La Fangirl Perdue

Warnings: mean jack, age gap, reader is mid to late 20s, sunshine reader, shy reader, anxious reader, eventual smut, smut, 18+, MDNI, angst, fighting, slow burn, co-workers to enemies, enemies to lovers, blood, gore, medical inaccuracies, pittfest, panic attacks, mentions of suicide, PTSD, grief, widower jack, mentions of past military trauma, violence against medical staff, reader is described to be shorter than Jack, reader has hair past shoulders.

🦋 - fluff

🌧️ - angst

🔥 - smut

Can be read as individual, standalone blurbs, but will be written with a timeline in mind.

pre season one:

first day 🌧️

why me? 🌧️

I can't do this 🌧️

thievery 🌧️🦋

she's got you bent out of shape 🦋 🌧️

It means nothing 🌧️

switch to day shift 🌧️

assault 🦋 🌧️

friends 🦋🌧️

I've got your back  🦋🌧️

dream team 🦋

the pitt's night out 🦋

I noticed 🦋🌧️

the conference 🦋🌧️

can't stand the silence 🌧️

stop being a fucking idiot 🌧️

fight for her 🦋🌧️

the date 🦋🌧️

I've got you 🦋🌧️

nightmares 🦋🌧️

jack gets hurt in the field 🦋🌧️

I love you 🦋🌧️

season one:

10 months inbetween:

season two:

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.

You don’t bother knocking, it’s always more satisfying this way.

You can hear the strangled moan get caught in his throat, the way his muscles tense as you step into the room, suddenly alert and ready to kill whoever just dared to interrupt him. But instead, his eyes land on you and his facade drops even lower, to one of shame, like a little boy being caught doing he isn’t supposed to.

“Kindly let Miranda get off her knees and go back to her desk, her lunch break is almost over and I would really like to take mine at my agreed upon time.”

Your voice is as unkind as you can possibly make it. Not towards Miranda, never towards her. It’s all venom thrown at him. He knows you don’t like it when he does this, knows it takes her those exact fifteen minutes to make herself presentable and rush all the way to the other side of the floor to where her desk is, knows, deep down, that she’s not the one he craves to have sucking him off at 12:15 pm on a random Tuesday.

You count the seconds in your head as your stare off extends itself. It’s never lasted more than 28 seconds.

It’s exactly fifteen seconds later that he relents.

He always relents.

He doesn’t even break eye contact as he, presumably, pulls her off him finally.

You’d had to learn really early on that he likes to be watched, gets off on it and you would not be surprised if his staring is directly linked to how long it takes him to cum once you’ve entered his office. 

You’ve never been able to prove it, however, for he doesn’t show it on his face.

He’s always calm and composed, unbreakable.

You fucking hate it.

You wait, impatiently, as Miranda makes herself presentable enough to do her walk of shame back to your side of the floor, to Ursula’s side.

Titus slowly rolls his chair back, the imposing mahogany desk the perfect size to hide a full bodied person underneath it, the leather chair just adding to the old money aesthetic of it all.

The model looking second assistant finally gets up on shaky legs, gaze cast directly towards the carpeted floors as she scurries out of the room, not daring to even cast a glance in your direction.

You simply step aside, letting her flee, knowing fully well you both know this will be her last day working with you. Such a shame, she wasn’t completely useless, not like the girl you had the misfortune of working with two assistants ago.

You shiver at the memory as Titus fixes up his slacks, his unforgiving hazel eyes still on you.

“So,” he begins. “Lunch?”

You roll your eyes, stepping into the room as he sprays cologne all over him. To mask the scent of sex on him or within the room, you don’t know, but you’re soon enveloped in a smokey, honeyed scent that instantly has you just a little more pliant than you were mere seconds ago.

You sit across from him, as is routine now, and the door to the service elevators swings open to Anthony, his private work chef, walking into the office with your usual chicken Caesar salad and his borderline still alive, rare stake. Diet cokes for you both, a rare indulgence that you share.

You don’t say anything as his desk is set up to resemble a dining table. You don’t spare “the help” any kindness, not since the first time you dared utter a thank you in his direction and he came back with a purpled eye the next day.

No, Titus is absurdly particular when it comes to who you address and how you do it. He’s fully aware you don’t belong to him, that claim is his sister and his sister’s alone, but that doesn’t mean that he can’t hurt those that do work for him to reprimand you.

So you don’t even breathe in the young man’s direction, you simply wait, patient and kind, the clock on the wall ticking quicker than it ever has before.

Titus knows you’re cutting it close, knows he shouldn’t be pushing his luck, but that doesn’t matter. You’ll be on time, he’ll make sure of it even if he has to shut down the elevator when Ursula’s one o’clock shows.

He doesn’t bother you with small talk. He doesn’t have to, you both know he knows exactly what you got up to over the weekend.

You know what kind of man Titus Danforth is, know his quirks and…questionable desires, know just how tight of a leash he likes to keep his playthings on. 

And that’s exactly what you are.

Not in the "traditional" sense, Ursula would have your head for it.

But you are…entertainment.

He has your location.

He has cameras in your apartment.

He has vetted every single one of your friends and even…taken care of those he didn’t approve of.

He’s met your parents. Met every single romantic interest you’ve had in the two years you’ve been working for his sister, always disapproving.

Titus Danforth takes up the other half of your life unapologetically.

It’s in your contract, actually, but he doesn’t need to know that.

He’s never once asked why you don’t push back against him, why you let him get away with so much. In his eyes, he’s entitled to it, much like every spoiled child is entitled to their every whim.

He’s gotten into a new habit as of recently, however.

It had started whenever you left the office late. A text message lighting up your phone when you made it home safely and didn’t let him know right away. If it were up to him, he’d be sending a car to pick you up and drop you off every day, but alas even he could not force you to accept the offer.

So instead he settled for you telling him you’d gotten home.

But then…he started messaging you all the time.

If he saw you struggling to find your lipstick because you’d forgotten where you’d put it

It’s on the coffee table.

If he saw you walking out for your morning jog without a proper jacket.

It’s flu season, do not make me send a carrier over.

If you put on a lingerie set he didn’t necessarily love while getting ready for work.

Wear the white one I got you last week.

And the worst part?

You do exactly what he tells you.

Every.

Single.

Time.

Without question. Without fuss.

It makes Titus’s blood buzz with excitement each and every time.

He knows he can’t have you.

But he can have this.

“I won’t be going straight home after work tonight.”

You tell him suddenly, breaking the gentle hum of a spell that has fallen over your meal.

His brow furrows slightly, leaning forward in his chair, as if assessing a request for time off from an employee.

“Where will you be?”

You’ve done this dance with him before. There’s even a pre-approved list of people and places you’re allowed to go and be with, which is why you know he won’t be too happy with what you’re about to say to him.

“I have a date.”

If you didn’t know him as well as you do, the intensity of his stare would’ve definitely made you pee your pants. It almost had the first time he looked at you this way, like a child being scolded for setting fire to the family home.

“No you don’t.” He hisses, looking down at his calendar and finding the day’s square absolutely empty.

You shrug, trying to keep your cool as much as you possibly can. 

“Spur of the moment.” 

You keep eating as if you’ve done nothing wrong but you know the man before you is seething.

When you finally swallow, “He texted me a few hours ago. I said yes.”

The scowl on Titus’s face is piercing as he holds out his hand expectantly and you swiftly move to hand over your phone.

He doesn’t even have to ask for your password anymore. It’s his birthday, he’d chosen it.

You watch, a little masochistic, as he goes through your recent texts. You don’t save their names, there’s no need to give him more information, he’ll know everything about him from the number alone five minutes after you leave the room.

“No,” he says simply, setting your phone down next to his.

“I wasn’t asking for your permission,” you reply, soft yet firm. “Ursula already gave it.”

The mention of his sister having agreed to this is what pushes him over the edge. He stands up abruptly, causing the desk between you to almost tip over your drinks.

You don’t flinch, you’ve honestly lost the ability to when it comes to Titus. You simply stare up at him, devoid of any care or emotion, almost daring him to go against his sister’s wishes.

He doesn’t give you his consent. You don’t back down.

The clock ticks in the background, ominous, haunting.

There’s a knock at the door.

You both know who it is without having to turn, still stuck in that exhausting staring contest.

“We’re starting in five,” Miranda’s voice is meek now, almost a whisper. You cringe at just how much her confidence has plummeted in the past half hour. “Ursula asked me to get you.”

You set your empty plate back on Titus’s desk, wiping the corners of your mouth demurely before you stand back up, smoothing your pencil skirt against your plump thighs and picking up your phone from where he left it.

“I’ll be home around nine,” you tell him, matter of fact.

“I’ll know if you’re not,” he says through gritted teeth. “And there will be consequences.”

You nod, once, curtly, turning towards a practically tomato red Miranda and walking past her as if nothing has transpired.

“Um…sir?” Miranda tries, she desperately tries to be normal about what transpired earlier but fails miserably.

He casts her a glance, stone cold and intimidating, the one that used to have an effect on you but now doesn’t even chip away at your icy exterior. She practically leaps in fear, closing the door swiftly and running after you.

At least he still has an effect on someone.

You’re back home at exactly 8:59 pm.

Titus watches as your body sways lightly, your legs shaky beneath you. You didn't change after you left, still in that sinful skirt. Your hair is a little rustled, your lipstick just barely smudged, your shirt open just one more button than normal.

That's when he spots it, a tear in your sheer black tights, a gaping hole near the inside of your thigh, intentionally made.

It makes his blood boil.

He picks up his phone, calls you. He leans in, pupils dilating as he watches you search your bag, cursing pathetically as you fail to locate your phone.

You're too drunk for this and he has half a mind to make his way over to your apartment to reprimand you for it. How could you have let yourself go this way? Don't you know what men are dangerous, especially in the presence of a beautiful thing such as yourself?

After a few more seconds of futile searching, you give up, tossing your bag to the floor like a fussy child and letting the phone continue to ring into the night as you clumsily make your way to your room.

Titus switches the camera, following you along until you flop onto your bed and seemingly pass out.

He's seething now, morning cannot come fast enough, your punishment hot and delicious on his tongue.

He find himself waiting, impatiently, by your desk for ten minutes after you're supposed to be in. Last he checked, you were getting on a car and driving towards the office but that was twenty minutes ago. Even accounting for traffic at this hour, you should've been here by now.

He has half a mind to call, to scream, to let you know what's waiting for you, but he doesn't. No, his victory will taste sweeter is he can just wait—

"Mr. Danforth?"

A male voice snaps him back to the present. His thunderous gaze meets that of a lanky man in a suit holding out an iPad. Weird, he's never seen this man before in his life.

"Are you waiting on something?" he asks Titus, checking the device in his hands for something to explain the younger Danforth's lingering near his sister's office. "Your sister just departed for Barcelona but if you're having trouble getting a hold of her I can—"

"What?" he hisses.

To his credit, the man keeps his composure, but that doesn't stop Titus from catching the slight flash of panic that crosses his face.

"For the conference?"

Titus doesn't think, he just leaps, grabbing the pad forcefully as he looks through the shared calendar on it, one that he doesn't have access to, one that you've hidden from him.

Barcelona. Resort conference. Five days.

Five fucking days.

You have got to be kidding.

You don't answer a single one of his messages.

Your work email is in constant do not disturb mode.

Out of office.

Yeah, now he fucking knows.

Instead he's been forced to endure the ungodly display of affection your mystery man—Jackson Cooper Jr, heir to the Cooper Media empire—is determined to show, practically turning his office into a fucking flower shop.

Every morning when you're supposed to be getting into work and every night when you're supposed to be leaving, in comes a courier with the largest floral arrangement that he's ever seen.

He catches them walking in from the elevator, almost always making a bee line for his office, to his assistant, before they're redirected to the other side of the floor.

It's absurd, it's ridiculous, it's—

Why the fuck does he care so much?

It's not like he wishes he were Jackson Cooper. Why would he ever want to spend thousands of dollars in flowers?

What a pathetic sight indeed.

And yet...Titus can't help but linger in the obnoxious display of affection. Can't help the way his blood boils every time he thinks about what your reaction will be when you come back to this.

He selfishly hopes, deep down, that you'll find it weird and borderline psychotic, but he knows in his heart that you will be elated. And Titus hates that you'll have such a visceral reaction to another man's affection that isn't his.

So much so that he plans on not being at the office when you do return.

But because everything is about him and the universe is set on torturing him, you're back a day early.

He can hear your angelic voice echo through the empty floor, your excitement and glee, the little shy giggle that escapes you because you think no one is there to hear it.

"...no, I'm sorry. Work just got the better of me," you sigh into your phone. "I do love them, wish I could take them all back to my apartment—no! No, you don't have to, you've already—fine, thank you."

Titus has never seen you give into an argument so easily. Whatever jealousy he's been harboring triples at the mere thought that someone other than him has made you submit with such ease.

He steps further into the room, a selfish thought crossing through him as he weighs his options.

He should take you now, throw your phone in a ditch, carry you by force back to his apartment and keep you hidden there until you're just as addicted to him as he is you.

"It's really no trouble, beautiful."

Titus's blood runs hot with anger as he hears his voice creeping up from the elevators up towards where he's hiding.

Jackson Cooper, in the flesh.

Titus instantly steps into the shadows, a hunter making sure his prey falls into a false sense of security, yes, definitely that.

"Are you still at the office?"

Titus can't hear you answering, far enough away now that your voice is no longer the main course. He can only imagine what's going on now as you squeal loudly, excited and joyful. Can only imagine the type of kiss you're engaged in as the silence goes on for more than a few seconds.

He can only imagine where you're going as the two of you walk out of the office, hand in hand, sporting similar sheepish expressions on your faces.

Titus watches you go, let's you get away, because now he's got only one thing on his mind—

Jackson Cooper is a dead man.

The muffled screams of agony tickle every nerve in Titus's body.

He's never felt this fulfilled in his life, no drink or drug could ever make him feel as high as he's feeling right now.

The blood has soaked through the carpet, definitely; the rope has chafed through the woof of his antique chair.

The curtains are drawn, the office settled into a sensual warm hue of secrecy and comfort.

Jackson Cooper had come to pick you up for lunch and suddenly, all the planning and stalking and fantasy had gone out the window.

He doesn't even bother explaining, he simply put him in a headlock, incapacitating him as Ursula's new second assistant, as he's come to accept, watches in horror.

A shame, really, he was the first one that he hadn't gotten to have his way with before he got fired. Oh well.

He revels in the fear, the thick and heavy fog that has settled into his office, the pungent smell of iron and definitely other bodily functions. All normal, nothing to be ashamed of when you're being tortured.

And yet Titus soaks it all in, doesn't dare make his prey feel any kind of comfort.

Only the inevitability of death. Slow and painful.

"Titus?" the door to his office opens then, the freshness of your perfume blending into the pungent darkness from within his office. "Have you seen—oh."

Titus stiffens, his hunting knife suddenly feeling heavy in his hand, the leather handle uncomfortable for the first time in his life. He watches as your face falls, dread overtaking him without reason.

But then you don't devolve into hysterics, don't start screaming, instead, your face contorts into one of annoyance?

Your head falls back, a groan escaping your lips as you step into the room, closing the door swiftly behind you.

Titus watches you in awe, mouth barely hanging open as Jackson Cooper begins to scream against his gag and thrash against his restraints.

You turn to him and scowl, such an evil sight directed at such a pathetic man. Titus beams.

"Shhh," you tell him, holding out your hand to stop his squirming as you take out your phone and dial.

On his desk, Jackson's phone begins to ring, loudly.

No one mores, confusion causing the delirious man to settle into silence.

And then, his voice mail message fills the room.

You wait, impatiently now, as it ends.

The beep blares, definitive. You open your mouth—

A sob escapes, fake and pandering, your expression remaining as unbothered as ever.

"Um...okay, I see how it is. It's okay, I just...I didn't think—get it together, fuck. I'm not used to being ghosted sorry. I'm..." you swallow, catching Titus's gaze from across the room, entranced and practically salivating. You shoot him a sly smile. "I guess I'm gonna go have lunch with Titus then—you know, you could've just told me you didn't want to see me again, it's...it doesn't matter now."

With that you end the call.

The room settles back into a heavy silence, the only sound being Titus's obnoxious grin and Jackson's distressed panting as they both realize what you've just done—

An alibi.

"Little dove—" Titus starts but you stop him immediately.

"Don't even start," you've never been this short with him. "I'll deal with you in a second."

To pretend like his pants don't tighten, a thrill of excitement shooting down to settle in his stomach, causing his already painful erection to twitch against the fabric.

You dial again. It rings once before the call connects.

"Mistress," you speak again, completely dry and composed, the voice Titus knows you have reserved for his sister. "There's been a change of plans."

Titus doesn’t hear whatever his sister says in return, the impatience ringing in his ears. Even now, even when he’s got a man strapped to a chair, bleeding to death, you’re still not giving him your undivided attention.

You nod along to whatever is being said. "Yes, he...got ahead of schedule..."

You wince, it’s subtle, minuscule, but Titus catches it.

“Do I have to?” You shiver. “Yes, ma’am.”

You reach out swiftly, like pulling off a bandaid. Barely shaking hand pulls open the table side drawer of the piece of furniture next to his couch.

His eyebrows raise in silent knowledge as he watches you pull out his gun, a sleek, silver 9mm, point it and shoot all within a single breath.

Jackson Cooper never even had a chance to battle with the knowledge of death, not when the bullet had already gone through his skull and dented the bulletproof glass behind him, all before the sound had ene processed through the room.

Blood splatters over whatever whiteness remained of Titus’s button down, the hot speckles of crimson tantalizing against his skin.

It’s only when the body tips the chair backwards and the stain spreads that you end the call, tossing both your phone and the gun onto the couch beside you.

Titus licks his lips then, savoring the taste of your first kill as his gaze glosses over with a carnal need to devour you.

He doesn’t wait for the shock to wear off, for you to start screaming at him for his impulsiveness.

No, he won’t waste another second.

He pounces, crossing the room swiftly and enveloping you in his arms. His lips are on yours, the remnants of iron and a taste so uniquely his invading your taste so easily you can't help but lean into it.

You whine into his mouth, opening your lips in search for more. He obliges instantly, tongues and teeth clashing against each other aggressively.

You bite down hard on his lower lip, drawing enough blood to startle him. Titus whines into your mouth, his eyes shooting open like a kicked puppy.

And then you do...kick him.

He falls to his knees, pathetic and broken, eyes practically fully dark as he watches you pant above him.

"You—you fucking asshole," you practically spit. "You couldn't have waited a few more weeks before you decided to kill him?"

Whatever confusion that lingered burned up into blinding anger.

"Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?"

You scoff, running a hand through your hair, throwing it back over the crown of your head.

"I just needed him alive for a few more days."

Now it's Titus's turn to scowl, deeply offended. "How dare you!?"

He goes to stand, bending his knee to get up but you stop him by stepping forward, your crotch dangerously close to his mouth now.

"Don't."

Oh.

Oh.

A terrifying smirk curves Titus's kiss-swollen lips.

He catches the slight quiver of your mouth, the way your breath catches in your throat, the way your legs shake ever so slightly.

He's dizzy with excitement, his ego growing the size of his bank balance.

"Oh little dove," he coos, condescending and pitying, his large, warm hands grabbing at your ankles and slowly making their way up your legs.

He watches as your body tenses, as you clench around nothing. He hums contently, grabbing at the hem of your skirt and slowly rolling it up your thighs neatly.

Your hands shoot down to settle on his shoulders, steadying yourself as you swallow back a needy sigh.

In response, Titus leans forward, placing a kiss over your clothed mound.

"Ursula must be so...disappointed in you, huh?" he leans back enough to finish rolling your skirt, his hands now sliding to cup your ass. "Don't worry, you'll always have a job with me when she inevitably fires you."

That little entitled piece of shit.

His words light a fire throughout your body.

Defiance.

He's not the only one that can play dirty.

You step forward slightly, kicking his bent knee with your stiletto and sending him off balance back down on his knees. Before he can even process what you're doing, you press the sole of your shoe against his crotch.

He whimpers deliciously at the contact, shifting you closer to him, his fingertips digging into your soft flesh.

"Shut the fuck up, Titus," you sigh. "I'm never gonna work for you," you're heaving, panting, so strung up you just—"Now make yourself useful and make me cum."

And for the first time in his life, Titus doesn't get offended by the command. He simply does.

His hands rip through the sheer fabric of your tights, carving a hole bigger than the one he'd noticed a week ago.

You moan at the sheer roughness, his possessiveness always having been something that never made you uncomfortable but rather—

"I can smell how wet you are, little dove," he leans into your damp underwear, inhaling deeply. "My sweet girl, so turned on by all this carnage."

He chuckles, the vibrations making your head fuzzy already.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

And unlike Jackson Cooper, he doesn't torture you further. One hand pulls your legs apart, shifting himself so that he can settle comfortably between your legs and hump your shoe while he pulls your underwear to the side and bury his face in between your glistening folds.

The sinful noises that explode from you suddenly make everything worth it, your taste a sweet wine against his tongue. He doesn't take his time, no, he goes straight for the kill, mouth latching onto your clit, tongue lapping aggressively.

You buck your hips against his face, not worried that you'll suffocate him, he's got a deal with the devil anyway, he'll be fine.

Titus chuckles against you, reveling in the way your slick drips onto his chin and travels down his neck. Just when you clench around nothing again, he lets you go, a heaving cry leaving your lips then.

Before you can complain, he's trailing his tongue up and down your slit, finally relenting to lazy discovery and appreciation.

"Titus—" you mewl. "Please."

His cock twitches against your stiletto then, his hips bucking into you needfully. Your hands tangle into his hair, scratching at his scalp in response, a treat to show him just how good he's making you feel.

"That's it..." you whisper. "Right there, please, I need—"

He knows exactly what you need. He doesn't even have to ask.

He lets go of your soaked underwear, no longer needing to keep it out of the way himself. He swiftly licks two fingers sloppily before he thrusts them inside of you, your warmth swallowing him whole with no resistance.

He groans against your heat, gasping for air as he looks up at you through his lashes. He's so far gone, so beautiful like this, actually doing something worthy of his time.

You reward him by rubbing his raging erection in tune with the movements of his fingers, slow, steady, sharp.

Your chest heaves, air difficult to process as he speeds up, hooking his fingers against that little spot inside of you that makes you see stars.

You clench around his fingers, the fit now incredibly tight, only spurring him forward.

Your foot stops its movements, mind more concerned with the pleasure building within you to bother to keep up with his.

It doesn't matter though, as Titus takes it upon himself to keep up for the both of you.

"Don't you dare cum before I do."

Your voice isn't your own anymore, it's feral and broken, demanding yet desperate. Titus nods his head, lips returning to your clit to speed up the process.

The room explodes into a symphony of moans and screams, the absolute debauchery of your wetness spraying out between his fingers as you come undone, your legs snapping shut over his head.

He drinks it all up, every shiver, every breath, every sharp tug of his hair.

He's gotten a taste now and it's even better than he could've ever dreamed of.

His fingers slow down, working you though your orgasm as he detaches from your clit, his expression of pure adoration and satisfaction one that will definitely remain etched into your memory forever because...

Titus Danforth does not beg.

And yet...his eyebrows quirk in question, silent and heavy, directed towards you.

You nod feverishly, your entire body still buzzing as you watch him use your leg to get himself off.

To say the sight is unholy would be an understatement, even for a devotee of the devil himself. He doesn't dare break eye contact, doesn't dare pretend like he's not cumming desperately in his pants, doesn't hide his own pleasure from you.

You're so overcome with emotion your vision blurs with tears, your hands soothingly raking over his scalp and down his neck as he holds you so tight against him that you're unsure exactly what just actually happened.

You remain stuck like that for a while, your own fluids reminding you that you're alive, a stark contrast to the death that permeates the other side of the room.

The spell is broken when your phone rings, a shrill that sends a shiver down your spine as Titus begrudgingly allows you to detach yourself from him so you can reach over for the offending device.

You answer, nodding along hazily to whoever is on the other side of the call.

"Yes, I'll be there in twenty," you blink away the fantasy of it all, the coldness of reality weighing heavy. "Please call Pernilla and bring myself and Mr. Danforth a change of clothes. Thank you."

a/n: this will most definitely turn into a series. he's just so damn bad and there's so many more places they can come into contact muejejejeje. if you've got any thoughts or requests hit me up!!

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.”

⸻

I. Reason for Admission:

Benjamin “Dex” Poindexter was admitted to Riviera Psychiatric Institute following the accidental death of his baseball coach, Michael “Mike” Bradley, on November 14, 1997. While the incident was ruled accidental, the child’s unusual affect, flat emotional response, and history of trauma exposure warranted psychiatric evaluation and observation.

The referral notes describe Benjamin, Dex, as emotionally blunted, hyper-controlled, and exhibiting inappropriate calm following a fatal event. Concerns were also raised regarding his long-term emotional development, behavioral rigidity, and potential for reactive outbursts under stress.

⸻

II. Background Information:

Dex is the only child of Leonard and Esther Poindexter, both deceased. He was placed at Lyndhurst Home for Boys in 1995 following the discovery of his parents’ deaths in their home. Reports indicate that Dex found both bodies after returning from school. The official investigation concluded a murder-suicide, with his father, Leonard, stabbing his wife to death before committing suicide by hanging.

Dex’s early life history reveals significant psychosocial neglect and potential abuse. Interviews conducted by state social services describe a household marked by instability, isolation, and emotional deprivation.

• Father (Leonard): Known to be volatile, controlling, and prone to obsessive behaviors. Described by neighbors as “paranoid” and “always watching.” Employment records indicate multiple terminations for anger-related incidents.

• Mother (Esther): Reported by relatives to have struggled with depression and self-isolation. Sparse documentation suggests she was the family’s primary income earner, employed in administrative work. Neighbors noted her as “quiet” and “unresponsive,” often seen alone.

After the deaths, Dex exhibited no acute emotional breakdown. School records note that he returned to class within a week, silent but compliant, and continued to perform at an exceptional level in structured activities, particularly baseball. Staff at Lyndhurst described him as “disciplined to an unnatural degree,” showing early signs of perfectionism and self-punishment behaviors (e.g., rehearsing mechanical tasks until exhaustion, repeating phrases verbatim when corrected).

⸻

III. Presenting Symptoms:

Upon arrival at Riviera Psychiatric Institute, Dex presented as quiet, polite, and notably withdrawn. He complied with intake procedures but displayed flat affect, minimal eye contact, and restricted range of emotion. His speech was monotone, highly literal, and devoid of inflection.

During the initial psychiatric interview, Dex stated:

“I don’t need to be here. I just threw the ball wrong. It hit the wrong thing.”

He denied intent to harm his coach and expressed confusion at others’ reactions to the event. When asked about his parents, Dex initially said, “They’re gone. It doesn’t matter now.” Later, he added, “I should have been home that day. Maybe then it wouldn’t have happened.”

Staff observed several behaviors consistent with trauma-related dissociation:

• Extended periods of silent staring at the wall or floor.

• Repetitive rhythmic tapping or counting under his breath (possible grounding behavior).

• Discomfort with eye contact or touch; recoils from physical proximity.

• Inflexibility around daily routines (insistence on eating meals at the same table and time each day).

• Heightened startle response to raised voices or sudden noises.

Dex showed particular fixation on rules and performance expectations. When told to participate in recreational therapy, he requested specific instructions and asked, “What happens if I do it wrong?” Staff noted his visible distress when uncertain about correct procedures, often freezing mid-activity.

⸻

IV. Psychological Observations:

Psychometric assessments (projective and verbal) suggest elevated levels of anxiety, hypervigilance, and emotional constriction. His cognitive testing falls in the superior range, with an exceptional capacity for spatial reasoning, pattern recognition, and imitation of complex motor sequences.

However, Dex’s interpersonal comprehension appears underdeveloped. He struggles to interpret emotional cues in others and frequently misreads facial expressions as anger or rejection. When shown images of neutral or sad faces, he identified most as “mad.”

Clinical Impression: Dex displays signs of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) with dissociative features, complicated by a personality structure leaning toward obsessive-compulsive and perfectionistic traits. The absence of emotional regulation and his rigid adherence to structure may serve as defensive mechanisms against underlying feelings of fear, guilt, and abandonment.

⸻

V. Treatment Plan:

1. Therapeutic Focus:

• Trauma processing through guided play therapy and structured conversation.

• Gradual desensitization to perceived authority and raised voices.

• Emotional labeling exercises to improve recognition and expression of internal states.

• Introduction of regulated physical activity to channel compulsive behaviors safely.

2. Medication Management:

• Continuation of low-dose SSRI (initiated by Dr. Mercer).

• Evaluation for possible adjunctive medication for sleep regulation.

3. Behavioral Goals:

• Reduce reliance on rigid routines.

• Encourage spontaneous interaction with peers.

• Increase tolerance for emotional uncertainty and perceived failure.

4. Observation:

• Nightly check-ins due to frequent nighttime wakefulness.

• Staff instructed to avoid sudden physical contact and to maintain consistent, calm communication.

⸻

VI. Initial Prognosis:

While highly intelligent and responsive to structure, Dex demonstrates severe emotional compartmentalization. His sense of safety is rooted in control and repetition. He interprets affection or leniency as instability, preferring order to comfort. His trauma response is embedded in a learned belief that mistakes equal punishment.

Early indicators suggest that his emotional capacity remains intact but deeply buried beneath cognitive rationalization. The primary clinical challenge will be accessing that suppressed empathy without triggering defensive rigidity or self-blame.

⸻

Attending Psychiatrist:

Dr. Samuel H. Lin, M.D.

Riviera Psychiatric Institute – Child and Adolescent Trauma Unit

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