To See the Summer Sky is Poetry

There was no fighting it – not completely. Neither of you had the willpower to stay underwater when the air you needed to breathe was at your fingertips, your scent all over your house enticing him, his seeping into it in perfect harmony, like puzzle pieces falling into place.

Before you knew it you were standing inches apart, his nose trailing along your wrist with a groan, your mind hazy, body vibrating in anticipation, voice breathless even as you breathed quick and shallow in order to remain composed and at least a tad rational. Exchanging names was the least you could do and the most you managed before you could not hold back any longer.

You knew who he was; he knew you knew. You knew his situation, or enough of it, the star he had been carrying on his chest faded and torn away, his golden boy persona and looks long gone.

It didn’t make a goddamn difference.

If anything, the ragged bearded man who stood but two inches from you was the embodiment of an alpha and everything about him had your inmost carnal instincts and soul-deep longing scream mine.

My Steve. My alpha.

The kiss he pressed to your wrist was tender, the chirp escaping you nearing a whimper, knees wobbling under the overwhelming sensation rushing through your body. He caught you with arm firmly wrapped around you and a kiss that was all teeth and desperate need and laying a claim and you reciprocated with fervour, inhaling his intoxicating scent and the rest were days to remember spent in a haze and pleasure you had never known to exist before.

And pain. Sharp and dull at once, its echo resonating in your ribcage even now as you shed the gardening gloves and went to wash your hands, starting the kettle and laying out ingredients for a warm homecooked meal Steve – former Captain America turned fugitive from the law of several countries – deserved and got to eat scarcely.

Sometimes, you didn’t make it past a hello, his hands on you wishing to recreate the imprints they had left weeks if not months ago, exploring you anew, nose against your neck, teeth scraping over the most sensitive part of your throat to induce pleasure so intense you forgot how to make a sound or think.

Other times, you held each other first and inhaled softly, allowing yourselves to reacquaint with someone who was fated to belong with you, who was yours with every fibre of their being, the cracks in your ribcages mended at last, body, soul and home rebuilt.

Today, it seemed, was the case of the former.

You were ruminating through the cabinets, trying to figure out what to cook, when Steve’s arms circled you from behind and pulled you to his front, nose instantly at your collar, breathing in deeply with a satisfied rumble in his chest that had your omega shivering with delight. Heat rushed all over your skin as you inhaled deeply, hands covering his, body melting in his hold already as you felt familiar burn at the apex of your thighs respond to his presence like clockwork.

“Alpha…” you whispered, shuddering when he hummed behind you, arms squeezing tighter, mouth pressing to the side of your neck, lingering, a quick lap of tongue over your skin making him groan; and you clutch at his forearms, legs turning weaker as your blood rushed elsewhere.

It was torture; torture of the bittersweetest kind, a tease of a promise never delivered on and never as much as made. It twisted your stomach in knots, the ache of his absence, the agonizing absence of a bonding mark already flaring through you and chasing tears into your eyes, deep-bone agony you knew would come again, because you had been here before. Every single time.

-.-💕-.-

First, you waited on the long list of applications and the verification process. Then, once you got approved, your first steps into the seductive molasses of BDSM were wobbly at best. 

But it was expected, you told yourself. Master Simon assured you of that, as well, serving as a chaperone and guidance through the black marble walls and crystals glittering like diamonds. Astonishing, glamorous background for the most carnal, dirty acts. Some of which terrified, or straight repulsed you; some you yearned after.

With the excitement and hope, however, a gloomier mood started appearing. Not because of the club itself, but because each night you attended, you returned home with a heavy ache in your chest. Sadness. Anger. Disgust with yourself. How you wished that disgust came from experiencing filthy things and battling your appalled sense of propriety! Instead, it was from the growing conviction of being a huge disappointment.

As a new submissive in the club, you drew curious stares at first - which was both overwhelming and pleasant. But it didn’t correlate with active interest. Sure, the first two weekends consisted of a few conversations, as well three invitations to scene. 

Which, in a way, were more than you imagined, then later brought a sense of annoyance and disappointment. As if something was missing and the submissive creature inside you wasn’t satisfied with what you got. 

As weeks passed, the worse it became. Doms didn’t approach you. When you mustered all your shaky courage and tried to initiate an interaction yourself, you were very politely declined. Which was okay, you told yourself. Not every Dom had to be interested in you. With each failed attempt, though, a voice in your head cried louder and louder - No one is interested in you. 

The club organised particular activities that allowed all single submissives and Dominants to participate and find unexpected matches for a scene. Those games terrified you with the unknown - of which Dom might pick you, what thing they would do to you - yet you forced yourself to be a part of it. Again, for that flickering hope of clicking with someone for more than just a single scene after which they’d avoid you like the plague.

Thrill at the prospect of another night at the Black Diamond started diminishing. It still bubbled under your skin when you entered the marble halls and re-dressed in the changing room. However, as hours passed with you sitting in the submissives’ lounge, watching the spectacles around you, with no one approaching you even for a short conversation, the thrill died down.

Instead, that awful dread of going back home unfulfilled and forgotten rose. 

You couldn’t say you didn’t get a single scene, that you didn’t moan in a delirious orgasm, or felt the sting of a palm on your asscheek. But each of these scenes built up to something amazing, only to flatline afterwards. 

The Doms provided aftercare, though it felt like an obligation to be checked off the list rather than a genuine interest in making sure you were alright. No Dom asked you to scene with them for a second time.

So your mind worked overtime, thinking up the reasons for your complete failure. 

That night, despite being convinced it would be another night with you crying yourself to sleep, you walked into the club with the same hope you tried to maintain each time. Even if it faded faster and faster. 

As usual, you greeted other submissives with a smile, politely bowed your head to any Dom passed who glanced your way. You were on your route to the sitting area for submissives when Master Simon appeared in your way. 

“Would you please come with me?” Hazel eyes looked at you with a certain glint. You were unsure if it foreshadowed good, or bad things to come. 

“There’s someone who wants to meet you.” He tossed over his shoulder, already turned forward and walked across the club. 

You padded behind him, heart panging in your chest with a sudden jolt. Someone wanted to meet you?! Was it someone new? Newer than you? Or was it another of Simon’s attempts to arrange a scene for you - an act of pity which made you feel ashamed, yet you still clung to it like a starved orphan ready to eat a burned scrap of bread from the street. 

The man Simon took you to was seated on one of the chaises in the resting area. His pose was relaxed, but in a way a lion might be relaxed in the middle of the road in savannah. Legs slightly spread, back resting fully against the cushions, a tumbler of whiskey in one hand. 

He had blonde hair, with darker streaks here and there, all styled back in a soft swipe. His beard was trimmed. A pair of glasses rested on his nose, behind them striking blue eyes watched your approach. 

Master Simon said your name, pointing at you to stand in front of the man, whom he then introduced:

“Master Raymond.” 

With that, Simon simply turned around and walked away. He was always quite direct, and a man of few words, but he also showed care and attention in small doses. That he didn’t bother to do that meant he was sure you weren’t in any kind of danger. 

Or, at least, not in a bad kind of danger. 

You swallowed nervously, fingers fidgeting at the hem of the silky dress you chose to wear that night (it might as well serve as a nightie). Raymond studied you for a silent moment longer, before he spread his legs wider and tossed one of the cushions on the floor between them.

It took you only a single heartbeat of hesitation before you moved forward and dropped onto your knees. 

When you filled out all the forms and signed the contracts for the club membership, there was a thick file of rules. You always had the right of refusing a scene, not only stopping it if your limits were crossed, but simply not starting one. However, as a submissive in Black Diamond, you were also expected to kneel down for a Dom, if they required it (without any sexual acts following), as well undress on command. You quickly figured out it was to reinforce the thrilling power imbalance between a Dom and a sub. 

“I’m Raymond Smith.” The man introduced himself fully. A name you instantly recognized.

“Hello, Sir.” You forced your hands to rest gracefully on your thighs as you looked up at the owner of the club. The man who decided to accept you. 

“You know who I am,” he wasn’t asking, not really, so you only nodded. “We didn’t get a chance to meet earlier,” Raymond continued, “but I returned to find out what an unusual case you are.” 

There was no jab in his words, yet they strummed a sensitive chord within you. Your own insecurities intoned a chorus of hateful words and promises of exile. 

“Black Diamond exists so people can explore and get a fill of their desires. They get to learn about themselves, find themselves, find others who match their needs. So tell me-” slowly, Raymond leaned forward; blue eyes peeking at you from behind the glasses- “why aren’t you thriving?” 

You could shrink on yourself and say that you don’t know. Maybe even lie that you were most appreciative and happy with what the club provided. 

But Raymond was an experienced Dom, who would see right through poorly veiled bullshit. 

You just had to admit the truth without appearing the most pathetic. 

“I’m grateful for the attention I got so far, Sir,” you replied, measuring your breath to take hold of the shaky emotions that were threatening to resurface. “I guess it’s limited because I’m not what most of the Doms look for. Which is understandable, I’m not a jar of Nutella for everyone to like me,” you added with a fake easy smile. 

Raymond didn’t grin back. 

He didn’t glower, either. Simply watched you with the same patience. 

“Not what most of the Doms look for,” he repeated your words slowly, setting his tumbler onto the side table. “Elaborate, please.”

“Um-” you had to quickly regroup, knowing that if you spilled it all out in one rush, your hurt feelings would seep through your words. 

“I’m not a cute, sweet submissive, who needs protection or saving.” You started in what you hoped was a calm, unbothered tone. “For a lot of men, Dominants especially, being a protector and provider is a kink itself. I don’t stir that for them. I’m too put together and independent.” 

“I’m also not a cheeky brat,” you listed, “I don’t provide challenge, I don’t call out to tame me-”

A gasp interrupted your own words when Raymond’s fingers brushed along your collarbones unexpectedly. 

“Continue.” He ordered, trailing light touch further. 

“I-” your voice wavered slightly as he slipped his fingers beneath the straps of your dress. “I don’t have a knack for niche kinks, which could interest some sadists. And I’m not a bombshell to draw attention just by-”

Raymond pushed the straps of your dress down. Silk slipped down like liquid, exposing your breasts fully. 

With wide eyes, you stared at the Dom, chest rising on a hitched breath. His touch alone interrupted your thought process, but being bared unexpectedly completely scrambled your neatly prepared explanations. 

“Ah.” Raymond made a short, pleased sound. “Found the control switch.” 

He caressed the swell of your breasts with the backs of his curled fingers. Lightly. Yet goosebumps appeared on your forearms and your nipples stiffened into hard points. 

“Here you were,” his voice had a warm timbre, but his piercing gaze was terrifying like a sharp blade about to cut you open- “talking about something sensitive for you, yet you kept yourself all locked.”

Raymond observed you as you talked. Your body didn’t match the heaviness of your words. Dressed in logic, he heard the vulnerability and hurt behind each sentence - each comparison. But you didn’t allow yourself to show that ache beyond relaying it like cold facts. 

Only faint flickers he caught betrayed that the wounds ran deeply, only you didn’t allow them to show. 

Which meant you had connection to your feelings, but chose not to display them. Not to show vulnerability.

And what was true submissiveness, if not a raw exposition of everything. 

“I didn’t-” you started objecting, but Raymond’s hands cupping your breasts short circuited your train of thought. 

“Can’t hold up the walls when I tip your balance?” The corner of his mouth tilted in a smirk.

Your lips parted, to counter his assumption, but the words stuck somewhere on your tongue as he began playing with your boobs. Soft kneading turning into a harsher squeeze. Fingers splayed over the heavy roundness suddenly clenched around your nipple in a stinging pinch. 

The zap of pleasure surged straight to your clit. Your core filled with heat, even as your mind couldn’t comprehend how it can be happening when it’s not even a negotiated scene. 

“You give me a tale of being bland and boring, yet here I am intrigued by a subby who doesn’t fit the mould.” Raymond didn’t shift his gaze from your face as he continued to torment your breasts.

“Some Doms proved to be lazy arseholes, too glutted with well-known dynamics to dust off their skills. They brushed the surface of sexual kink, not really looking at you. Not seeing that you want much more than just intense orgasms. And instead of being angry with it, you lock it all up and convince yourself you don’t have a right to those feelings.”

Tears pooled in your eyes at his words. 

You wanted to hiss that you have all that anger and resentment, but you dealt with them on your own. In the safety of your own bed, where no one saw your tears and mocked you for them. 

You had no trouble sharing your joy with others. Smiling, laughing. You always displayed those. Sadness and anger? Desire and need? Fragility of any kind was supposed to be kept secret. They invited mockery and judgement, chinking at your pride and confidence. Controlling them meant you were closer to being a graceful, admirable woman, not some dramatic sap who grated on a partner’s nerves. 

“You’ve experienced disappointment and rejection here, yet you keep coming back.” Raymond’s touch switched to soothing caress again. 

“I suspect it’s because you don’t want anyone to see how much it hurt you, but I believe it’s also because you still hope someone notices those walls and shatters them down. Your eyes-” his gaze seemed to soften a fraction, and he moved one of his hands to tilt your chin up.

“So much fear and hope. Even now, when you hate me for dissecting you.”

“Please, Sir,” your voice was barely above a whisper. 

If you tried to speak up, you’d undoubtedly let out a sob. Beneath your eyelids tears still stung, but a deeply ingrained habit stopped them from falling. That voice in your head screeched about how pathetic Raymond would find you, if you cried. 

“You won’t find mercy with me.” He shook his head slowly. “But you can find what you’ve been craving. The sexual side and everything beneath.” 

Though you didn’t admit it, a part of you was also relieved when your nights at the Black Diamond turned to fiasco - because you remained protected within your safe bubble. No Dom brought you to a state that would cause the shell to crack. Which, in turn, meant you didn’t have to risk being hurt emotionally. 

It was your first interaction with Master Raymond and he was already barging in, unapologetically determined to set your safe space on fire. 

It was fucking terrifying. 

“You’ll have to be very brave,” he gripped your chin tighter, the other hand pinching your nipple again - the jolt of sexual pain once again messing with your head. Messing with your honed skills in putting up walls quickly. 

“You’re all buttoned up, but I’m going to cut off and rip all of those buttons and get you bare for me. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Every. Single. Damn. Time.” 

Maybe if he didn’t have you half naked; maybe if he didn’t hold your chin in an unyielding grip, forcing you to look him in the eye; maybe if he didn’t exude dominance in levels unparalleled to what you’ve been fantasising about; maybe if he didn’t cut you open with perceptive assessment… 

maybe then you would be able to calmly refuse his claim, maintaining a stubborn stance that you only wanted to be sexually satisfied. 

“Do you want that, Button?” Raymond leaned closer, scent of warmed spices and wood of his cologne were like a brush of soft blanket when you were held in an iron grip. “Or do you want to return to your weekly visits that end with nothing but hours on a sofa, keeping yourself away from hurt, but also away from connection?” 

A single tear slipped onto your eyelashes. You held back the rest. 

You tethered between the ache in your chest and the heat still licking between your thighs. 

Often, when emotions were close to the surface, your desire disappeared completely. Somehow, Raymond brought out the raw feelings, yet still kept your body buzzing with arousal. For the first time, one didn’t extinguish the other.

When you began your learning journey with BDSM, you read a lot upon the deep, intimate connection between physicality of it and the psychological and emotional sides. You tended to think of it as the emotional aspect of aftercare after a rough sexual act. You didn’t stop to think how the sex part could influence the process of feeling itself - intensify it, or soothe it. 

“I want to try.” You murmured. 

Raymond didn’t smile with triumph. He didn’t move away. He held you still, tugging on your nipple as he swiped his thumb up your chin and toward your bottom lip. 

“That’s very brave of you.” He praised. “Thank you for not giving up, and for trusting me with yourself.” 

Only then did he gently release you. He gave your cheek a tender caress, before reaching down to pull your dress up into place. Your abused nipples were straining against the silky fabric. 

“I meant what I said about not showing mercy, but I will never cross any boundary you set in the hard limits. I’ll push you, Button. Hard. But I promise to never give you what you can’t take.” 

“Instead, you’ll prove that I can and will take it?” You sighed, giving him a half-defeated, half-unamused look. 

Raymond smiled at that. A sinful gleam that heralded serious trouble for you. 

He leaned back and reached for the unfinished drink. He didn’t allow you to get up yet, so you remained on your knees. Your breasts were throbbing. Between your thighs, clit pulsed in demand for more. Your heart seemed to be bleeding open, yet it didn’t hurt as you might’ve expected. With the pleasure thrumming in your veins and the prospect of a Dom who - at least for now - wouldn’t drop you, the strewn feelings didn’t appear so awful. 

“Come tomorrow.” Raymond ordered. “Wear your highest heels. And nothing else.”

Heat immediately burst through your whole body.

“Nothing else?” You repeated, voice slightly stuttering.

“Once you’re in the club’s changing room, lose all your clothes. Then walk in wearing only high heels. Don’t stop to talk to anyone, you come straight to me.”

Each night you came to the Black Diamond meant being barely dressed and a high risk of ending up completely naked, but it was vastly different from walking inside already fully on display. Having to walk across the marble floors naked, with the sound of heels clicking against the polished stone, would draw all the attention to you. 

As he washes his face, he keeps himself on alert. Sure, this isn't breaking the rules, but it's a kindness. Kindness always has a cost. And if your price puts him at risk with Melinda, he's well and truly fucked.

He tries to quietly walk out of your office but you motion for him to have a seat across from you. His shoulders tense as he sits, keeping his gaze averted.

"We're keeping the door open so Melinda can't accuse us of anything and speaking in hushed tones so you won't get in trouble," you quietly say. "I'm going to hand you some papers and a copy of my office key will be amongst them. Whenever you need the private bathroom here, if you need a few minutes away from everything, my office is open to you."

Andy stares at the small pile of papers, breathing shallow with indecision. If he accepts and Melinda finds out, she'll drop him as a prospective Husband. She might even make it look like he's stealing and he'll be fired and kicked out on the street. On the other hand, you're showing him more kindness than he's ever experienced since he got hired. You're giving him a chance to preserve what little dignity he has.

"Melinda isn't the queen," you reassure. "She shares power in this company with me and Yvette and she's already on Yvette's last nerve. So if she raises a fuss, she'll be outvoted. Understand?"

"I...I think so, Madam," he breathes.

Andy considers his options. You've always been polite to him, but maybe it's a trap? If it weren't for your open disputes with Melinda he'd think the two of you were setting him up, testing him to prove his loyalty to her. Because a good Husband is loyal to his Wife. If he takes the key, keeps it secret, Melinda could accuse him of being unsuitable for the role of Husband and, again, he's out on his ass with less than nothing.

But, at this point, what are the chances Melinda will ever follow through on her promises? You've always been polite to him. Honest. Straightforward. Complimentary, even. Maybe he can trust you?

The entire time Andy deliberates you keep looking like you're working so as to not arouse suspicion. It pains you how scared he looks contemplating letting himself preserve some dignity.

"I'll make sure this gets taken care of, Madam," he finally says, grabbing the papers, and the key, as he stands.

You let out a small sigh of relief. It isn't much, but maybe it'll be a start towards getting him out from under Melinda's desk and getting him somewhere safe, healthy. The man could be a good Husband, but he's never going to reach that potential if he stays her side-piece.

It really doesn't take much for Andy to hide your office key from Melinda. She doesn't pay attention to him outside of when she wants something from him. She's not going to notice an extra key on his key chain.

He's also smart enough to know to take his time cleaning himself up after Melinda uses him. She expects him to take forever to get back because of the lack of men's bathrooms available in the building. If he were to be sitting at his desk a few minutes later, freshened up, she'd be suspicious. He can't risk that.

Back at his apartment his roommates noticed he was more on edge.

"Boss threatening to fire you?"

"What? No. No, of course not."

"You should be looking over your shoulder, sleeping your way into a Husband role like that," they scoff.

"I didn't...it's not exactly by choice," he grumbles. "I got lucky to be hired at all."

"You know you only got hired for your looks," one of them sneers. "Friggin' pretty boy using his good looks to take a job someone worthy could use."

Andy sighs and just heads to his room. There was no solidarity here. They never saw him as the victim part of him knows he is. He was always just getting by on his looks. Always "asking" to be used by his boss.

He pulls out his key chain, looking at that key to your office. Maybe there was someone who saw him for what he was.

In another part of town, you're sitting across from Natasha Romanov, a college friend who was now a high ranking member of Her Majesty's Intelligence Agency. The two of you had kept in touch over the years and it was because of you that she got her in at the Agency.

"I'm guessing you're calling in your favor?" she smiles as she sips her wine.

You chuckle. "You're always too good at reading people."

"Not like this was difficult. It isn't often you ask to meet me without some kind of heads up or asking me a time that works. This is something important."

"Well...important-ish. It is for a guy, after all."

"Oh really?" she raises her eyebrows in surprise.

"You know Melinda Benefry?"

"One of your business partners," she nods.

"Correct. You know our diversity hire?"

"Oh, her secretary. I'm guessing Melinda isn't interested in sharing?"

"And I'm not interested in how she continually uses and degrades him. Having a side-piece is one thing. Emotionally torturing the man is another."

"I concur," she nods. "The number of men who we've found that were kidnapped, trafficked, worse. No one deserves that."

"It's my hope I don't have to say more," you raise an eyebrow.

She smiles conspiratorially, "you don't."

“Hm, you’re the first actress I’ve seen eat at one of these things.” Steve stops in front of you.

“Um,” you hum and swallow. “Well, it’s a long day.”

“Just be mindful of your costars, you know? No garlic, no onion.” He intones.

“Huh, yeah, I guess that makes sense,” you nod. “Think it’s going well.”

“You think,” he drawls.

“Um, well, so far, I like the script.” You shrug.

“Nick’s got a good eye for these things. Very selective,” Steve says. “It’s our third film together. Would’ve been my fourth with Sharon. Too bad she’s dipped out.”

You fidget. The mention of your predecessor is slightly edged. He isn’t saying so but you can’t help but feel he’s telling you you don’t belong. That imposter syndrome creeps up your neck.

“She’s a great actress.”

“She’s pretty.” His lips curve slightly. “She sells but she’s not winning a statue any time soon.”

“Oh, well… one can only dream,” you say.

“Yeah? Do you think you will?” He asks.

You stare at him, stabbing the toothpick into a bleeding strawberry. “I try not to fixate. I work hard and… I’m just starting out. I’ve mostly done independent, you know?”

“I know,” he assures you tersely. “I got my Oscar at 29. Six nominations since. It’s like the lottery except you have to actually be good.”

You nod. “That’s impressive.”

“It’s a good idea in this business to know your stuff.” He tuts. “So, can you guess which movie I won for? You might get lucky.”

You try not to let your face show your confusion. It’s like he’s testing you, but why?

“Can I get a hint? Year?” You ask.

He scoffs. He makes a face and says the year. He watches and waits, lifting his chin slightly.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I think I was like 11 when that came out.” You say. “But I’d love to go back and watch it.” You twist the toothpick in the flesh of the berry. “I saw your last release though. It was good.”

“Good?” He echoes darkly.

“Uh huh,” you force a smile.

His lips draw straight. “You have a seed in your teeth.”

He turns and struts away. You furrow your brow and swipe your tongue over your teeth. You stare at him as he saunters off.

Hopefully, he’s just having an off day.

📽️

You get your own trailer. That's nice. Sometimes the luxuries that can come with this job are overwhelming, even if you don't miss sharing a crowded space with two dozen other actors and stylists.

Xio, the woman who introduced herself as your stylist for the project, sits you down to start on your face. Today will be makeup tests and screen tests. The tedious little things that come before the big scenes are shot.

“Do you prefer cream or powder?” Xio asks.

“Huh, no one's ever asked before.” You respond.

She giggles. “Oh, well, I use a blend. You can't have things to shiny on camera but it helps to know your clients too. Then I know not to go too hard on one or the other.”

“Of course. Makes sense.” You nod.

“Some can be real picky. Not to mention names but they might even be your costar.” She smirks and searches her brushes.

You pick up on the hint easily. There is no shortage of opinions on set. The table read more than cemented that. It's nothing you haven't seen before. It's the nature of the city and the business. Egos always collide.

Xio starts on your face. The click and clack of brushes and lids fill the void between her chatter. She tells you that on the last set she worked, there was a big argument between artists over a hairbrush and who it belonged too.

“Label all my stuff.” She says as she leans in to brush your lashes with a wand. “Learned that early on. Worked with an older artist. Well known. Very Miranda from Devil Wears Prada. She has exhibitions and all. She claimed a particularly rare palette for herself.” She huffs. “It helps if you have a lock on your kit too.”

“Oh, wow, that's awful.” You try not to move too much. “I was on set once and we'll the hanger with my name on it was empty by the time I got down to my bra and panties. I put my clothes back on and went out. They kept it in the final cut but you know, I had two lines.”

“Really? I think Fowler would have an aneurysm if that happened on his project.” She snickers.

“You work with him a lot?”

“Sure do. I don't say a damn word to him and get the work done.” She stands up and considers you with a tilt of her head. “You have gorgeous eyes.”

There's a rattle behind you and the trailer door swings open. You lurch forward in surprise and crane to see the intruder. Steve struts in with sunglasses. Maybe he went to the wrong trailer.

“Oh, hey,” you say.

He doesn't say a word as his lips stay straight and tight. He approaches and swipes off his sunglasses. He steps around next to Xio and stares at you. You turn to look back, confused. He clucks and walks around you and peers at you in the mirror.

“Can you make her nose look smaller?”

“Excuse me?” You blurt out in surprise and a bit of offense.

“Someone's gonna point it out.” He says blithely.

Xio gives you a look then stares at Steve. You can't expect her to defend you. With all the makeup thieves, she has enough problems.

“Do you need help find your trailer?” You interject.

“Do you need help finding your manners?” He retorts. “A thank you would do you well. I'm giving you good advice.”

Your brows furrow.

“Oh, don't do that, sweetheart. The worst thing you can do is make yourself look older than you are.”

You blink. “Well, thank you for your helpful advice but I think maybe you need to get to your trailer and get your own makeup done.”

“Won't take long,” he pops his sunglasses back on. “My looks are built in.”

He slaps your shoulder and spins away. He saunters to the door and swings the door out. He stomps down the stairs as the door snaps behind him. You shake your head at Xio.

You just had to suffer a few months slaving in the kitchen of a popular restaurant, redoing dishes for snobbish trust fund narcissists and influencers who tended to send something back for merely not matching the color scheme they wanted.

But the money was really worth it, so you gritted your teeth and perfected each dish.

The other upside of burning your fingers for bored elites was the beach and the sea.

It took you two weeks to find a perfect spot for yourself. Not anywhere on the public beach that was overcrowded and noisy. It was a very long walk, all past the private beaches with their big signs announcing no one was welcomed there, but you finally found your little heaven.

A beach with no people, as well no warning signs telling you to fuck off before a bitchy lady of the house throws your poor ass off and threatens you with firing from your job for lingering on her pristine, rich sand.

Your tranquil spot was all sea, beach and a wide span of forest. A wild road led through the grasses and trees deep into the woods, probably made by the locals from a nearby village, who might come to this part of the beach, avoiding the town itself.

With a happy sigh, you spread out your blanket and tossed down your bag. You shimmied out of your dress and stretched happily. A few breaths of the warm, salty breeze and you ran for the water with a giggle.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Steve paused mid-step, taking a deep breath and filling his lungs with the familiar scent of pine mixed with sea salt.

He used to run across these woods as a kid, picking pine cones to later throw into the bonfire, or taking them straight to the beach and using them to adorn the sandcastles that he built.

These lands belonged to his family for decades. His grandfather built and rented the first houses along the coast, later developing them into a business that secured the family name for years to come.

It loaded the second branch of the family business, too. On the other side of the sea - darker than the deep waters, with income as golden as the sand.

Focusing on managing the business and politics of certain organizations forced Steve to stay in the city most of the time, or to travel across the continents.

It's been over a year since he took a few days to come here.

Barely after arriving, he changed his clothes and took his two dogs to once again find his peace and quiet. Baron and King ran between the trees like wild pups, losing their usual lethal intensity that matched Steve's persona in the city.

But suddenly they paused.

Steve noticed how both dogs' heads titled slightly, then they were off running down the sandy path toward the beach.

They didn't barge onto the beach barking, but they went straight for a splash of color that was someone's blanket and belongings on it. Baron snatched something into his mouth and turned back towards Steve.

King remained in place, taking watch.

Delicate, yellow fabric that Steve picked from between Baron's teeth turned out to be a short dress. Delicate, with a faint scent of sweet, juicy perfume.

Then a loud screech followed by a burst of laughter snatched his attention.

Steve already figured out someone was chilling on his beach, but he didn't expect the sight to entertain him as much.

You were coming out of the sea, wet and radiating happiness. The screeching and laughter surely came from you, and it took Steve a second to realize what caused it.

Your bikini top was untied; bubble pink triangles barely covering your breasts now that the string was loose.

When a wave hit and ruined your top, that's when you squeaked in surprise. Then you simply laughed at the situation.

You didn't bother to cover yourself with your arms. You were still convinced there was no one here, that you were all alone on this wonderful beach and thus losing your bikini top was rather hilarious, not embarrassing.

It took you a few steps onto the warm sand to notice a presence near your blanket. Two dogs that looked massive and potentially able to maul you, though they stood in place, just watching you like you were a silly spectacle.

And a man.

Taller than you, with an impressive body clad in simple sweats and a t-shirt. A change from all the pressed linen and old money aesthetic most men in the seaside town presented.

He was holding your dress in one hand, his other hand tucked into his pocket. His eyes twinkled in amusement as he looked directly at you. Not even bothering to hide the fact he checked out your boobs.

"Not only it's not a nudist beach," his voice was pleasantly masculine - deep, yet velvety, "it's also a private one. So it's a double misdemeanor."

For a few seconds you just stared at him, before your brain caught up with the situation.

With a squeak (which Steve found most cute), you crossed your arms over your chest to cover yourself.

You made a step forward, but paused when you remembered about the dogs. They still didn't move from their spots. Not a single growl came.

"It's okay, they won't harm you." Steve assured you. "Not until they're ordered to. And I don't think your little crime deserves a punishment so gruesome, pretty mermaid."

He handed you your dress without any disgusting bargaining, or lewd comments. But he did keep his eyes on you when you turned your back to him and slid it on, covering yourself.

"I didn't know it's a private beach. There's no sign." You blurted out, facing him again.

"Ah." He nodded, calm and friendly. "Rarely anyone comes so far out here. They stick to their tiny slabs of ownership. Others simply know not to go beyond the red pine."

He motioned at the characteristic tree in the forest line along the beach. Not only it was somehow a rusty red color, but also the pine was curved forward at the bottom, as if the tree was kneeling.

"You a tourist?" Steve asked, scratching Baron on the head when the dog nudged his leg.

"Not exactly." You rubbed your hands over your thighs nervously, feeling uncertain, as well realizing your dress was starting to soak up all the water from your body.

Covered or not, your nipples were going to be visible any second now.

"I work in one of the restaurants for the summer," you admitted.

"A cook?" At your nod Steve smiled. "How about you tell me which restaurant you work at, so I can come for a meal and you serve it to me yourself. As penance for trespassing."

You hesitated. The man didn't appear bothered by your presence on the beach, turning it into a harmless situation. But what if he was a vindictive asshole, who would come to your workplace and get you fired?

Studying him for a moment, you couldn't find it in yourself to be that suspicious of him. Perhaps, you were a little blinded by his stupidly handsome face, those blue eyes you could get mesmerised by, the smile that threatened to melt away your bikini bottom.

You told him where you worked, as well the fact you had a day off, but would be back there tomorrow.

Steve was going to be there, just like he said. And you would prepare his meal and bring it to his table with a shy smile. The main chef, as well as the restaurant's owner, would hear high praises about your skills.

Steve would be coming to that place every day for a whole week, asking for you specifically to make his meals and serve them. Each chunk of interaction and conversation at a time, he would be preparing a detailed plan regarding your future.

Amongst the few people Curtis trusts, Gilliam is the only one who has anything akin to court experience.

"I would recommend you marry one of the nobles," he suggests. "The people will see it as you showing an interest in the kingdom itself and the nobles will appreciate some level of status quo. A usurper king who marries a foreign bride is seen as not interested in his own people."

"A bride..." Curtis grumbles.

A mate, the beast thinks.

"We can have each duchy bring their tribute, swear their oaths of fealty. If they're smart, they'll send their daughters to help present those gifts. I'll choose from them."

"Good plan, Your Majesty," Tanya teases. "And I can get you more information on the ladies the day before; who's polite, who can kiss my ass. That sort of thing."

"Good thinking," Curtis nods, hiding how his inner beast is practically frothing at the idea of a mate.

"You're not going!" Father orders. "The new king is rumored to be a beast, a monster! How can I send my daughter, my only child, into his claws?"

"I have to go, Father," you argue, trying to keep your voice level. "You need to stay because Duke Snyder is trying to push you out. If you go to the palace, he'll seize the opportunity. We don't know anything about this new king so we can't trust he'll support you should Snyder make a move "

Father's shoulders slacken in defeat.

"I wish your mother were here to go with you," he sighs.

Placing a hand on your shoulder, Father looks you in the eyes. "I will send the best of guard with you," he promises. "You are my greatest treasure. I will see you safe."

"Thank you, Father. I will get things ready for the trip "

Despite the risks you were far more afraid of King Everett than the journey. Father sent you along under the protection Sir Conrad, well versed in combat and loyal to his last breath. Initially you were supposed to go with both Conrad and his half brother Pine but you insisted Pine stay with Father. He will need the protection and insight of the older brother. And the journey wasn't so far that you worried about Conrad and his small squad becoming too tired to keep you safe.

For added protection you were dressed up as a young man. Should any ask, you were soldiers doing your duty and bringing your Duke's tithe to the new king. The britches are a bit uncomfortable but you're grateful for the protection from prying eyes.

As you make camp the first night you feel truly helpless. You can't assemble a tent. You don't know how to make a fire and you can barely cook. The best you can do is simply stay out of the way.

Then you notice the berry bushes. They're low to the ground, easy to miss. Perhaps you can gather some and share them with your protectors.

Kneeling in front of the bushes you ask in a whisper, "may I be allowed to pick some of your berries? My friends and I would love to try them as they taste much better than travel rations." Many would consider you crazy but you're not one to give up wisdom your mother taught you before her passing.

Several berries drop and you make sure to thank the bushes before gathering them up. Though Sir Conrad warns you against going off alone again, he does not begrudge your addition to the night's meal.

The next day's journey is cut short by a rainstorm. It's too dangerous to travel and camp must be made up early. It's slow, wet, tiring work and the rains are too heavy to light a fire to warm up with.

In the privacy of your own tent you shiver in just your undergarments as you manage to light a lamp. Your blankets are a small comfort as you force yourself to drink water and eat some of the travel rations. All you can do is wait for the rain to let up.

Amidst the thunderous rain you hear mewling cries and they're getting closer.

Carefully you take a peek through the flaps of your tent. It could be a predator luring you in, but it could also be a poor creature in need of shelter. You need to keep the light from the lantern minimal for your safety and dignity.

As the mewling gets louder you're able to make out a baby fox.

"Oh you poor thing," you gently call to it. "Please, share my tent. We'll get you to your mother when the rain stops."

Lifting the tent flap more, the kit is drawn to the light of the lamp and quickly joins you.

"Here, I have some food as well. Not as good as fresh game, I know. But you'll need your strength if you're going to find your mama."

The kit accepts the food offered, seeming to eat it too fast to taste.

"Let me get one of my cloaks so we can try to dry you off. Must be hard to keep warm when you're soaked."

After you've dried off the little fox to the best of your ability it curls up in your lap and falls asleep. You feel honored and hum it a lullaby you remember your mother singing to you.

"Your Grace! We need to get an early start on the day to make up for yesterday."

Conrad's voice pierces through your slumber and you quickly sit up.

"I'm up! Give me just a few minutes to dress!"

As you get up to get dressed you quickly look around for the kit only to see that it's gone. You're disappointed but hopeful that, once the rain stopped, it went and found its mother.

It isn't until late in the morning, well on your way to the castle, that you spot fox and her three kits. Your heart leaps at the thought that one of them was the one you shared your tent with.