, turns you to face him, and devours you in a messy kiss that has your teeth clicking almost painfully. 

Then he has you laid out over his clothes, your back on the floor, your knees and thighs against your torso, as he fucks deep inside you, promising you that it’ll take this time. That he’ll try as many times as he needs to until his seed takes. 

Then you’re on your hands and knees as Bucky pounds into you from behind, his thighs slapping against yours, his fingers reaching around to your clit in intentional circles that have your body quivering underneath him, and he doesn’t stop until you’re cumming around his cock and he’s filling you up with another load. 

Then you’re cleaning him up, the taste of his cum and your pussy a more potent substance than all the liquor in the nation combined. The thick liquid spurts down your throat like you’re being fed your dessert, a treat for having done so well.

And again and again and again. 

For a while, you forget that Bucky is relentless only due to the poison in his veins, his depraved hunger only exacerbated by the delicious textures of your cunt around his cock. An addiction that he could never suppress. 

When both your limbs finally give and enough of the toxins have been excreted — inside you, mind you, the two of you slump down on top of both your clothes. A mess of damp fabrics and fluids that even the best solvents in the kingdom could never remove. 

Bucky turns over to you with a groan — the same sound that’s been rattling inside your mind, the same sound that will surely affix to every crevice inside your brain for weeks, if not months — and slumps an arm over your waist. 

He nuzzles his face against your cheek, a small chuckle tickling your face. He hums, pleasantly exhausted. You’re a disarray of tangled limbs and gummy skin. You can’t help but laugh too. 

“Why are you laughing?” He smiles, leaning down to press a kiss on your bare shoulder. Somewhere along the way, you’ve stripped yourself of your final layer too, leaving you completely nude. 

The circumstances are far from believable. If you had told yourself that this was how your night would end, even your wildest imagination couldn’t have conjured up this conclusion. “I can’t believe we’re doing this in the middle of Lady Romanoff’s ball.”

“She would skin us alive if she knew,” he smirks. 

“Yes, she would.”

The third, unexpected voice has the two of you jumping, your fingers immediately reach for more clothes to cover you up, at the same time Bucky also drapes his jacket over your body. 

Lady Romanoff stands closer towards the land, where the water doesn’t extend. She then approaches, oil lamp in hand. You can’t unriddle whether her expression is contemptuous disgust or unpredicted amusement. 

Meanwhile, the two of you are still clad in nearly nothing, only the moonlight to cast shadows that cloak you.

“Lady Romanoff, I apologize profusely. We didn’t mean any disrespect—”

Bucky’s quick to interject. “It was entirely my fault. I have been subjected to… urges that were outside my control. It was a substance, you see.”

His words have your heart palpitating in an uneven rhythm. The words land unexpected sharp, like a piercing wound straight through your beating organ. 

Urges that were outside my control. 

This was never meant to happen. You and Bucky. This night. All of it is a fever dream. A product of your desires catalyzed by a chemical compound. Bucky never would’ve done it otherwise; the two of you have always run in parallel lines, never meant to intersect. 

All of his words — sweet nothings. 

Just like this evening. 

“I’m fully aware of the substance you speak of, I am frankly surprised that you would be so careless as to consume it at such a public place, your royal highness,” Lady Romanoff muses.

Bucky winces, scratching the back of his ear awkwardly. “I stumbled and the container had been loose. Unfortunately, I was forced to consume nearly all of it — at least, what didn’t end up on my clothing.” 

Lady Romanoff only hums thoughtfully. “If I remember correctly, the aftermath to this substance would be a deep sleep. Rather fast, I’m afraid.” This time, she turns to look at you. “I shall set up a room for the two of you — you can enter through the back. Most of my regular staff is gone and I’ll arrange for my lady-in-waiting to prepare it. She is most discreet.” 

“We can—” Bucky stops then, seeming caught off guard by the sudden dizzying spell. He sways slightly, words slurring together in a jumbled mess before he falls against you. His breathing even. 

“It appears my memory serves me well,” she says, voice tinged with unexpected pride. “Come, my dear.” 

As promised, most of the party has dwindled down to a few inebriated guests that Lady Romanoff organizes to be delivered home in their respective carriages. You and Bucky have been set up in a wing far from the prying eyes, this is where they’ve restricted most of Lady Romanoff’s staff, only the trusted are allowed. 

Her lady-in-waiting and her most trusted butler had been sent to help carry Bucky back — of course, after you properly dress him. No explanation was provided beyond the crown prince getting “ill from the food”, but you assume that they suspect something else is at play, particularly when you yourself look like you’ve been mauled by a wild beast. 

After Bucky has been settled into his room and you’ve been provided your own as a guest, which you insisted against, but Lady Romanoff insisted against your insistence, her staff is sent away. Bucky snores quietly on the bed, he’s been in and out. He was somewhat awake long enough to help the butler walk him back into the mansion, enough to plop himself down on the mattress.

Your heart is uneasy with worry but Lady Romanoff touches your shoulder. “He should be fine. He has most of it out of his system, I presume?” She cocks an eyebrow. Heat crawls up your neck as you nod. “Then he will recover by morning. He may be weary for a while but he’s in good hands.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Lady Romanoff,” you murmur, “I do apologize for the inconvenience and my… impudence.”

“No apologies needed. I spoke to Wilson and he’s received an earful from me about bringing untested substances — in unsealed containers, at that.” She pauses then turns to you, “You’ve been quite the kind… relative, for a distant one.”

She knows. You know that she knows. She knows that you know that she knows. 

This is a mess. 

“Yes, I’m rather used to caring for him,” you clear your throat, and then realize what you’ve just said. “In a way where he’s almost like my brother. We grew up together.” And that one isn’t a lie per se.

“I’m sure,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “Well, take my words with a grain of salt, but I would like to ask you to proceed with caution. You seem to be a smart woman, I’ve seen you with Becca, how you manage to fit right in with society. While I am a romantic at heart, I am also a realist — and the truth is that the challenge will lie with you. As the crown prince, he will be untouched. Unharmed. The realm will protect him before it will protect a woman.”

“I understand that,” you nearly sigh, glancing back at Bucky. 

It’s what you’ve always known — your position in society. It’s why you never accepted Bucky’s advances, nor your own feelings regarding him. It’s easier to pretend that it doesn’t exist, that you aren’t in love with the crown prince as a mere maid — even if it hurts. 

“But his royal highness is also a good man. I’m sure he will choose wisely,” Lady Romanoff smiles. “Now, please rest. I will arrange for separate carriages to deliver you both home in the morning.”

“I should return now—”

“What you should do is rest,” she presses with a pointed look. “Furthermore, I believe he could use some tending to tonight — in case he wakes or has… remaining urges.”

She’s teasing you, and it’s working because your face feels like it’s been trapped in a heatwave all day. “I’ll make sure he gets through the night and will depart first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you any further.”

“No inconvenience. This has perhaps been the most entertaining occurrence this season.” Her eyes are practically twinkling in delight. 

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “Lady Romanoff, please forgive me for overstepping, but if I could ask for your discretion regarding this matter—”

She waves you off with a reassuring smile. “You need not ask. I understand the position you are in and I would never trouble another woman more than necessary. I also would not enjoy making an enemy out of the palace and I doubt the crown prince would let things slide if anything were to happen to his precious lover.”

Your mouth opens to correct her, she gives you a look that tells you not to even attempt to lie to her. You technically wouldn’t be fibbing. 

After all, it was only his urges that allowed him to do such things to you tonight. At the end of the day, you’re still nothing more than a maid — a member of the royal staff. A lover is what you are not. 

“Have a good evening, dear.”

“You as well, Lady Romanoff.”

Once she leaves the room, you go to check on Bucky one last time before you move to your own room; it is an adjacent space, connected by a door should you need access to his room. That distance, while small, still feels much too large. 

You pull the blanket up higher on his waist, brush the wet strands away from his face as you check his temperature again. His fever has come down plenty, he’s at least broken through it and now he’s simply sweating out the rest. 

With that, you pull your hand away and ready yourself to move to your own room. 

Except, you don’t get the chance, not when you feel those familiar fingers wrap around your hand before you could move. You whirl around to find Bucky drowsily looking up at you. His eyes glow in the moonlight spilling through the massive windows. 

“Stay,” he murmurs.

“Your royal highness, I should return to the chambers Lady Romanoff has provided. If the staff were to return, I wouldn’t want to have to explain the circumstances.”

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” He says, but there’s no bite to his words, only affection.

You swallow thickly, chancing another look at your door.

“Stay,” he insists again, “please.”

Who are you to deny the crown prince? Your frail heart can’t seem to do that, not when it could be your last evening with him. 

So, you slide under the covers when he makes room with a giddy little smile. He tucks you into his chest and kisses the top of your head. “Sleep, sweet girl.”

And for once, you listen to him. 

Come morning, the reality of the situation has carved itself deep into your bones. While you wake up in Bucky’s warmth, his arms around you and your legs on top of each other, you know that this is the last part of your dream. The epilogue. This will be nothing more than a memory, maybe even the figment of one. 

You swiftly clean yourself up, ensuring that you are properly clothed and presentable before you make your way to where Lady Romanoff had directed you. She is nowhere to be found but a carriage has been arranged to take you back to the palace. The sun hasn’t even risen when you slipped out of bed.

With one last look at Bucky who’s still sleeping peacefully, you take your leave.

You’re back early enough that none of the staff are awake yet, but you also can’t bring yourself to sleep. The gown Becca had lent you hangs by your door quietly, a stark reminder of the evening you thought you had crafted in your mind. You turn over to ignore it. 

However, slumber doesn’t find you and so you begin your duties early. The princess’ gown, the tea, everything a lady-in-waiting should do in the palace. 

It’s expected that Becca has questions about where you went last night. She was frantic with worry at the thought of losing you somewhere, or if something had happened to you that she refused to leave.

“Lady Romanoff informed me that you and Bucky had returned earlier because he was ill,” she says, forehead creasing with lines, “I apologize that your night was ruined by my brother. I was hoping you would enjoy the remainder of the ball.”

“I enjoyed it plenty already, don’t worry,” you smile. “Thank you for giving me that opportunity.”

“Well,” she eagerly presses, “were there any handsome bachelors that caught your eye?”

Only one and he is the one you certainly cannot have. 

“No, I believe we were out there to assess the men for your own relationship.”

Becca blushes, fanning her face. “No, no one of importance.” She’s never been a good liar. “Okay, there was one but Bucky would kill me if I tried. Have you ever noticed how attractive Lord Rogers is? He also has such a kind heart.”

If he had a kind heart, he would’ve stopped Bucky from taking that ridiculous substance, you think bitterly, unfairly. 

“I’m sure he is,” you only say. 

“How was your evening then? Did you really not see anyone to your liking?” 

You smile softly at her. “Princess, even if there were, it would not be my place.”

“That’s rather unprogressive of you! I’m sure there are suitors who would care little about such trivial things.”

Naive, hopeful Becca. This is why you love her. 

Before you can respond, Becca perks up and waves behind you. You turn and that’s when you see him — Bucky. He’s crossing the ground with long strides like a man possessed. He’s a man on a mission as he wastes no time at all in closing the distance.

He looks furious.

He also looks an outright mess — shirt unbuttoned, sleeves haphazardly folded, hair sticking up at odd angles. It looks as if he rolled right out of bed at the Romanoff house and came straight here. Here to this garden that you’re walking with Becca. 

You have a feeling that that’s exactly what he did.

“Brother, you’re looking much better—”

“You left,” he instead speaks directly to you.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to avoid Becca’s look of utter confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, your royal highness.”

“I thought we’ve established that we’re past that level of formality,” he snaps, “I’m not letting you escape this conversation. If you’ll excuse me, sister dear, I need to have a little chat with this one.” His hand covers yours, none of the gentleness from last night, instead he squeezes it tight like he’s afraid of you slipping away again. 

Becca doesn’t follow, she’s too busy gaping and slowly piecing things together. 

All the while Bucky is dragging you stumbling and tripping over your own feet towards a more secluded part of the gardens, away from the curious eyes. 

You’re trying to pry his fingers off you to make your escape. “Bucky, stop. Stop this.”

He does stop dead in his tracks but he immediately spins around to face you. “No, you stop,” he growls and the sound shoots straight for your chest. “After last night, after everything that’s happened, you simply – what — leave? I woke up and you were nowhere to be found. Lady Romanoff was the one who had to tell me that you departed earlier.”

“I had to return to my duties first,” you say brusquely, “I have responsibilities to tend to, your royal highness. It also would have been inappropriate and highly suspicious if we arrived at the same time.”

“Damn propriety,” he barks, eyes glowering, “I think you should cross that word off your vocabulary after last night.”

Said last night flashes before your eyes, like paintings that could force a priest to pray. You’re warm all over now, the ghost of his touch on your skin, his mouth mapping out every inch of you like he’s memorizing the dips and curves of your body. The feel of his cock, hot and wet, sliding inside you, spilling evidence that took you far too long to clean last night. 

Even now, you can almost still feel it dripping down your legs.

“You left,” Bucky presses.

“You weren’t yourself last night. Like you said, they were urges as a consequence of the substance you accidentally took. It was nothing more than a fulfillment of the circumstances.”

He scoffs, “I said that to Lady Romanoff, not to you. I did not want her to hold you responsible for the state we were in. To me, last night was— last night was everything.”

The lump in your throat only grows, tears prick your eyes. He can’t do this. Not now. You’ve made your decision to let that dream go. 

“It shouldn’t have happened,” you whisper.

“Shouldn’t have happened?” He echoes, aghast. “Is that regret I hear in your voice?”

“Bucky…”

“Because I don’t regret it. Not a single damn thing. I want you, I’ve always wanted you. I’ve made it very clear that I love you and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. If I had to give it all up, I would — if that meant that I could finally hold you.” 

“You can’t say such things!” You hiss, “You are the crown prince!”

“And sometimes I wish I wasn’t! Because it would make this easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t have to restrain yourself every time you speak with me. You wouldn’t have to call me such ridiculous titles when all I want is for you to say my name. Because I know you love me, I know you do. You can’t look at me the way you do and expect me to believe that you don’t feel anything for me.”

Your heart splits down the middle, parts of it chipping away. “I— it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I want. You have a long line of noble ladies waiting for you to make your choice—”

“I’ve already made my choice and damn anyone else who gets in my way. I’ve already had a taste of you, my love. I’m never letting you slip through my fingers again. I’ll speak to my parents—”

“Don’t!” You interrupt. “Please don’t. It’s— it won’t be you who would suffer the consequences. If they know of what… we did, if they know that it goes far beyond the previous evening, it wouldn’t be you they punish. My mother and I…” Your sentence trails off as your voice cracks. 

Bucky cups your face, presses his forehead against yours. “I wouldn’t dare let a thing happen to you.”

“It’s not your choice.”

“It is. If they want me to be their heir, this is my choice. They have to make theirs.” 

“That’s ridiculous.”

“No, that’s love.”

You swallow thickly as he leans back only slightly, pained like he can’t even bear this amount of distance between the two of you. 

“I love you. I love you and that’s a fact truer than the sun that spills light onto this earth. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise to care for you, to cherish you. I promise to be a man fit for you. I won’t be perfect because god knows nobody in this world could deserve you, but I’ll always try my damndest to make you happy.”

“Bucky,” you breathe out..

“Say yes. Say you’ll be mine. You’ve made me wait all this time. All these years wasted. Don’t let us forego anymore.”

Could you really do this? It would be a risk — not only to you, but to your mother, to the staff. They would be questioned if they’ve ever encouraged your entanglement with the prince. Becca — oh god, what would Becca even think? It would be an incredibly selfish decision. 

“Don’t do that,” Bucky murmurs as he tightens his fingers around your face, “don’t think about anyone else. Think about you and what you want.”

You want him. You do.

“You’re mine regardless, sweet girl. I’ll protect you no matter what you decide. My heart is yours.”

“Yes,” you whisper and the answer comes easier than you think, “yes. I’m yours.”

Bucky lets out a wet laugh, blue eyes glistening as he presses his lips against yours. “You’re mine. I’ll protect you, I swear it.”

“I’m scared.”

“I know,” he rasps, “I know. Thank you for trusting me. I promise to do right by you. No matter what happens, know that my entire life is yours. I’d burn the kingdom down before I let anyone lay a finger on you.”

“Becca might get to you first,” you choke out a laugh.

Bucky swipes the tears from your cheeks with the pads of this thumb. “Then maybe I will have to take your protection first.”

“Deal.”

+ sam: my google searches from this are so embarrassing but hey i tried. i havent written bucky in a hot second but this one took me by the throat so i hope you enjoyed it!!! i love hearing thoughts so please share them if you liked it <3

bucky is kissing (taglist): @superbassbuck @earthsmightiestbenders @houseofhyde @its-in-the-woods @flockoff-featherface @winterdecember18 @chateaubarnes @54nboo @phoenix-in-writing @tofuonfaiya @avengersfan25 @miraclediviner @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @heldbybarnes @blowingbarnes @stanmarvelous @pinksplace @lunexiax @54nboo @it-is-rebel-owl-ma-dudes @esunarint @captain-shannon-becker @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @alli0-0 @amoremarveloustime @avgdestitute @natskisses @sarah1barnes @parker-barnes-af @sarah1barnes @onecojg @/iamthatonefangirl @stegosaurussims @angelryex @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @mathcat345 @flippedccc @lynnidc @winnichu173 @singulartoast @zhaixiaowen @c3liaaaaa @buckysdecaflove @epiphanyrogers @itsmadamehydra @cutttteeee @macbaetwo @blobfishlol @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @erina00 @idkbeautiful @goobers-mcgee @globetrotter28 @rach2602 @star-yawnznn @my-drvidess @deeninadream @fruitypebsworld @ella-rowen @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @awkwardgiraffe726 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @onyx8514 @pandasslol @eiaf4uwn @wickedfun9 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @umm-ok-fine @its-pomegranite @67-angelofthelordme-67 @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable @wowitsafemale @fruitypebsworld

The question made him look over his shoulder with a grin while he put his doublet on.

“Like who?”

“A messenger. A friendly envoy if you will, just within the north.”

“But who?”

“Someone else,” you said with a shrug. “I don’t know. Theon.”

He huffed out a laugh. “You think Theon, of all people, would be a good envoy?”

“Not really,” you admitted. “He’d be terrible at it, but perhaps he’d get lost on his way there. One could hope.”

 “Nah, he’d still find his way back,” he commented, fixing his sleeves. “So we’d just end up disrespecting House Hornwood.”

Your stomach turned again, making you grimace but you cleared your throat, then pulled your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them.

“Then tell Lord Hornwood he can come here rather than you going there,” you whined, aware of the petulant tone of your voice. “We’ll throw him a feast and such.”

There was a playful glint in his eyes as he made his way to bed and sat on the edge, entwining his fingers with yours before he lifted your hand to press a kiss on the back of it.

“Lord Hornwood is too old for journeys, my love,” he said. “My father visited his banners, now I must in his absence.”

You heaved a dramatic sigh, rolling your eyes.

“Come on,” he cooed. “No sulking.”

You tilted your head, your mood taking a rather strange turn for some reason that remained a mystery to you at least for now. If it were any other time, you would have remembered how Lady Olenna had once told you and Margaery that there was a big line between luring attention and demanding it, and how you were never, ever supposed to demand it in an outright manner. A lady had to be subtle in such mind games so as not to appear needy and walk the line between admiration and nonchalance expertly, however, the words that left your lips were anything but subtle:

“Does this not upset you at all?”

Robb was rather confused at your question. “What?”

“We’ll be away from each other for a week, and you’re very willing to go to Castle Hornwood,” you pointed out, making him let out a chuckle.

“Lamb…”

“I’m just saying, it bothered you before but it appears to me you’re no longer bothered but more willing, as if—” you started but the rest of your sentence was claimed in a kiss, the pestering thought disappearing into the fog in your mind. His hand cradled your cheek while your fingers curled in the front of his shirt, not willing to let him go even when he pulled back to rest his forehead against yours with a smile.

“I am both bothered and very unwilling to go to Castle Hornwood and leave you here,” he assured you, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “It’s torment to be away from you for an hour, let alone a week. You know this.”

You traced the tip of your finger over the direwolf clasps at the front of his doublet.

“It was different, when my father was here,” he added. “Before, attending to these things was a chore. Now it’s my duty.”

Of course.

How could you forget about the biggest currency in the north along with honor?

Judging by the chuckle that vibrated deep in his chest, he could tell what you felt about duty from your mere expression.  

“I’ll miss you every second of it,” he told you, nudging your nose with his before stealing another kiss from you and making you giggle, but your head whipped around when a servant knocked on the door.

“M’lord, your horse is ready.”

Your shoulders dropped as he let out a huff, then kissed you again and got up from the bed. He grabbed his cloak to fasten it while you let yourself fall back on the bed, and the moment he opened the door, Grey Wind darted inside. He jumped on the bed with a whine as if he was complaining about the trip he was being forced to go before he plopped down on you, resting his head on the furs on your stomach.

“I know, I know,” you said softly like you were speaking to a babe, scratching behind his ears. “I’ll miss you too, my sweet.”

“You spoil him too much,” Robb commented while you planted kisses on top of the direwolf’s head.

“He deserves to be spoiled,” you said, earning a yawn that turned into a small ‘awoo’. “Do you not my love? Are you the sweetest baby in the entire realm? Are you?”

“Grey Wind,” Robb said, “come. Time to go.”

The direwolf licked your hand, then jumped down from the bed with a huff to make his way out of the room, but even his gait was sulky, making you bite back a smile. Robb came closer to peck you on the lips.

“Be careful.”

“You too,” you said. “Miss me.”

“You too,” he answered with a grin before he left the bedchambers and closed the door behind him. You pouted, then let out a groan and pulled the furs over you.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Very well. A week, then.”

 You couldn’t go back to sleep, so you figured you’d start the day earlier than usual.

By the time you were done with your bath in your own bedchambers and your maid finished helping you with your gown and hair, your nausea was even worse due to distress. You had debated going to Maester Luwin, but you knew he was busy with Bran, so you decided to take care of it yourself and asked your maid for a cup of hot water. After she brought it to you, you gave her leave until it was time for breakfast which was more than an hour away, and put the cup on the table before you made your way to the chest of herbs Arys had brought you.

“Where are you?” you sang to yourself, going through the carefully labelled pouches in his impeccable handwriting. “Where are—yes!”

You skimmed the instructions, then took out a generous amount of mixture of leaves and put them in the cup, the smell making you scrunch up your nose. You still had to go through the ledgers the Winterfell carpenters had given you days ago, which you figured you could do while you waited for the tea to brew, so you grabbed the ledgers and the cup, then went to sit on the bed, carefully placing the cup on your bedside table and opening the ledgers on the bed. It was a rather boring task, but the outcome was going to be so lovely for so many people, so you forced yourself to go through the first couple of pages until you decided the tea was ready. You took another sniff, then held your breath and downed it in one go, grimacing at the aftertaste.

“Gods, Arys…” you grumbled to yourself. “Could’ve put something sweet in it.”

You put the cup back on your bedside, but before you could turn back to the ledgers, small yet rushed footsteps approached before the door opened and Rickon appeared at the threshold, with Shaggydog right behind him.

“Oh good morrow my sweet!” You beamed at him. “You’re awake already? It’s rather early.”

He pouted and took a trembling breath like he was on the verge of tears, causing you to push yourself off the bed to rush to him and crouch down to his eye level.

“What’s happened?” 

“Robb left?” he asked, his brows furrowed. “They say he left.”

“Oh, for a week only!” you assured him, gently pinching his chubby cheek. “He’ll be back in a week. Remember how he and Lord Stark left earlier with Jon and Theon? It’ll be like that.”

“Will he see Sansa and Arya?”

“No my sweet, Sansa and Arya are in the south.”

“Will he see mother?”

“She’s also going to the south,” you managed to say. “Robb is right here in the north.”

“Where in the north?” he asked and you pretended to think for a moment.

“Remind me, which house has a bull moose on their flag?”

“House Hornwood!” he exclaimed and you gasped.

“That one, yes!”

“Their flag is orange,” he said, proud of himself for knowing it. “Orange and brown.”

“I’m told they live near,” you said. “And when Robb is back, we’ll have so much to tell him about what Winterfell was like in his absence.”

He looked over his shoulder to Shaggydog, then turned to you.

“I want to go see Frost,” he demanded. “To give her breakfast. She eats funny.”

“We can do that,” you said. “She’s probably awake already. But before we go, do you remember what I said about how we ask for things when speaking to a lady?” 

He thought for a moment, a frown pinching his forehead.

“Can we go see Frost…” he mumbled. “Please?”

“Yes!” you exclaimed, clapping your hands together. “That’s such a good job, Rickon! You remember!”

He gave you a toothless smile, his giggle echoing in the room while he jumped in his spot in excitement.

“And thank you!” he added in a haste. “We say please and thank you to ladies.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You are so smart, that’s exactly what we say!” you encouraged him. “I almost forgot about that part, it’s of utmost importance!”

He nodded, his curls bouncing around his head as he did.

“Alright, let’s go to the kitchen to get some carrots,” you said as you stood up and took his small hand into yours. “And then we can go give Frost her breakfast, she’ll be so happy to see you!”

The breakfast passed without any issues, and around noon you sent your ladies-in-waiting to the seamstress because apparently Barbrey’s cousin and her husband were soon coming to Winterfell, and seeing that Barbrey wanted to make her jealous, she needed opinions on her new gown. You stayed in the Great Hall, chatting with some of the guests and listening to their many opinions about your plan to have the carpenters make toys for the children who would come to Wintertown with their mothers.

“Galbert disagrees if I must admit, but I think it’s a great idea,” Lady Erena said. “Orphans get jobs, children get toys, and their mothers get some comfort seeing their children happy.”

“Well, yes but in the upcoming winter…” Lady Lynara heaved a sigh. “My lord husband disagrees as well. He thinks it unnecessary.”

“And what do you think?” you asked her and she hummed.

“I myself think it may offer some comfort to those mothers and children, but will it not interrupt the carpenters' usual work? Teaching the craft takes time and effort. Those orphans will walk in without any skills.”

“The carpenters will be compensated for their time and effort,” you said. “And most of the orphans end up without jobs, I’ve learned. It is hard without a family.”

Lady Lynara scoffed. “Winter is hard, my lady. They must learn the ways of life without you throwing them opportunities.”

You tried not to roll your eyes at her.

“Winter is indeed hard, so it is our responsibility to make life easier to everyone who’s in need,” you said. “Of jobs or comfort or opportunities.”

Lady Erena nodded her head. “I agree wholeheartedly,” she said. “I told Galbert the same thing, we must help. For example, our sons are nearly men grown, they have no need for toys. I’ve already sent a raven back home, all the toys from when they were babes will be given to carpenters in the nearby villages, so that they’ll have an idea of what to create.”

“Thank you, Lady Erena,” you said with a bright smile. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course.”

“My lord husband says it’s a very southern way to approach winter,” Lady Lynara pointed out, and you tried to keep your expression calm.

“It is true that in the south, we don’t have people who have to move from their homes to survive the winter,” you said. “However, I truly think that if we—”

The sudden sharp pain that hit you out of nowhere took your breath away mid-sentence, and something churned in your lower abdomen, the ache familiar and strange at the same time. Lady Erena frowned slightly.

“My lady?”

Your head whipped up, and you tried to smile as if you couldn’t feel the warmth between your legs.

“Forgive me I—um,” you stammered. “I just remembered an urgent letter I must send, if you’ll excuse me.”

You left the Great Hall, walking as fast as you could with small, deliberate steps, praying to the gods that the blood sticking your underclothes to your skin would not drip to the ground until you got to the safety of your bedchambers. If it were any other time, you would have gladly stopped and chatted with multiple people in the hallway but now you could barely nod at the in acknowledgment as you passed by them. The dull throbbing got worse with every second, and it was only when you hurried into your chambers that you realized your hands had balled up into fists, your nails digging into your palms.

How long had it been since you had your last moon blood?

You quickly shed your gown down to your chemise that already had a growing red stain on it, straining your mind to remember when you’d had your last moon blood. The knife that turned in your abdomen made you double up as the wave of pain rippled through you, and you squeezed your legs in a pitiful attempt to block the blood from dripping to the ground, pressing a hand on your stomach. It made no sense, your moon blood had never been as painful on your first day, nor had it been this heavy, it always started light—

The idea crashed down on you like a ton of bricks, making your breath hitch.

…Oh.

This was not your moon blood.

Something sunk its claws into your heart, your whole body freezing in terror. For a moment, you stayed right where you were, bent from the waist, your eyes wide yet unseeing, unblinking. There was an ache at the back of your throat, a sob already forming there, but the cramps snapped you out of it and you forced yourself to take a deep breath, as shaky as it was.

“Okay,” you whispered, forcing yourself to grab at the edge of the table so that you wouldn’t lose your balance, tears burning your eyes. “Okay. You’re okay. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

It was not the tremors that ripped your breath from your lungs this time, but the utter disbelief that it was happening; it was happening to you, right here and right now, miles away from anyone you could call for help. The arm of the sofa supported you for a moment, but as soon as you took another step your legs gave out and you crumpled to the floor, swallowing a sob while you blindly pushed the plush furs aside. A strangled cry ripped itself from your chest when the invisible dagger drove deeper into your guts and you curled up on your knees, one hand shooting up to wipe your nose, the other already stained with blood—

And to your absolute terror, that was when the door opened.

“My lady, I called out but…” Jorelle stopped talking at once when she stepped in, her eyes darting over your collapsed figure and the skirt of your chemise, drenched in blood.

Oh no.

No no no, this could not be happening.

Jorelle was the last person who was supposed to see you like this. She was the one whom the north loved and supported, the one who they thought was the better option for your status; the very same status that was now hanging by a thread, with you bleeding on the floor. Anyone who saw you in this situation would be able to tell what was happening, and the moment the word got out, the moment the north suspected you were unable to provide an heir to House Stark?

It wouldn’t matter how much Robb loved you, or how much you mesmerized him.

You were no fool, you knew very well how it worked. Beyond uniting your families, beyond all those grains and food your family would provide the north in winter and beyond how much House Stark would pull your family up in influence and power and status, this marriage had one, very specific expectation from you and Robb; to make sure the Stark bloodline continued.

An heir and a spare, minimum.

Though there were exceptions, the lack of heirs in a marriage usually came with two options, the annulling of the said marriage, or the husband siring heirs from a mistress and legitimizing them. In both of those options, you and your reputation would be dragged through the mud, and you would either be sent away with the whole realm knowing the reason, or you would turn into a living ghost right here in Winterfell, with no influence, no power, no respect or love.

And those banners and important families of the north would push Jorelle into the picture, especially now that she was the one who had caught you in such position and was surely going to use this to her advantage, as every other lady in the south would have.

It was all but a gift to her by the gods.

If you weren’t rendered speechless by the fear that took your body and mind hostage, you could’ve at least tried to come up with an excuse, as feeble and weak as it would’ve been. Jorelle seemed as frozen as you were, but her head whipped around when the chattering of the servants got louder with approaching footsteps. Her hand shot up to grab the door handle to pull it to herself when it rattled, your eyes widening as you pushed yourself to sit up, your whole body shaking.

“No—” you started but she shushed you, then opened the door just a little to slip through the crack and closed it before anyone could peek inside.

“Would you like to be louder?” She snapped at the servants at the door. “My lady is taking a nap, and she does not want to be disturbed. Shall I tell her whatever you’re talking of is more important than her rest, or would you like to shout into her bedchambers while you’re at it?”

The servants mumbled something you couldn’t hear.

“And Kyra, I expected better from you.”

“I apologize, m’lady. I was just going to check whether—”

“She doesn’t want to be disturbed,” Jorelle repeated. “Nor does she want anyone’s chatter or footsteps in the hallway, her sleep is very light. Make sure everyone stays away from this hallway until she wakes up.”

“Of course, m’lady.”

The sound of footsteps grew faint and Jorelle entered the bedchambers again, bolted the door, and rushed to you.

“Is that what I think it is?” she asked. “Do you want me to get Maester Luwin?”

Pain burned down your lower back, and there were tears in your eyes, but that didn’t stop you from gritting your teeth to force yourself to glare at her.

“No,” you managed to say, your voice hoarse as you wiped the sweat off your forehead. “It’s just my moon blood, leave me be.”

Jorelle gave you an exasperated look before she ran to the corner of the room to grab the fresh towels for your morning baths. She helped you up, then slipped the towel under you and gently sat you down, a worried frown pinching her brows while you tried your hardest to mimic Margaery despite the cold sweat dripping down your back.

“If you utter a word of this—”

“I won’t,” she cut you off. “This goes to the grave with me, I swear it by the old gods and the new.”

That made you pause halfway through your threat.

“And so will what you’re going to answer me right now,” she said. “Has anything happened before the wedding? With Lord Robb or anyone else?”

“What? No!”

“If it was conceived on your wedding night, at most it’s been six weeks,” she murmured more to herself. “That’s good. That’s early. Bleeding should stop in a couple of hours, the worst part at least—my castle is quite crowded,” she added when she saw the quizzical look on your face. “You’re not the first woman I’ve seen who’s having a miscarriage.”

You wetted your dry lips. “If anyone hears…”

“They won’t, because once the bleeding lessens, we’ll burn the towels in the hearth,” she said. “Things get lost in a big castle all the time. No one will ever know, including the servants.”

You winced when you tried to shift your weight, your movements rigid and short. She hesitated for a second, her eyes darting over your face before she reached out to take your hand between hers, making your head snap around.

“It’ll help,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Not with the pain I’m afraid, but the rest.”

You opened your mouth and closed it again when no sound came out, so you gulped and tried again.

“Thank you,” you managed to say, and she squeezed your hand in an attempt to assure you.

“It’ll be okay.”

No it wouldn’t.

You knew it wouldn’t, so did she.

But neither of you could do anything but just sit there and stare at the flames in the hearth, waiting for it to pass.

Jorelle was right, the worst part of bleeding was the first hour, and though the deep ache were still there, you were either getting used to it, or it was getting slightly better. Silence filled the room for almost an hour, the only sound your gasps of pain from time to time along with the crackling of wood in the hearth.

But after a while, you forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat and turned to her.

“You didn’t have to help me.”

“Yes I did.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve been trying to tell you since we met, I have no intention nor desire to be your enemy.”

You would have laughed if you had the energy. “The whole north thinks otherwise.”

“I care not what they think,” she said. “I don’t know why people are under the impression that I’m somehow a rival to you, but I’m not. There was only friendly affection and a promise of potential companionship between me and Lord Robb, and contrary to what everyone seems to think, I am not devastated over our broken arrangement, if you can even call it that. There wasn’t a betrothal.”

“No,” you admitted. “There wasn’t. But you know how these things work, if they wanted to push you...”

“They can push me all they want, I won’t move,” she said. “I won’t. He is in love with you, and you’re in love with him, what others hope for does not matter. Besides, even if you two weren’t in love, I still would not try to jam myself in between, I respect myself way too much to do that.”

Well, that hadn’t crossed your mind before.

This kind of thinking simply didn’t exist in the south. If there was any possibility of more power, no one stopped to think before they stabbed people in the back, personal feelings and pride and respect all came second when one could climb higher in status even at the expense of others.

And most of the time, it was indeed at the expense of others.

“Anyone else in your place would not hesitate,” you couldn’t help but point out, “back in the south.”

“This is not the south,” she said. “Things in the north work a bit differently. For which I’m glad.”

For some reason you doubted that; power was tempting, in the south or the north.

“And your family?”

Jorelle made a face.

“Well, my mother hates you,” she said with a chortle. “I wouldn’t take it personally. Everyone in the north wanted their daughter to wed Lord Robb, she’s no exception, though she was more intense than any other. I used to think she wanted me to wed him more than I wanted to wed him.”  She paused for a moment. “Now to think of it, I’d say she wanted to wed him more than I did.”

A burst of hysterical laughter escaped you and echoed in the room, surprising even yourself.

“I’d keep an eye on her if I were you,” she added, a grin playing on her lips. “She is as ambitious as a southron, and she would indeed leave my father for your husband.”

Gods, this was the worst time to be laughing.

Yet, you didn’t seem to be able to stop yourself even though you covered your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound. You doubled over, resting a hand on the floor to support yourself while your shoulders shook, tears running down your cheeks from amusement or the pain, you could no longer tell. A hiccup escaped you, the ache in your chest as heavy as the one in your abdomen while you tried to breathe through the sobs and Jorelle sat up straighter.

 “No no no, we’re not crying right now,” she said in a rush. “We’re not crying, we’re talking of other things—um, so I didn’t tell you because you hated me, but funny thing, speaking of southrons, your brother asked me to be his mistress.”

Your head whipped up, your vision still blurry with tears while she nodded with wide eyes.

“I know,” she said. “I came up with one thousand retorts since he left. I’ve been writing them down, and I think I’ll turn it into a book and send it to Dorne on a ship.”

“Which—what?” you stammered, already distracted. “Which one?”

“Of the ships?”

“Of my brothers!”

“Perceon.”

“Perce?!” you exclaimed and wiped your nose in a haste. “Seven hells, Perce was who you were talking about in the kitchens?”

“Oh yes.”

“But you—I didn’t—” You hiccupped, trying to pick the right words. “I wasn’t aware you two were…”

“I’m as confused as you are, because we were not.” She motioned at you, flailing her arms. “We danced at your wedding, and then at the Harvest Feast, and I thought, well, he is very handsome.” A blush spread over her pale cheeks. “So I didn’t mind him courting me, but he wasn’t courting me. He asked me to be his mistress right after he almost kissed me.”

“Almost kissed you?” You sniffled. “He asked you to be his mistress before you two even kissed?”

“As I’ve said before. The audacity.”

You rolled your eyes.

“The twins came after Arys, so Arys claimed their share of wit in advance,” you said. “That’s why he’s so smart and Perce is an idiot. I apologize for his behavior, I’ll make sure to smack him when I see him again.”  

“But is that what southrons do?”

“Things work differently in Dorne, and Perce belongs more in Dorne than the Reach at this point,” you said. “Mistresses in Dorne have official titles, and they have all the luxuries and none of the responsibilities of the wives. And he won’t wed, so he probably thought it was a good offer—though, this is the first time I hear a man asking a lady to be his mistress before a kiss.”

Her cheeks got redder as she fixed her gaze in the hearth.

“I was going to kiss him before that,” she admitted. “I wanted to, but then I got scared because I was worried I’d be, I don’t know, bad at it—gods, you must think me a fool.”

“I don’t,” you assured her, shaking your head. “I wouldn’t. I was terrified of being bad at it too.”

“Was Lord Robb your first kiss?”

That made you scoff a laugh.

“No.” Margaery’s face flashed before your eyes and you tried to focus. “No, I had a lot of…practice—but the Reach is different!” you added in a haste. “We have different customs and education. The North is stricter in such matters, and you have different priorities.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to have some knowledge,” she grumbled, her shoulders dropping. “The south got that right, at least. Some of the north dislikes you yes, but they all agree that Lord Robb is mesmerized by you.”

There was a fist clenching your heart, but you managed to give her a smile.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you rasped out and gestured at the towels you were sitting on, stained in deep red. “I’m on borrowed time.”

She frowned. “That’s untrue.”

“Come on.” You let out a dry laugh. “You know what it means if it started like this.”

“I do know what it means, it means nothing,” she insisted. “My mother lost a babe on her fourth moon before my brother, but she carried my brother very easily, with little to none sickness. My cousin, she had three miscarriages, and now she has twins. Granted they’re little brats, but they’re very healthy, growing like beanstalks.”

You blinked back the tears, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“And how many miscarriages do you think I’d be allowed to have until the north started whispering?” you asked. “Until all the prominent families started pushing Robb for a replacement, for an heir? They already dislike me, already looking for a fault.”

“He loves you—”

“We’re in the north, Jo,” you muttered. “You tell me what’s more important in the north, love or duty?”

“Loyalty,” she answered. “Loyalty is of most importance in the north, it means everything here. And one miscarriage means nothing at all. You and your husband are young and healthy, you apparently conceived on your wedding night, you’ll easily do it again.”

You turned your bracelet around your wrist, your gaze fixed on it as you sniffled.

“You’ll see I speak the truth once the pain passes.” She pushed herself to her feet. “Our maester told my mother to drink water during this, it’s better to be safe.”

She moved about in the room and grabbed the cup that you had drank your tea from earlier to dispose of the pulp, but she stopped dead in her tracks, falling quiet. You looked up from your bracelet and shifted your weight on the towel, pointing at the table.

“There’s another cup over there—”

She cut you off, her voice stern: “Who served you this tea?”

“No one,” you said. “I made it, it’s for nausea.”

Jorelle lifted the cup to her nose to sniff it, then shook her head. “Who told you it was for nausea?”

“My brother Arys brought me many herbs, they’re over there,” you said as she rushed to the chest you were pointing at, then lifted the lid to find the pouch in it. She untied it to spill the crushed leaves into her palm, her frown deepening.

“Did your brother oppose this marriage?”

“No,” you said. “All of them support it. Why?”

“Then you told someone else what was in the chest?”

“No, I—why do you ask?”

“This is not for nausea,” she told you. “This is moon tea.”

Confusion crashed down on you and you stared at her before you huffed out a laugh.

“It’s not,” you argued. “Of course it’s not, it’s for nausea. Arys made sure to write clear instructions on everything, especially after the wedding. He would never make such mistake.”

“I’ve seen moon tea before, this is moon tea.” She held out her hand to show the herbs in her palm. “One of my maids had to drink it in secret, I was with her. I swear to you, it looks and smells like this. And you’re supposed to take it with honey to help with the pain, you’re not supposed to just brew it and drink it as it is.”

You pushed yourself to your feet, ignoring the warning tone of her voice when she said your name as she took a step towards to catch you in case you fell. The skirt of your chemise was drenched in blood—most of which dried down, sticking the fabric to your skin, making you grimace. The room spun around you, but you forced yourself to focus, blinking away the dots flying in your vision.

If she was not mistaken, if it was moon tea, that meant this was no natural miscarriage. This was not the first sign of a lifelong distress of trying for heirs only to lose them again and again, with the threat of being replaced hanging over your head, this was—

Jorelle’s voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “Who else knew about these herbs?”

“No one,” you said, approaching the chest on shaky legs. “Only my lady maid whom I’d trust with my life. She was here when I ate a sort of root to relax my mind before the wedding, she disagreed but then Eli—”

The thought hit you so hard that your breath caught in your throat and you took a step back, unable to tear your gaze from the chest.

Elinor.

That was what she was doing in your room the morning of their departure, at dawn when everyone else was asleep and you were supposed to be in Robb’s bedchambers. She had seen that chest, she had seen you close it, she could’ve easily sneaked into your bedchambers and…

“Elinor,” you rasped through frozen lips. “My brother Alton’s wife. She did this.”

“But why?”

“Because I—we—” you stammered, the hot rage spreading through your veins like poison. “We had a fight, and I told her I’d ask Robb to march his men to the Reach and root Alton out of his castle to replace him with another brother of mine, and I told her he’d do as I asked. It was a mere bluff because she attacked me and…” you trailed off. “She must have swapped the pouches.”

“She did this because you had a fight?”

“What’s the first sign of pregnancy?” you asked through your teeth. “Nausea. She swapped moon tea with nausea tea, because then I’d be drinking moon tea every single time I got pregnant, and I’d lose it every single time. In front of Robb. Over and over again.”

Her jaw dropped. “What?”

“She wanted to make sure he’d stop loving me, because if he stopped loving me, I’d hold no power,” you managed to say. “All the power I have here goes through him, she knows that. What better way to ensure he wouldn’t be mesmerized by me any longer? Everyone would be asking for an heir and I…”

How dare she?

A snarl twitched your lips, your nails biting into your palms. You squeezed your eyes shut to get rid of the red haze of anger clouding your vision, a thousand needles pricking the top of your head and spreading to your temples. All traces of pain sunk deep under a wave of fury tensing your muscles, the pounding in your ears getting louder and louder until Jorelle spoke.

“I wouldn’t last a day in the south,” she stated, her voice muffled like you were underwater as you opened your eyes again. “This is too much plotting.”

You swayed on your feet for only a second before your spine straightened like a puppet with its strings pulled, as if the southern courtier in you had decided that this was enough slouching with or without the pain; chin up, shoulders squared, a small, yet feral smile baring your teeth. It was clear from Jorelle’s worried gaze on you that you looked rather deranged; the skirt of your chemise drenched in blood, your legs and hands stained red, wisps of hair that were carefully pinned into a braid in the morning now sticking to your forehead with sweat.

When you spoke, your voice didn’t even sound like your own: “Not a good one.”

“Hm?”

“Not a good one,” you repeated. “I’ll survive. She will not.”

“You—”

“I can be patient,” you said, nodding to yourself. “I can and I will be, and I’ll wait for the right time, but I’m going to kill her. I’m going to kill her, and then I’m going to kill Alton if he knew and didn’t tell me.”

“You might not have to lift a finger, when Lord Robb hears—”

“He won’t hear.”

“He won’t hear?” she repeated with a tilt of her head. “I understand not telling anyone else, but you won’t tell him either?”

“No,” you said, a strange calmness settling in your mind like a fog. “There are only two people in the world who I could tell about this, both miles away from me. I love Robb with all my heart, but he is not one of them.”

“He’s your husband.”

“And that’s the reason,” you said. “You wanted to learn about the southern ways to mesmerize someone, did you not? Here’s the first lesson. You cannot do anything to break the illusion. Ever.”

“You must be jesting,” she said. “You love him, surely you trust him.”

“This has nothing to do with love or trust, this is survival.”

“Survival?”

You weighed the words in your mind, then scrunched up your nose.

“I recognize that parenting styles are different in the north and the south,” you said, “but in the Reach, me and Margaery and all my friends, we were all taught one thing from the moment we could walk, something they apparently don’t teach anywhere else in the realm. Every castle that isn’t your home is a trap waiting to swallow you the second you take the wrong step.” You pointed at the cup. “This is the wrong step.”

“But how is this the wrong step?” she asked. “He won’t blame you. This was your sister-in-law’s doing, you couldn’t have known.”

“No,” you admitted. “No I couldn’t have, but it matters not. This is how you play the court game, this is why everyone sleeps with one eye open in the south. Robb loves me yes, he would—he would console me, yes.” You gulped when your voice cracked. “But in the long run, it’s still the wrong step. Love is one thing, heirs are another. And if he…”

Every word was a hot coal burning your throat, but you willed yourself to focus.

“It all comes down to power, I’m afraid,” you murmured. “Once you have it, you sink your teeth and your claws in, and you don’t let go. It’s no different than trying to survive in battle, I just make it look pretty.”

A breath of disbelief left her as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her before, and you dragged the tip of your tongue over your bottom lip.

“I love Robb,” you added. “I do. I genuinely love him, which is more dangerous than any other court scheme. But that doesn’t change the fact that my power here, it’s linked to him. My status, my influence, how involved I am in decisions, it all depends on his feelings for me. That’s why I can’t risk it, I can’t afford any flaws.”

“This is no flaw,” she managed to say, and you shrugged your shoulders.

“No, but this is something he might bring up when he’s angry,” you said. “People say all kinds of things when they’re angry. I’m not going to break the illusion just so that he can use the shards to hurt me.”

A stunned silence fell upon the room and you fixed your hair, ignoring how badly your hand was shaking.

“So, this simply never took place,” you said, making her head whip up. “We will burn the towels as you said, and we will burn my chemise, and I will have the maids draw me a bath. And once that’s done, that’s it.”

“My lady…”

“Nothing happened,” you told her, your eyes locked in hers. “I came here, I took a nap, woke up and had my moon blood. Nothing more.”

It was clear from the expression on her face that she wanted to argue, and though she pursed her lips, it seemed that she still couldn’t stop herself.

“Does it not get tiring?” she blurted out. “Looking at everything that way?”

The simple question pulled your lips into a wry smile and you blinked back the tears, a dull ache making its way to your temples.

“It’s exhausting,” you admitted. “But I don’t have any other windows to look through.”

She held your gaze captive for a moment, the defiant light in her eyes melting into something else entirely; sadness or compassion, you couldn’t tell. An exhale left her, and she shook her head slightly like she couldn’t believe you or herself before she clicked her tongue.

 “Very well then,” she ended up saying. “As you wish. Nothing happened.”

You were no stranger to performing.

It was second nature to you at this point. You, Silas, Margaery, Loras, you were all masters at keeping the mask on and not letting it slip, no matter how heavy it got. Even when you were sick, even when Silas was heartbroken, even when Margaery was angry and Loras was frustrated, that teasing courtier smile didn’t falter, nor did the straight posture or playful words.

It’s your armor, Lady Olenna used to say. Only a fool takes off their armor in front of the enemy.

And you were no fool back in the Reach, and you certainly were no fool here in Winterfell, miles away from every member of your family.

So, you did exactly what you said you were going to do. Once the bleeding lessened, you and Jorelle burnt the towels and your chemise, you changed into a new chemise and asked the maids to draw you a scorching hot bath where you spent nearly an hour, scrubbing at your flesh until the water went cold.

It was all without forethought, like you were sleepwalking.

You would’ve thought you were indeed asleep, if it weren’t for the knife turning deep in your abdomen.

You changed into a gown, made sure to put not just one or two, but three folded pieces of linen cloth in your undergarments, then sat in front of the mirror so that your maid could do your hair while your ladies-in-waiting chattered in the room; Wylla and Lyra disagreeing about some northern lady, and Alys and Barbrey talking about Barbrey’s new gown.

Yet, no amount of chatter could distract Jorelle from watching you like a hawk.

She did join the discussion from time to time, whether to make sure Wylla and Lyra’s discussion didn’t escalate, or answering Alys and Barbrey’s questions about Barbrey’s gown and the seamstress’ suggestions on it, but you could tell she was still worried about you. She had suggested you would take your dinner in your bedchambers, saying that sometimes she did the same on the first day of her moon blood because it made her tired, all the girls agreeing with her.

But with everyone away, it fell on you to host the guests and show them good hospitality as the lady of the castle, and attending dinner with them was a way for that.

The pain had mostly subdued. It felt more like your moon blood and less like a miscarriage, but now you had the most painful throbbing in your temples that didn’t even tolerate the candlelight while you walked down the hallway with your ladies-in-waiting around you.

“And as I was saying, she claims blue will look better—”

“It will look better.”

“But purple is more eye-catching. Wylla agrees, do you not Wylla?”

“Deep purple or light purple?”

“Wait, which one do you think is better?”

“Deep purple.”

“But the beads we bought looked better on blue.”

“Jo, what do you think?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t there,” Jorelle brushed Barbrey off, walking beside you. “My lady, I must insist that we cut this dinner short, you have been awake since early hours of the morning, you said.”

“She does have a point, you look rather tired,” Lyra added, brutally honest as always. “Your eyes are bloodshot, perhaps you need some rest.”

You did need rest.

You had no idea whether it was the blood loss or the pain, or the emotional toll of the day, but you felt so tired. Your maid had prepared you a bag full of hot stones that had been in the hearth, so that you could press it on your stomach to help with the cramps, and you had already decided you’d have it with you tonight in bed as well, perhaps that could help you sleep the exhaustion away.

One could hope.

“I’ll retire to my bedchambers afterwards,” you said, your voice calm and composed. “However, we must—”

The hallway spun around you for a moment, making you stop dead in your tracks. Your hand shot up to the wall so that you could support yourself, the voices growing faint with the blood rushing in your ears, heat creeping up your spine while your ladies-in-waiting rushed to you.

“My lady?”

No.

No, you were not going to do that.

You were not going to collapse and give anyone any reason to think you were anything but alright, that was how the whispers started.

You blinked away the black dots flying in your vision and forced yourself to take a breath, your hand slipping from the wall so that you could wipe the cold sweat off your forehead, then cleared your throat.

“I’m alright.”

 Wylla and Jorelle exchanged glances.

“Shall I go fetch Maester Luwin?”

“There’s no need for that,” you said, your heart slamming against your ribcage, “thank you.”

“Maybe Jo is right, let’s go back.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, thank you!”

“Aye, I don’t even like these people.”

“Lyra!”

“Wha—I don’t!”

“We can eat in your bedchambers my lady, I’ll tell one of the maids—”

“No,” you said. “We’re attending dinner here.”

“You look like you’re about to faint,” Lyra insisted while you let yourself linger in your spot for a moment, still swaying on your feet before you took a deep breath.

Nothing had happened.

And nothing was happening.

“I’m perfectly fine,” you managed to say. “Trust me.”

When the septon bound your hands together with a ribbon and declared you one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, Ormund had smiled. It was a slow smile, a satisfied smile, the smile of a man who had gotten exactly what he wanted.

You should have noticed that. You should have understood what it meant.

The feast afterward had been a blur. The great hall had been transformed into a sea of candles and flowers and glittering silver, and the noise of a hundred conversations had washed over you like a wave. You had been seated beside your new husband on the dais, your hand in his, and course after course had been presented to you. You had barely eaten. Your stomach was too tight, too fluttery, too full of nerves.

But you had drunk. Oh, you had drunk.

The wine was sweet and it went down like honey, and every time your cup was empty, a servant was there to refill it. You had not meant to drink so much—you had never been much of a drinker, had never developed a taste for it—but the wine warmed your belly and softened the edges of your anxiety and made everything feel slightly distant, slightly dreamlike, like you were watching yourself from very far away.

Ormund had encouraged it. His hand had rested on your knee beneath the table, heavy and warm, his thumb tracing slow circles through the silk of your gown. Every time you glanced at him, he was already looking at you, and his eyes were so dark, so hungry, that you felt yourself blushing and had to look away.

"Drink," he had murmured in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "It will help with the nerves."

And so you had drunk.

Now the feast was over. The guests had retired to their chambers or continued their revelry elsewhere. Your ladies had undressed you an hour ago their hands efficient and fast as they unlaced your wedding gown, unhooked your corset, removed your stockings and your slippers and your jewels. They had chattered as they worked, offering congratulations and advice and sly, knowing comments that made your cheeks burn.

They had dressed you in the shift. The bridal shift. It was beautiful, you could not deny that, pale ivory silk so fine it was almost transparent, the fabric clinging to every curve and hollow of your body like a second skin. The straps were thin as spider silk, the neckline dipping low enough to show the swell of your breasts. The hem barely reached your thighs. When you moved, the silk slid against your skin in a way that made you acutely aware of your own nakedness beneath it.

It was meant to entice. It was meant to be removed.

Your ladies had left you then, retreating with final words of encouragement and knowing smiles, and the door had clicked shut behind them with a sound that felt terribly final. You were alone. Alone in your husband's chambers, in your chambers now, yours and his together.

You had been standing by the window for what felt like a very long time. The wine cup was still in your hand—you had refused to give it up, had clung to it like a talisman—and you raised it to your lips again, letting the sweet liquid coat your tongue. The windows looked out over the city, over the Honeywine River glittering silver in the moonlight, over the distant shadow of the Citadel and the dark expanse of the Whispering Sound beyond. Somewhere out there, beyond the city walls, Aegarax was sleeping in a field. You wished, suddenly and fiercely, that you were with him. That you could climb onto his back and fly away, fly home to Dragonstone, fly anywhere but here.

But that was foolish. That was childish. You were a wife now. You had a duty to perform.

You heard the door open behind you. The soft click of the latch, the whisper of the hinges. Footsteps on the stone floor, heavy and deliberate. The door closed again.

"Are you well, my love?"

His voice was low and warm. The voice that had spoken so many sweet words to you during your courtship. The voice that had told you that you were beautiful, that you were precious, that you were the most desirable woman he had ever seen.

You did not turn around. You could not turn around. Your heart was beating too fast, your palms suddenly damp against the wine cup.

"Yes." Your voice came out smaller than you intended, almost childlike. "I am just... I am a bit nervous."

"There is nothing to be nervous about." His footsteps drew closer, slow and measured. You could feel him approaching, feel the heat of his body, the weight of his presence filling the room behind you. "It is only me. Only your husband."

"I know." You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. The wine had made everything soft and hazy, but it had not quieted the anxious flutter in your chest. "It is just that I have never... I mean, I do not really know what to..."

What to do. What to expect. What to say. What to feel. You did not know anything. Your mother had told you that it was your duty, that you must submit to your husband and let him guide you, that there might be some discomfort at first but that it would pass. She had spoken in euphemisms and poetic metaphors, her hands clasped around yours, her violet eyes searching your face as if looking for something she did not find.

"Shh." He was right behind you now. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell him, leather and wine and something musky underneath, something that made your stomach tighten with an emotion you could not name. "There is nothing to be afraid of, my sweet girl. I am going to take care of you. I am going to make you feel things you have never felt before. Do you trust me?"

"Yes." The word came out automatically, the way it had a hundred times during your courtship. "Yes, I trust you."

"Good girl. Turn around."

You took one last sip of wine for courage. The cup was almost empty now, and you wished it were full again. You wished you had drunk more. You wished you had drunk enough to make the world disappear entirely, and then, because you could delay no longer, you turned around.

The wine cup slipped from your fingers.

He was completely, utterly naked.

He stood not three feet away from you, and he was so much. So much bigger than you, so much more solid. His shoulders were broad and heavily muscled, his chest covered in a thick mat of dark hair that trailed down his stomach in a narrowing line. His arms were thick with muscle, his hands large and strong. And lower—

Your eyes dropped before you could stop them, a horrified fascination drawing your gaze downward. The hair continued, thickening again at his groin, and jutting from it, unmistakable and impossible to ignore, was his—

You jerked your eyes back up to his face, your cheeks flooding with heat, your heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat. Your hands were shaking. Your whole body was shaking. You had never seen a man's naked body before. You had never seen that before, that thing, that part of him, and it was so much larger than you had imagined, so much more intimidating. It stood erect, curving upward toward his stomach, and you could not comprehend how it was supposed to fit inside you. It looked impossible. It looked like it would split you in half.

He was smiling. It was a slow smile, a knowing smile, the smile of a man who had seen your shock and found it deeply satisfying. He stood there in his nakedness with the absolute confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and had no doubt that he would get it.

"You are shy," he said. It was not a question.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. You could not stop staring at his face now, clinging to eye contact like a lifeline, terrified that if your gaze dropped again you would see it again, that thing, that impossible thing.

"I—I have never—" The words came out in a stammer, broken and breathless. "I did not realize you were—that you had already—when did you—"

Your eyes flickered involuntarily to the pile of clothing on the floor behind him. His tunic, his breeches, his smallclothes, all discarded in a heap near the door. He must have undressed while you were standing at the window. He must have stripped himself bare while your back was turned, and you had not heard a thing. You had not heard anything except your own panicked heartbeat.

"I did not want to waste any more time." He stepped closer, and you instinctively stepped back. Your bare shoulders pressed against the cold stone of the window frame, and you realized with a jolt of panic that there was nowhere else to go. You were trapped between him and the wall. "I have been waiting for this night for a very long time. A year. More than a year. Every moment I spent with you during our courtship, I was thinking about this. About having you. About what it would feel like to finally be inside you."

The word inside made your stomach clench. You pressed yourself harder against the window, the stone cold through the thin silk of your shift. "Ormund, I—"

"Do you know how many nights I lay awake thinking about you?" He took another step, and now he was close enough to touch. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. Close enough that if you reached out, your hand would press against his bare chest. "Do you know how many times I imagined this? Imagined you? Imagined all the things I was going to do to you once you were finally mine?"

Your breath caught in your throat. His words were meant to be romantic—they were the words of a man who desired his wife, who had been patient, who had waited—but there was something in his voice that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

"I thought about you too," you whispered, because it seemed like the right thing to say. "I thought about... about tonight. About being your wife."

"Did you?" His hand came up, and you flinched before you could stop yourself. He noticed but he did not comment on it. Instead, he reached past you and took the wine cup from the windowsill where it had come to rest. He set it aside, his movements slow and deliberate. "And what did you imagine?"

You shook your head, your cheeks burning. "I do not know. I do not... my mother told me some things, but I do not really understand. I do not know what to expect."

"Your mother." He said the word with an edge that you did not quite understand. "And what did your mother tell you?"

"She said..." You swallowed hard, trying to remember the exact words. "She said that it was my duty. That I must submit to my husband. That there might be some discomfort at first, but that it would pass. She said that it was how children were made. That it was the marriage debt."

"The marriage debt." He smiled again, and this time there was something almost predatory in it. "Is that what you think this is? A debt to be paid?"

"No, I—I do not know. I do not know what to think."

"Then let me tell you." He reached out and touched your face, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. His hand was warm, almost hot, and you felt yourself trembling beneath his touch. "This is not a debt. This is a gift. The gift of your body to me, and my body to you. The gift of pleasure. The gift of children. The gift of becoming one flesh, the way the septon said. Do you understand?"

You nodded, even though you did not understand. You did not understand anything except that his hand was on your face and his body was so close and you were trapped against the cold stone window and you could not stop shaking.

"You are trembling," he said. His thumb stroked your cheek, gentle and slow. "Are you afraid of me?"

"No." The word came out too quickly. "No, I am not afraid. I am just... I am nervous. I told you. I have never done this before."

"I know you have not." His voice dropped lower, becoming almost a purr. "That is what makes this so precious. You are untouched. Pure. No man has ever seen you like this, has ever touched you, has ever been inside you. I am the first. I will be the only. Your body will know no one but me, for the rest of your life."

The words should have been romantic, but they did not feel like it.

"Lift your arms," he said.

You hesitated. Your arms felt heavy, weighted down by something you could not name. But he was waiting, his eyes fixed on your face, and you did not want to disappoint him. You did not want to be a bad wife on your very first night.

You lifted your arms. He grasped the hem of your shift and pulled it upward. The silk slid over your skin, cool and whispering, and then it was over your head and gone, discarded somewhere on the floor. You were naked. Completely, utterly naked, standing in front of your husband with nothing to hide behind.

The air in the room was warm from the fire, but you felt suddenly, terribly cold. You wrapped your arms around yourself instinctively, trying to cover your breasts, trying to hide, but he caught your wrists and gently pulled them away.

"No," he said. "Do not hide from me. You are my wife now. I want to see you."

He stepped back, just slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes traveled over your body with an intensity that made your skin prickle. You had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, so utterly seen. He looked at your breasts, at the curve of your waist, at the curls at the juncture of your thighs. He looked at you the way a collector looks at a new acquisition. The way a hungry man looks at a feast.

"Beautiful," he murmured. His voice was thick now, roughened by something that made your stomach clench. "More beautiful than I ever imagined. And I imagined you a great deal."

His hand reached out and touched you. Just the tips of his fingers, tracing the line of your collarbone, down your sternum, between your breasts. Your skin broke out in goosebumps, and you shivered, and you did not know if it was from cold or fear or something else entirely.

"Please," you whispered, and you did not know what you were asking for. Please stop? Please continue? Please be gentle?

"Please what?" His fingers continued their slow exploration, circling one breast, brushing over the nipple. You gasped at the sensation, it was strange and sharp and not entirely unpleasant, a tingling that seemed to travel from your breast down to somewhere much lower. "Please what, my sweet girl?"

"I do not know," you admitted, your voice barely audible. "I do not know what to ask for. I do not know what I want."

"Then let me show you." He cupped your breast fully now, his palm warm and rough against your sensitive skin. "Let me teach you. That is my role now, as your husband. To teach you what your body is capable of. To show you pleasures you have never dreamed of."

He leaned down and captured your mouth in a kiss. You had been kissed before. Chaste kisses, the kind of kisses a betrothed couple exchanged in chaperoned parlors. This was not that. His mouth was hot and demanding, his lips pressing against yours with a force that made your head spin. His tongue pushed past your lips, filling your mouth, and you made a small, startled sound against him. You did not know what to do with your tongue—no one had ever told you—so you just let him take what he wanted.

One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back, holding you in place. The other continued its exploration of your body, sliding down your stomach, over your hip, around to grasp your arse. He pulled you against him, and you felt it, that part of him, that impossible part, pressing hard and hot against your bare stomach. You whimpered into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound.

"You taste like wine," he murmured against your lips. "Sweet. So sweet."

He kissed you again, deeper this time, and his hand slid from your backside to your thigh, gripping it, lifting it. He pressed himself against you, and you felt him there, right there, so close to where you had never been touched.

"Ormund," you gasped, breaking the kiss. "Wait. Wait, please. I am not—I do not—"

"Shh." He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. "I know. I know you are nervous. But I have waited so long. So very long. And you are so beautiful. Can you feel what you do to me? Can you feel how much I want you?"

You could feel it. Gods, you could feel it. It was pressed against you, insistent and impossible, and you did not understand how this was supposed to work. You did not understand how any of this was supposed to work.

"Come," he said, and it was not a request. "Come to the bed."

He did not wait for an answer. He bent and scooped you into his arms as if you weighed nothing at all, one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back. You clutched at his shoulders instinctively, your face pressed against his neck, your heart hammering so hard you were certain he must be able to feel it. His skin was hot and smelled of sweat.

The bed was soft beneath you when he laid you down. The sheets were cool against your heated skin, and you sank into the feather mattress, feeling very small and very exposed. He stood over you for a moment, looking down at you with those hungry eyes, and then he was on the bed with you, his body covering yours, his weight pressing you into the mattress.

He was so heavy. So much heavier than you had expected. You had never had a grown man lying on top of you before, and the sensation was overwhelming—the weight of him, the heat of him, the sheer size of him surrounding you on all sides. You felt trapped. Pinned. You could barely move.

"Relax," he murmured against your throat. His lips were trailing down your neck now, kissing and sucking, and you felt a strange, tingling warmth spreading from each place his mouth touched. "Relax, my love. I am going to make you feel so good. You just have to trust me."

You tried to relax. You tried to let go of the tension coiled in your muscles, tried to surrender to the sensations washing over you. His mouth found your breast, and you gasped as his tongue circled your nipple, as his teeth grazed the sensitive peak. The sensation was sharp and strange and not entirely unpleasant, it sent sparks of something through your body, sparks that seemed to travel downward, settling low in your belly.

"Ormund," you breathed, and you did not know if it was a protest or an encouragement.

"Good," he murmured against your skin. "Good girl. You feel that? That is pleasure. That is what your body is made for."

His hand slid down your stomach, over your hip, between your thighs. You tensed immediately, your legs trying to close, but he was already there, his body blocking you, his hand pressing insistently against your most private place.

"No," you whispered, your face burning with shame. "Please, not there—"

"Yes." His voice was firm. "Yes, there. You are my wife. Every part of you belongs to me now. Even this part. Especially this part."

His fingers began to move, stroking and exploring, and you turned your face into the pillow, unable to look at him. No one had ever touched you there before. You had barely even touched yourself there—it had always seemed forbidden, shameful, something good girls did not do. But his touch was insistent, and despite your embarrassment, despite your shame, your body was beginning to respond.

The heat was building. That strange, unfamiliar heat, coiling low in your belly like a spring being wound too tight. Your hips moved without your permission, pressing into his touch, seeking something you did not understand. He made a low sound of approval.

"That is it," he said. "That is my good girl. Your body knows what it wants, even if you do not."

His fingers found a particular spot, a place that made you gasp and arch off the bed, and he laughed softly. "There. That is what I was looking for. Does that feel good?"

You could not answer. Words had deserted you. There was only sensation, his fingers, his mouth, his weight pressing you into the mattress. The pleasure was building and building, and you did not know what was happening, did not know what to expect, only that it felt like you were climbing toward something vast and terrifying and unknown.

"Let go," he said, his voice low and hypnotic. "Let go, my sweet girl. Let me see you fall apart."

And you did. The pleasure crested, and your body arched off the bed, and a sound tore from your throat that you had never made before, a cry, almost a sob, your fingers clutching at the sheets, at his shoulders, at anything you could reach. The world went white and hot and overwhelming, and for a long, suspended moment, you forgot where you were. You forgot your name. You forgot everything except the feeling of his hands on your body and the pleasure crashing through you in waves.

When you came back to yourself, he was looking down at you with a smile of pure, male satisfaction. His fingers were still between your legs, gentle now, stroking you through the aftershocks.

"Good," he said. "Good. Now you are ready."

He shifted his weight, settling more firmly between your thighs, and you felt him pressing against the place his fingers had just been. Your eyes widened, and the haze of pleasure began to clear, replaced by a cold trickle of fear.

"Ormund, wait—"

"This will hurt," he said, and his voice was strained now, tight with something that sounded almost like pain. "But only for a moment. Try to relax. It will be easier if you relax."

You tried. You tried to relax, tried to do what he said, tried to be good. But when he pushed inside you, the pain was not just a moment. It was sharp and tearing and all consuming, and you cried out—a real cry this time, high and startled, your hands flying to his shoulders to push him away.

He did not stop. "Shh," he said, but his hips were already moving, pushing deeper , forcing his thick cock deeper into a body that was not ready for him . "Shh. It will pass. Just breathe. Just breathe."

You breathed. You wrapped your arms around his neck and held on and tried to breathe through the pain. Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes and slid down your temples into your hair. You felt yourself stretching around him, felt a burning ache that radiated through your entire lower body, and you did not know if this was normal. You did not know if it was supposed to hurt this much. Your mother had said there might be some discomfort. She had not said it would feel like being torn apart.

"Fuck, there," he groaned against your shoulder, voice thick with lust. "Gods, your cunt is so fucking tight. So perfect."

He began to move. Slow at first, then faster. The bed frame creaked beneath you, a rhythmic counterpoint to the sounds he was making, low, guttural grunts that vibrated against your neck. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as his cock plunged in and out of your clenching hole, each thrust punching deeper than the last.

You lay pinned beneath him, body jolting with the force of his fucking, your body rocking with each thrust, and tried to find the pleasure he had shown you before. It was there, somewhere, buried beneath the pain and the discomfort and the overwhelming strangeness of it all, but you could not reach it.

"Taking my cock so well," he rasped, sweat-slicked skin sliding over yours. "You were made to be fucked like this. Made to take every inch. Made for me. Say my name."

"Ormund," you whispered, and it came out as a sob.

"Yes. Yes. Again."

"Ormund—"

He slammed in to the hilt and came with a guttural roar, cock pulsing thick ropes of cum deep inside your stretched pussy. Hot seed flooded your insides, overflowing around his shaft and leaking down your crack as his fingers bruised your hips. You felt every heavy spurt, the wet heat filling you until it had nowhere else to go but out, you realized with a distant sort of shock that you did not even know what it was. Your mother had not told you. No one had told you anything.

He collapsed on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, and you lay there pinned beneath him, staring at the canopy above the bed, feeling the tears drying on your cheeks and the soreness already beginning to bloom between your legs.

"That," he said, his voice muffled against your neck, "was worth every moment of waiting. Every single moment."

You did not answer. You did not know what to say. You stroked his hair because it seemed like something a wife should do, and you waited for him to move, to roll off you, to let you breathe.

But he did not move. Not for a long time.

When he finally stirred, you felt a rush of relief. It was over. You had done your duty. You could rest now, but he lifted his head and looked down at you, and his eyes were still dark. Still hungry. Still unsatisfied.

"Again," he said.

You stared at him, uncomprehending. "What?"

"Again." He pulled his cock free, leaving your raw, cum slicked cunt gaping and dripping. The sudden emptiness made you wince. Thick white seed leaked from your stretched hole and slid down your thighs "We are not finished. This is our wedding night, my love. Did you think once would be enough? I have waited a year for this. I am going to have you in every way I have imagined. And I have imagined a great many ways."

"But I am—I am sore—"

"This is your duty." His voice hardened, and the tenderness from a moment ago evaporated like mist in the morning sun. "You are my wife. Your body belongs to me now. And I will have it when and how I choose. That is what you agreed to when you said your vows. That is what it means to be married."

You opened your mouth to argue, but no words came out. Because he was right, wasn't he? This was what you had agreed to. This was what marriage was. Your mother had told you that your body would no longer be your own. She had told you that you must submit to your husband in all things. This was just... this was just what wives did.

Wasn't it?

"On your hands and knees," he said. "Like a bitch. I want to take you from behind."

The word bitch made you flinch, but you obeyed. You did not know how to disobey. You rolled onto your stomach, wincing at the soreness between your legs, and pushed yourself onto all fours, ass raised, thighs parted, your dripping pussy fully exposed. The position felt filthy and degrading. The position felt obscene, degrading, your body exposed and vulnerable in a way that made your face burn with shame.

"Good girl." His hand stroked down your spine, and you shivered. "You learn quickly. That will serve you well in this marriage."

He positioned himself behind you, and you felt him pressing against you again—still hard, still impossibly large. How was he still hard? You did not understand. You did not understand anything about male bodies or male desires or what was normal and what was not.

"Look at that pretty cunt already leaking my cum."

This time, there was no gentleness at all. He entered you in one rough thrust, and you cried out, your arms nearly buckling beneath you. He gripped your hips hard and started pounding you—fast, merciless strokes that made your ass ripple and your tits swing beneath you. There was no pretense of making you feel good this time, no gentle words, no coaxing. This was for him. Only for him. You cried out as his cock speared your sore walls again, forcing more of his previous load out around his shaft.

"This is what you were made for. To be bent over and used. To milk my cock until I fill you again, your cunt is clenching. You like being fucked like this. You like being my breeding bitch on our wedding night."

Each savage thrust punched deep, the wet slap of his balls against your clit sending sparks through the ache. His hand reached under you, fingers finding your swollen clit. He rubbed it in tight circles while he fucked you harder, the mix of rough pounding and steady stimulation making your thighs shake.

He grunted, his hips slamming against your backside. " This is your purpose. To take my cock. To give me pleasure. To give me children. Nothing else matters."

You buried your face in the pillow, trying to muffle the sounds you were making. Your body was still responding despite everything, your hips pressing back to meet his thrusts without your permission, your body betraying you in the most intimate way possible.

"You feel that? Your body is hungry for me. Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind does not."

The pleasure built fast and sharp. Your body betrayed you again, hips rocking back to meet every thrust. The dual sensations, his cock battering your cervix and his fingers working your clit, pushed you over the edge. You came with a broken moan, walls pulsing and fluttering around him as fresh wetness gushed down his shaft.

Your body obeyed. Your body had always been a traitor. The pleasure built and crested and crashed over you, and you collapsed onto the mattress, your arms no longer able to hold you up. He followed moments later with hot cum pumped deep, mixing with the first round until it overflowed and ran down your legs in thick rivulets. He stayed buried inside you, grinding slow as the last spurts emptied into your twitching cunt.

When he pulled out, and you lay there face, down on the bed, trembling, trying to catch your breath. You thought it was over. You thought surely, surely it must be over now.

But it was not over.

He let you rest for perhaps ten minutes. Maybe less. You could not track time anymore, it had become meaningless, measured only in the spaces between his desires. He lay beside you, his hand stroking your back, your hair, your thigh, and he spoke to you in a low, soothing voice. He told you that you were beautiful. He told you that you were doing so well. He told you that he loved you, that he had always loved you, that he would love you until the end of time.

And then his hands were on you again, and he was pulling you on top of him. "I want to see you ride me," he said, positioning you so that you were straddling his hips. "I want to watch your face while you take your pleasure from me, I want to watch that tight little cunt swallows my cock." he ordered, voice thick with lust.

You looked down at him, at his expectant face, at his hands gripping your thighs, and you felt a wave of exhaustion so profound it made your bones ache. "I do not know how," you whispered. "I do not know what to do."

"I will show you." His hands guided your hips, lifting you, positioning you over him. "Lower yourself. Slowly. Yes, like that. Gods, yes."

He lined his thick cock with your entrance and pushed your hips down. The fat head breached you again, stretching your swollen walls wide. A wet squelch filled the room as you sank onto him, his previous loads already leaking out around the intrusion. The new angle forced him deeper than before, the blunt tip grinding straight against your cervix and you gasped at the sensation. He began to move beneath you, thrusting up into you, and his hands guided your hips into a rhythm that matched his own.

"Good," he said, his eyes fixed on your face. "Good. You are learning.''

Each time you dropped down, his cock punched up to meet you, the wet slap of your soaked pussy against his pelvis loud and obscene. Your breasts bounced with every impact, nipples stiff and aching.

"Look at me," he growled. "Eyes on mine while you fuck yourself on my cock."

You met his gaze, cheeks burning, as he drove up harder. His hands slid to your ass, fingers digging in, spreading you wider so he could watch his shaft disappear inside you. "Say it," he demanded. "Tell me who this cunt belongs to." face was flushed, his eyes dark and intense, and there was something in his expression that made your stomach twist.

"Y-you," you gasped, the word breaking as another thrust knocked the air from your lungs.

"Louder."

"You! My cunt is yours!"

He snarled in approval and slammed upward, the brutal pace making your thighs shake. One hand left your ass to find your swollen clit, rubbing it in fast, rough circles while he fucked you from below. Your orgasm hit hard. Your pussy spasmed around him, pulsing and milking his shaft as fresh slick gushed out, mixing with the cum already inside you. You collapsed forward onto his chest, body jerking, but he kept thrusting up into your twitching hole, chasing his own release.

With a guttural groan he buried himself to the hilt and pumped another thick load deep into your womb. Hot spurts flooded you, forcing even more of the previous loads to squirt out around his shaft and run down his balls in sticky rivulets. He stayed buried inside you, grinding slow as the last pulses emptied, keeping you impaled and full.

You thought it was over. You thought surely, surely it must be over now.

But it was not over.

He took you twice more that night. The fourth time was on your side, your leg hooked over his hip, his mouth on your throat, his hands gripping your body with a possessiveness that left bruises. The fifth time, he woke you from a deep sleep—you had finally drifted off, your body giving out from sheer exhaustion—and took you from behind again, roughly, quickly, with no gentleness at all.

By the end of it, the sky outside the window was beginning to lighten. The bells rang for dawn, and you heard them as if from very far away, as if you were underwater and the sounds of the world above were muffled and distorted.

You were lying on your back, staring at the canopy. Your body was a landscape of unfamiliar sensations—soreness and exhaustion and a strange, hollow ache that had nothing to do with the physical. Between your legs was wet and sticky and sore, and you could feel his seed leaking out of you, soaking into the sheets. There was blood too, you thought, though you had not looked. You did not want to look.

He was asleep beside you. Finally, mercifully, asleep. His arm was thrown across your waist, heavy and possessive even in unconsciousness, and his breath came in slow, even rhythms. You stared at the canopy. You stared at the ceiling. You stared at the fire burning low in the hearth, and you tried to make sense of what had happened.

This was marriage. This was what wives did. This was your duty.

Was this normal? You had no one you could ask. The only married woman you knew well was your mother, and your mother had spoken of the marriage bed in such vague, poetic terms that you had no way of comparing her experience to yours.

Perhaps it was always like this. Perhaps the first night was always overwhelming, always painful, always disorienting. Perhaps you would get used to it in time. Perhaps you would learn to find pleasure in it—he had shown you that pleasure was possible, had coaxed it from your body even when you did not want to give it. Perhaps that was the key. Perhaps you just needed to learn.

You turned your head on the pillow and looked at him. Your husband. Lord Ormund Hightower, the man who had courted you so tenderly, who had written you such beautiful letters, who had made you feel like the most cherished woman in the world. In sleep, his face was relaxed, almost boyish, the lines of age and command softened by the grey morning light. He looked like a different man than the one who had taken you five times over the course of the night. He looked like the man you had fallen in love with.

His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer even in sleep. You felt his breath against your hair, warm and steady. You felt the heat of his body, the solid weight of him, the overwhelming reality of his presence.

Mine, you thought. He is mine now. And I am his.

The thought should have brought you comfort. It should have made you feel safe, protected, cherished. Instead, it made you feel something you could not name. Something that sat heavy in your chest like a stone.

You closed your eyes and tried to sleep. Your body was exhausted, wrung out, desperate for rest. But your mind would not quiet. It kept circling back to the same questions, the same confusions, the same half-formed doubts that you did not know how to examine.

Was it supposed to be like this?

Was this what love was?

You had no answers. You had only the grey morning light and the distant sound of bells and the weight of your husband's arm across your waist.

And the knowledge, slowly dawning in the back of your mind, that your life would never be the same again.

—

You woke to the feeling of lips on your neck. Soft and persistent. A mouth pressed to the curve where your shoulder met your throat, trailing slow, open mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. You stirred from the depths of exhausted sleep, your mind foggy, your body heavy with a weariness that seemed to have seeped into your very bones.

For a moment, you did not remember where you were. The bed was too large, too soft, the pillows too many. The light filtering through the heavy curtains was grey and pale, early morning, the hour when the world was still half-asleep. The air smelled of sweat and sex and burned down candles, and beneath it all, the faint, musky scent of a man.

Ormund.

Your husband. He was behind you, his chest pressed to your back, his arm wrapped around your waist. His body was warm—almost too warm—and you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your spine. His lips continued their exploration, moving from your neck to the curve of your ear, nibbling gently at the lobe. His breath was hot against your skin, and you felt the soft scrape of his teeth, barely there, a ghost of a bite that made you shiver.

"Good morning," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and something else. Something darker. "I was beginning to think you would sleep through the entire day."

His hand moved from your waist, sliding up your stomach to cup your breast. His palm was warm, slightly calloused, and he cupped you with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the roughness of the night before. His thumb found your nipple and brushed across it in a slow, deliberate circle. The sensation was electric, a jolt that went straight to your core, and you gasped—a small, involuntary sound that seemed to please him.

"You are so sensitive this morning," he said. "I like that. I like knowing that I am the first thing you feel when you wake."

His thumb continued its lazy circles, and you felt yourself responding despite everything. Your nipple hardened beneath his touch, pebbling against his palm. Your hips pressed back against him, between your thighs a pulse of heat bloomed, shameful and undeniable.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, and you felt the evidence of his own arousal pressing against the curve of your backside. He was hard again, thick and insistent, and the knowledge sent a fresh wave of heat through you.

"That is it," he whispered against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Your body remembers last night. It remembers what I taught you. It wants more, does it not?"

You shook your head weakly, even as your body betrayed you. "I am tired," you managed. "I did not sleep."

"Neither did I." His hand slid lower, over your stomach, his fingers splaying across your belly before moving down to the thatch of hair between your legs. "I lay awake for hours, watching you. You looked so peaceful. So beautiful. I wanted to wake you, but I did not. I let you rest."

His fingers found your center, parting your folds with practiced ease. You were wet—embarrassingly, shamefully wet—and he groaned softly when he felt it.

"Oh, sweet girl," he breathed. "You are so ready for me. Even after everything. Even after I kept you up all night. Your body knows what it wants."

His fingers moved in slow, gentle circles, tracing the outline of your most sensitive places. The sensation was overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once. Your hips bucked against his hand, and you heard yourself whimper, a small, desperate sound that seemed to come from somewhere outside yourself.

"Ormund," you whispered. "Please. I am so tired."

"I know." He kissed your shoulder, your neck, the hinge of your jaw. "I know you are tired, sweet girl. I am not going to do anything you do not want. I only want to touch you. I only want to feel you. Is that all right?"

You should have said no. You should have told him to stop, to give you space, to let you breathe. But his fingers were moving in slow, gentle circles, and your body was betraying you, softening beneath his touch, your hips tilting to give him better access.

"That is not a no," he said. His voice was soft, almost playful. "That is a I do not know how to say yes because I am too shy. Am I right?"

You buried your face in the pillow, your cheeks burning. He laughed and kissed the back of your head.

"It is all right to want this," he said. "You are my wife. You are allowed to want your husband. There is no shame in it."

He rolled you onto your back gently, positioning himself above you. The weight of him was familiar now, the heat of his body pressing you into the mattress. But he did not push inside you. He only looked at you, his blue eyes soft, his curls tousled, his face relaxed in a way you had not seen before.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. He studied your face as though memorizing it, as though you were something precious and rare. His gaze moved from your eyes to your lips to the hollow of your throat, and you felt seen in a way that made your breath catch.

"Before you say anything," he said quietly, "I need to apologize to you."

You blinked up at him, confused.

"Last night," he continued. "I know I was... I know I got carried away. I promised you I would be gentle, and I was, at first. But then..." He exhaled slowly, his thumb still stroking your cheek. "It has been a long time for me, sweet girl, years since my wife died, years since I have laid with anyone. I had forgotten how overwhelming it could be. How consuming. The feel of you beneath me, the sound of your voice, the way your body responded to mine—I lost myself in it. I was too rough with you at times. I know I was. And I am sorry for that."

He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours, his breath warm on your lips. His eyes were closed, his expression vulnerable in a way that made your heart ache despite everything.

"I did not mean to hurt you," he said. "You must believe that. I would never hurt you on purpose. You are my wife. You are the woman I have dreamed of for years. The last thing in this world I want is to cause you pain."

He took your hand and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. You felt it beating beneath your palm, steady and strong. His skin was warm, the hair on his chest soft against your fingers. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, the way it quickened slightly as you touched him.

"Can you forgive me for last night? For being too rough when I should have been more careful?"

You swallowed. Your throat was tight, your eyes stinging with something that might have been tears. You had not expected this. You had expected him to be pleased with himself, to preen and boast and make you feel small for your weakness. Instead, he was asking for forgiveness. He was acknowledging his fault. He was promising to do better.

"Yes," you whispered. "I forgive you."

His face broke into a smile, relieved and almost boyish. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. Each kiss was soft, lingering, as though he was trying to pour all his gratitude into the gesture.

"Thank you," he said. "You are so generous. So kind. I do not deserve you."

He kissed you then gently, the way he had kissed you at the altar. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache. His hand cradled your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you felt yourself melting into him despite everything. His tongue traced your lower lip, asking permission, and you parted your lips for him, a small surrender that made him groan softly against your mouth.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire, but he did not push further. He only looked at you, his thumb stroking your jaw.

"It will get better," he said. "I promise you. The first time is always the hardest. But as you grow accustomed to me, as your body learns to welcome me, it will become easier. It will become pleasurable. And one day, you will wake up and you will want me. You will ache for me. You will not be able to imagine a morning without my hands on you."

His hand slid down your body, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hip. His touch was reverent, almost worshipful, as though he was learning the geography of you by heart. His fingers trailed over your stomach, and you shivered at the sensation.

"I love the way you feel," he murmured. "So soft. So warm. So perfectly made for me."

He kissed your collarbone, then lower, his lips brushing the swell of your breast. His mouth was warm, his breath hot on your skin, and you felt yourself arching into him despite your exhaustion.

"I am going to be so good to you," he said against your skin. "I am going to take care of you. I am going to give you everything you deserve. You will never want for anything, sweet girl. Not while I draw breath."

His hand found your breast again, cupping it gently, his thumb circling your nipple. He lowered his head and took it into his mouth, and you gasped at the sensation, his tongue warm and wet, his lips soft, his teeth grazing just enough to send a jolt of pleasure through you. Your fingers tangled in his auburn curls, holding him there, and he made a sound of approval against your skin.

He moved to your other breast, giving it the same attention, and you felt yourself spiraling, the pleasure building despite everything. The pain of last night was still there, a dull ache between your thighs, but it was overshadowed now by the heat of his mouth, the tenderness of his hands.

When he finally lifted his head, his lips were red, his eyes dark. He looked at you with an expression that made your heart stutter.

"Beautiful," he said. "So beautiful."

He kissed you again, deep and slow, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he could taste your pleasure. His hand slid between your legs, finding you wet and ready, and he groaned against your lips.

"I want to make you feel good," he whispered. "I want to make you forget everything but me. Can I do that, sweet girl? Can I touch you? Make you come apart for me?"

You should have said no. You should have told him you were tired, that you needed rest, that you could not bear any more. But his fingers were stroking you, circling that sensitive place that made your vision blur, and the word that came out of your mouth was not no.

"Yes," you breathed. "Please."

He smiled and lowered his head to kiss your neck as his fingers continued their work. He was gentle, so gentle, nothing like the rough urgency of the night before. He took his time, building the pleasure slowly, watching your face as you gasped and moaned beneath him.

"That is it," he murmured. "Let go for me, sweet girl. I want to see you fall apart."

And you did. The pleasure built and built until you could not hold it back, and then you were crying out, your body arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. He held you through it, his fingers still moving, drawing out every last shiver of pleasure.

When you finally came down, you were trembling, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, the corner of your mouth.

"So perfect," he whispered. "So beautiful. I could watch you come apart forever."

He rolled you onto your side, pulling you against his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist. His hard length pressed against your backside, but he did not push inside you. He only held you, his lips pressed to your hair.

“But wouldn’t it be better to sidestep having my parents call the police on you?” Your tone was sweet, overly placid as he snatched the sunglasses from your hand with a weary sigh. Your hand found his bicep, gently squeezing the supple muscle that he retained with age. 

“I don’t fucking care,” he muttered sullenly, toying with the legs of the glasses. 

You pursed your lips, letting your hand wander down the sleeve of his sturdy flannel to quell his fidgeting and clasp his hand in your own. He allowed you to do so, jaw flexing once before his resolve faltered and he met your level gaze.

“But I care,” you said simply, voice soft in a way it only ever seemed to be with him.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, lips pressing into a thin line while he rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Then maybe…” he sighed as if the words cost him something great. “Maybe I give one tiny, microscopic fuck. But not for them.” Your chest warmed. He wasn’t the type to wax on poetically about his love, but he’d never given you any room to doubt his devotion to you. If you asked for the moon itself, he’d find the right palm to grease or skull to crack to give it to you. 

“I know, darling. And I so appreciate you doing this for me.” His frown softened, turning into something smaller and more open. His disdain for the event was still there, but so was the soft love he felt for you, written across his face as if it had been carved into the very creases around his eyes. It was as close as he would come to being openly vulnerable most days, at least while the sun shone and threatened to reveal the fact that, beneath it all, Titus Danforth still had a heart that beat and bled. 

He pursed his lips to the side, the small uptick of his cheek the closest to a smile you could get out of him while asking such a heavy favor of him. 

“When we get back, we’re not going anywhere for a long time,” he informed you, not bothering to ask. “Not until we leave for our honeymoon.” 

You grinned at the promise of a full month away with just Titus, who would finally be your husband by then, tucked away in a beautiful nook of the world where none of the stressors of everyday life could find you. He had insisted on choosing the honeymoon location himself, and was staying firm on his vow to keep it as a surprise, one final wedding gift to you after passing the traditional confirmation to become a Danforth, one he had no doubt you would excel at. You were his lady, after all.

Even in the circle of Le Bail’s worshippers, the Danforths held a reputation for being a bit extreme. As the holders of the high seat, the recently-passed patriarch had demanded nothing short of perfection from anyone hoping to enter his family. It was a tradition passed down through the generations, sometimes stemming from a shared principle, and sometimes out of respect for those who came before, but one thing remained true regardless. 

There would be a hunt. 

The seven families would be gathered, each able to volunteer a hunter if they so desired, to attempt to hunt down any new additions to the Danforth line. There was no twist in the way some other families’ deals demanded, seeing as your soul had already been sold to Mr. Le Bail, no punishment to the survivors when dawn arrived or strict rules on who had to hunt. It was entirely voluntary to participate, save for the new bride or groom marrying into the family, an age-old tradition to weed out the weak and unfit before they had an opportunity to sully the Danforth name. 

The other families of the high council would be thrilled to have a chance to strike without repercussions, and it was expected that all would volunteer their oldest member to hunt. To say you were unworried about it would be an understatement. All you had to do was survive until dawn, and you’d get your happily ever after with Titus, your mysterious benefactor blessing you both as well as the family you would build together. You were confident in your abilities to hide, your combat skills were decently developed from sparring with Titus and your continued hunting lessons, and you knew you could fool anyone from the other families. No one could see past your big innocent doe eyes and expect you would fight back, not just for your own survival, but to take them down along the way. That would be their fatal mistake.

And so the honeymoon was booked, at whatever luxurious location Titus had chosen and refused to share. All you knew was that it would be warm, and he would reward you handsomely for your performance during the hunt. Even if the night did manage to pass by uneventfully, which would shock you more than Ursula abdicating her partial claim to the high seat, you had a feeling Titus’ own wedding night plans would leave you exhausted and sore.

You gave him a bright grin, which he returned with a small smile of his own, his beautiful hazel eyes twinkling in a way that always meant trouble. 

“If it were up to me, we’d be married by now,” you reminded him cheekily, winding your arms around his neck and playing with the collar of his button-up. “We could be on our honeymoon right now if we didn’t have to follow all the rules.”

Titus grunted unhappily at the reminder, broad hands landing on your hips as he frowned. He despised the social upkeep of being a Danforth. If he’d had it his way, you’d have eloped the very night he proposed and would never have had to hear the words aesthetic dreamscape from the wispy wedding planner Ursula had hired. He hated her, always flittering around like a small bird, asking his opinions on napkins and centerpieces and branding of all things. It was always about the optics, the public persona they had to bolster during the day, only to have their true wedding after nightfall in Le Bail’s temple.

“Don’t remind me,” he muttered unhappily, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple before working his way down your cheek, placing kisses that grew more impulsive and greedy along the way until he met your lips.

“We’re not going to make it out of this room if you keep this up,” you murmured against his lips, unable to keep the smile from your voice when all you wanted was to wrap yourself around him and let him distract you from your dinner plans.

“Good.” His voice came soft against your shoulder, silver curls tickling your cheek as he kissed and nipped at the skin like he had all the time in the world. 

“Darling,” you warned lowly, ignoring the heat that pooled in your stomach as his mouth found your neck. It took all your self control to push him back, gripping his shoulders tightly as he all but whined at the separation. The dark look in his hooded eyes, pure wanting as his tongue darted out to wet his lips, almost undid your resolve.

“Dinner first,” you promised. Your thumb moved over his cheek, tracing the faint freckles you loved to count. “And when we get home, we can have fun. Okay?”

His eyes narrowed, lips pressing into a thin line as he calculated the odds of getting you to change your mind. He didn’t come to an answer he liked, dropping his head with a heavy sigh, only murmuring an agreement as your fingers raked through his hair, nails gently massaging down his scalp.

“Have I mentioned that I appreciate you doing this for me?” you asked, only half-teasing. “And how much I love you?”

“Not enough,” he sulked, voice coming out low and gruff. You raised his head gently, cradling it in your hands as you pressed kiss after kiss across his face, determined to touch every freckle and smooth line across his skin. 

“I love you,” you murmured between kisses. “So much. Can’t wait to marry you. My Titus.”

That made him perk up, gently holding your wrists as you held his face. He gave you one final, searing kiss that made your breath catch when you parted.

Hazel eyes studied your face, taking in your flustered state with a smug smile tugging at his lips. 

“Let’s go get this over with,” he drawled, a humorous lilt to his voice that he rarely used. He strode away, leaving you fumbling for words as your brain processed the hot feeling of his lips on yours, kissing you like he needed you more than air. 

“Come on,” he ordered over his shoulder, stalling in the doorway. “The sooner we go the sooner we come back and have fun.” He flashed you a bright smile that made your knees turn weak, heart hammering heavily in your chest as it struck you once again how much you loved the man before you.

Titus’ frown deepened the further you drove into the suburbs. It settled fully into a scowl the first time you passed a man clad in only khaki board shorts and sandals with socks that almost went up to his knees, his intense farmer’s tan on full display as he mowed his lawn. The man waved at the car as it passed, floppy sunhat fluttering in the wind and sweaty skin tinged pink as he offered a friendly smile. You were half surprised Titus didn’t roll up his window at the sight, just to put one more barrier between himself and the regular people of your hometown. 

But you had asked for his best behavior. So he merely averted his eyes, a small sound of displeasure leaving the back of his throat.

His head turned towards you slightly as he drove, an almost pitiful look on his usually stony face for being subjected to such conditions.

“They’re not like that,” you soothed preemptively, knowing the hoops his mind was jumping through to prepare him for the couple he was soon to meet. “But Mr. Thomas is nice. He always gave me his leftover Halloween candy, said I was his favorite kid in the whole neighborhood.”

Titus gave you a sideways glance. “Yeah, and that’s a normal thing to say to a kid,” he mocked. “Here, take some candy. Come right up to my house, ‘cause it’s a holiday and that means it's fine!” He seethed in his anger, fingers flexing on the steering wheel like it was Mr. Thomas’ neck.

“I was fine, Titus,” you said simply. “I helped take care of his mom when she fell and broke her arm. It gave him time to go run errands, or take a nap, or whatever the fuck else he wanted to do.” You gave him a lopsided smirk. “Just gave me more time to build up my college application letter, and if the old lady wrote me into her will along the way, so be it.”

The anger slowly faded from Titus’ face, morphing into a smirk that was both suspicious and pleased. 

“You fucking minx.”

You lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug.

“You should be glad I’m marrying you.” His smirk only widened, threatening to turn into a real smile. “I could do some real damage if I didn’t love you so much.”

His grin was wicked when he glanced over to you in the passenger seat. 

“You could,” he agreed, sounding entirely too pleased about it. “And I am.” His hand drifted over the console, grabbing your thigh and giving it a harsh squeeze, just enough to make you yelp and slap his hand away. “For many reasons,” he finished cheekily, eyes back on the road and hands planted on the steering wheel.

Dogs barked in the distance when you pulled up to the house. It looked the same as it always did when you were growing up, with a cat peeking out of an upstairs window and a lawn that was as much weeds as it was grass. You could see your mother’s attempts to reign in nature through the fresh mulch around the newly-planted flowers and the almost empty bottle of herbicide sitting in the corner on the porch next to a watering can that got more use as an ornamental display than actually being put to work. To her credit, things did look better now that she wasn’t chasing after a gaggle of children digging up the biggest rocks they could find in the yard just to throw them at each other. You wondered if Titus had ever had a moment like that with Ursula, or if they’d skipped over rocks and went right for knives.

“You ready to do this?”

Titus sighed heavily in the driver's seat, letting his eyes drift closed as he leaned back against the headrest. After a long moment, they snapped open again, giving you a long suffering look before he rolled up the windows and turned off the engine of the sporty little two-seater. He was already outside of the car and opening your door for you before you had collected your purse and unbuckled your seatbelt, one of his hands offered to you while the other rested against the open door. 

You were happy to take it and feel his warm hand around yours again before the show officially began, letting him effortlessly pull you to your feet and pressing a broad hand to your back to steady you. Your heart fluttered nervously in your chest, and you tried to swallow down your nerves.

You were well aware that this could be a disaster. Your mother might cry and lash out about you waiting so long to introduce your fiance. Your father might react in anger and try to start a fight, picking on Titus’ age, or his wealth, or anything else he could use to drive a wedge between you. 

Somehow, despite everything you knew about him, Titus was the least of your concerns. He could throw a proper fit when he wanted to, his thin patience snapping like a fraught rubber band with all the same explosive energy, and yet you knew he would fight the hardest to stay calm. Your parents would be reigned in by social norms and not wanting to be viewed as impolite. Titus would be reined in by you, the one person he loved above all others, who he wouldn’t dream of disappointing. 

He let you walk with him up the front steps, pausing as you reached the door, one arm still hooked around his while your hand hovered over the doorbell. Your fingers twitched.

“Last chance to call off the engagement and avoid all this,” you half-joked, giving him a weak smile. 

His stare only intensified, jaw pressing shut as he gave you a serious look. He reached past you and rang the bell himself.

“Through this life and hell, remember?” You could hear distant footsteps from inside the house as the doorbell chimed, excited voices drawing nearer, muted like they were underwater. Titus leaned closer, his warm breath tickling your ear as he spoke.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy, darling.”

Things stayed civil in the beginning. Your mother’s eyes widened as she took in Titus with his broad frame and hair that was more silver than auburn anymore, the deep creases along his eyes that you loved to kiss and run your fingers over. Your father did his best to hide his immediate dislike, standing back to let his wife lead their introductions, stepping forward only to give Titus a firm handshake that looked more like an intimidation tactic than an invitation into their home. The vein at his temple looked like it might rupture when you tucked your arm through Titus’, gently guiding your fiance through the home you grew up in and to the dining room where your parents had prepared dinner.

“I’m so glad we finally get to meet you,” your mother chirped to Titus, filling everyone’s wine glasses before finally sitting and filling her own. “I’d say we’ve heard all about you, but we really haven’t.” She chuckled awkwardly, her eyes finding yours across the table as she raised her glass to her lips. “I swear, I don’t think she’d even been so secretive about anything in her life,” she joked over the rim of her glass, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Titus shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t know how to act, or how to hold himself. For once in his life, he cared what people thought about him, even if for your sake more than his own.

“It’s very nice of you to have me,” he offered awkwardly, offering a weak smile.

Your father wasted no time with such pleasantries.

“So, what do you do for work, Titus?”

The question was innocent enough if posed to any other person. But for a Danforth, it was like getting dropped into the middle of a minefield blindfolded. 

Hazel eyes flicked to yours for a moment, Titus’ tongue darting out to wet his lips, silently rehearsing his practiced lie one last time.

“I run a country club and luxury resort along with my sister. I also have a rather sizable portfolio of real estate. Some domestic, some international.” He cleared his throat. “Really, the family lawyers handle most of it. Ursula handles the day to day running of the resort. She’s better at it.”

Your father leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table as he gave Titus an unimpressed look. 

“And what do you do?”

Titus’ jaw worked, just once, posture shifting in his seat, folding his suit jacket so it rested on his lap differently. Tension was brewing in him, just under the surface, your father’s prodding a little too reminiscent of the way Titus’ own family had always spoken to him. No one knew what he did or what he offered. He was nothing like his twin, excelling in manipulating their public image or advancing their business prospects.

“He manages the properties,” you supplied for him, eager to shift the focus off of your fiance and give him a moment to collect himself before he snapped. That last thing you needed was a shouting match at dinner, and you knew better than most that your lover could be tempted by much darker urges if provoked enough. And it wasn’t a complete lie anyway. He did manage some aspects of the properties, though most of his dealings involved coming home late at night with bloody fists and an adrenaline spike that he needed help working through. 

“And he has a really good eye for properties with potential.” It was impossible to miss the pride in your voice. You reached for his hand where it rested on top of the table, and your heart warmed when he let you take it in your own. 

Visible displays of affection were difficult for Titus. He had no issue in staking a claim on you in public, hell, he’d happily brand you if you let him, just to prove to himself that you truly were his. But softer displays, ones not of ownership but wanting, were difficult. They didn’t hold power like he’d always been shown to seek, but rather weakness. The mere act of desiring something, desiring someone was enough to come back in the form of a bullet if he wasn’t careful. And so your chest warmed as his hand moved against your own, calloused thumb moving over the back of your knuckles slowly, uncertainly, but willing to try, knowing you would give him anything he asked of you and offer anything you could.

Your father hummed, nodding as he turned the words over in his head. “Real estate can be promising.” His brow raised. “Am I right in assuming this was a family business?” Titus exhaled sharply, more of a scoff than a laugh. “Yes. My father and his before him built the business into what it is today.” “So you’re…generationally wealthy?” Your mother spoke hesitantly, uncertain what was deemed appropriate to talk about. On one hand, Titus was soon to be her son-in-law. On the other, she’d barely known the man for forty-five minutes, and he’d done little to put her concerns to rest.

You laughed before you could catch yourself, grinning as your mother’s eyes turned down to her lap, looking sheepish. Titus glanced at you, a deep frown marring his handsome face. Only once you gave him a small nod, still smiling, did he answer. 

“Yes.” He said it simply. Not bragging, but not hiding the truth. “Very.”

Your father made a sound in the back of his throat, and your mother let out a soft “Oh” that must have been involuntary based on the startled way she adjusted herself afterwards.

“That must be…interesting.” Your father was grasping at straws, trying to find any way to relate to the man sitting before him that his daughter was so keen to marry. “I imagine your upbringing must have been pretty different from our children's." You bit your lip to keep from smiling, feeling Titus’ eyes land on the side of your face, giving nothing away with his even expression. If only he knew. “How did you two even find each other?”

Titus chuckled beside you. He leaned back in his chair, turning slightly in his seat to watch you with an amused glint in his eye. He was very much looking forward to whatever sanitized version of your meeting you chose to feed them.

“Well,” you began, briefly considering kicking his leg under the table so he’d stop looking so smug. “I was doing research funded by a grant at my university. We were looking into some of the different folk tales and legends told around the world a few hundred years ago, and seeing if we could find any patterns to account for ones that repeated in different places that wouldn’t have had any real way of communicating with each other at the time. Our hope was to analyze the information, eliminating any of the supposed supernatural phenomena people had reported seeing that we could account for, and then turn over our findings to our colleagues in the psychology department so they could do more research into things like mass delirium and social contagion.”

One of Titus' eyebrows was raised when you glanced at him, pride and amusement written across his face. That was all true so far, but there was little more you could honestly tell them without your mother turning pale and your father threatening to call a priest.

“A few months in, we were told that the university was hosting this big party to thank some of the donors who made our research, and the research of other programs, possible. I wasn’t originally planning on attending, but Karine, our supervisor, made it pretty clear that our options were either going to the gala or coming in with a note from the ER the next day.” You laughed weakly, both parents giving a sensible chuckle at your bad joke as you adjusted your napkin in your lap. 

“So I go, and the whole time I’m thinking What am I doing and I’m not dressed right and everything else that can go through your head when you’re in way over your head.” You met Titus’ gaze, his eyes softer than he would let most people see. “And then I get pulled over by Karine to meet one of the donors that made our research possible. She tells me to smile big and make a good impression, or we might not get more funding for the next semester. So she drags me over to this pair that I’ve sort of seen across the room all night. And one of them turns around, and I swear I lost all words for a moment.”

Titus’ smirk only grew. Your web of lies was coming together nicely.

“So, I do what any good grant-recipient would do,” you chuckled. “I shook his hand, and thanked him profusely and did my best to sell why our research was important.” A slow grin spread across your face, your fondness seeping into the altered memory. “And I must have done a pretty good job, because he asked if we could meet up the next week so I could explain what we’d found so far. Then I asked him out for coffee, and the rest is history. Who would have thought that changing my major to study ancient religions would lead me to finding my husband.” A small laugh bubbled up from your chest. “Good thing I switched away from pre-law.”

“Yes, thank god,” Titus said, his eyes narrowed in a teasing way only you could pick up on. He loved watching you in your element, the familiar dark thrill running through him when he was reminded how alike you were at the end of the day. Only he knew where the truth ended and your lies began, carefully constructing a fairytale that your family would accept without question and spare their inflexible moral codes.

The truth was, while the Danforths were regular donors to local charities, and their entrepreneurial efforts did often extend to higher education, they would never have funded anything to do with ancient religion or even theology as a whole. Apart from being a PR nightmare, it would be too risky to chance someone stumbling upon something they shouldn’t, just as you had. 

The story of the gala was somewhat true, although it had been you who had approached Titus Danforth on your own. You, who had offered him a stiff greeting before all but dragging him out to a secluded hallway where you could confront him about everything you’d learned about his family. Mr. Le Bail was crafty, and centuries ago he would have been impossible to track, but with modern resources and a love for the occult, it wasn’t all that difficult to follow the stories of a man in flaming chair who promised to bestow good fortune and wealth on the bloodline of whomever was devoted enough to offer him their souls. 

You had refused to take Titus’ poorly feigned ignorance as an answer, your temper running hot enough that you had almost punched him when he gave you a look of pure condescension, already turning away from you with a laugh that made it clear he was above you and anything you might think you knew. Only when your hand had risen and you’d caught yourself mere moments from landing the blow, did he really look at you. It interested him, that someone had figured them out. Even more so that you had confronted him rather than running away, demanding he answer your questions with no real regard for the clear danger that you were putting yourself in. 

He’d answered a few questions, just enough to confirm what you already knew was true, a small appeasement to repay you for making the night slightly less of a bore for him. At first he had thought that that might be enough to placate you, leering in your face and nearly pressing you to a wall when he confessed with no guilt that it was all true. That he had sold his soul, and would do it again without hesitation, if it meant he stayed a Danforth, separate from the rest of the world. Only when he pulled back and started to walk away, beginning to straighten his suit, did he decide you were something worth studying. One hand tightly clutching his forearm was all it took. You weren’t strong enough to stop him in his tracks, but he stilled anyway, his intense stare slowly moving from your hand still firmly grasping his arm to you, flustered and out of breath, but determined not to let him slip away. 

Something in his gaze changed then. Distance turned to curiosity, his eyes boring into you as if he could see right through you to your very soul, perhaps curious what it was made out of. Something darker lingered as well, no longer a threat as much as a promise.

“I want answers,” you’d said, voice firm and unwavering. Your hand was still on his arm.

Titus had scoffed. “Isn’t that what this college is for?” he quipped dryly, eyes still roaming your face as if he could find the answer to his questions there. Why were you so bold? Why would you grab him like that if you knew who he was, or what he’d done? What could you possibly stand to gain from holding him up like this? He’d be damned if his family gave any more money to the school of such an ingrate.

You didn’t laugh at his joke. If anything, you grew firmer, rooting yourself to the spot and meeting his stare unblinkingly. 

“You’re going to tell me anything I want to know,” you had informed him, as certain as if it had already happened.

He laughed cruelly.

“And why the fuck would I do that? Hmm?”

For the first time, you smiled at him. 

“Because I want in. And I’m much better to have as an ally than an enemy. Trust me, Mr. Danforth.”

Things had taken off from there. You’d met Ursula that same night, striding up to her at the gala with her twin sulking beside you, acting as if you’d dragged him by his sleeve to tattle on him. A meeting with Chester Danforth followed soon after, the patriarch of the dynasty curious to see this fresh blood that was so bold with his children.

You quickly made it a point to decide that you would be friendly with Titus’ sister. Ursula was clever, conniving in a way that Titus seemed to lack the foresight for. She was the type that could work someone without them even realizing it, extracting information and implanting ideas over a simple cup of tea while flipping through whatever imported newspaper she was studying that day.

Chester Danforth was an interesting man, to say the least. Foul to his children and foul to the planet, but decisive in business and a cut throat leader of the Danforth line. It wasn’t lost on you how he would snap at his children, or even go so far as to strike Titus while he reprimanded him. For someone who looked down on his son for his impulsive nature, Chester didn’t seem to be as restrained as he thought he was, at least in the confines of his own home. 

The first time you had seen Chester strike Titus, it had upset you. You weren’t sure entirely why, the man had spent most of his time sulking and avoiding you ever since his sister had invited you to come and stay with them for two weeks while you awaited a meeting with The Lawyer. Many of your questions were better suited to be answered by the one being who was as close as you could get to Mr. Le Bail himself. 

Upon first meeting, Titus had seemed intrigued by you. Maybe more as a notion than as a person, the idea of someone not afraid of him amusing him. He looked at you like one might a small dog who thought they could take on a much larger creature, with an almost fond, but equally as demeaning amusement. Maybe the thrill of his new plaything had faded by the time you’d arrived with your bags packed, you had reasoned with yourself. Maybe that was why he kept his distance as you toured the expansive property with his sister, his jaw set tensely as he stared you down from across the room, drawing your attention and making you aware of his presence even when you didn’t want to be.

It took four and a half days of your stay for you to realize you had read him wrong.

You were walking down one of the long halls of Danforth Manor, taking in the elaborate designs carved into the wooden panelling of the walls as you tried to recall the path to the library. Ursula had only shown it to you twice, and you were only half able to focus on memorizing the winding turns through the estate as she talked your ear off. Every moment spent with her felt like a test you couldn’t afford to lose. 

You had almost given up hope of finding your way without a guide when you heard a muffled voice from down the hall. You drew nearer, curiosity getting the best of you. The voice was coming from behind a closed door, its heavy carved wood dampening much of the sound but not enough to be able to ignore the aggravated tone of the speaker. Another voice responded, calmer but just as intense. You recognized the two voices then, your mind conjuring up an image of Titus and his father arguing once again.

A sharp crack rang through the air, the unmistakable sound of an open-palmed smack.

The silence that followed was heavy with everything that remained unspoken, the air stilling in your lungs. You had no doubt who had struck whom. Titus was impulsive and dangerous, you’d already seen as much in your short time knowing him, but he was also loyal. He would snap and nip at the heels of those who held his leash, but never bite hard enough to draw blood.

The calmer voice said something, and Titus murmured a soft, defeated response. The heavy sound of boots against hardwood strode towards you, closing the space too quickly for you to process and act like you weren’t eavesdropping.

The door pushed open and Titus stepped out, his back turned to you as he carefully shut the door behind him, movements slow and heavy shoulders slouching like his very limbs weighed him down. His cheek was red, eyes wide and soft with a vulnerability you hadn’t seen before. His demeanor changed when he noticed you, standing awkwardly in the hallway a few feet away. His shoulders drew up, back to his normal regal posture, jaw setting and eyes narrowing, though he couldn’t hide the redness that tinged them.

“Every fucking time I step out, you’re here,” he growled, hand tightening into a fist at his side.

“S-sorry,” you stammered. You’d seen him fight and claw and scream, but you’d never seen him cry. It knocked the air out of your lungs, something tightening painfully in your chest. “I got lost, I was just looking-”

“Of course you got lost,” Titus spat, venom dripping from his exaggerated voice. “Because you don’t fucking belong here.” He huffed, flexing his hand before running it though his hair in agitation. His voice was low, simmering with barely controlled emotions threatening to boil over. “Just do us all a favor and run back to your little college. Stop playing pretend and leave us all alone.” He pushed past you, not caring that his shoulder knocked into yours hard enough to make you stumble. 

You scrambled for words as irritation surged through you, something to defend yourself and your place in Le Bail’s circle, or something to acknowledge the pain you saw in him that he did such a poor job hiding. Something, anything, before the moment passed and became just another tense encounter to add to the pile slowly amassing between you two.

What came out was decidedly ungraceful, your feet following after him before you could think to stop them.

“Your dad’s a fucking asshole.”

Titus spun on his heels, and you almost ran into him, his broad chest mere inches away from you as you stumbled to a halt. He had a lethal look at his face as he loomed over you.

“You don’t know anything,” he snapped. He pushed off again, striding down the hall as quickly as he could. You almost sprinted to catch up with him.

“I know enough!” you called, trailing a few feet behind him. He couldn’t do this, just start another fight and leave before it went anywhere. You couldn’t handle the tension anymore, following you like a ghost through his manor, silently pressing on you whenever you met his glare from across the room or felt him watching you, never brave enough to just say whatever it was he thought of you. “I know his favoritism is blatant. I know he thinks you’re impulsive and emotional and weak. I know it hurts you, because he’s still your dad, even if you hate him. You still want his approval. And you know deep down that he’s never, ever going to give it to you.”

A sound tore from his chest and he turned, forearm coming to your chest before you could blink, knocking the air out of you as he slammed you back against the wall. A painting clattered loudly from the force of it, and you winced at the sharp crack of your skull hitting wood. 

“Why do you insist on making my life hell?” The words were hissed, his face so close his nose almost brushed yours. You could see the green flecks in his hazel eyes and smell his aftershave, the beginnings of silvery stubble already poking through on his cheeks. And worst of all, you could see the hurt in his eyes, and hear the way his voice dragged out of him, painfully soft despite the grit he fought to muster up.

“I don’t.” He laughed cruelly. “You come into my home, stick your nose into everyone’s business, and chase me around.” “You deserve better than him.” The words were out before you could stop them. Titus blinked once, face turning guarded. “You deserve more than all of this,” you continued. What the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound. 

“Everyone around here acts like you’re some wild animal that has to be sedated or caged. Doesn’t that bother you?” He didn’t respond, thick arm still pushed against your collarbone, threatening to bruise. “Your father only pays you enough attention to criticize, and your sister thinks you’re a joke.”

“And?”

“And they’re wrong. Both of them.” His eyes flicked up, narrowed suspiciously as they met yours. You could only hope he knew you were telling the truth. “You are dangerous. But who says that’s a bad thing? You’re loyal, and stubborn, and you’ll fight tooth and nail to get what you want. You don’t accept failure, and you never lose. If they can’t see that, that’s their problem, not yours.” Your confidence started to ebb, burning away under the intense stare he fixed you under. It was no longer suspicious. Suspicion was something you could work with, something you understood, but this…He was just staring, taking in everything you said as if his life depended on it, transfixed by you. “I just thought you should know that,” you breathed out, heart pounding heavily against your ribs when his gaze lowered, tracing the movement of your lips. He had leaned forward without realizing it, no longer trapping you with his body and yet you felt paralysed under that piercing gaze. It was worse than being pinned down. You could move, but you couldn’t bring yourself to want to.

His hand raised, your breath stuttering as it hesitantly came to your cheek, not quite touching as the backs of his curled fingers ghosted over your skin. The air between you felt thick, stifling enough that it became hard to breathe. 

“Titus,” you whispered, almost gasping as his thumb traced the shape of your full bottom lip. “What-”

The question died in your throat as he surged forward, your head smashing back against the wood paneling for a second time. You yelped from the sudden collision and he swallowed the sound, his mouth pressed to yours in a fervent kiss. His broad hands held your face in place, one palm on each side, guiding you to open up to him as he all but devoured you. You blinked the stars away from your eyes, head swimming as much from surprise as the head wound as you quickly realized what was happening. You kissed him back on instinct, matching his intensity in a way that had him groaning into your mouth. Your hand found his wrist, holding him as your other clutched at his shoulder, bunching the fabric of his pullover in your fist as you pulled him even closer. 

When you parted for air, you stayed pressed together, panting the same air as your fought for breath. His forehead rested against yours, dark eyes boring into yours, still cradling your face carefully like it was suddenly something that he couldn’t risk breaking. 

You knew then that you were in trouble. 

When he spoke, his voice was low and breathless, dragged deep from the recesses of his chest, where he refused to acknowledge that he still felt things.

“Did you mean it?”

You only nodded, still breathless, finding it hard to focus on anything but his hot breath on your lips.

“Every word.” 

You laughed, the sound coming out breathless and airy.

“And here I was thinking you hated me.”

His head tipped to the side, the corner of his mouth twitching as he appraised you. His thumb found its way back to your lips, wiping away what remained of his own spit. 

“Yeah.” One shoulder tipped up. “Maybe you’re growing on me.”

That earned a full smile and another breathless laugh, one that had him dropping his head slightly to hide his own small smile. You guided his face back so you could see it, refusing to miss seeing such a lovely sight. 

“If I’d have known calling out Chester would have gotten you to slam me up against a wall, I would have done it a lot sooner.”

A low laugh left him, real and unpolished. His smile turned cocky.

“Been trying to provoke me this whole time?” he cooed, his hand moving from your cheek and into your hair, clutching at the roots and forcing your head to tilt back slightly to peer up at him. 

You grinned. You fisted your hands in his collar, dragging him closer and relishing the flicker of surprise in his eyes before he corrected it. He wasn’t the one in control here, and you both knew it.

“If I was after you, you would have known it,” you promised before tugging him down into another searing kiss. This one was shorter, just long enough to feel him begin to melt into it before you were shoving him away a few inches. The disappointment on his face was enough to send a thrill through you when you slipped away from the wall, giving his strong chest a simple pat as if you were dismissing him. You turned your head to speak over your shoulder as you continued down the hallway, still determined to find the library.

“Too bad you waited this long. We could have been having a lot more fun.”

After your incident in the hallway, Titus changed around you. He was no longer aloof and sullen, watching you from across the room and pretending he wasn’t. Instead, he openly followed you, always watching with that curious intensity that could have been intimidating if you didn’t know you had him wrapped around your finger. Something about him intrigued you.

Ursula Danforth was an open book to anyone who knew about her family’s secret life. She made her social prowess known, and it didn’t take much observational skill to notice the way she had a habit of making “suggestions” to her brother and father, letting them think that her ideas were their own and cleverly sidestepping any undesired blowback.

Chester Danforth, loathsome as he was, was an even easier read. The classic old man who gripped onto his source of power even tighter as the fact of his own human mortality became harder and harder to avoid. He was cruel because he could be, and wasted no opportunity to remind his children that they weren’t enough to deserve his name, even when their plans went well. 

Titus was different. His behaviors changed as his emotions did, too dynamic to pin down and dismiss. He was passionate about everything in his life. Everything he felt he felt to the fullest, which was often to his own detriment, being scolded by his sister and verbally flagellated by his father. He carried his hurt within him, hidden behind a poor mask, and still clung to his family, seemingly not knowing how to exist without their cruel attention.

It almost made you sad. 

And you were never sad for someone like him.

And yet there he was, watching you with those dark, morose eyes from across the room, reclining comfortably in a rich leather armchair, content to watch you read yet another volume from his family’s library. He didn’t even need to speak to you, seeming to find pleasure in simply observing, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small smile when you’d occasionally glance up from a page and meet his eye.

When you had six days left in your stay with the Danforths, you’d pulled him aside after dinner. It wasn’t difficult to do, what with him practically tailing you wherever you went around the estate, only occasionally leaving you in a room alone when he’d drift off to hunt or workout. It didn’t seem he had many hobbies of his own, you’d noticed. Another peculiarity of his.

“Why are you always watching me?” you’d asked, arms crossed over your chest and eyebrow raised expectantly.

Titus made a face, shifting his weight on his feet, though his gaze never faltered. He clearly wasn’t expecting to be called out on his behavior so directly. 

“I like watching you,” he said evenly, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your brow only raised higher. 

“More than talking to me?”

He paused, a frown overtaking his handsome face before he could stop it.

“Did you want me to talk to you?” He seemed surprised by the very idea.

You exhaled a small laugh.

“Do you want to talk to me?” He shook his head, a childlike mirth glimmering in his eye, that smug smirk pulling at his lips again and making you so annoyed you wanted to kiss it off of him.

“I asked first.”

You huffed indignantly, lips pursed to the side as you chewed on the words. This was humiliating, acting like a middle schooler. You were a grown woman. He was part of a Satanic cult, one you were hoping to join. You didn’t need to be playing these games, dancing around each other worried about who would ask who to the school dance. 

“I think you’re interesting to talk to,” you admitted, quickly tacking on “when you don’t have your head up your ass.”

Titus seemed only to hear the first part, smiling like a cat who’d just caught a bird.

“I’ll talk to you, if that’s what you want.” His smile turned deceptively sweet. “Good hospitality is important afterall.” You laughed coldly. “You’re a terrible host.” His smile only grew. “You kill half the people who stay with you. I saw you consider throwing a kettle of hot water on someone just this morning.” His shoulders lifted in a casual shrug, still grinning like he remembered the event fondly. Or maybe it was that you remembered it that he enjoyed so much.

“It wasn’t hot, that was the fucking problem. Girl managed to fuck up boiling water,” he drolled.

You rolled your eyes, rubbing the space between your brows tiredly. You could practically feel the exasperated crease forming there from dealing with this man, and it had barely been a week. 

“I can’t be that bad of a host,” he surmised, rolling his broad shoulders in a casual stretch, watching you with an even expression down the bridge of his nose, only letting his gaze wander down to your lips twice. “Not if you want to spend more time with me.” You glared at him between your fingers, ignoring the heat that rushed to your cheeks. 

“You’re impossible.” “Impossible to stop thinking about.”

You scoffed, hating that it came out weak and squeaky. The bastard noticed, of course he did, practically preening as he stood taller, still giving you that smug smirk.

“Watch it or I won’t kiss you again.” It was an idle threat, you feared. You’d missed the feeling of his lips on yours, the subtle taste of him, the warm press of his body against yours as he’d pushed you against the wall. 

Titus looked unimpressed, one brow twitching up. 

“I kissed you,” he corrected.

“I let you kiss me,” you corrected right back, glaring up at him defiantly. His cashmere sweater looked soft, and you couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like to run your hands over the vast expanse of his shoulders, tugging him closer before pulling on his hair to make him gasp. “I could just as easily not let you in the future.”

He barely hummed in response, too preoccupied with studying your expression as he dipped down to your level. His hand raised to your cheek, gently stroking along your cheekbone. You breath stilled as he leaned closer, his nose almost grazing yours, his breath tickling your lips. Your eyes began to flutter shut when he spoke.

“I think you’re full of shit.” 

And with that he was gone. No more warmth on your cheek, no hot breath intermingling with yours. Just the burn of blush rushing to your face and a man who looked entirely too pleased with himself, smiling at you like you were his favorite form of entertainment. He allowed himself a moment to take in your flustered appearance before sharply jerking his head towards the hallway.

“C’mon,” he ordered, already striding off.

You had to hurry to catch up, looking around quickly and setting down the book you’d been planning to read after dinner in an armchair before scrambling after him. For such a thickly built man, he sure could move quickly when he wanted to.

“Where are we going?”

The corner of his mouth tipped up, glancing at you as you hurried to keep your place at his side.

“To show you the gardens.” His voice took on a humorous lilt, as dry as the rest of his words. “Can’t have you thinking I’m a shit host.”

By the time The Lawyer arrived at Danforth Manor, Titus was all but adhered to your side, and you couldn’t say you minded. You wouldn’t say out loud that you liked his company, or that his dry wit and crude humor wormed their way into a place between your ribs and refused to leave, or that every time you kissed you found it a little harder to pull away, but that didn’t keep the sentiment from being any less true. You found excuses to spend time with him, returning the attention he so heavily devoted to you like second nature. He showed you all the nooks and crannies around the estate, taking extra care to demonstrate how easy it was to hide from his family when you wanted to sneak off together. He told you about his favorite books, and the music he liked, and slowly revealed more about his relationship with his family and what he remembered of his late mother. 

You asked him to teach you to hunt on the eleventh day, and he’d been insufferably smug when you’d missed the target the first four shots you took with his rifle, though he fell silent when you turned back to him beaming with pride when you finally hit it on the fifth try. His eyes had darkened, looking at you like he could finally see a new piece of you as you fisted your hands in his hair, the antique rifle laying forgotten on the grass as you roughly tugged him down to kiss him. His eyes were still dark when you parted, wide and searching as they met yours, his mouth hanging open slightly as he fought to regain his breath. 

“Not bad,” he said after a moment, hands still holding your shoulders, keeping you close. 

You chuckled. “Thanks.” You gave him another quick peck on the corner of his mouth. “I have a good teacher.”

His ears began to turn pink at the tips, and he shoved the gun back into your hands, his blush only worsening with every fond look you gave him, unable to fight back the wide grin that took over your face.

“Focus,” he scolded. “The moment you take your eyes off your target is the moment they escape.”

You rolled your eyes, turning back to the target and biting your lip, unable to stop the giddy feeling in your chest from the warm feeling of his unflinching gaze on your back.

The only time Titus was truly absent from your side was during your meeting with The Lawyer. You had almost asked if he could join, the few hours without him by your side feeling like an eternity after the days you’d spent attached at the hip, but The Lawyer seemed to sense your fondness for one of the younger Danforths, and explained that Mr. Le Bail was a very private person whose deals were equally as confidential as they were powerful. 

Titus had given you a tense look, silently asking if you were sure, before leaving you to your business with the ancient entity, only after you’d given him a firm nod and a private but reassuring smile.

You realized that his presence or absence shouldn’t affect you so much. You’d only known each other for two weeks, and only been on friendly terms, if you could call it that, for half that time. And yet somehow, you felt that he understood you better than anyone else ever had. He didn’t shirk away from your darker impulses, and he didn’t flinch when he saw your flaws. He bore witness to your calculating schemes, saw the way you seethed and spat at Chester’s disrespect, and yet he still wanted you by his side. He would watch, and observe, and somehow found it in himself to accept every one of your faults. And somehow along the way, you’d done the same for him.

Titus had hounded you for answers when you’d reemerged from the dark temple built into the very foundation of the manor. His hazel eyes flicked across your face, narrowed impatiently as they searched for any signs of distress, his broad hands raised to stabilize your shoulders, occasionally drifting over your sides and back, needing to see for himself that you were unharmed.

“Titus, darling, I’m fine.” Only when you took his hands in yours did he begin to calm. His breathing began to level out as he looked into your eyes, finally realizing that you were okay.

“I don’t like you dealing with him,” he admitted quietly, his eyes darting away anxiously like he might be scolded for it. 

“I know. But it’s the only way I can get what I want.”

His lip jutted out in a pout, petulant in a way only he could be.

“What could you possibly want that you need him for?”

Your head tipped to the side, unable to stop the amused laugh that left your lips. He sounded almost jealous.

“You really have to ask?” you teased. His brow only furrowed, glaring at you in his annoyance. You looked around you, to the wood paneled walls and hanging chandeliers, the subtle shows of wealth that surrounded you. “Take a wild guess, Titus.”

He scoffed, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. “You don’t need him for that,” he sulked. 

You quirked a brow. “And how am I supposed to get what I want, then?” you teased, ducking your head to meet his lowered gaze. “What, am I supposed to buy into that whole pull yourself up by your bootstraps thing until I drop dead on the job, with no retirement savings to fall back on and a government that doesn’t give a shit if I live or die?” You scoffed at the very thought. “No, I’d rather sell my soul than do that. At least this way I get some return on my sacrifice.”

Titus scowled, still looking down and not giving you the eye contact you’d started to take for granted. You gently cupped his cheek, guiding his face up to meet you.

“What is it?” you asked softly, his stubble grazing the pad of your thumb as it ran over his cheek. “Why is this bothering you so much?”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing heavily in his throat.

“You don’t have to sell your soul,” he said after a moment, tone hushed like he was sharing a secret he dared not let be overheard. His eyes flickered up, finally meeting your own. “I can give you those things. Money isn’t an issue, and you shouldn’t have to do the things we do.”

You gave him a soft, sympathetic smile, your thumb still moving across his cheek. You weren’t sure at what point he started leaning into your touches, but he did now, his face resting comfortably in the palm of your hand. 

“I know what you do in return for his favor,” you confessed quietly. His brow furrowed, the muscles of his jaw tightening as he frowned. “I’ve known that since the beginning. It’s how I knew this whole thing was real, even before I approached you at the gala.” You drew in a slow breath. “I want to do this, Titus. For me, to finally have something that I made and that no one can ever take away from me. I…I know you kill people, and I know you, in particular, are really good at it. And…if I have to get a little blood on me to provide for myself, then so be it. Because I’m not going to be someone’s trophy wife, and I’ll be damned if I die in the gutter where I was born. I need this, and I’ll do what it takes to protect myself and make sure that my loved ones and myself never have to worry again.”

Titus’ mouth twitched at your choice of words, slowly spreading into a small smile as you realized your mistake.

“You would be damned,” he confirmed, a humorous twinkle in his eye for such a grim subject matter. Then again, it was normal to him. He was born without possession of his soul, his ancestor bargaining it away long before he and Ursula were even thought of. His hand found your cheek, mirroring your soft hold on him. “But I wouldn’t mind the company in hell,” he confessed.

You could feel his smile against yours when you stood up on your toes to kiss him. It was the sweetest of your kisses yet, and you could feel the fondness you felt for him grow behind your ribs, slowly taking up more space until you were unable to deny its existence any longer.

“I leave in the morning,” you whispered against his lips when you parted, slowly sinking back down on your heels and regretting the distance already.

He made a quiet sound of discontent, frowning as he rested his forehead against yours, heavily breathing in the air you shared. You laughed softly, fingers combing through the hair at the base of his skull while you stole your courage.

“What would you say to getting coffee sometime next week?”

His eyes flicked to yours, narrowing for a moment as he searched for any hint of deception or jest. Finding none, he softened, giving you that wide eyed look that pulled at your heartstrings. You needed him to answer quickly so you could get back to kissing him.

Finally he nodded, clearly trying, and failing, to look unbothered. “I know a great place in Colombia.”

You laughed, full bodied and unfiltered, letting yourself fall against his chest and knowing he would catch you, his broad hands flattening against your back, keeping you close as he held you.

“What?” he had the gall to ask, offense and confusion lacing his tone.

You only shook your head where it was buried into the crease of his neck. “You’re fucking ridiculous,” you murmured, still smiling brightly.

He muttered something you couldn’t make out. It barely mattered, when his nose was buried in your hair, your cheek pressed to his chest, fitting together like two puzzle pieces made for each other.

Titus managed to control his impulses for almost three months before telling you you should just move in with him. He didn’t ask, no, that would be foolish for someone so certain. He simply informed you one evening over a bottle of wine in Paris, your dinner dishes pushed to the side and his hand covering your own on the white linen tablecloth of the intimate restaurant he had rented out as a surprise. 

You had merely quirked an eyebrow, propping your chin up on your fist as you leaned closer, smiling softly in your silent ask for him to continue.

“You want to spend more time with me,” he stated, as if it was an observable fact. Perhaps it was. “I enjoy your company profoundly. You’re not dull like everyone else, you don’t chide me or try to feed me lines.” His freckled nose crinkled in disdain at the idea. “We understand each other.” He cleared his throat, the smallest flicker of uncertainty crossing his eyes as he adjusted his cutlery, long since forgotten after the third course. “Why not make the most of our time?”

You flipped your hand over on the table, watching with a fond smile as he glanced at it, slowly interlocking his fingers with your own. The thumb of your free hand moved over the back of his knuckles, taking in the familiar feel of the small white scars that decorated them.

“Tell me that you want me to live with you,” you requested, voice soft and low, just for him to hear. “Tell me that you want me around, and I will, I’ll move in tomorrow. I want to be with you, Titus, but I want to hear you say it first.”

Titus’ eyes narrowed, jaw working. You almost giggled at the sight. Your stubborn man and his pride.

“I want you,” he got out after a moment, the words coming out thick and low, like they were dragged from some small recess of him he didn’t know still remained until that moment. He was thankful he had fully booked the restaurant. He couldn’t stand anyone else seeing him so pitiful. “Please. Move in with me. I want to see you everyday. I want you to truly be mine.” His sweet eyes tugged at your heartstrings. “Please.”

You stood slightly from your chair, leaning across the table to press a slow kiss to his lips.

“I am yours,” you murmured against him, your lips upturning as you felt him tilt his head forward, chasing after you. You let him steal one more kiss, firm and claiming as he pressed his lips to yours, pouring all of his gratitude and relief into the action that he couldn’t put to words.

He exhaled a small smile as you settled back into your seat, his hand finding yours more securely.

“Good.”

“Good,” you agreed, giving him an equally soft smile.

Chester had hated the idea. He didn’t even spare his son a glance as he shot down his attempt at a conversation, shuffling papers around on the lap desk placed over his hospital bed with the tiredness not just of an old man, but of someone long suffering who had long ago given up hope of things ever changing. He acted as though passing a few words with his son was more draining than fighting the terminal illness that closed its fist around him more and more each day.

Titus had almost throttled the old man when he refused to look up, hauling him up roughly by the lapels of his silk sleep shirt before dropping him to land back against the stack of pillows that held him upright when he dismissed his words without even faltering in his work.

“I don’t care what you say anymore,” he hissed in his father’s face, the calm somber expression the old man wore only adding to his fury. “She’s moving in. You’ll be dead soon anyway.” He caught his father’s frail wrist as his hand raised to smack him. His skin had turned thin sometime over the last few months, bulbous veins showing through him like he was made of paper.

“Try that again and I’ll fast track your passing,” Titus promised darkly, throwing the wretched thing back down with more force than needed before storming out of the room. “She’s moving in!” he barked over his shoulder.

It took another two months for him to first say that he loved you. He’d already said it a hundred times over in action, and he was well aware that you already knew the depths of his devotion, but it took time for him to be able to coax the words out of himself. For so long they had meant something else to him, something his sister would say when she needed something of him or wanted to hide him away without him putting up a struggle. They were held over his head by his father to get him jumping through hoops, never quite earning them the way Chester demanded.

What he had with you was so much more than that. The words could be offered freely of his own will, with no silent filing away of them to be cashed in later like a cheap token. The feeling was reciprocal, no longer just something he offered up to others or was promised to him to placate him and make him more docile, easier to muzzle. You didn’t want him to be smaller or fade into the shadows while you stood in the spotlight. You didn’t want anything from him but his company, only truly fighting with him and planting yourself firm when his anger turned inward and threatened to rip him apart or the rare occasion that he was on the brink of causing problems that his vast fortune couldn’t just brush under the rug. Even when he had his fits of anger and exploded at inopportune times, you were always there to help him pick up the pieces and remind him that he was more than just those moments.

Once he’d said the words once, he couldn’t stop saying it, becoming almost addicted to the way your heart would flutter and you would stumble over your words when you heard them from his lips. He’d tell you over dinner, or in the library with you tucked under his arm on a plush couch as you read, and he’d always whisper the soft words against the shell of your ear as he pinned you down with his weight in bed, always loving the way your face would flush and your body would squirm in response before you had time to say it back. 

And you would say it back, every time, no matter how much he already knew it to be true. 

Even when you couldn’t say the words aloud, your hand would find his, knuckles grazing against each others’ when you couldn’t afford to draw attention to yourselves. Dinners with his family were more tolerable with you around, giving him a light touch to his knee under the table to soothe his nerves whenever tensions would grow too high or letting his foot slide to meet yours where no one could see. A subtle reminder that wasn’t for an audience, just him so he would know that he wasn’t alone, and he never would be again.

Even now, you could feel the familiar press of his boot against you, one more grounding force to help him stay level when he needed it.

“That’s so lovely,” your mother sighed, entranced by the sanitized version of your love story. “I always knew you would find the right person for you, honey. And look at that! All of your ambition finally paid off!”

You grit your teeth at her slip. You hadn’t exactly gone to grad school in search of a husband, but if she knew how far your ambition truly drove you, she’d never sit down and share a meal with you ever again. 

She wasn’t able to see your annoyance.

“Titus,” she said, turning her attention back to your fiance. “What’s your family like? It seems like you might owe them a thanks as well, if you met through a donation they made.”

Titus froze. That was a tricky question for him, with its own emotional minefield to accompany it.

Your mother prompted further, sensing his hesitation. “You mentioned you have a sister. Is she older or younger? Are your parents still around?”

He smiled bitterly down at his plate, setting down his fork. “No,” he said slowly. “I have Ursula, my twin. She…Well, we don’t always get along. But she looks out for me. Keeps me on the right path, or at least what she thinks is the right path.” He blinked when your hand found his, giving it a light reassuring squeeze. He seemed to realize that he was scowling down at the table, and cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. “We don’t always agree,” he ended lamely.

“No siblings do,” you offered, giving him a soft smile. It wasn’t lost on you how much effort he was going through to make you happy. He hated small talk, feeling like each prodding question was a way of feeling him out for chinks in his armor. Even worse that he had to lie for you, hiding parts of him that you loved just to appease your family.

“And your parents?” your mother reminded him. 

Titus’ lips pressed together tightly. That was still a sore spot for him.

“My mother died when we were little. She had an aggressive form of cancer that the doctors didn’t catch until it was too late.” He swallowed thickly, his hand holding yours a bit tighter under the table, like it was his lifeline through a dark tunnel. “My father passed away a few months ago.”

Your parents sighed sympathetically, your mother’s hand pressed to her chest over her heart as if she could feel his pain.

“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Titus only pursed his lips, giving a stiff nod. “Thank you.”

You chose then to speak up. “I’m glad I got the chance to meet him before he passed.” A ghost of a smile crossed your face, ruefully remembering the man that had raised your lover. “He didn’t exactly like me-”

“He didn’t like anyone but himself,” Titus interjected, bitter tone coloring his words before could think to hide it.

“-But I’m glad that I got the chance. For you and for Ursula.”

His face softened, just barely. The pinch of his eyebrows relaxed slightly and the tight press of his lips eased. 

“Mother would have liked you,” he confessed, offering it up humorously like an appeasement.

You smiled softly. “And I’m sure I would have loved her,” you replied. Your smile widened. “I’m already a big fan of her work,” you teased, reaching out to cup his cheek, thumb gently running over his cheek bone. 

Titus rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath of air, but you could see the small uplift at the corner of his mouth, and the way he wouldn’t quite meet your gaze, embarrassed to be seen being so gentle around company, even if he craved it.

“So, where will you be living after all this?” The criticism in your father’s voice was as sharp as a knife. He wasn’t going to let his edges be softened by the sappy display before him. “Will you be staying in the area, or will you be swept away again?”

Titus’ eyes narrowed. Your hand found its way to his thigh, squeezing the dense muscle there in a silent warning. You responded dryly, not willing to start an outright war, but not willing to cede ground either.

“If by after all this you mean after our wedding,” you said, voice clipped, “we’ll be living on Titus’ estate. That’s actually where I’ve been the last few months.”

Your mother made a small sound in the back of her throat as she sipped her wine, frowning for a split second before she caught herself and corrected her expression into something more pleasant. She had never been good at hiding her emotions, always wearing them openly on her face.

“It’s been great,” you continued, giving your fiance a look that did nothing to hide your adoration for him. “I moved in a few months ago, and it’s been like a dream.” “Except for Ursula,” Titus added. His lips were tugged down in a small frown. 

You laughed. “Even with Ursula,” you countered. “Not like we overlap in space much anyway.”

He scowled. “We do at breakfast. And dinner. And that time she barged in-”

You squeezed his hand tightly, eyes flashing with a warning, and his jaw snapped shut. You pretended not to notice the curious look your mother gave you, taking a moment to quell your thoughts before you changed the subject from what Ursula had seen that day.

“Ursula lives in the family home as well,” you explained, finding eye contact difficult after Titus’ almost-slip-up. “She has her wing of the manor, and we have ours, but there are areas that we share.”

“Like the library,” Titus supplied easily. “Not that she uses it nearly as much as you do.”

“A library?” your mother interrupted. “Oh, that must be wonderful! She’s always loved to read, ever since she was little.” She smiled fondly at you, and you could tell she was seconds away from telling the story of you at six years old, toddling around with a stack of books almost as tall as you were, just to cry when you tripped on the cat’s bowl and dropped them all. It was one of her favorite stories, of her precocious little girl, always the bookworm.

Titus surprised you by speaking first. “You can come see it if you’d like.” He sounded tired, meaning his offer, but only for your sake. He hated having guests in his home. Still, you rewarded him with a gentle nudge of your knee against his, a quiet acknowledgement of the sacrifices he was making for your happiness.

“Oh, that would be amazing!” Your mother beamed, growing much more sociable as her glass of wine worked its way into her system and eased her nerves. “Maybe I could see it at the wedding? The invitation did say it was being hosted on your property, didn’t it? Or maybe we should wait until the holidays, when things will be calmer.” She frowned, a new thought crossing her mind. “You’ll still be coming home for holidays, won’t you?” She seemed cautious, suddenly nervous about asking about plans too far into the future with a man she’d just met. “Titus, of course you will be welcome as well. And your sister,” she added uncertainly, gesturing towards him as if offering an olive branch. “Any family of yours will be family of ours.”

Your father barked out a sharp laugh. “We don’t even know these people,” he pointed out.

She shook her head, looking at him with disappointment. “It doesn’t matter,” she argued. “Family is family.” She turned back to face you, her hand smoothing on the table between you, ever the keeper of the peace. “And I’m sure we’ll love them.”

They were polite enough not to comment on Titus’ rueful smile, fixed down at his plate. 

“Ursula doesn’t care for most holidays,” he supplied. “But we…we can visit.” He faltered, looking over at you, brow furrowing over his beautiful hazel eyes. “If that’s what you want.”

You nodded, taking his hand in your own and giving it a firm squeeze, a silent thank you that your parents wouldn’t see.

“Of course, that would be wonderful.” You gave him a cheeky grin. “We’re the type of family that hangs mistletoe every year. Might be able to catch you under it if you play your cards right.”

The faint dusting of pink across his ears was worth the harsh glare your father shot you, your mother giggling conspiratorially and nudging your father, reminding him it was all in good fun.

“What else have you been up to, sweetie?” your mother asked, abandoning your efforts to get her husband to lighten up. “It’s been so long since we’ve seen you. Any progress with your research? And how’s work going? Must be difficult to keep up, what with classes and now planning a wedding!” She chuckled good naturedly, taking another sip of her wine.

Your heart dropped. You knew the question was coming, but you still dreaded having to answer it.

“I, uh, I actually quit.” You tried not to let it show how it stung when two sets of eyes locked on you, forks freezing in the air like time itself had stopped.

“You quit?” your mother repeated. The words sounded hollow leaving her lips.

You nodded, lips pressed together in a tight smile.

“Yep. A few months ago. I had a supervisor who was kind of awful to be around, and with balancing grad school and life, it was a struggle to keep up. So I decided to quit and just focus on other things that were more important for a while.” Your father scoffed as he adjusted in his seat, fully setting down his utensils to focus on you. It was unlike you not to work, his little busy bee daughter who’d hustled her way through middle and high school, always at the top of the class and managing several extracurriculars as the cherry on top. 

“How exactly have you been paying your bills then?” 

His gaze turned cold as your eyes slid to Titus, your face burning with a mix of embarrassment and nerves.

“You’ve been paying for her?” His voice was harsh, pointing at his future in-law like it was a crime to support the person you were going to be married to.

“Titus has been very generous-” you started, before being cut off. 

“You don’t need generosity, you need a work ethic! What’s happened to you? What happened to the girl who worked through high school to save and put herself through college? You going to give all that up to be, what? A trophy wife now? Just gonna let him get you pregnant and not do anything to make something of your life, depend on him and wait to inherit it all?”

Your mother slapped his shoulder, harshly scolding him. 

“Don’t talk to her like that!” Titus' voice was dark and low, hand tensing into a tight ball on the tabletop. He glared down at his plate, and his hand twitched, fingers itching to pick up his steak knife. He couldn’t look up. If he did, and saw that stupidly offended expression on his soon-to–be-father-in-law’s face, he’d want to pummel it off. His words flowed with a venomous bite to them, his anger and hurt barely restrained. “She’s not a trophy. She’s not an object that can be bought and sold.” He scoffed. “I’m sorry if the idea of me loving her and wanting to provide for her, to protect her, offends your delicate sensibilities, but you can kindly go fuck yourselves if you think she’s anything less than a force to be reckoned with. She’s not being kept like some little housewife with no ambition. I’m helping and I will continue to do so until she decides otherwise.”

Surprisingly, your father didn’t shrink away from Titus’ anger. He had never been a particularly brave man, but his nerves never failed him when it came to protecting you. Even, it seemed, when he was deeply misguided.

“And who are you to come into my home and speak to me that way?” he demanded, blood rushing to his face and staining his skin. “Who are you to do anything with my daughter?”

“Dad, stop it!” you snapped, patience finally wearing thin. “You’re just being rude and embarrassing yourself!” Your father scoffed, chair scraping along the floor as he shoved himself back from the table like he had to put physical distance between himself and Titus.

“How would you like me to react?” he demanded, lip curled as he looked over your fiance. “You disappear, we hardly hear from you for months, and suddenly you’re engaged? You quit your job and just move in, like this is all normal? Like he’s not way too old for you to begin with-”

“Enough!” Silence fell across the table as all heads turned towards you. Your father’s mouth hung open slightly, and your mother looked horrified. You’d never yelled at them, even during your teenage years when you fought them on everything, from the color of your room to the lunch you packed for school. 

“You seem to be under the impression that I’m asking your permission to marry Titus,” you continued, voice level but simmering with a barely restrained anger. “Let me be perfectly clear: I’m not.” You could see the smirk flicker on your fiance’s lips, his hands clasping together proudly in his lap. “I love Titus and we’re getting married. The only thing you have any say in is if you attend the wedding, which will only happen if you cut the shit now and be on your best behavior.” You sighed heavily, anger starting to turn into something else. Something more understanding of your father’s bad behavior.

“I understand this is scary for you. I know it seems sudden for me to turn up with a fiance you’ve never met and who probably isn’t who you expected me to fall in love with. But I’m a grown woman, and I can make my own choices. I choose Titus. I choose to spend my life with him, and I chose to not introduce you before now because I knew you’d pull something stupid like this. You don’t have to like each other, you don’t have to be best friends and all come around for brunch every Sunday, but you have to accept this, because it’s happening, and you should be happy for me because I’ve never been so happy in my entire fucking life, and it’s all because of this man and how well he treats me.”

Silence fell across the table, save for the quiet sound of your rapid breathing, struggling to catch your breath after your impromptu speech.

Titus was the first to break it, a low chuckle rumbling out of his chest. Your father shot him a dirty look, but he didn’t react if he even noticed, hazel eyes crinkled fondly as he watched you. 

Your mother spoke next, words chosen carefully and eyes not quite meeting yours, suddenly aware she might be handling a live grenade.

“We just want you to be happy.”

Your harsh stare could have bored a hole into her skull.

“Titus makes me happy.”

She swallowed, adjusting her napkin in her lap before raising her head. She gave you a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Small, but there. Still trying.

“Then we’ll be happy to have him in the family. And we’ll be there,” she added, giving her husband a pointed look. “Right, dear?” Your father only nodded, grimacing more than smiling.

“Right.” He drew in a slow breath, hand clenching and relaxing on the tabletop. “You’re still our little girl. No matter how old you get.” His eyes flicked over Titus again, narrowing slightly at the man’s pleased smile. “Or what choices you make.”

“Good.”

Titus took over for you, seeing the way your shoulders dropped, the exhaustion of the evening all finally catching up to you.

“You were right before,” he supplied breezily. “The wedding will be at our estate.” The tension was off of him now that his future father-in-law had blown his top and been forced back into submission. It would take time for pressure to build again, and neither you or your mother would allow him to snap at Titus again. “We’ll put you up in the best hotel in the area, and send a plane to pick you up the day before.” Your parents stared at him like he’d grown a second head. Your father had never even flown before. The idea of having a plane to send for just two people was simply too much for them to comprehend. Titus misread their confusion.

“Any other day you would be able to stay in the guest house,” he continued, giving you a small nod, which you returned with a grateful smile. “But Danforth tradition demands that we have no visitors the night of the wedding. It’s old fashioned, but tradition is important to us.” He sighed heavily, giving you a weary smile. “Ursula would have my head if I tried to break tradition,” he added.

You scoffed out a weak laugh, some of your strength finally returning to you. His effort to take the bulk of the conversation over for you didn’t go unnoticed. 

“Please!” you retorted, knowing his weariness was all for show. “Like you’d even try.”

The smile he gave you in response was small, but genuine. You knew he was as excited as anyone to see you take on the hunt, even if a small part of him hated the idea of not being able to kill anyone who would wish to do you harm himself.

“We’ll do whatever traditions you want, Titus. As long as you’re happy on our wedding day.”

His head tipped slightly to the side, beautiful eyes twinkling with humor. 

“How could I possibly be unhappy?” he said drolly. His hand found yours under the table, his thumb tracing small circles on your skin only for you to know. 

Your father sighed heavily, seeming defeated from the evening. 

“Will you be staying the night?” he asked, with all the enthusiasm of a man sentenced to death.

You shook your head before Titus had time to look at you for input. The fact that he was even willing made you love him all the more. You had already planned to fly back to Rhode Island that night, already knowing Titus would never be able to relax properly in an unfamiliar place without the usual comforts of your home, let alone in your childhood bedroom with your parents down the hall, but you would never ask that of him after the way the evening had gone. Truth be told, you were itching to leave as well, ready to head home with Titus and curl up next to him for the short flight back to the Danforth compound.

“No. Thank you, but we should really get back tonight. Titus has some important deals to go over in the morning, and I told Ursula I would meet with a florist sometime this week and make progress on our wedding planning.”

Your mother’s eyes softened slightly, her disappointment clear even as she gave an understanding nod. 

“Will we see you again before the wedding?” she asked, unable to keep the hope from creeping into her voice.  

Your brow furrowed. “Of course,” you laughed. “You think I’m getting a wedding dress without you?” She chuckled weakly, clearly relieved as some hope for the normal wedding she’d dreamed of for you came rushing back. “We’ll figure something out. You’ll come to Rhode Island, or I’ll come back here. Hell, maybe we take a trip to Europe!” Your parents chuckled, taking it more as a joke than the actual option it now was thanks to Titus.

“We should probably head back soon,” Titus said hesitantly, not wanting to interrupt the moment of peace you’d found with your family.

You exhaled softly. It was for the best, to leave when things were on a high note. 

“You’re right.” You gave your parents an apologetic smile. “It’s a long trip back, and Titus is right. Plus, he’s the one who refused to let me drive, so it’s his job to get us back to the airport at a reasonable hour.” You gave him a cocky grin. “Don’t want to stay out too late and give him a chance to get grumpy,” you teased, taking his annoyed huff and eyeroll as a victory. “Really though, this has been so nice. I’m so glad you’ve met each other now.” Your hand found Titus’ thigh, moving up and down as you massaged the dense muscle under the table. “I’m excited for you to get to know Titus better. I think you’ll come to love him too.”

Your father sighed slowly, knowing he was admitting defeat, but willing to do it for his daughter’s happiness.

“It doesn’t matter what we think,” he admitted. “As long as you love, and you’ll be happy, that’s all that matters.” He slid his hand across the tabletop to you, and you accepted it, covering it with your own and blinking back the prickling behind your eyes when he smiled at you sincerely for the first time that night.

“Thanks, Dad.” You knew your voice wavered, but you didn’t care anymore. Not when Titus was by your side, and your family knew him and how happy he made you.

You gave Titus’ thigh a light pat, releasing your father’s hand and pushing your chair back to stand. “Come on, darling. Let’s go home.”

Titus was pulling out of the neighborhood when you spoke again.

“That was largely a shitshow.”

He nodded, sunglasses angled down on his nose as he turned to look at you, a shockingly good natured expression of I told you so on his handsome features. The wind tousled his hair from the open window, looking unfairly good as his curls fluttered across his forehead.

“Could have gone worse,” he offered after a moment, frowning as he weaved through traffic, the small sporty car moving like a fish through water under Titus’ careful direction. “Could have been a double homicide.”

He smiled at your mirthful laughter. That made it all worth it for him in the end.

“You did wonderfully,” you commented, still smiling as you leaned back against the leather seat, cheek pressing into the headrest as your fingers reached to comb through the silvery hair at his temple. “Thank you, darling, for putting up with all this for me. I don’t know how you kept your cool when Dad was being such an asshole to you.”

Titus’ hand found your thigh, gently squeezing the soft plush of it as he drove. He glanced towards you, those gorgeous eyes meeting yours for just a moment before his eyes were back on the road, an easy smile playing on his lips.

“Easy,” he said, though his tone still held onto some of the grit from his previous anger. “For you. Didn’t want to start our union by killing your father, even if he was a fucking prick to both of us.”

You bit your lip to keep from smiling, your chest suddenly feeling tight from how much love you held for him. 

“They’ll come around,” you promised, raking your nails down his scalp and enjoying the small sigh of relief you pulled from him. “Even if they didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. You won’t have to see them again outside of holidays, but they’ll see. They’ll see how happy we are together. There’s never been a better match, Titus.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a small smile.

Blood was drawn from the goat. Sacrifices made. And you were pushed aside in the revelry. You didn't want to enjoy any of it. Not that you could have. You were an afterthought, swept away in the crowd of cultists and freaks, standing along the fringes by yourself while they all drank and celebrated.

Titus didn't spare you a second glance when you left for your room. He had what he wanted. And you knew that your nightmare was just beginning.

You’re in your room when there’s a knock on the door. You tighten the silk robe around your waist and answer, nearly shaking too much to hold the door handle.

"Hello Mrs. Danforth," a man in a white button up nods pleasantly at you. "I have been sent to tend to you."

"Ah- what do you mean?" you ask as he makes his way into your room, opening up the bag that he carried with him. Your mind reeled with the possibilities. Tend to you? Take care of you? Is he here to kill you?

As he unpacks his tools, you realize very quickly that they’re just medical supplies. Gauze, alcohol pads, needle and thread.

The man looks at you, and gestures to the bed. "Please, relax Mrs. Danforth. This won’t take but a moment."

The name still feels foreign to your ears. Mrs. Danforth. Your new title. It’s going to take a while to be able to wear that completely, without it feeling like a mask.

They had done some basic patchwork before the wedding. Bandages and gauze. Barely holding you together at the seams. Enough to make you presentable for the ceremony, that’s it. 

But this is real medical care. You needed it. Every stitch, every swipe of a wound made you bite your tongue, holding back screams. But at least you’re being tended to, and you can only hope that you never have to endure this kind of pain again.

When he’s done, you stay laid out on the bed. He packs up his medical kit, collecting the bloodied rags and wiping away the surfaces, leaving no trace.

"Who-who sent you?" you ask.

"Mr. Danforth," he smiles at you. He said it so calmly, as if the answer was obvious.

He’s out of the room without another word. 

You’re finally alone. Tears well in the corners of your eyes. Tears that you didn’t even realize you were holding in all night. Dawn breaks through the curtains, thin streaks of light fighting their way into the room. A new day, a new beginning. The start of the rest of your life. 

You let out a shaky breath and sit up in the bed, running a hand through your hair. You extend your left hand in front of you, catching the light on your wedding ring.

You hear Ursula's voice in your ears.

I tried looking for the goodness in him. I found nothing.

We can control him, together.

Maybe she was right, there is no goodness in Titus. But maybe she was also right, that he could be- well, not controlled- but gently steered in the right direction.

Hades and Persephone. Death and his wife. Two sides of the same tarnished coin.

The door opens. No knock, of course not. He owns everything, including you, and he’s entitled to whatever he pleases. Whoever he pleases. 

You rise to your feet immediately, wincing at the sudden movement and trying to bite back the discomfort.

"I see you're looking better. All stitched up?" Titus grasps his hands in front him. He looks pleased with himself.

"Yes," you say, giving no emotion away.

He twists the rings on his hand- both the wedding band and the family heirloom- and steps closer to you.

You flinch slightly, taking a half step back. It’s more reflex than anything, conditioned by multiple nights of being chased and hunted. Those hands, one ones innocently twisting at his wedding band, were around your neck not too long ago.

Titus notices. He takes a beat and nods. "I owe you my gratitude," he says. 

There is something strange behind his eyes. The feral bloodlust from last night has faded into something almost human. "I obviously didn't know about the loophole," he continues. "Rather convenient."

"Yeah, convenient," you deadpan. "For you."

"We both win, right? You're still alive. I have what is rightfully mine." His fingers linger on the council ring. His priority.

"Are you here to consummate the marriage?" you spit, venom laced in your words.

"No," Titus shakes his head.

You allow yourself a breath of relief. A small victory in a night of horrors.

"When I have my way with you,” he mutters, voice low, “you'll be asking for it. Begging for more. And I won't touch you until then. You have my word."

The small victory was short-lived, obviously. This is a challenge. To see how long you can last. 

"Then you'll be waiting for a very, very long time," your voice is even, though you’re almost visibly trembling.

"We'll see about that," he nods. Not a threat, just a fact.

There's something in the air between you two. Heavy, and almost tempting.

Without another word, he leaves you in your room to sleep by yourself. You let out the breath you were holding, and collapse onto the bed. Every cell in your body is begging for rest.

And you have your first full night’s sleep since before your first wedding. 

When you wake, the sun is strong and high in the sky. It must be mid day by now. You have no idea how long you slept, but you feel like you’ve been hit by a train. 

There’s a knock at your door. Who knows how long they’ve been waiting for you to gain consciousness. 

"Come in," you grumble. You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes until you see white spots, trying to wake up fully.

A very perky young woman opens the door, stepping in with a stack of clothes.

“Mr. Danforth would like you to come down for a meal before you depart,” she says, her tone much too light and airy for the setting. 

“Depart?” you ask, yawning. Just the simple act causes you to wince, your body still aching and sore. “Where are we going?”

“Home,” she smiles.

It’s unsettling, how pleasant everyone here is. Don’t they know what just happened? What you’ve been through?

Titus clearly has terrible taste in clothing. You realize this when you put on the clothes he has chosen for you. Just bleak, drab, business casual. You wince a little when buttoning the pants, your stitches crying out for sympathy. 

When you go downstairs, Titus is nowhere to be seen. You’re quietly grateful for the opportunity to eat in peace. Again, your first full meal since your first wedding. You don’t realize how weak you’d become until your belly is full again and your senses are renewed. 

A dark escalade pulls up to the front, and you are ushered out the door. Titus is standing outside, talking with the driver. He spares you a sideways glance before climbing into the back seat. You sit next to him, staring out the window the entire time.

“I’ll have your belongings brought to the house,” Titus says as the car peels away, still not looking directly at you.

“I don’t have many,” you say. 

Which is true. The clothes in your dresser. Your favorite books. And the necklace that your mother left you before she died. You were cursing yourself for not bringing it with you. But then, how could you have known that a weekend wedding getaway would morph into this?

Otherwise, there wasn’t much to want. 

“Somehow, that doesn’t shock me.” Titus replies.

You glance at him sideways, and his smug attitude makes you seethe. After everything you’ve been through this week, you should feel relieved that you’re still alive. And yet, you’re chained to this man.

You won’t feel any relief until you’re free from him. 

The house in Newport is not a house. It’s a sprawling estate, of course. Inherited by Titus after his father’s death, the house’s upkeep is its own operation. There’s more people working on the property than were on staff at your last job. Every need is taken care of, so that the Danforths don’t have to lift a finger.

Titus has probably never had to work for anything in his life. And now, you’re going to make him work for your favor. 

“Someone will show you to your room,” Titus says as the front doors open for you. Again, never lifting a finger, these Danforths. 

“What am I supposed to do here all day?” you ask, looking up at the foyer with curiosity. It’s grand and heavily decorated, paintings and lavish accents touching every corner of the space.

“I don’t care,” Titus replies, voice flat, already walking down one of the hallways.

“I’m just supposed to stay locked up in here?” you call after him, tone incredulous.

Titus stops dead. He turns on his heels and stalks back to you. 

Your chest tightens, the image of Titus running after you replaying in your head. 

“Upset with the lodgings, darling?” he says, voice low. “Remember, a golden cage is far more preferable to a goat pit.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, trying to settle the emotions building in your chest. 

“Now,” Titus continues. “Anything you should desire can be taken care of. Want to try horseback riding? Go to the stables. Want to rot your fucking brain all day? The theater room is on the first floor. Go online shopping. Do whatever you want. I don’t. Fucking. Care.” The last sentence is emphasised, his eyes boring into yours. 

“Whatever I want,” you reply, eyes narrow, “except leave.”

Titus relaxes slightly, a smile forming that doesn’t reach the rest of his face. “Now you’re getting it. I knew you had some sense.”

He wraps a firm hand around the back of your neck. Your breath stills and eyes widen, just barely, worried that something in him snapped. That volatile temper of his has decided to just kill you right there.

But he brings you closer and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Without another word, you watch him walk away. This time, keeping your mouth shut. 

It occurs to you that he could, actually, kill you at any time. Decide you’re not worth the trouble anymore. All of this would have been for nothing if you still end up dead by the end of it. And then Titus will have gotten everything he wanted, like he always has. 

It’s time to make yourself more valuable.

-

The forest on the edge of the property is secluded, just like you want it. You needed somewhere to practice without the prying eyes of the staff. You line up the shot, taking a deep breath. Almost ready, when you hear a branch snap behind you. 

Your arms fall to your sides, head turning to the sound. The tightness in your chest does not ease when you see Titus walk towards you. The only thing keeping you calm is that this time, you’re armed. Just in case.

“When they told me you were out here,” Titus stops just a few feet from you, “I thought I misheard.”

“Nope,” you say, turning your attention back to your practice.

“Of all of the hobbies you could have chosen, and I do mean all of them,” he walks closer, stepping around a fallen branch, “should I be worried that this is what you picked?”

You take a deep breath, fingers light on the blade. You bring the knife behind your head, other arm outstretched in front of you, finding your target. After steadying yourself, you launch the knife. It sinks into the tree. Not into the target, but also not on the forest floor. You take the victory. 

“I don’t know,” you turn to him, wiping your hands on your pants. “Should you be?”

“What’s the matter, nothing good on the television?” he asks.

“Don’t you have some small children to bring to tears or something?” you reply.

“Where did you even get the knives?”

You walk by Titus, jutting your chin out. “Like you said, I can get anything I want here.”

After collecting the knives from the bark, you find your starting point again, with every intention of practicing as if Titus isn’t standing there, watching you.

“You’re choking it,” Titus says. 

You glare at him. “Excuse me?”

“The blade.” Titus approaches you and takes your wrist in his hand, turning it over in his grip. You have the knife in your grasp, fingers gently wrapped around the base of the blade. He gently slides the blade down, so that your fingers are resting at the tip. 

“You have more leverage this way,” he says, voice low. 

Without explaining further, Titus moves his hands to your hips. You still, just barely, breath hitching in your throat. Based on the way his eyebrow lifts, and the corner of his mouth twitches, Titus notices.

He gently positions you, moving your hips so that you are facing him straight on, perpendicular to your target. You wait for his hands to fall away, but they linger just a little bit longer. You can feel his fingers twitch lightly against your hips.

“You will push through with this back leg,” he taps your thigh.

You watch his hands, eyes narrow.

“Now,” he murmurs. The hairs on the back of your neck stand. “Try again.”

Titus brings his hands behind his back and takes a few steps back. He nods, waiting for you to make your move.

You don’t hide the disdain in your face, but square up anyway. Blade behind your head, other hand out towards your target. One deep breath in, and out, and let the knife fly.

It lands right on the target. Not the center, but closer than you’ve been all afternoon. 

Titus flashes you a smug grin. “Good,” he nods, and you hate the way the word runs through you. “Maybe now you’ll be able to hit a sleeping elephant.”

“Fuck you,” you spit, readying your next blade. 

You throw again, remembering what Titus said, and hit closer to the center of the target. Titus’s smug grin permeates your periphery. You roll your eyes. 

“Alright, time to come inside,” Titus extends a hand. 

“I’m not a dog,” you spit. 

“No, and you’re not a child either. You’re going to come with me. Now.” His tone is flat, and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Unsettling as always. 

You collect your knives and walk by Titus, leaving his extended hand hanging in the air.

Titus directs you to your bedroom, keeping a respectable distance as you make your way through the halls. Even after moving to your permanent residence, he doesn’t have you to sleep in the same bed as him. Chivalrous, maybe. More likely, though, his clear disdain for you would ruin his sound sleep.

When you open the door, you realize why he brought you back in.

Your belongings have been delivered. Four boxes, stacked neatly on the floor, with your name printed on the front. Your entire life, reduced to this. You would be ashamed, but you worked for everything in those boxes. It’s all yours.

“Your apartment has been paid off. Furniture sold, and personal effects packed,” Titus walks in behind you. “I’m not sure how you managed to live in such a tiny hovel, though,” he adds, nearly under his breath.

You glare at him, unamused.

“Anyway,” Titus clears his throat, “Let me know if anything is missing.”

“Okay,” you approach the boxes, gently kneeling on the ground to open them.

Old concert shirts, a few pictures, and some well loved novels. You pick up your worn and very annotated copy of The Portrait of Dorian Gray, grateful that it made the trip.

You move to the second box. Then the third. And the fourth. Your movements become more haphazard with each box, hope fading fast. You check the excess packing material, thinking it must be hidden somewhere. Not missing, though. It can’t be.

“It’s not here,” you mutter. Not wanting to believe it, you rifle through the boxes again. 

“What is it?” Titus asks, stepping up behind you. 

“My necklace. The- the heart pendant. It’s not here,” your voice is rising. 

Titus looks at your possessions with near disgust. “I can buy you another necklace-”

“No,” you cut him off, tone harsh. You turn to him and try to decide how much you’re willing to share with Titus. “It was my mother’s.”

For the first time, something softens behind Titus’s eyes. You almost don’t notice it, but there is definitely something different in his expression. Something like empathy, if that’s even possible for him.

“I- I understand,” he nods, tone noticeably softer. “I’ll send someone out to see if it was missed.”

You sit on your bed, arms wrapped around your stomach. “She was a single mom, and tried to give me the world. It was the only thing of value she had to her name. When she died-” your voice catches in your throat. You look up at Titus. His hands are heavy at his sides, clearly not sure what to do at this moment. 

“When she died,” you continue, “it was the only thing I had left of her.”

There’s a heavy silence, a lengthy pause. You retreat into yourself, any bravado you had cut short. Any quips you may have for Titus die on your tongue.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Titus nods and folds his hands behind his back.

He leaves you alone in your room, your whole life reduced to four measly boxes and a broken heart.

-

Titus decides to throw a dinner party. He says it’s to honor the new marriage, and to celebrate the Danforths remaining at the high seat of the council. But this is clearly just a way for the wealthy to live in their wealth. Spending money just to spend. Luxury for luxury’s sake.

Your outfit was chosen by him, of course. You half expected it to be some tacky, gaudy display of horrendous opulence. It’s not like he has proven to have exceptional taste.

But the dress is surprisingly lovely. Lush, deep blood red fabric hugs every curve from your breasts to your hips, then drips down to the floor. Off the shoulder straps leave your collar bone exposed. With minimal beading, it’s much more subdued than you would have expected from him. Not that his wardrobe is particularly flashy, but these events have a way of bringing the tackiness out of people.

The maids finish preparing, leaving you at the vanity, staring at yourself in the mirror. You look beautiful. And you can feel your will starting to erode. You hate how much you like this gown on you. You hate how perfectly your hair is pinned. You hate how your skin is glowing, how well this life fits on you, like the ring on your finger. 

Titus enters the room without knocking. The vest he’s wearing has an ornate pattern on it, blood red, matching your gown. 

“You look beautiful,” he says. 

“Way to compliment yourself,” you roll your eyes, “since you’re the one that picked this out.”

“The dress is nice,” Titus says, standing behind you now, hands behind his back. “You look beautiful. Now, close your eyes.”

“Why,” you glare at him through the mirror.

“Just do it,” he squints at you, patience thinning.

You stare at him for a moment, but he’s unmoving. Finally, you relent.

“You aren’t particularly trusting,” Titus says, voice low. “Then again, neither am I.”

“I wonder why,” you mutter, eyes still closed.

You feel a chain drop down around your neck, and his fingers clasp it behind you. You can only imagine what kind of garish jewels Titus has picked out for you. Without waiting for him to release you, your eyes open, and your gaze falls immediately on the necklace.

Your mother’s necklace. 

A thin, gold chain and heart pendant, etched with an ornate design. Simple, but beautiful. You thought you’d never see it again.

Tears well in your eyes. You blink them away quickly, careful not to ruin your makeup, or let on how moved you are by this gesture.

“How-” you start, but you bite your tongue.

“The servant who collected your things tried to pawn it. Idiot. He has been killed for his treachery." Titus says those words so plainly, and even smiles at you. Like taking a life is as mundane as taking out the trash. 

Your painted fingers move to the pendant, touching it gently, making sure this is real. There is a pang of guilt at the thought of someone dying for this. But you think about what you would have done just to get it back, and suddenly your disdain doesn’t feel as strong.

You look at Titus through the mirror. “Thank you.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, but the rest of his face remains unchanged. Something flashes behind his eyes. Not smugness, but maybe pride. 

“Our guests will be arriving soon. Be sure you are in the foyer to receive them.”

And he leaves as quickly as he entered. 

Dinner is a chore, to say the least. These people, having no real lives or ambitions, have no personalities and no interesting things to say. They comment on the state of the world- which, seeing how far removed they are from it, leads to very shallow discussion. 

You remain silent, picking at the courses set in front of you. Any appetite you had vanished the moment you were seated and were forced into such mindless discussion.

Titus sits at the head of the table, and you at the other end. Every so often, he steals glances at you, and the necklace. But he otherwise does not acknowledge you or your presence at the table.

Somewhere near the end of the meal, you feel something nudge your leg. 

The cousin seated next to you, Jonathan or something, catches your attention. What you thought was a mistake proves to be very intentional when he drops his hand under the table, resting right on your thigh. His gaze is heavy, daring you to make a sound.

“Titus lucked out with you, didn’t he?” Jonathan’s voice is low, lost in the many conversations happening around the table. 

Your entire body goes stiff, unable to decide on what to do. Nothing in your brain materializes on your tongue, and for once, you are stunned into silence. The sheer audacity required to hit on you at a dinner party in your own house, when your psychotic husband is on the other end of the table.

“That is not a good idea.” Your words are weak, but it’s all you can think to say.

Jonathan gives your leg a rough squeeze. “Titus is all talk. We both know he’s not man enough to do what needs to be done,” his eyes drag over you, lingering over your chest and the deep breaths you’re taking. 

You look down the table at Titus, who doesn’t seem to have noticed. He’s locked in a conversation about who knows what. Oblivious to the disrespect happening right under his nose. 

Jonathan removes his hand and settles back in his chair, continuing on as though nothing happened. Your breath finally returns to you. Stupidly, you think that is the end of it. 

When the dinner party winds down, and the men gather in the drawing room for scotch and cigars, you excuse yourself. 

“I’m going to bed,” you murmur in Titus’s ear before slipping away. He gives a silent nod in understanding. 

In your room, you start by taking down your hair and removing your accessories. Your fingers once again linger on the necklace. Your heart squeezes in your chest, thinking of your mother, what she gave up for you. And how much you wish she was here to guide you. The necklace stays on.

There’s a knock on the door. Instantly, you know it’s not Titus. 

He doesn’t knock.

“Come in,” you say, thinking it’s one of the maids sent to help you undress.

The door creaks open, and Jonathan saunters in. He’s holding two glasses of wine in his hand. 

“I figure we pick up where we left off, what say you?” He sets the glasses down on a nearby table. 

“I say you should leave,” you say, backing away slowly. 

Jonathan loosens the tie around his neck. 

“You’re a woman with needs,” he says, stepping closer. It doesn’t take many strides for him to cross the room. “I’m sure you understand that a man has needs as well.”

His gaze appraises you again, dragging over your figure and practically licking his lips. 

“He will kill you,” you spit. 

“He won’t,” Jonathan shakes his head. “Because you won’t say anything, will you?”

Your back finds the wall, trapping you. Jonathan reaches out and tucks some hair behind your ear. “Pretty little wife,” he murmurs. “Pretty little trophy.”

Jonathan bends down and plants a kiss to your collar bone. Testing, to see how you’ll react. He looks up at you, searching for signs of betrayal. 

“Don’t,” you say, voice small. Your hands find his shoulders, and you start to push back. 

When you do, fury flashes in Jonathan’s eyes. This is no longer a game. At least, no longer a fun one. He captures your wrists in one hand and pins your arms above your head. 

“You’re going to take this like a good little whore,” he spits.

His other hand palms your breast roughly.

“I’ll scream,” you bite.

“I’m family,” Jonathan’s eyes are dark, “you’re just some gold-digging slut. We’ll see what happens. Who is believed.”

“Jonathan,” a voice cuts through the air. Angry, uneasy.

Never in your life have you been relieved to hear it. Until now.

Jonathan goes still. He releases you from his grip, and smooths the fabric of his shirt before turning. 

“I was wondering where you went off to. Only to find you groping my wife.” The words are venomous.

“Titus,” Jonathan nods. “Your wife has quite the insatiable appetite, doesn’t she?”

Jonathan’s voice is light, almost jovial. But there’s a tremble in it, and you can see the panic in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting to actually have to answer for this. “She asked me up here,” Jonathan continues, stepping closer to Titus.

Titus’s eyes move from Jonathan to you, looking for something, anything, to validate what Jonathan is saying. A quiet anger simmers below the surface, ready to explode with any excuse.

With everything you have gathered about the Danforths, specifically about Titus, you know what will happen if you out Jonathan and his true motives. His fate will be sealed. And right now, you couldn’t care less about him or his life. You give a near imperceptible shake of your head that Titus understands immediately. 

“Come with me,” he says to Jonathan, turning on his heels and moving quickly from your room. 

Jonathan turns to you, flashing a smile as he walks away. But the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and you know that he can feel how the air shifted. 

The door closes. You hear hushed voices for just a moment, before the loud bang of a gunshot cuts through the air. 

A heavy thud, then nothing.

Titus enters the room again. You see Jonathan’s legs on the ground on the other side of the door, his lifeless body already worthless, dead weight. The blood splatter blends in with the color of Titus’s vest, but you still see small specs around his collar and on his neck. The gun is still firm in his grasp. 

“Blood is not easy to wash from silk,” he nods to you. “And it’s easier to clean the floors than an entire room, anyhow.” The way he says it so calmly, so rationally, shocks you more than the killing itself.

At this point, after all you’ve been through, the violence should be second nature to you. There have been many sleepless nights spent reliving the lives you’ve taken. Their faces, bloodied and screaming, calling out to you. Asking why. But it was self defence. It was all in the name of survival. That’s what you say to their decaying bodies in your nightmares, at least. 

As horrifying as it is, you hope that you never one day grow numb to these careless acts of violence. 

You haven’t moved away from the wall yet, but your pulse has noticeably steadied. Titus sets the gun down on the table next to the glasses of wine and makes his way to you. 

“You should know,” Titus says, “I will always protect what is mine.”

You take a deep, steadying breath.

“And like it your not,” his voice drops low, “you are mine.”

Titus reaches out for you. This is the first time that you don’t flinch. The first time that Titus has reached for you, and your first thought is not of the possible and very likely damage he could inflict upon you. And has. 

There is no ire in his words. You slide your hand in his. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks, pulling you to the center of the room. 

You don’t argue as Titus turns you away from him. His hands drag from your hips, to your waist, up to your shoulders. 

“No,” you say, voice thin. 

“Good,” he says. 

His fingers find the top button of your dress, undoing it quickly. Your body stills. 

One of his hands lingers on your waist, while the other drags the zipper down your back. Slow and controlled. Your breathing shallows. 

Titus leans in, pressing a kiss to the base of your neck, then your bare shoulder. He pushes the straps of your gown down, the fabric giving way easily under his touch. The satin slips down your body, pooling at your feet. 

You’re left standing in front of him in your undergarments. Compared to the fear coursing through you when Jonathan touched you, this is different. You aren’t afraid, not of Titus. Not now. This feeling is harder to name. It’s almost curiosity. Almost.

Titus’s hands grip your bare hips. The touch shoots up your spine. It’s not bruising, but firm. He’s reminding you that he can, and will, do what he pleases. His mouth moves up your neck again. You don’t realize how long it’s been since anyone has really touched you until now. Not your ex-fiance, not anyone. 

Your body leans back to him without you realizing it, your back meeting his chest. 

One of Titus’s hands moves slowly from your hip to the front of your panties. Just resting, not moving between your legs yet. Titus sets his chin on your shoulder, looking down at how your body reacts to him. Your breath catches in your throat.

“Feeling needy, are we?” Titus’s voice is low and gravelly right at the shell of your ear. 

“N-no.” You don’t even believe yourself when you whisper it.

“Don’t lie to me, darling,” his fingers toy with the lacy seam. 

As much as you can feel the heat growing between your legs, you can’t get the context of this situation out of your head. What almost happened just 10 minutes ago, the dead body outside your bedroom door. The hands on you, and what else they have done to you.

“I’m-not-” you breathe.

Suddenly, Titus pulls away. You almost fall backwards, jolting back to yourself.

You turn to him, your face burning.

He can’t meet your eye as he smooths the front of his vest. You can’t quite read his face, but he looks almost disturbed, embarrassed.

“Good night,” he gives you a curt nod.

You watch him walk out, dazed. You have no idea what just happened, and you’ve stopped breathing entirely.

As soon as the door shuts, you drop to your knees, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Your hand presses to your chest, heart clenching, pulse racing. Everything from this evening collides in your brain. 

Jonathan’s leering, greedy gaze. The way Titus looked at you, angry, protective. How vulnerable he looked when he left. How your body eagerly accepted his touch. It’s all too much.

There’s no sleeping soundly tonight. 

Hours spent tossing and turning, you finally give up. Anxiety fills you all over again. Every sound, every creak in this god forsaken house, sounds like someone entering your room. You sit up, sleep deprivation pulling at your sanity. There’s no way you’ll get any rest like this. Feeling alone and unsafe. 

There is one room that you know no one will enter. 

Until now, neither have you.

You pad down the dimly lit hall, a few lights guiding your way. 

A large painting of the late Chester Danforth watches you walk by. His face is somber, stoic. You pause for a moment, feeling uneasy under his gaze. Titus’s eyes have the same look when he’s focused. You shake off the eerie similarities and push on.

You hold your palms to the heavy wood of Titus’s bedroom door, pressing your ear to try to hear any movement inside. All you hear is the racing pulse in your ears. 

Trying to be as quiet as possible, you push the door open, just enough for you to slip through. 

You see Titus’s sleeping figure illuminated by the moonlight. He’s on his back, one arm resting on his chest, and one arm splayed out next to him. You approach slowly and quietly, just in case he’s a light sleeper. 

It’s almost strange, seeing him like this. Completely disarmed. There’s a softness in his features that you haven’t been able to appreciate, what with his personality ruining it. You want to lean in and memorize him like this. The sharpness of his jaw, the slight curve of his nose, his long lashes.

Titus’s chest rises and falls steadily, clearly in deep sleep. You move quietly to the other side of the bed and slip under the covers, head resting over his outstretched arm. 

For a few moments, you just watch Titus sleep. Like this, you can pretend. You can pretend that he’s not who he is, and that you married into a normal life. That Titus is a loving husband. That you are not constantly unnerved by him and confused by his motivations. 

It lulls you to sleep.

Morning light streaming through the gap in the curtains wakes you softly. It takes you a moment for you to remember yourself and your surroundings. Everything comes back to you when you see Titus’s arm wrapped around your waist, holding you flush to his chest. His face is pressed against your hair. 

Annoyingly, this was probably the best night’s sleep you’ve had these last few weeks, which pains you to admit.

One minute. You allow yourself one minute like this. To feel Titus’s arm around you and again, pretend this is normal. You want to melt into his embrace, and forget what he’s done.

But you don’t want to risk him waking up like this, with his arms wrapped around you. There’s no way you would willingly give him that satisfaction.

You hold your breath and try to slip out from his grasp without waking him, almost tripping trying to contort yourself in such a way that makes as little noise as possible. When you straighten yourself out, Titus appears to still be sleeping. Thankfully. 

You quietly sneak to his door and pull it open without another glance. 

“Sleep well?” his groggy, deep voice calls out to you. 

You press your forehead to the door and curse quietly to yourself. When you turn around, Titus has one arm tucked behind his head, eyes on you. His mouth curves into a smug grin.

“Don’t.” The word is a curt warning. 

“Come back to bed, darling,” his voice is dripping with condescension. 

You remember why all of that softness from last night was not real. The fact that you were able to pretend this was remotely normal was not real. It was all in your head. You will never have a normal life with Titus, not as long as he is who he is. 

Face hot, you leave without another word.

-

“Pernilla,” you look up from your book, “where is Titus?”

“The guest room in the west wing,” she nods. Her eyes shift back and forth, and she looks uncharacteristically nervous.

“Okay,” you say, dragging out the end of the word. “Why is he in there?”

She doesn’t answer right away.

“You know what,” you hold a hand up. “Don’t worry about it.”

It takes you a second to even figure out where the west wing is- this house is far too big for normal people- and find the guest room.

You lean your head to the door and are immediately confused. All you hear is the sounds of sex. Whines, moans, and the animalistic grunts that can only come from your dear husband. 

The door creaks when you open it, and falls heavily shut behind you. 

“Darling!” Titus smiles when he sees you. 

The girl, whoever she is, is bent over in front of him. Her hands are tied behind her back with thick satin bindings, face twisted in pain or pleasure, you're not sure. Then again, the line between them is thin, anyway. 

Titus is thrusting into her at a dizzying pace, surely chasing his own release, not worried about the girl in front of him. His bare chest is glistening with sweat, biceps pronounced as he grabs the bindings of the girl in front of him, hauling her up and pressing her back to his chest. 

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Titus asks, looking at you with amusement. He drags his tongue up her neck, gathering the sweat. She whimpers, leaning her head back to his shoulder.

Titus forces her face forward towards you. “Meet my wife,” he says into her ear. 

“Are you trying to make me jealous?” You ask, crossing your arms. “That would suggest I want you in the first place.”

You can’t help your gaze from falling down to the girl’s poor pussy, where Titus moves in and out. It’s the first time you’ve seen him. All of him. You swallow hard, trying to keep your face flat.

“You expect all of us to take a vow of celibacy, just because you have?” he smirks. “Sit down,” Titus nods to the chaise across the room, “if you want to watch.”

The girl in front of him starts whining again. Titus covers her mouth with a firm grip. “Shut your fucking mouth,” he growls. 

You narrow your eyes. This was a no-win scenario. Leaving would imply that he got to you somehow. He could stay in here, fucking this girl in peace. Staying and watching would mean he could put on a show, and you would be subjected to whatever happened next. Or, worse, let him think you were turned on by this display. You wish you never walked in.

Arms still crossed, you walk towards the bed. Titus’s hips stutter slightly, clearly confused by this course of action. You grab the girl’s face with one hand, bringing her gaze to you. 

“Does that feel good?” you ask. 

“Mhmm,” she whimpers. 

“Did he let you come?” you push the hair out of her face. 

“N-no,” she whines. 

Titus looks down at you, smile faltering. 

With your eyes locked on Titus, you drag two fingers into your mouth, and press them against her exposed clit. She lets out a loud yelp. 

“Wha-what are you doing?” Titus groans, feeling the effects of your actions on his cock.

“Come on, come for me, let go,” you coo at the girl, caressing her clit as Titus continues to move inside. 

His pace has slowed, too busy watching you. 

You’re not sure how long he has been using this poor girl’s cunt, but it doesn’t take long for her to reach her peak.

“I’m coming,” she whimpers. “Oh my god.”

You help her ride through it, watching Titus’s face as she squeezes him. He drops her down onto the bed face first, his face twisted. 

“What’s the matter?” you smirk. “You gonna come now, too?”

He looks at you, breathless, as it dawns on him. He can stop now, stave off the climax he’s right on the edge of, or find his release, and end this charade.

“Bitch,” he mutters, moving inside the girl again. 

“Your bitch,” you spit. 

Titus is so sensitive at this point, that it takes three more thrusts for him to finish off inside the poor girl. 

“Show’s over,” you shrug, turning to leave. “And make sure you clean her up before you send her away. Please.”

-

Two can play at this game. 

Not that you want to hire an escort to fuck. Titus would clearly enjoy that. 

In true Titus fashion, you saunter into the study, unannounced. In your clothes. Not the ones Titus bought for you. The ones he turned his nose down at when they were delivered in boxes. 

Soft, dainty panties and a flowy nightgown that is far too short to be considered PG. It was your go-to sleeping outfit when you were trying to seduce your now dead ex-husband. Worked every time.

Titus's eyes rake over you, not even trying to hide his leering.

"Comfortable?" he asks, taking a sip of his whiskey.

"Very," you smile. You lie on the couch on your stomach, your ass almost completely out, and feet waving lazily in the air. You flip open a magazine, and try to pretend like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve read in the last two months.

Titus clears his throat and moves the paperwork in front of him to the side of the desk. He leans back in his chair and just…watches you.

You continue leafing through the pages, feigning ignorance. The quiet is unsettling, though. Every so often, you steal a glance at Titus, to find that sure enough, he’s still just watching. 

Deciding to take it up a notch, you roll over onto your back. Your legs drape over the backrest of the couch, and the soft satin falls even further, exposing the entirety of your legs. Very little skin is left covered.

Titus clears his throat.

“You have something to say to me?” you ask, not looking up from the page.

“Just that you are incredibly predictable,” Titus drawls. 

One of your legs falls to the edge of the couch, completely exposing your panties. “What’s the matter, dear? Can’t stand to look at what you can’t have?”

Titus rises from his desk and moves towards you. The magazine falls from your grip. He just stares down at you at first, almost appraising you. When he reaches down, you think he may break his word, you think he may have snapped. He may take you right here on the couch.

But he grips the front of your panties, dragging the fabric firmly between the folds of your pussy, rubbing right against your clit. 

Your jaw drops in a surprised, silent moan, eyes wide.

“You think you can tempt me?” he says, his voice low and gravelly. His eyes aren’t crazed. Intense, yes, but otherwise Titus is surprisingly calm. His grip on your panties tightens, increasing the friction on your clit. 

A low whimper escapes you before you can stop it. 

“That’s not-”

“You’ll have to try harder, my dear,” he says, finally letting go. The fabric hits your skin with a sharp snap. 

You yelp. Against your better judgement, and the soul still thriving in your heart, you are ashamed to admit how wet you are. 

“Satan knows I want you,” he caresses the side of your face.

You have to will your eyelashes not to flutter, and your heart to stop beating so fast. 

“But like I said,” Titus’s gaze is heavy, eyes boring into yours, “when I have you, you’ll be begging for me.”

You swallow hard, trying to get a fucking grip. This should not be turning you on, and yet.

And yet.

-

“What the fuck is going on in here?” Titus storms into the kitchen. The arguing, he ignored. It was when he heard your voice cut through the hall that Titus knew he needed to see what the hell was the matter.

He finds you standing there, thoroughly chastised by his tone.

“They won’t let me cook,” you cross your arms. 

The cooks look at Titus, eyes wide, not knowing what to do. 

Titus takes a beat, closing his eyes for a moment, like he’s trying to calm himself.

“Leave,” his voice booms through the kitchen. 

They vacate without another word. The entire kitchen leaves, a fury of kitchen clogs scurrying out of the room.

“Of course they listen to you,” you mutter.

“They would listen to you,” Titus says, moving closer to you, “if you didn’t ask them for things that directly contradict me. Now, what is this about?” 

“I wanted to make dinner,” you shrug. “They wouldn’t let me, kept offering to do it for me.”

“Really?” Titus’s eyebrows raise. “An entire team of expertly trained chefs, and you think you can cook better than them?”

“It’s not about better,” you snap.

“Fucking ridiculous,” he scoffs. 

“Like you would even understand,” your voice rises. 

“I don’t!” his matches.

“I need some agency, Titus!” You’re yelling now. The only person (alive) to dare raise their voice at Titus Danforth. “I don’t understand how you live like this. I need to know that I can still do something for myself. That I can still take care of myself.”

“You don’t need to take care of yourself,” he hisses.

“It’s not a matter of need, darling,” you spit out the pet name. “You obviously don’t get it. I’m sure Titus Danforth can’t even make a fucking grilled cheese!”

He narrows his eyes at that. You think you may have angered him, struck a nerve, but you don’t care. At this point, more than two months in, Titus has proven that he won’t lift a finger to you with the intent of causing pain. At least, not anymore.

“Sit,” he points to the stool in the corner.

“Titus, I’m not-”

“Sit. Down.” He hisses. “I won’t say it again.”

You settle down on the stool, arms still crossed. 

Titus takes a moment to orient himself before searching around the kitchen. He opens and closes multiple cabinets, not finding what he’s looking for. 

“This is painful,” you groan. 

“Shut up.”

“You don’t even know where anything is in here,” you roll your eyes.

He finally finds a skillet, and glares at you pointedly. 

“Congrats,” you scoff. 

He sets the pan on the burner and pilfers for everything else. Butter, sliced bread, cheese. 

“Cheddar, gouda, or havarti?” he asks over his shoulder, looking at the offerings in the fridge.

“Cheddar and gouda,” you reply.

“Of course,” he mutters.

You watch as he builds the sandwich, the actions clearly foreign to him. Nearly tearing a hole in the bread as he spreads the butter, and cursing to himself when he realizes that he let the pan get too hot. You watch as the man who walks with his head high, all the confidence in the world, stumbles through the kitchen. For you.

“My mother was a lot like you,” he says without removing his attention from the skillet. “She married into the family. What she wanted was security, what she got was my father.”

He flips the sandwich, wincing slightly when he sees how dark this side is. You listen to him silently. “In the end, she wouldn’t let this life consume her. Until it ended her. And my father saw her as weak for it.”

When Titus turns the sandwich out onto a plate, the second side is much lighter than the first. He seems pleased with himself, sliding the plate down the counter to you. 

“It’s a little well done,” you grumble. 

“Satan help me,” he sighs, eyes cast towards the ceiling, flexing his hands at his sides.

You take the plate in your hands, looking down at it, and back up to Titus. “So what you’re telling me is that your humanity died with your mother? That’s it? You are the way you are because she was the light? And then your daddy put it out?”

“What I’m saying,” he grits his teeth. “Is that the world is not black and white. We are all good. We are all evil. You have to be the strongest in the room. You have know how to play the game.”

“I’m tired of your fucking games,” you take the plate and storm out of the kitchen. 

“And by the way,” you pivot back for the last word. Apparently, you can’t help yourself. You raise the plate. “This is still not what I wanted. The grilled cheese was a joke. I was going to make myself a chicken quesadilla. So. Thanks for that. You proved that you can burn bread and that you don’t listen.”

Titus just blinks at you. “Incredible.”

-

This cat and mouse is exhausting. You don’t know how much longer you can do this, how much longer you can keep being the petulant, defiant bride.

One day, Titus is surely going to snap. He seems on edge as it is. When he gave you his word, he probably didn’t think you’d last as long as you have- three months now. The teasing and taunting from both of you has gotten to be pathetic and draining. 

Some days, you can almost feel your humanity eroding. Being locked away in the gilded cage, seeing no one, caring for nothing. It has a way of steeling you to the outside world and its problems in a way you swore wouldn’t happen.

But then, you’ll catch a glimpse of a story on the news. Or Titus will take you with him to the resort for a day of meetings. Being around people again, it reinvigorates you, grounds you, reminds you that there is something outside of the Newport walls.

“We should come out here more often,” you look at him over your sunglasses. 

“Why, are you bored at the house?” he drawls. 

You just stare at him. 

“Don’t look at me like that.”

You sit out by the pool of the penthouse suite at the Danforth Casino and Resort, while Titus paces back and forth on the phone. Every so often, his voice raises at whoever is on the other line. Eventually, you try to tune him out and lean your head back on the lounge chair. 

“You have a short temper,” you say when you feel his shadow cast over you, eyes still closed. “You should consider therapy.”

“I’m in therapy. It’s called a cigar club, very effective,” he responds. “I need to take care of some business down at the casino.”

You wave him off. “Okay,” you say, uncaring. 

You expect him to stalk off, like he always does. But instead, he bends down and presses a rough kiss to your head. You wave him off.

“I’ll be back shortly.” 

You mumble a response.

As the time passes, you get bored fast. After an hour, you decide you’ve had enough. With the entirety of this resort at your fingertips, Titus thinks you’re going to stay locked up in this room? 

Laughable.

You pull a sundress over your swimsuit, slide into some sandals, and take the elevator down. 

There’s people everywhere. You wander the lobby, watching the uber wealthy fret over luggage and take pictures by the front entrance. You wonder, if they knew of the blood spilled in order to keep this thing afloat, would they still come? Still make their reservations, host their bachelorette parties? Or would they turn their heads, somber for a while, mumbling about thoughts and prayers, and still come back for more?

You move on, knowing the answer.

You see the cinnamon sugar curls of your dear husband, his back to you, talking to someone you’ve never met. They’re standing in the doorway of the casino, having a heated discussion. You try to stay on the fridges, watching without looming, but it doesn’t last long. 

The man sees you, and immediately his demeanor changes, lightening up to something worthy of a show.

“Ah, the wife,” his face lights up dramatically at the sight of you. You try not to roll your eyes at the address.

Titus’s head snaps in your direction. The heat behind his eyes fades, brows knitting together into something akin to concern. You step closer, plastering on a smile of your own.

“Mrs. Danforth, lovely to make your acquaintance.” The man bows his head and kisses the back of your hand. It’s not exactly inappropriate, but it still confuses the hell out of you. 

“Likewise,” you reply, still unsure of what to make of him.

“I’m Jones, your husband’s favorite business partner.” Jones flashes a mouth full of tacky veneers. 

“Remains up for debate,” Titus deadpans. 

“I hear you hold the humanity of our man Titus, here,” he grabs Titus by the shoulders, shaking him a little. 

Titus clearly does not like that.

“Wha- what do you mean?” you ask, your gaze flickering between them.

“Enough-” Titus starts.

“Apparently,” Jones continues, “Titus has been making all kinds of changes with his new seat. And people seem to credit all of it to his marriage to you.”

In an instant, his smile is no longer joyful. Jones drags his gaze down your body, sizing you up, deciding what to make of you. 

Titus’s jaw clenches. He opens his mouth to say something, but stops when you drape your arms over his shoulder. He brings a hand to your waist as you press your body to his side. 

“Well, if you know anything about my husband,” you say, “you know that he doesn’t do anything on anyone’s behalf. Afterall-”

You look Titus dead in the eye, your noses almost touching.

“He’s not a man that can be controlled.”

Titus’s jaw works again, eyes refusing to lift from yours. 

“Right,” Jones nods. “Of course.”

“Go away, Jones,” Titus grits, still not looking away from you.

Jones lingers for a moment longer. 

“Now,” Titus raises his eyebrows and flicks his wrist in annoyance.

As soon as Jones is gone, you remove your hands from Titus. But he keeps his grip securely around your waist. 

“I thought I told you to stay upstairs,” he mutters. 

“You didn’t, darling,” you smile. 

“It should go without saying at this point.”

A hand firmly at the small of your back, he leads you back to the elevator. You grumble under your breath the entire way.

“What was that about, anyway?” You ask as soon as the elevator doors close. 

“Don’t speak to me right now,” he says without looking at you, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“It’s a long ride to the top,” you say, “plenty of time.”

“Do you ever stop talking?” Titus snaps. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “No.”

Titus moves quickly. His hand wrapped around your jaw, not hard but forceful, pushing you against the shiny, opulent wall of the elevator. Your eyes widen.

“I have been very patient with you,” he spits. “Any other slut would have been bent over my knee a hundred times already. And still, you push me.”

“Titus,” your voice is thin. It’s the only word you can get out. 

He’s completely pressed against you, and you feel every muscle and hard outline of his body.

“You think you’re better than me, don’t you? Higher, holier, cleaner” he continues, “but I’ve seen what those pretty hands are capable of. The violence, the destruction. You were one of us before I put the ring on your finger. Before our blood mingled on the page.”

You want to argue, but Titus is right. Whether or not it was self defense, you still did those things. You still hurt people. And lived to not regret it at all.

“You want me to tell you that I want you? Huh?” Titus’s pupils are completely blown, voice harried. “You want me to tell you that when I fucked that girl, I pretended she was you? What difference would it make?”

“Titus,” you croak again. You bring your hands up around his biceps. The action is small, but it does something to him. At the very least, it snaps him out of it. He presses his lips together, and with a frustrated growl, Titus releases you from his grip. 

Your breath comes back to you all at once. 

“Do not mistake my restraint for anything other than that,” he spits. 

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to the penthouse. Titus storms out without another glance at you. 

You’ve completely lost it. There’s no other explanation for what you are feeling. This man has chased you, threatened you, and tried to kill you- multiple times. He’s made you fear for your life. 

But now, when you watch him pace the length of the patio from the other side of the sliding glass door, you twist the ring around your finger. You think about the serenity of his sleeping form. The way he protected you from his own family. The lengths he went to for the one thing in your life you held dear. Even that stupid, nearly burned grilled cheese.

Ursula was wrong when she said there was no goodness in him. She just wasn’t looking in the right places.

Titus has won. Again. It doesn't bring you any joy. But what's worse is knowing you are trapped either way. And you are so tired of fighting, of pushing, of making your life harder. Wouldn’t it just be easier to acquiesce? To give in to the part of yourself that isn’t repulsed by any of this?

And really, how bad can selling your soul really be? In the grand scheme of things?

The sun dips down below the horizon. Room service has brought up your meal, and you sit in silence with Titus. 

The sound of cutlery hitting against the plates is interrupted by Titus’s deep breath. Your attention snaps to him immediately.

“I…” he starts

You look up at him from behind your glass. The sip of wine turns into a full gulp.

“I dismantled a terrorist organization in the Middle East.”

You set your glass down, nodding, trying to absorb this information.

“That’s what Jones was referring to. He had an arms deal with them that is now…void.”

Titus does not look proud or pleased. You try to catch his gaze, but he won’t look at you directly. 

“Why are you telling me this?” you ask carefully.

“You asked,” he says.

After a beat of silence, you continue. “You don’t have to do anything on my behalf.”

“I don’t.” Titus finally looks at you, his words heavy. “It’s hard to invigorate economic growth when those people are being slaughtered, so.”

Titus shrugs. He isn’t eating anymore, silverware set down on his plate. 

“Of course,” you nod. 

You don’t know what to make of this information. Would Titus have always made that decision? Was Jones right, are you somehow swaying him? It’s something you’ll probably never know.

Titus still won’t sleep in the same room as you. Now you realize, it’s not disdain, it’s temptation. The best way for him to ensure that he keeps his hands to himself is to make sure there is a physical wall between you. 

It’s late, but you can’t stop thinking. The time you spend undressing, your thoughts are with Titus. Trying to figure out how you feel, how to move forward. What the right choice is in this impossible situation. Sleep isn’t even an option right now.

You tighten the robe around your waist, wringing the straps in your hands. Your body and mind are at war with each other, fighting over control. But really, the choice is simple. Keep fighting, keep resisting, or take your place. Accept your fate. Make this system work in your favor.

And you’ve come too far to remain a prisoner. 

Your knuckles hit the door lightly, almost sheepishly. It’s like you’re giving yourself an out if he doesn’t hear. 

“Come in,” Titus’s voice calls from the other side.

You slip in quietly, shutting the door behind you.

Titus’s hungry eyes watch as you cross the room. He’s standing by the fireplace, stance wide, top buttons of his shirt open. The dim lighting of the room and low fire highlight his features, the ones you came to appreciate in the moonlight.

You twist the tie of your robe again, trying to steady your heartbeat. 

“What is it?” TItus asks, crossing his arms. 

You don’t say anything for a moment, just looking around the room. The entire Newport house, and even the lodge, have Danforth written all over them. Old, ancient money, collections that would put a museum to shame. But this is the first time you are surrounded by Titus’s things. What he holds with value.

“I thought maybe we could sleep in the same bed tonight,” you say, meandering towards his desk. Titus’s eyes track your movements, but he doesn’t stop you.

“You thought?” Titus narrows his eyes at you. 

You gently push a stack of books aside, fanning them out to read the covers. Most of them are ancient-looking notebooks, or books on finance. But one catches your eye.

The Portrait of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. The same edition as your very well-loved copy. He’s been reading it, you can see the tabs and dog ears as evidence.

“Yes,” you whisper, gaze meeting his. 

When you finally approach Titus, he drops his arms to his sides. You reach for his shirt, carefully undoing the rest of the buttons. The fabric falls open, exposing the lightly freckled skin that you’ve only seen once before. Titus watches your face as your eyes drop to his chest. 

You raise your hands towards him.

Titus grabs your wrists. Your breath catches in surprise, but not fear.

“Don’t toy with me.” His voice is a low warning. 

“I’m not,” you reply. You are not trembling, you are not confused. There is not an ounce of mischief in your actions. Not this time.

He releases his grip, and you bring your hands to his shoulders, gently pushing his shirt down over his shoulders to the ground. You don’t hide your appraising stare. His broad chest, his strong arms. Every move is slow and deliberate. You’re taking your time, and Titus is taking you in. 

"Say it," he says, still not raising his voice.

You chew on your bottom lip. 

“I need to hear you say it,” his voice is still strong, but laced with less venom. Almost desperate. Almost.

"Titus," you look him in the eye, "I want you. Please.”

Titus’s eyes- though already dark- cloud over with something forceful. He clamps his hands around your waist, pulling you closer to him. His eyes move between yours and your lips, like he’s trying to make his mind up. Decide if you mean it, or if this is just a trick.

He takes you for your word.

His mouth presses against yours. Just like on your wedding night. Forceful, eager. Only this time, you kiss him back. Your mouth opens for him, taking his tongue against yours. This is the first time he’s kissed you since the wedding night. And that was completely one sided.

This time, you whimper into his mouth, and it spurs him forward.

It’s not sloppy. Titus is many things, but not sloppy. He’s eager, ready to take what he believes is his. 

And as of now, you are. Completely.

He grabs at the tie of your robe, undoing it and letting the soft fabric fall, leaving you in your delicate lingerie. Your exposed skin prickles in the cold air. It’s not the first time Titus has seen you like this. But it’s the first time he’s been able to drink you in, knowing that it’s all for him. 

“On your knees,” his voice is gruff, catching his breath.

The command runs through you.

You lower yourself to the floor, looking up at him through your lashes. Titus’s breath comes out heavy as he loosens the buttons at his waist. His eyes don’t leave yours as he pushes the waistbands down, discarding both his pants and underwear at the same time. 

Your eyes widen slightly at the sight of him, hard and ready. You think back to when you saw him fucking the escort. That was different. Now, you’re seeing him fully, right in front of you. Embarrassingly, your mouth waters a little. 

When you think he’s going to come closer, Titus actually steps away from you. He looks smug as he settles back into an arm chair by the fireplace. 

He watches you, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. 

“Come here,” he waves. 

Heat rises in your cheeks. You know what he wants. After a deep breath, you move to your hands and knees, and slowly crawl to him. He watches you cross the room, hungry and waiting. You push your face against his knee, resting your head on his leg. 

“Good girl,” he smiles. The praise courses through you. You should be embarrassed. This should be upsetting to you. But for some reason, your panties are completely soaked. 

Titus looks down. “You know what to do.” 

You swallow once, bracing yourself. When you reach for him, and wrap your fingers around his length, Titus’s inhale sharpens. His smile falls fast. It makes you remember that he had been waiting for this, too. Even if he wasn’t completely without sex in the meantime.

With your mouth wide, you look up at Titus and drag your tongue up his length, gathering the salty precum at the tip, watching for his reaction. 

Titus’s mouth opens slightly, feeling your tongue against him. He reaches one hand behind your head, threading his fingers through your hair, and holds you steady. 

“Come on,” he says, “take it.”

You open your mouth as wide as you can, and he pushes your head down. One of your hands rests on his thigh, and when you take him as far back as your throat will allow, you squeeze gently. It’s involuntary, like a muscle reaction.

And he stops. 

Titus’s eyes close for a moment, feeling your wet mouth tight around him. “That’s it,” he groans. 

You gag slightly, and after a moment, Titus lets you up for air. Saliva drips from your lips onto his lap. He lets you take a moment before pushing your mouth back around him. 

It’s equal parts strength and trust. Titus pushes you down further and further each time, only stopping when your fingers curl gently at his thigh. 

Eventually, Titus releases his grip, giving you autonomy. You don’t relent, bobbing your head up and down, hand stroking the length your mouth doesn’t reach. Titus’s fingers grip the arm of the chair, growing more and more restless the longer you work him.

“Enough,” he says. His voice is strong, but he’s slightly breathless. You try not to get too smug, knowing that you can elicit this reaction from him.

“Enough?” you ask, resting your cheek on his thigh again.

He motions for you to stand, and you slowly rise to your feet.

He rises along with you, capturing your mouth with his again. His hands grasp as much of you as possible. It’s a frenzied kind of contact. After months of depriving him, Titus finally has you. And he can’t stop touching you.

“You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?” he mutters into your mouth. 

You reach behind you for the clasps at your bra.

“No,” he grips your arms and pulls away, “I want to do it.” 

“Okay,” you roll your eyes, just a little, and drop your hands, letting Titus reach behind you. 

His eyes don’t move from yours until the fabric falls away, exposing more of you. He takes you in, and can’t help himself from reaching up and palming your breast, catching a hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger. 

You hiss, the sensation shooting through you.

“Sensitive?” he asks, dipping his mouth down to your chest. 

You gasp and thread your fingers in his hair, holding him close. Titus holds you, hands splayed out on your waist and ass. 

“Please,” you whimper, running your hands down his arms. 

“Please what?” he mutters, standing over you again.

“Please,” you breathe, “I need you inside me.”

Titus smiles, the tone of your voice clearly exciting him.

He kisses you, pushing you towards the bed. When the backs of your legs hit the mattress, you collapse onto your back.

“Let me see her,” he mutters, pushing your legs open. He presses his mouth to your panties, dragging his tongue over the wet spot that’s formed.

“Don’t make it weird,” you writhe under him.

“What’s the matter?” Titus looks at you from between your thighs. “Embarassed?”

“No,” bite back, but you feel heat rush your cheeks. 

Titus pulls at the straps of your underwear, tugging the fabric down your legs. 

He starts on your thighs, biting down on your skin, soothing the marks with his tongue. He pushes your legs up, knees towards your stomach to get a better angle. You are completely open and exposed to him, everything on display.

“Fuck,” he hisses, licking his lips before kissing the skin just around your cunt.

“Titus,” you whine. 

“Look at how wet you are,” he mutters against you. “Who is all this for?”

You whimper, desire clouding your thought processing power. His tongue slides quickly over your folds, just tasting you for now.

“Say it,” he grunts. 

“For you,” you gasp, back arching off the mattress. “It’s for you, Titus.”

“That’s right,” he growls. Two fingers slide over your pussy, teasing, before slipping in easily. “Mine.”

Your jaw drops at the sudden thrust. 

“Oh shit,” you hiss.

“I can’t believe this is what you’ve been hiding,” TItus says, slipping a third finger into you.

You can’t think of anything remotely intelligent to say. The combination of Titus’s mouth on your clit, drinking you in, and his fingers sliding in and out, brings you to the edge faster than you wanted. It has been months, after all.

“Titus, I’m so close,” you bring your hand down into his hair, pushing your hips closer to his mouth, chasing the release.

“No,” he pulls away. “Not yet.”

You let out a frustrated groan. “What the fuck?”

“The only way you get to come,” he stands upright, looking down at your desperate form, “is wrapped around my cock.”

You stare daggers, but open your legs for him anyway, as he slowly fists himself, moving closer. 

Titus bends over you, a glint in his eye. He presses a firm kiss to your lips again, tongue sliding against yours. He swallows your gasp when you feel his tip graze over your pussy, teasing you. 

“Titus,” you moan. 

“What, darling?” he drops his mouth to your jaw, trailing wet kisses to your neck.

You buck your hips slightly, seeking out any kind of friction you can get. 

“Words,” Titus growls, nose brushing yours. “Tell me what you want.”

You kiss him, taking his bottom lip in your teeth as you pull away. “Enough with the teasing. Fuck. Me,” your eyes narrow.

“That’s more like it,” Titus smiles. 

“I told you,” he says, lining himself up with your entrance, “when I take you, you would beg for it.”

Any smart quips die in your throat when he suddenly thrusts inside of you. You take him all the way in all at once, pushing you to your limit.

“Fuck,” Titus grunts. “Look at that. You take me so well.”

“Titus,” you breathe, voice wavering. “It’s too much. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he says, holding your legs up over his shoulders. “You’re going to be a good girl and take it.”

He starts moving, and your vision immediately starts fading at the edges. You’re completely overwhelmed, voice already ragged. 

“You feel so good,” Titus says, pressing his face to your leg. He kisses your calf as he slowly pulls out before pushing all the way back in.

Titus watches your face, watches for the moment that your whines change from pain to pleasure. Only then does he start to pick up the pace. 

“Talk to me, darling,” he pants. “I want to hear you.”

“You’re splitting me apart,” you moan. 

“You want me to stop?” his mouth curls up into a sly grin. 

“No.” The word slips out quickly. Too quickly. 

Titus presses a smug smile to your leg. 

“Don’t,” you snap, but the word is not as threatening as you want it to be.

Titus moves his hand down between your legs, pressing gentle circles over your sensitive clit. 

Your hands find purchase on the sheets, gripping them so tightly you almost cramp. It’s impossible to keep your body still, arching and writhing under him. 

The climax you were so cruelly denied just moments ago builds back up in your belly.

“Please,” you look up at Titus. This is as close as you will let yourself get to literally begging him. 

“How could I deny that face,” Titus smiles down at you. The mischievous glint is gone, his eyes only focused on your and your breath. 

Broken, desperate sounds claw their way from your throat as you finally feel the euphoric release you were chasing. The orgasm washes over your entire body, all the way down to your toes. 

Titus feels it, too. His jaw goes slack and his hips stutter, feeling your walls squeeze around him. 

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he moans, fucking you through it. 

“You need- ugh- Titus please,” you press your hands on his hips, completely over-stimulated and overwhelmed. 

He pulls out of you, but not without a sly grin plastered over his face. 

“Too much for you?” Titus bends over you and kisses your neck.

“Don’t,” you groan. But your legs wrap around his hips, holding him close. 

“I think I’ll say whatever I please,” he kisses you hungrily. “After all this time, I’m going to enjoy this.”

You drag your nails down his freckled back, pulling small noises from Titus. 

“We need to set some rules,” you whisper into his ear. 

Titus pulls away, propping himself up over you. 

“Excuse me?” He raises an eyebrow.

You grip Titus’s shoulders and push him, rolling the both of you over until you’re straddling him. Based on his expression, Titus is surprised, but not upset. 

With the new position, and your senses finally coming back to you, you smile down to Titus. 

“I want to sit in on council meetings,” you say, rubbing your cunt over Titus’s dick. 

“That’s not-”

“I will.” You cut him off, leaving no room for an argument. “You don’t have to include me in every discussion, but I will be there.”

Titus rests his hands on your hips, helping you hold yourself up on shaky legs. 

With Titus’s dick in your grip, you try to sink down on him, only able to take a few inches at first. 

“That’s it,” Titus mutters, squeezing your leg reassuringly. 

Unable to control your whimpers, you lower yourself further and further. 

With one final push, you arch your back over Titus, taking him all inside of you. He brings a hand up to your breast bone, dragging all the way down your stomach before gripping your hips.

You move above him, slowly and intentionally. The fervor of moments ago has melted into something almost religious. Two bodies becoming one, meeting each other where they are. 

“I will not be your pet.”

Titus just moans, looking up at you with those pathetic eyes. For a split second, you see his bravado drop. He looks completely at your mercy as you ride him. Your hips move back and forth, grinding against him.

“I will not be your trophy. I will not be your silent arm candy. I am your wife, and you will treat me as such.” You lean forward, gripping his shoulders for stability. 

“Yes,” is all Titus manages. His voice is beginning to thin, the same pleasure in you finding its hold on him.

“And in return,” you bite your lip, letting yourself feel this without shame or embarrassment. “I will truly be your partner. Completely. Body and mind.”

Titus’s eyes flash dark, the aggression taking hold again. “Yes.”

He looks up at you, licking his lips, moving his hands to grip your ass. His hips buck upwards, picking up your slow, deliberate pace. It catches you off guard, your grip tightening on his shoulders and leaving small half moons under your nails. 

You lean forward over him even more, allowing him to control the pace. You are almost completely overwhelmed by pleasure, feeling him hit that spot deep inside you that makes you squirm. 

“Titus,” you moan right into his ear. “I’m gonna come again.”

Titus brings a heavy hand down onto your ass, pulling a yelp from you. 

“Yeah?” Titus grunts. “Greedy, greedy girl. Gonna come on my cock again?”

“Mhmm,” you nod your head, eyes closed.

“Go ahead,” Titus brings his hand down again, squeezing your ass roughly. “I’m going to fill that greedy cunt. Claim you once and for all as mine. Forever.”

When you fully collapse on top of him, face buried in the crook of his neck, Titus presses a kiss to your shoulder before sucking a bruise to your skin. The feeling of his teeth grazing you, leaving little marks, pushes you over the edge. 

You come again, hard, with his name on your lips.

The second you clench around him, crying out for him, Titus loses himself inside you. He buries himself deep, not letting up until he’s sure he’s completely spent. 

Your body is almost completely useless, just dead weight on top of Titus. He presses another kiss to your shoulder before carefully rolling you off him, pulling out of you slowly. 

You lay on your back, trying to regain control of your breath, watching Titus sit up against the headboard. You reach your hand out, gently dragging your fingertips against his leg. He takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. 

“Is this what love is supposed to feel like?” he asks.

The question catches you completely off guard. You blink, trying to understand. 

“This is the closest we are going to get,” you say, curling your body around him.

“I love you,” Titus says, pressing a kiss to your lips. 

Something foreign blooms inside of you. It can’t be love. You have felt love before. For your mother, your friends, and your ex-fiance- before he tried to kill you, obviously. 

This thing with Titus is different. Everything that has led up to this moment compiles together into something like attachment. Your souls are linked forever. When you look at him, you just feel like he’s a part of you. 

The woman you were a few months ago is no more. She’s had to adapt to her surroundings.

“I-” you start, resting your head on his shoulder. “I love you, too.”