~T✨

The sword swung, slicing through the air with a hushed and brief whistle before clashing against another blade. Sparks floated, witness of the prowess displayed by the men wielding the protecting and slaughtering instruments, that danced in a slowed and choreographed tempo. 

Two steps forward from him meant two steps back for the other. A clashing of swords, almost bent the knee of the shorter soldier, earning a condescending smirk from the taller one. 

The perks of having a considerable height sure did wonders among his peers. His soldiers. Men that would always follow him, even to hell itself if that meant to remain as a team. 

Individuality did not exist in his squad as it was not only punished, but frowned upon. In battle, his men, their swords and him became one. The holy trinity. A force little to none dared to reckon with. But outside the warlike conflicts, within the castle’s walls and training sessions, each man stupid enough to defy him meant a target. A lesson to keep themselves grounded.

Mercy abandoned him, like the restraint and consideration he often carried towards his men in the battlefield, as soon as their feet entered his ring.

“Is that all you got?” General O’Hara sneered, almost amused that his best soldier so far had the gall to actually take the lead, and show the future contenders how they’d end up, if they asked for a one-on-one spar with him. 

The soldier’s shoulders squared, as he adjusted his angle to tilt the sword to a side, steering the general’s blade to the left, using his boss’ weight as a leverage against him  to make it follow his stumbling body; before piercing into the air in a powerful stab. Just inches away from the general’s face. 

“You’re getting old–.” Another stab, and he dodged. Barely. “ –and slow!”

Miguel stepped back, planting his feet in a steely stance before delivering a clashing swing that made the soldier’s hand tremble along his sword. 

“That’s low, even for you.” The blows kept coming, and as expected of his right hand, he deflected and attacked, as he would do in the front lines. “C’mon!” 

That last clash sent the soldier toppling to the ground, his sword falling feet away from his hands. 

Miguel dropped the sword and his knuckles cracked, as the thrill of what came next coursed through him. Probably through the spectators the session had gathered too. His fists readied, just in time to receive a growling deputy once the dust released him from the floor.

Always throwing himself headfirst into danger. Literally. 

A powerful headbutt connected with the general’s abdomen, pushing all air out of his lungs in a go. Using his lower stance as an advantage, the man steadied his fists and connected a couple of jabs on Miguel’s sides, right where an enemy’s spear had grazed days ago. 

“You little—” He hissed, curling to the side to protect the wound, despite the painful stings pulsating each time he breathed. “¡Cabrón!” A surge of pride crossed his eyes when the soldier smirked and shook his hands to fend the cramping off his knuckles. Then, they balled into fists again, ready to imprint their own share of fight into his now tender skin.

“See?” The aforementioned spat the blob of saliva to the floor with a sided grin. “You sound like a grandpa now.” 

But the man, that strange soldier of his, often forgot one important thing during their spars. That he, The Red Blight, was the general for a reason.

In two big strides, Miguel planted himself before the soldier, and grappled him by his waist, jostling him over his broad shoulders like a ragdoll. Almost in slow motion, before slamming his body on the ground. A dusty cloud shrouded them both, blocking the sight for the rest.

All they could hear were grunting, growling, a couple of breathless and mocking laughs —and a broken cry ringing through the dry fog. Sometimes a boot and a bandaged hand peeked out, as a clear warning to stay away. A choked yelp stopped the struggle.

“You’re done.” The general’s voice rasped in between breathless pants. Dust stuck to his sweaty face and body, but that didn’t stop him from giving his subordinate a jeering smile.

“Fuck you! You cheated!” His hands flailed, trying to connect another jab, but they were quickly snatched and criss-crossed over his chest with a powerful shove.

“And so will the enemy.” He pressed tighter and his red eyes watched as the air abandoned his soldier’s lungs. “You fight men bigger than me on the front, but you can’t stand me in training?” His lips twitched in a mocking scowl. “Do you even deserve to be my captain?”

Miguel’s words didn’t sting like they used to, rather sparked alive another wave of anger flowing in the captain’s veins the more that brute pressed against his chest. His teeth ground together, baring in a glower dedicated to the man above.

“Answer the fucking question, Corvo! Do YOU deserve to be my captain?” Miguel pressed, but the pained expression in his soldier —bloodshot eyes quickly glossing when he pressed tighter, almost fusing his arms against his chest, stopped him. 

Shit. 

He had gotten way too excited. Again. 

Corvo inhaled sharply, drowning a sniff that almost escaped from his nose as he scrambled away from the crushing weight above.

“Are you okay?” The giant man asked, concerned when The Raven held his chest as though something had broken. Maybe it had. 

Silence. Corvo’s best attribute in war as it’d meant he’d be too busy slaughtering enemies to speak, but the worst in training. Because that meant anger, directed exclusively his way. 

“Hey—” 

He was gone. 

Like the spectators that dispersed as soon as the dust cloud vanished and saw him on top. Triumphant, reclaiming his position as the invictus contender. 

“Fuck…” 

He’d apologize to his friend later. For now, his body demanded a bath.

Corvo. 

The Red Blight’s right hand. His best friend. 

“Good lord. Again?” The doctor quickly closed the quarters and drew in the curtains, blocking the view from any impromptu visitors. 

A liar.

“I called him old and slow.” 

An imposter.

Jessica gathered a couple of flasks filled with oil-like concoctions and ointments with a frown. Her expert hands unbuttoned the dirty vest and slowly peeled off the layers. Starting with the chemise, already suffocating the muscles and drenched in sweat. Then, the inner linen, trying to contain the bruised and tender skin, to finally meet the final barrier.  

“I didn’t think you’d get this devoted to the cause and risk your breasts.” The doctor squinted her eyes as she removed the binder. Slowly, almost too careful and wary of the bruises blooming the more the tight cloth fell, just to reveal a pair of supple and swollen breasts, marked by the threading pattern of the fabric constricting them.

“He didn’t mean that.” A hiss escaped through your mouth as Jessica prodded at one of them. A mean and purple bruise flaunted itself between your shoulder junction and the slope of your tit, just where the previous battle had left its mark, which Miguel had just worsened.

“Of course he didn’t. Neither the other times, hm?” Jessica’s fingers collected a good amount of minty ointment and her eyes met yours for a moment. “This will hurt.” 

“Shocker.” One of your hands reached for a piece of wood by the bed, scarred by old biting marks. One more wouldn’t hurt as you bit down and groped the sheets underneath, like it was the most logical and normal thing to do, after getting your own ass handed over. 

“You’re getting as reckless as he is.” Of course, your friend, the only one aware of your little secret, would scold you while massaging a tad rough your sore breasts while you whimpered, to allow the ointment do its magic. “God forbid he actually delivers a bad punch and I’ll have to cut your tits open.” 

The mental image almost revolted your stomach. If having a massage to ease and soothe the pained  muscles hurt like hell… A chill ran down your pained spine by just imagining it. 

“And then, everyone will find out.” The doctor scoffed while pouring a green-ish oil in the blackened areas.

You knew. God fucking dammit, you knew the outcome to that. 

Imprisonment, interrogation —probably done by your best friend himself, the accusation of being a spy; Miguel’s repulsion, hatred… Execution.

You gulped and averted your eyes to the flasks. 

Corvo. 

An unknown soldier’s name that just showed up one day in the recruitment list. None asked much, the kingdom couldn’t be picky when it came to the meat that would feed the cannons in a war against another conqueror wannabe.

A strange soldier that always slept with his back against the wall. A man that never washed with his peers in the lake after a well deserved break from killing, despite the grime and sweat itching in his eyes, skin and hair. 

A man that each month, for a week, devoted himself to silence and reclusion just to appear in the training ring like a mad dog, making other soldiers bite the dust and his blade slick with crimson on the battlefield. A man that found revolting the mud-fights his companions often subjected him to for fun. Because, that’s what men did, right? 

A man that had soft hands. Maybe too soft and small for a sword but mended and inflicted wounds like no other.  A voice that didn’t need to be louder to be obeyed or heard. The shortest soldier that had earned the respect from the squad, because no matter how many times war’s horrors tried to yank that gentleness out of him, he came out undefeated. And what better way to prove himself than saving the General’s life. Twice.

Your  name rang a bit too stiff in Jessica’s lips. 

A ghost's name, buried beneath an armor that sometimes fitted too tight and suffocating around your breasts. Underneath a badly shaven head, a lie and a bound chest to make it to the recruitment lines, in order to escape a fate a woman often ended up finding in the midst of war between men. A name you had erased when your enemy count surpassed hundreds, like the flock of ravens tailing behind you, carrying the omens of The Red Blight. 

Corvo, “The Raven”, had been born three years ago. 

The quizzical look from the soldier upon hearing the made up name to enlist, had almost made you smile at his gullibleness, but it quickly vanished upon heeding his warning. 

“Try to not die within the first month.” he said without looking your way twice. “I hate the corpse-cleansing shift, and if I see you there, you better be cleaning up with me. Or I’ll piss on your body, yeah?” 

You didn’t die. In fact, some labeled you as a try-hard for doing exactly what a good part of your story resumed into. Surviving. But they didn’t escape a home that had been ravaged to the ruins by the enemy, or had taken the bravery of cutting your hair so short you could barely comb through it.

They hadn’t bound their breasts so tight it often gave you back problems, aches impossible to tame without opium, and more bruises than boots to polish, just to breathe another day. 

But most importantly, they didn’t carry the crushing weight of lying to their best friend for three years in a row. 

“Let the ointment seep in, and then I’ll help you with the binder again.” 

Your eyes darted towards the fabric on Jessica’s table, and for a second disgust knitted your brows together, refusing immediately the expected offer, to then focus on your breasts. Resting unbound in their full glory and begging to taste freedom for a bit longer. 

“I’ll take a nap in your storage room.” 

Unable to watch for another second that scroll of fabric that oppressed your chest, 

or stand the idea of covering at once; you headed towards the hidden and makeshift room Jessica had helped you condition (after discovering your secret by accident during an ambush) and plopped yourself, topless, on the soft hay bed. Conceding your old self a moment of autonomy and rest from the ever present role of Corvo.

Your blade clashed and sliced through a soldier’s throat, trying to get a hold of the medical loot your team guarded. Just to barely dodge a fist that moved at full speed to your sides by another. 

You knew the route, the orders, the risks that it carried, and still you took the assignment with your team. A decoy from the main raid happening at Miguel’s orders on the enemy’s commander's settlement. 

Fuck. Fuck—

Your feet gave another dodge, just to stumble against themselves, swollen and sore from the extra weight the armor offered. It was enough for the soldier to land a powerful punch right and square to your lower belly. Folding you instantly. 

“What’s wrong pretty boy?” Mocked the soldier as his knee just emphasized the pain with another punch. “Kicked your pussy too hard?”

White light danced behind your lids, all air escaped from your lungs in a pained scream. Too high-pitched even for a wounded man. Tears welled up in your eyes as your vengeful insides clenched in a powerful contraction, enough to make you expel an ugly puke next to the dead soldiers.

“Get up!” The fiend barked, but your knees wobbled. Tears no longer cared if they were seen. They just wanted out.

Much to the soldier’s ironic misfortune, his eyes darted past your waist, instantly fixating on your armored thighs upon catching a glimpse of bright red;  flowing, spreading downwards the more you moved. Nothing had prepared him when comprehension fell like a pile of heavy maces, when he found and stared at the unmistakable source of such odd bleeding. 

No…

The enemy blinked and snapped his gaze between your legs, and back at your horrified face again. His eyes widened with that unsettling understanding that didn’t bode well the more his brain worked. Those lips of yours were too plump and pretty to be a guy’s. Your hips, too defined and curvaceous for a man’s, even if the armor did its best to conceal them. Your frame, smaller than the rest, even for a short guy, but average enough for a— 

You kicked dirt right in his eyes, out of embarrassment. 

It wasn’t supposed to come this soon!

“Aghck!” The man tried, uselessly, to clean his sight. But he didn’t stand a chance against your blade, which sliced through bone and nerve to sever his head. 

Headless men couldn’t speak, nor reveal secrets. 

The pain folded you again. Enough to make you kneel before the carriage, wheezing and trembling when yet another contraction scraped and bit from the inside. Your sight blurred for a moment. 

“Corvo!” 

Your lieutenant approached, alarmed to see you alone, kneeling with some corpses on the ground. 

“Quit the praying shit! We have the cargo!” One of his arms fetched yours as he draped it over his shoulder to steady your balance, and pulled up, earning a breathless and shaky yelp from you. He didn’t seem to mind the blood on your knee, probably mistaking it for a battle wound. 

Bless him. For not asking questions, or insisting too much besides the familiar ‘Are you okay?’. Your team had won the deathly tag-game, and that was all that mattered most. 

Your legs almost gave out, but you had to push through. With an effort that squeezed fresh tears (but were blinked away), you hopped on your horse and took the reins. 

“Send…” Your teeth ground as your jaw clenched. A deep inhale filled your lungs, trying to steady and lower your voice into that scrimpy lilt your men were already used to. “Fuck —Is the windmill’s path clear?” 

“All dead.” He confirmed.

“Take the cargo back to the castle.” Your head pounded, like the ill-timed spasms inside. “Report to General O’Hara.” Your fingers curled as you sharply sucked air, tightening on the leather straps on your hand. “T-Tell him… Fuck…”

“You’re hurt.” The lieutenant frowned, ready to pull you down from the horse and take you to the nearest doctor.

“Precisely why I need you to stop being an obvious fuck and go report.” Your tongue clicked, cueing your horse to turn and gallop before your subordinate could even protest or reach you. “Move!” 

A few very times you were close, really close, to falling off to the side of a road. Your sight vanished for tiny fractions of seconds, but the spasms, which grew stronger, like the urge to retch again, kept you anchored to consciousness. 

You had to make it back. To the castle, to Jessica, whom you had no doubt would scold you again for being reckless. Cause God forbid you fainting and being found by someone else. But, what could she possibly tell you when she was the one in charge of your tracking? 

A little irresponsible to leave such a personal affair in her hands, you knew. But between the training, the enemy and the guilt pulling from you in all directions, to try and get your complete attention; you had forgotten about the monthly reminder of your old self’s existence. 

Corvo didn’t bleed, nor fold over in pain. Or hopped off the horse with tears threatening to fall as his breeches reeked in iron, secretly panicking at getting noticed by the nearby absentminded soldiers. Your lips paled as your legs wobbled. 

And then, everyone will find out. 

It wasn’t an option. Neither a possibility you’d allow to happen, so with all the strength left you could muster, you grabbed a cloak from the nearby hanger and hurried through your pain to reach Jessica’s territory. 

The faint voices, and low hiss followed by a whimper turned clearer the more you approached. 

“ —And some rest, do you understand?” Jessica’s gentle but authoritative voice stirred the tears pooling at your inner corners. 

“What if the infection turns worse?” The soldier protested, "It's my shooting arm!” 

“Then, you'll die and we bury you.” Your voice cut through the no longer private meeting. Before your friend could speak, you held the door wide open for the stupid deputy with a bandaged arm. “Out.” 

“But I’m—”

“Out. Or I’ll chop that fucking arm myself right now.” 

The soldier blinked a little too late before scurrying off through the door, which you slammed shut and secured, alarming Jessica in the process. 

The lock clicked, allowing you a moment to blink away the pooling tears, even though each nerve in your body hurt to exist. 

Jessica frowned and stood. She rushed to the door, and pressed her ear against it, but the soldier had been long gone. And then, she faced you. Worry already painting across her countenance.

“Are you alright?…” her hushed voice earned a weakened and quick shake of your head. Dread crept up her features immediately as you held your lower belly. “Did someone…?”

“Almost.” Your hands removed the cloak, revealing the bloody armor. “I… I killed him. Fucker punched me twice.”

“Maker’s mercy…” Jessica helped you undo the rest of the armor, as her nose wrinkled lightly at the smell of fresh blood and sweat. “I don’t understand. It was supposed to arrive within a week!” 

“You tell me! That soldier knew, he just—” All that bravado from earlier vanished, leaving a shaky sob instead. “I-I got it mid battle, Jessie!” 

Jessie. Uh oh. 

“Go to the storage room. Get undressed. I’ll draw you a bath before Miguel arrives.” She unclasped as much armor  and clothing as she could before sending you away. 

Much to your dismay, the cloak you’d borrowed was none other than Miguel’s. And you had stained it. 

In a matter of minutes the sounds of pots and crackling fire echoed in Jessica’s office as steam rose. The brief memory of your first period under her watch, replayed almost instantly in your mind, while the tinkering of instruments and pots continued.

You, panicking and teary-eyed, wrapped like a scared child; sobbing, almost incoherently at the mess you carried  under your arm. Firmly tucked despite your shaking, until out of nervousness, you threw the sheets into the fire upon hearing another captain calling Corvo’s name. 

And ever since, you both —more like she, made the effort to keep in check that ever pestering moment.

“Are you alright?” Your friend peeked through the door when silence stretched for too long, and found you, almost naked and laid down over the hay bed. Passed out and still bleeding. “My poor girl.”

Damned be the consequences. You needed her. 

His steps marched, heavy and solemn, towards that safe space his best soldier had made out of Jessica’s infirmary. 

As much as the mission came to an end successfully, not seeing his Captain there didn’t sit right. Even worse when the lieutenant had reported that Corvo was injured, thus the reason for his absence. 

Miguel knew that the enemy’s group had been six men in total, and they all had perished, most under Corvo’s blade probably. He had endured countless battles, fighting at his captain’s side as though that spot in the army had been purposely created for him. Yet, no other soldier or private compared to him.

None had his cunning, that fury in his eyes that pushed him and his squad to give their best, wherever they went. He had seen men working and bleeding to the bone, but Corvo always fought like it would be the last time; as though time had punished him long ago with a burden so strong that only more dead men would pay it off.

But Miguel knew him. It wasn’t enough. That strange man he named captain a half a year ago and had earned a spot as his best friend —much to his reluctance at first, harbored such unease in his eyes. A weight only those with a heavy past carried. 

The General often wondered what had happened before the short man appeared in his ranks. Corvo possessed this unusual appeal Miguel had only seen in portraits of these royal and god-like descendants, earning him this other title of ‘pretty boy’ among the rest.  But not in the way it would be a compliment, as it contradicted every concept he had forged about the men under his command. 

At first, Miguel had thought Corvo wouldn’t even last for more than a month. Most of the men that arrived at the fortress were just looking for a place to recover their strength by being fed and taken care of, before ditching. Each morning had turned into a guessing game of how many men had quit overnight. 

But not that little bastard. Not him. 

Always with his back against the wall, as though he didn’t fully trust the men around him, still didn’t, perhaps. Why? Miguel hadn’t asked, neither blamed him. He had learned to not push his friend to sate his ill-timed curiosity. 

His cleansing habits were at first criticized by some, even him, by how obsessive he seemed to be with body odor. But having stinky men around him no more sure did wonders for his nose. All thanks to that eccentricity of his.

Sometimes he liked to play guessing games in his head about Corvo’s past. Perhaps he had been a noble, because of the finesse he often saw him perform with, even in the most disgusting of chores he assigned him. Or maybe, he was one of those people mingling with dark magic, because ravens and crows followed him like cawing shadows, way before The Raven was born. After all, Miguel had once found him, feeding the birds like they were his pets. 

He’d never get over that week Corvo refused to speak to him and disappeared, just because he threw him to the mud in the same way he’d do with every soldier under his command. Their initiation ritual. 

Miguel had come to accept these temporal absences, even though they upset him at first. Where did he go? What did he do? Who helped him being gone? Was he alright? A man that had saved his life, twice —his best friend— could be suffering and he was nowhere to help. 

But seeing him returning with more energy, like nothing had ever happened after the seven days; sometimes more, sometimes less, soothed him plenty to not push or dig deeper. Some might say there was a growing favoritism, maybe it did, or maybe the friendship had grown strong enough to let the bastard get away with some things. 

Right now, however, he needed to make sure that injury wouldn’t kill him. That was his job. Mission sure had been a feat, but he had defied orders, the squad’s principle of teamwork by leaving his men alone. His pace quickened once he left his armor behind, staff and men alike scurried away from his presence. Either busy as he was, or too fearful to meet his wrath early in the day. 

In a matter of minutes he crossed the hall and reached the medical area, with no Corvo on sight. Earning a vexed grunt. 

Jessica, of course. 

She was always protecting him. Always having private meetings with him. His teeth sunk in his bottom lip’s insides until he tasted copper, to fend off that question resurfacing whenever Jessica hovered around him like those crows following him.

Was Corvo gravely sick and he didn’t tell him? 

His eyes quickly scanned the recovery room, searching for that odd soldier he couldn’t wait to smack on the head for disobeying. Or punch in the face, depending how severe his injuries were. But didn’t find him. His feet took him to the other room, the doctor’s office, and halted. 

He couldn’t decide where to stare at first. If his cloak, stained and bloodied in a chair, or the little mountain of bloody rags gathered in a basket. He blinked, unsettled at the amount of red in them. 

“I know you dislike chamomile, but you have to drink it!”

Miguel froze for a moment. Where was Jessica and why did he hear her voice in the storage room? 

“It does nothing on its own!” The other voice, sweeter and sure on the verge of crying protested.

“I’m not giving you opium until later, it’s too damn early.” The sound of a cup scraping a saucepan gritted in his ears for a second. “Chug it. Now.” 

Chamomile tea. Bloody rags, murky water in the bath… 

Oh. 

His anger vanished, letting a growing sense of coyness take the reins in lieu. He knew what periods were, Corvo seemed settled for him to learn about them, to the point of offering his services to gather ingredients for medicine whenever Jessica and the staff needed them. A possible reason why the women on site were a bit more amiable towards him. Some had even swooned over the ‘beautiful and kind young man’.

“You’re a man, not a caveman. What if your future wife needs it? Get over it.” 

Had said The Raven with a hint of honest dislike at Miguel’s nonchalance towards the problem. Sadly, the idiot was nowhere to be found. And before he discomfited anyone even further, Miguel took the bloodied cloak without really looking. A couple of metallic cups and other instruments fell on the floor with a loud rattle, silencing the banter on the other side instantly. 

Shit. 

Miguel quickly picked everything up, as the steps hurried, almost running; just to reveal a startled Jessica. Looking as though a ghost had materialized before her.

“Miguel…” She gulped, looking between the cloak and his expression. Discomfort, yes —A lot of it, but not alarm or mistrust.

“Did Corvo come?” 

Part of her tension vanished, but her eyes narrowed suspiciously, he noted. 

“Yeah. He’s okay, just a minor scratch, actually.” She nodded and his shoulders relaxed, finally. “You know how he is.”

Hmm. 

He was totally punching him in the face. 

When he appears again.

“Look, el cabrón disobeyed an order.” His head shook while placing the instruments on the table and gathered the cloak again. “If you see him, send him to the latrines, since he thinks it’s fucking funny to hide.”

Jessica blinked, dumbfounded, but nodded while he left without saying further. 

Pendejo.

The first night had been like descending to hell itself and purposely allowing the imps to stab your uterus. No opium worked, marking your cheeks with paths of long dried tears. That soldier’s punch had made it all worse. It unleashed this sickening domino effect all over your body. 

Fever broke when the last sun ray died. The blankets Jessica brought were too itchy on your skin, but the inner cold attacked intermittently to kick them away. There were moments you didn’t know whether to snug tighter in the sheets, or strip yourself naked. 

The second day was a carbon copy of the first plus some clots that left Jessica’s rags supply empty. The third and fourth day were easier but not less painful. The fever vanished, leaving aches and a swollen lower belly that matched your feet. But nothing that hot soups, sweets, warm baths and a massage in your limbs fixed. 

Jessica constantly received a plethora of ‘thank yous’ ‘I love yous’ ‘I’m so grateful you’re my friend’ from an emotionally maundering you. And when she gave you these reports of Miguel asking for your presence, the urge to cry increased tenfold. 

Guilt often surpassed your willpower, to the point of having a pile of scrumpled notes, with the many ways you’d reveal your secret to your friend. Because, yet again, you had finally decided to come clean to him and whatever the consequences of it were, you’d bear them. 

With a deep and tired sigh, you submerged yourself in the wooden bathtub and washed your hair. Now long enough for your fingers to rake through and get lost in between the tufts. Those purple and green-ish bruises had healed and left your skin unblemished. Ironically, you hated the occurrence, yet, it was the only time where you were allowed to exist as a woman. 

No pretense games, no binders, no stupid, risky and senseless jokes. And of course a whole, private room for you. There were no more midnight snorings, or staying up late because your teammates had decided to wake their prank's victim, by pulling the pants down and sprinkle chili powder on areas it shouldn’t be. Or dousing them in cold water. You didn’t have to scarf down food within the brief breaks missions conceded. 

The most painful days of your existence were the best to recover from the constant testosterone exposure. 

Even though the water turned colder, you refused to leave. Not yet. Not when you did take your time to enjoy these little things the rest took for granted. The bath curtains were closed, the oils in the water made your body ache less and perfume your skin with a soft flowery scent.  

“Maker’s patience, you sure are persistent. I told you I don’t know!”

Jessica’s voice however, and the frustration in it, made you shrink deeper in the tub, startled and already looking for a way to make your escape towards the storage room. 

“I know you are hiding him, Drew.” Miguel snapped, his voice at the door as his heavy steps followed her.

“You corner me again, and I’ll let your men rot in their wounds. Am I clear?” The concoctions drawer opened and closed with a bang at her words.

“Where is Corvo?!”

“Beats me. Move.” A couple of bottles and tools tinkled in a basket as Jessica gathered them. “I’ve got men to patch up. Your men, mind you!” 

Her steps grew distant, and so did Miguel’s. 

And you wasted no time. The water sloshed and fell over your body in loud rivulets, cascading in every curve it could before letting you go with a splash. You shook the excess from your feet once you were outside, but halted when the rushed steps returned. Too soon and too damn fast—

“Pinche cabrón holgazán, ya sabía que…” Miguel’s voice, initially billowing, stopped, like his breathing altogether just as he shoved the curtains to a side. (You fucking lazy ass bum. I knew you were—)

His heart stopped for a second too long. Every fiber in his muscles dictated to not move, to not breathe and to not speak. His eyes however, did all the job for him. 

They started with the messy and wet chunks of hair sticking to your head as though rain had doused you over a thousand times, framing those cheekbones only a woman such as yourself had. Then moved to your lips, trembling and exhaling in quickening breaths, in fear. His gaze wandered over your neck, bobbing with a gulp. 

His fingers gripped the curtains so tight his knuckles whitened, when he stared, not with that characteristic manly morbidity, rather surprise at your breasts. As though looking at them would make them go away, but your nipples just shrunk and hardened in return, making his pupils widen on their own. His throat burned, or was it his skin? His ears definitely grew warmer. Why did everything feel so much warmer? 

Miguel’s lips parted, so did yours. 

His eyes resumed their tour and stopped at your waist. A place where his hands had fit a bit too perfectly, like if that curve you tried with all your might to conceal had been made specifically for his hands alone. A light jolt tingled in his fingertips, remembering the sensation of your skin. Too rough and shapeless from what that smoothness he had just discovered felt like. But your hips…

Miguel had to blink for a tiny fraction of second, just to make sure that the sight before him wasn’t a product of his already awestruck imagination. 

Corvo. His ever reclusive and odd soldier, the man— No. 

No. 

The patch of darkened curls between your legs said the opposite. Even if you tried to clumsily cover the sight from him. Like the rest of your body. 

Corvo— No. Not Corvo. 

Corvo was an odd man. Obsessed with cleaning, always sleeping in odd positions, as though ready to pounce if someone got close enough. He killed enemies, commanded crows, and saved his life. Had sometimes won in the sparring ring, taught him about periods and how to ease pains. Taunted him like no other soldier had the privilege to.

And bled. 

The small crimson droplet streaming down your inner thigh —like the ones staining his cloak and the pile of rags— snapped him from his thoughts, or the sudden void eating away all possible logical explanations. Leaving nothing but the absolute truth. 

Corvo, his best friend, soldier and his right hand in battle, was a woman. 

“I-I can explain.” Your voice pounded in his ears. Sweet, mellow, fearful. And way past  regretful. Unlike that jeering soldier calling him a grandpa months ago.

The Red Blight didn’t say anything. His hands unclasped the cloak with trembling fingers and removed it from his shoulders, draping it over you in a firm embrace that, if someone looked and didn’t know you both at all, would've said that he had taken a woman by the lapels of the cloak to shake her. 

“I never meant to—” Your voice broke and his grip tightened for a moment, while his lips tweaked in a scowl, before letting you go, as though the contact burned him. “I didn’t want— I’m sorry.”

Something, a mix of disbelief, guilt, pain and confusion crossed his eyes. His mouth parted. Probably to speak, or shout, maybe the latter but he quickly closed it. The first step he took back echoed like a hammer in your ears, the second one, like a sentence. Never his eyes tore from you and the way you tried so miserably to hold onto his cloak, covering that little detail that explained… everything. 

Your insides clenched with such force your knees wobbled, the pain however, wasn’t a match for the one stabbing your chest the more he stepped back. The way his jaw clenched and his Adam's apple bobbed, ever slow and painful, made you gulp tighter. Almost like trying to swallow an indigestible truth.

“Miguel—”

He left. And didn't dare to look back. 

Silence shouldn’t be allowed to stretch this long, nor the tension this heavy. 

For how long would he punish you? 

Changes created this unspoken rift between both, leaving the squad with more questions than answers. 

They had noticed the terseness in Miguel’s voice whenever he spoke with you, no more than what was necessary. The glower his eyes shot your way whenever you asked to train with him. His refusal sure made everyone stare, disturbed. The General’s favorite apparently had fallen from grace. 

Your duties shrunk with each week, leaving you mostly out of the action, and when you finally thought things had gotten back to normal, General O’Hara —No longer Miguel— assigned you to stables, as though you were a rookie all over again. Even the squad acted wrong. Too busy to talk, to joke, to… be there. Sleeping against the wall never felt that lonely, until now.

The Captain, overruled. Cast aside. Friendless. Useless. 

You had tried to talk to him, but his duties or the pretense of these, always made it impossible to reach through. And when you did, no matter how many times you searched for his eyes, he refused to meet yours.

That was it. 

Even though the resolve to leave didn’t sit right in your chest, what could you possibly do in a place no longer felt like home? Disgusting but loyal men and all, it was everything you knew. The few memories of your old life had been long buried, to let new ones to inhabit your mind. 

But that was before that slip up distorted and hindered every plan ahead. Before Miguel knew. 

There wasn’t much to pack. Breeches and chemises mostly. Your armor and sword laid on the mannequin, polished and untouched, just as it was given to you, like the medals the court had blessed under Corvo’s name. They didn’t belong to you. 

The binder constricted as always, but for once, you needed the pain to think and anchor yourself. Your bed had been stripped, and the sheets folded. Ready to be occupied by a new recruit, a future captain perhaps. 

Jessica had tried to talk you out of it, by offering you a spot in her apothecary wing. But you were as useful as a dull blade in combat in that line of work. And sitting down and healing others, although noble and needed, wasn’t your suit. Patching superficial wounds was one thing, it was easy and quick, grown men handled it well. But children? Women? Elderly people? The mere thought made you squeamish. 

A heavy sigh left your nostrils, as you packed the last things of your actual belongings. A pouch of money that would take you to the nearest village, hopefully; a wooden hair comb, a couple of clothes changes, the pair of rundown but still useful boots you had come with. And a resigning letter, seal-waxed with Miguel’s name. Nothing more nothing less. 

The barracks door swung open, and those familiar heavy steps rushed in. You didn’t have to turn your head to know he was coming. The overbearing presence approaching you was enough. 

“What are you doing?” His voice, rougher than you had ever heard it, echoed behind you. 

Your hands moved faster, before reaching for his letter and tossed it on an empty spot on the bare bed. 

“I need you to sign that, sir.” Your feet moved towards the drawer, where the medals gathered, but you left them untouched. It was your turn to avoid his eyes, despite his burning holes into your back. “The carriage to the next village arrives at—”

“No.” His hands reached for the tucked in belongings and pulled, but you beat him to it and snatched the bulk from his hands. “I won’t sign it. Because you’re not going anywhere.” 

“Says who?” Your hands grabbed the letter and pushed it against his chest. “Cause as far as I am concerned you left pretty damn clear you don’t want me around. Sign it.” 

His fingers grazed yours for a second as he took the letter and tossed it carelessly to a nearby fire, not even looking twice its way. 

“What are you doing!?” You rushed towards the fireplace, ready to save the letter but his massive frame blocked any advances. Your jaw clenched and your teeth ground, before you could even think properly, your hands pushed with all their might against him, stumbling him back a couple of steps. “Fuck you!”

It took him one stride for his feet to plant themselves before you and return that push. Unlike him, you almost fell on your ass. What angered you the most was that Miguel grabbed you by the folds of your chemise and pulled you towards him. Baring his teeth a couple of inches away from a squirming you. 

“Is that all you’ve got?” 

A fist connected with his cheek, silencing him. His lips spat a thread of saliva, just in time to shake off the brief daze your punch provoked, but it wasn’t enough to dodge another one under his chin. 

Miguel loosened his grip as his steps staggered. His height didn’t help sometimes, he knew, making a weakness for you to exploit like no other. For a moment, bewilderment crossed Miguel’s eyes, since, when did this turn into a real fight with a feral cat? 

You hadn’t just pounced on him, but climbed him with such ease the armor could never have allowed, and punched him. Once, twice before landing on a bed with an unceremonious thud after he yanked you away from his torso.

“Asshole!” 

“An asshole, not a liar.” The words gritted through his teeth as he scrambled on top of you, in that position he always pinned you in the training ring. This time however, instead of criss-crossing your arms against your chest, he stamped them on each side of your head. “All this time you chose to hide. Why?!” 

The grunt leaving your throat only turned into this enraged growl while you tried to free yourself from his grip. 

“You fucking—!”

His grip tightened and for a moment all of your air escaped in a yelp as he crushed you with his weight, stirring angry and desperate tears from your eyes. 

“Let me go!” Your voice trembled, but he didn’t budge, if anything just pressed your wrists  further against the bed. “I’ll fucking scream if you don’t let me go, Miguel!”

“¡Déjate de pendejadas y dime la verdad ya!”  His throat closed, his chest heaved erratically, upon seeing your eyes welling up, but he didn’t stop. (Quit your bullshit and tell me the truth now!)

“I had to! Alright?! Or else I’d be dead. Fucking dead years ago!” There it was. You broke. Your tears, those that weren’t from physical pain finally saw freedom as they rolled down your cheeks. 

His throat tightened before loosening his grip, but didn’t move. His eyes studied you, trying to find any hidden truths, but found none. Just regret and a shame so big that rivalled with the powerlessness of not being able to break free from his crushing weight. You truly hated his height sometimes. 

“If you get into that carriage this very noon,” His eyes narrowed. “I fucking swear for all I deem sacred, I will ravage town by town, until I find you.” Your breath hitched. “ And when I do, I will drag your stubborn ass back here.” You gulped. “You’re my captain. Is that clear?” 

The way his eyes pinned you wasn’t normal. Neither was the unruly heartbeat outmatching the adrenaline coursing through both of you. Or that unusual heat creeping up your neck, ears and cheeks. 

“Yes, sir.” 

His eyes lingered, like the entirety of him swallowing you. They were too busy memorizing each detail they came across. His pupils widened, involuntarily, for a second time upon stopping at the heat in your cheeks. His thumbs took a quick taste of your inner wrist, almost too soft and imperceptible as his hands released you.

“Try and leave again, and we’ll have a problem.” 

And only when he removed himself from you and left, you breathed. 

Fuck.

Changes slowly seeped in between both and the rest. First, Miguel made the arrangements in the castle so you could have a room on your own, a couple of halls away from his, outside the barracks. Second, he made sure Jessica had all the rags and medicinal ingredients for periods in full stock, always. The food quality improved in the army’s dining hall, and the chefs were always at his disposal whenever your monthly absence came. 

Sadly, he couldn’t do a thing about your armor, but got you breathable and light linens so you could use instead of that thick and old binder. Of course you still had to hide and wear the name of Corvo, fearing it might be too much for the rest to assimilate. Both of you had agreed that once the war ended, you’d speak to the king, or whichever royal remained standing, to appeal your case. 

Although the changes were good, there was one that enraptured your whole attention. One that provoked a parade of feelings on your face. Suspicion at the way he forbade the visits to your personal chambers after a certain hour to the squad; annoyance to know that he now held back whenever you sparred with him, but curiosity at the way he sometimes stared your way.  Evaluating, calculating maybe, but definitely watching your every move. 

The punishment for your deception eventually got suspended after three months. The invisible tension between you and the squad vanished, as if it never appeared in the first place. Jessica got her fair share of the scolding pie, but being a doctor had its perks, so she came out unscathed, with the only condition of reporting everything regarding your health to Miguel. 

Now, all you had to worry about was to finish the plate The General brought from the feast, celebrating another grand victory against ‘The Blue Bastards’. Or so your men called them. The enemy had lost a great fortress to your army, making them go back to their lands, liberating more subjugated territories to the people. 

“You didn’t eat much.” said the General, as he refilled your cup again and took a grape for himself. 

“Hard to do so when everyone puts their hands on the food, and you know how your men are.” A grunt rasped in the back of your throat as your nose wrinkled in disgust, but drowned it with a long gulp of wine. 

“My men? They do wash their hands… sometimes.” Miguel’s lips curved in a faint smile when your nose sniffed the plate he placed between both. And sensing your discomfort he gently pushed your shoulder. “Relax. I asked this one directly from the kitchen.” 

Even though the victory passed as temporary, the king had decided to reward you all with a feast. The grand salon buzzed with lively tunes of flutes, hammered dulcimers and drums, food filled the trays and drinks were served. Your men danced, ate and sang off-key, until it grew a bit too much for your likings. So you stepped aside, cup of wine in hand and walked back to your room. 

“Good. I hate feasts.” You took a piece of ham and cheese, while he shared the roasted turkey leg and potatoes. 

Silence fell comfortably between both, letting the clink of your cups and sometimes the approving hums from the food fill your room. 

The music filtered through the walls, in tandem with the joyous cheering. A much needed change of pace among the gore and loss war often left in its wake. 

“Don’t get me wrong but-” Miguel started, putting away the leftovers to keep his fingers busy. “Thought you’d spend the feast with Jessica.”

Your eyes rolled and a satisfied half grin stretched on your lips. “Can’t be a third wheel tonight.”  Your hand fetched the waterskin filled with wine and poured more on yours and his, which he quickly drank. “Gotta let my friend have her fun.” 

“Are you talking about me or her?” His back rested against the window 

“Jessie.” His lips frowned in a refrained line. “You always have fun.” Your shoulders shrugged, “Either on the ring, in battle or with the women I see entering your chambers. You tell me.” 

“Those women are spies, corazón.” The explanation rolled off his lips with such speed it surprised you and probably himself too. “Double agents reporting me. How do you think we got our victory?”

“Oh sure, sure. And I use dark magic to talk to ravens.” 

“Then, tell them to help. We could use them. Feathered fuckers just get there to eat.” A small laugh shook both of your shoulders. Besides the little fight and the lie, your friendship didn’t crumble, and you were grateful that three years of knowing each other’s secrets –now literally—, didn’t go to waste. “But in truth… It’s more trouble than it all is worth.” 

“I thought that being a general gave you the permission to do whatever you wanted?” 

“That doesn’t mean I’ll give in to the first woman I come across.” His shoulders slumped, relaxed as he finished his drink. Probably the third one. Or was it the second? You didn’t remember much. “I know better than that.” 

“Oh, selective, are we?” 

“Keeps me from trouble. And from being half town's father, apparently.” 

An ugly and porcine snort escaped your mouth, earning a disbelieving scoff and a shake of his head as you laughed.

“Well, aren’t you charming?” 

“Forget about it! You really had women passing their children as yours?” 

“A couple of times, yeah. Blonde ones actually.” Miguel admitted with a light scrunch on his nose, wishing to forget said events. “I know it’s a possibility, but literally, they weren’t the ones I’ve laid with and still they came with the news.” 

“Good lord.” The laugh eventually died but a lazy smirk lingered instead. “How do you… keep yourself from getting someone knocked up though?” 

The world came to a full halt and Miguel blinked. He had to, because his ears refused to process what he had just heard, even though they worked in their full capacity. His eyes blinked again and narrowed your way, dumbfounded. 

His captain, his right hand, a woman that beheaded enemies if they looked her way with anything else that wasn’t respect, didn't have an idea of—

Dios mío. 

“What?” Your eyes shot back at him.

“You really don’t know?” There was everything but mockery in his question, and that derisive titter he usually sported in his comments lacked completely. 

“I know what sex is, Miguel. It’s not that hard to understand.” Your eyes flicked in a deadpan.

“But, have you had it?” 

Never in your life had the urge of crawling underground, gnawed at you with such force upon seeing his disbelief. Your neck grew warmer, as the silence stretched, maybe for far too long to be socially acceptable. For a second, you swore his pupils swallowed the red in his irises completely.

“What if I haven’t?” Your shoulders shrugged, almost defensive.

“Ever? Even out of curiosity?” 

Your head shook. “Never.” 

Miguel swallowed, trying to gather his thoughts. He shouldn’t be this stoked to know things. This, especially, out of everything. 

“Forgive me, but it’s hard to believe.” This information fell heavier than finding out you were a woman. Not that he didn’t believe you. He just assumed, wrongly perhaps, that most women once reached a certain age in adulthood, were versed at least once in sex. 

“It’s not. My duties and hiding keep me busy. And men reek.” Your nose wrinkled as your hand served yet another pour of wine, and downed it as if it was a good dose of liquid bravado. “And our men brag too much about it.” 

“And what do they say?” Miguel inched closer, leaning in to better his listening with a curious smirk.

“Nothing worth remembering. I wasn’t impressed anyway.” You shrugged. “Bluffers are usually the worst type of men to lay with.”

“According to…?”

“Women! Jeesh.” your eyes rolled. “I’ve heard enough to know that if a man boasts too much about what he did in bed, sex was terrible and he came before even getting a woman wet.”

A deep and rich laugh rumbled through Miguel’s chest and your lips couldn’t suppress that smile the sudden spike in your heart rate provoked.

“Well, you’re not wrong.” He also shrugged. “Men often don’t heed the signs in a woman.”

“And you do?” 

“Never have I heard complaints from the women I’ve bedded. So, that should say something.” His hand put the plate away on the window as your eyes rolled.

“Why does it sound so serious though?” 

“Because it is, especially when it comes to experiencing everything for the first time.” He nodded. His eyes followed yours. “Taking time brings the best of outcomes.”

“Sounds like a help offering.” You huffed, but he just watched. “Is it?”

The initial mockery in the scoffed words you gave him, slowly melted the more Miguel stared into your eyes. Unwavering, like the time he’d name you his new captain. That steadfastness did nothing but make your skin crawl. 

“If you want me to, that is.” The softness in which his voice flowed with, sent a dangerous jolt directly to your heart. Your eyes couldn’t find where to settle nor your hands what to do. 

“Uhm… Like… right here, right now?” Alarmed, you gulped.

“No, tontita.” His nostrils huffed. “Just… lemme handle that, okay? Finish your food.”

After deciding further details such as location, meaning your room, for your official welcome to the sex world, the nerves wrecking you just turned more unstable with each passing day he didn’t come at night, as promised. 

Not that you blamed him. War never truly stopped and there was always something demanding for attention or intervention. The latest forfeited cargo had everyone in awe as it was something never seen before. Fireworks. 

The damned explosions rumbled and illuminated the sky a couple of times, before being taken away to a nearby storage room. The use your army would give them remained a mystery, since the war prisoner your team secured, died from his wounds before he could even explain what they were.

Not that you feared them, just didn’t feel comfortable with the sky thundering too loud as expanding blasts boomed in colorful successions. Probably they were used to confuse the enemy, or inflict fear. In any case, they worked. Too well perhaps since Miguel found a new hobby to pass time. Threaten you to guard the spot if you ever lied to him again. 

But now, all you could do was to stare at the note left in your room. Something simple, pithy and probably written in a rush as some letters diffused at the middle sloppily.  

Skip the feast. We’ll have our own tonight. —M. 

You knew your men couldn’t care less whenever it came to your whereabouts or Miguel’s. They just wanted to get drunk, eat, maybe fuck too. 

Like me. 

The thought pulled a nervous laugh out of yourself. You had heard stories of all kinds regarding that specific thing. Good ones, cringey and funny ones, and a couple of infuriating ones. 

What kind would be mine? 

Your eyes wandered to the bed, big enough for two. A sturdy and heavy frame that not many would move, but again, when had Miguel been an ordinary man? His bed was twice as big as yours and the wood frame had been custom built. You could only hope yours lived to this very important task. After all, he had insisted for it to happen in your room. Out of making the moment completely yours, without someone else’s trace tarnishing it. 

He wasn’t taking you in the very same spot he had taken others. Or so he said when you had insisted on the why of his choice. 

The linens had been his pick. Soft and comfortable, to prevent anything that would interrupt the sensations he’d provoke on your body. Food trays had been delivered some moments ago, directly from the kitchen. The helper instructed you to eat, and to properly hydrate yourself. You’d ask him later about this secret obsession for you to drink plenty of water, since he had advised you a few days ago to do so. So you ate and drank. 

Much to your detriment, the only thing you didn’t receive instructions on was the dress code. What on earth did a woman about to get her virginity taken should wear? 

Most of the stories you had heard, the women didn’t dress provocatively, since it was their wedding night. In the rest, the women had complained that, although they had chosen a risqué piece, their husbands were far more focused on taking them than admiring what they had pulled off for them. 

Of course. Men. 

So you stuck on wearing one of his chemises, as yours were hanging dry outside. Clothes stealing didn’t change between you in the slightest. More like, on your side, and Miguel didn’t seem to mind. Even before discovering your secret. 

Minutes ticked, and you bathed to remove all grime and sweat from the front lines. This time, however, you made sure to use those rich scented oils Jessica had gifted you years ago. They left your skin smooth and shiny. And the more you prepared, the more ritual-like it all became. 

And when you were done, you waited. And waited. And waited. Until sleepiness came over you. 

None dared to cross his path. Not when his eyes gleamed in this wickedness the more his steps approached your room.

Miguel knew he was late. Maybe a bit too late —when he entered your chambers, found you sound asleep on the bed. He locked the door, pushing all those cheering and loud noises back into the hall as he ventured deeper.

His eyes spotted the food tray and hummed silently in approval upon seeing it empty. Good. You’d have the strength to endure him. The flames in your fireplace flared with dim light. That, were it not for the fact they were dying, anyone would find them the perfect mood setter. He fed the starving fire with a few more logs and finally stopped before your bed. 

The world had changed. The first time he had seen you was almost comical to him to see such a weird man among his ranks. But now, you, the woman that had fought to his side and protected him in ways none could; laid before him, sound asleep with a soft pout on your face. With one of his garments clinging to your body, just enough for your curves to cut through the shadows with their appetizing slopes.

As much as Miguel had tried to see you through those soldier’s eyes, he couldn’t. He had tried to act the same, treat you the same as always. Not because he knew your secret, but out of self-restraint. You were more than capable of taking him in the training ring.

But this… This was a completely different thing. He never asked for things none could give him, so he risked his best shot and left the decision in your hands. Because, for once, he'd been allowed to see and share something of utmost importance. A part of yourself that none else but him would have the privilege to have. 

A part of you that would only belong to him for the rest of his days. He’d be your first. And when you stirred to stretch, and his pupils widened upon seeing there were no undergarments under the camisole; the need of being your first, last and only one settled like an immovable longing.  

His hand reached for your shoulder and shook gently, until your eyes fluttered open.

“Hey.” His fingers squeezed gently before sliding up to your cheek and caressed it softly, as he sat at the bed’s edge. The mattress squeaked under his weight. “I’m sorry for being late. The king needed to meet before the banquet.” 

“Oh?” The heat of his hand on your cheek stirred your skin with a pleasant shudder. “Is it bad?” 

“Not really.” His fingers brushed your bottom lip before giving you space to sit before him. His face remained a couple of inches away from yours. “Did you sleep well?” 

“A couple of hours I think, but yes. I ate too, just  like your note said.” 

“Good.” He nodded. His hand reached for yours and kissed your knuckles, without removing his eyes from you. “That’s very good.” The dim lights from the chimney gave him enough view to know your cheeks had flushed again. “Before we start-” He looked at the window and returned his gaze to you, “I need you to understand that if you don’t feel comfortable in any way, or if it turns too painful, you will tell me.”

You nodded without hesitation.

“If something feels wrong, you’ll speak.”

“Okay.”

“If—”

A clumsy,  well timed peck silenced him. 

“I chose you with this because I trust you.” 

And those words were enough to make him undone. It was no longer General and Captain. Just a man brave enough to take a deep and gentle taste of your lips, while his hands held you gently. Again and again, until your lungs demanded for the air he had just stolen in between kisses. 

To his surprise you kissed him back. Inexpertly, like a complete tyro in the arts of kissing a man, earning a chuckle when you bit him a tad roughly. 

You stopped immediately and pushed him back by his chest with a trembling hand and your brows frowned.

“Hey.” His hand wrapped around yours and kissed your knuckles again, before stealing a  peck on your lips. “It’s okay. Relax.”

“Stop making fun of me then.” Your protest only made him release your hand and wrap his behind your neck. His fingers fisted carefully around the base of your hair, to keep you in place. 

“I’m not.” Another peck. “I liked the bite. May I try one on your lips?” His breath brushed against your mouth. 

And when you nodded, his lips claimed yours again. Revering, tasting, stealing your breath in between lovely whimpers, until one of his canines sank softly on your bottom lip and pulled towards him. Your head followed the motion and your throat let a groan escape, when he bit again in another spot of your plump muscle. It was enough to slide his tongue inside and twirl it against yours. 

And no matter how much you tried to follow his pace, his tongue rubbed and lured yours into this push and pull where he led and won as usual. Like the battles carrying his name as the only victor. But this wasn’t a battlefield. It was you. 

You, that moaned and panted in his mouth the more he sucked on your tongue until air vanished from your lungs. You, that quickly, had learned the ways in which his lips moved and how to tackle them back in an addictive motion. Teasing and biting whenever you both could. A flurry of pecks mixed with full kisses and bites had every pore of your skin prickling in utter delight. 

His free hand crept up under the chemise and slid upward your hip, to confirm there was nothing underneath. 

His lips abandoned yours to kiss a trail down your cheek until he reached the tender and sizzled up skin of your neck. To his surprise a not-so-shy, unceremonious and breathless laugh came out of you, that quickly turned into this lovely moan when he bit gently on the junction of your shoulder. 

“W-wait” Your laugh pulled at the corners of his mouth, earning another whimper when his tongue tasted the bit skin and sucked. Marking it with a lovebite. 

Oh, fuck…

“Hm?” His nose dragged over the seams of the chemise above your breasts and inhaled deeply. That sweet scent of flowers and yourself sent a tremor straight to the tip of his cock. But he’d follow his own advice and take his time.

Miguel needed you drenched and prepared if he wanted to claim you. The least he wanted was to hurt you.

“Can… Can I touch your cock first?” 

God, you were killing him. 

He kissed you once more, while his hand fetched yours and guided it over his crotch. And Maker’s mercy, he really wished to have something, a spell or anything that could turn back time and see your reaction all over again. Even underneath a couple of layers, his cock defined itself in a gorgeous, considerably thick and trembling silhouette; poking upwards, begging to be released and pampered. 

His eyes never left you, and steered your hand to breach the cotton layers, and his breath faltered, when yours abandoned you, upon coming in contact with his short and well trimmed curls, joining in a happy trail. It led to a warm and velvety cock, that twitched when your hand held him. Every vein pulsated in a synched beating, greeting your timid strokes. 

“T-This is what happens when a man likes you too much for his own good.” He almost whimpered.

“Is it a good or a bad thing?” Your hand wrapped around the base, pulling a grateful hiss out of him, to then glide it up and down. Like you had accidentally seen a maiden do with a soldier behind the barns. The effect was the same. Absolute bliss. 

“F-Fuck. Good.” His voice broke. “Definitely—hnn-good.” He nodded while his thighs spread wider. Allowing you to explore him, after all, both of you were here to learn. And my, weren’t you a perfect student?

Miguel had to admit that he loved how quickly you soaked up the information his body gave you, and turned it in these exquisite touches his cock relished in. But this wasn’t about him, or his cock, no matter how good it felt, or how perfect your hand stroked him.

So, gently, he pulled your hand away, earning a protest from you, while he inched closer with his hand reaching for the chemises' hems.

“Hands up.” 

Your arms obeyed and they rose, and he pulled the cloth upwards. 

His eyes barely blinked, almost not believing the sight before him. His brain had decided to simply stop working the more skin appeared under that annoying fabric. His pupils swallowed all color upon stumbling on the patch of trimmed curls dressing your cunt. The soft curve and pudge of your stomach; your hips framing that gorgeous pussy. Not to mention those beautiful breasts that hardened when he removed the camisole completely. 

His hands didn’t stop there and pulled his own away. Revealing the gorgeous, darkened and scarred skin of his torso, dressed up with a healthy coat of hair distributed through his pecs, abs and lower belly. 

Your eyes couldn’t help but admire what the armor often hid, like your hands that brushed gently over his hovering torso. It had been the first time you saw him without the armor, bandages or wounds covering him. And he did not disappoint in the slightest. Soft veins traced around his hips, mingling between the well worked muscles that shaped his upper torso, arms and abdomen. 

That sinful v-line just defined itself even further when he propped himself above you. His pants rested midway his thighs, with his cock half free. Which became warmer the more it pressed against his underwear. His hands took each of your legs and made enough space for him to fit in between.

His heart jolted, and his lips parted, breathless, completely enraptured to see you underneath him. Naked, with the skin burning and prickled, awaiting for his touch. 

Miguel wasn’t a man of prayers, but he had to thank whoever above for this. For this chance, for this sight, for what he was about to do. 

“Must I spread myself open?” The question, completely impatient but endearing, tore a soft laugh from him. 

“No. Not yet. That’s my job.” His kisses peppered your cheeks, jawline, neck, which bobbed as you drowned a laugh, he then made a descend over the slope of your chest. 

Miguel kissed that wonderful valley, and his attention drifted towards the left mound. His fingers massaged upwards your forearm until they reached your hand again and entwined it with yours, just as his tongue donned your nipple with a soft lick. 

The grip tightening on your hand was enough for his mouth to part wider and circle your whole nipple and sucked. Hard. 

And never had his ears been so blessed with a sweet cry like yours, until now. 

“Miguel!” 

There was no space for breaks in his tongue. Not when he had found your taste absolutely life-changing. The sucklings his mouth performed, hazed your brain in this flurry of hiccups and moans the more his tongue curled, twirled and flicked in each movement. Leaving a sensitive, hardened, warm and moist nipple. Joined by a thin thread of his saliva connected with his lips.

Your whole body quivered when he applied the same treatment to the other. This one however, was the canvas for some lovebites to be inflicted around the nipple. The way his name rolled off your lips had to be his favorite sound after a desperate ‘I yield!’ from his enemies. 

“Have you touched yourself before?” He asked, panting, dizzy in this urge taking over every reasoning in his already racing mind, while he kissed yet another trail down your abdomen.  Stopping a couple of times just above your navel to then kiss underneath it. 

“I was told not to.” Your mouth heaved, and your legs by instinct spread further. “T-The church's archbishop said it was dirty.”  

Miguel snorted and propped himself away from you, just to accommodate his broad shoulders in between your legs, until his face came vís-a-vís with your moist and gorgeous cunt.

“It’s not. You can pleasure yourself whenever you like.” His head turned to kiss the inner muscle of your thighs, earning a sudden jerk from it. “Although, I’d rather for you to come to me whenever you feel like doing so.”

“Who else would I go to–Oh!” Your spine almost turned into this perfect arch as his tongue lapped a few inches away from your melting hole, asking for permission. 

Both of his hands hooked underneath your knees and pressed them towards your shoulders,  exposing you completely. His heart stopped for a moment when your clit, swollen and quivering, peeked out from between the parted and bare lips of your cunt. Begging for attention.

And everything you could see before the world turned blurry with need, was him, dipping his head between your thighs, open-mouthed; going straight for that small nub of flesh his tongue wasted no time in teasing and sucking like a savorous treat. 

His forearms kept your thighs in place, while his mouth worked you with this constant ease. His gaze locked with yours, although blurry and teary eyed, he’d dare to say it was the most beautiful sight someone had ever given to him. 

The way your chest rose, erratically, with each staggered breath the more he moved his tongue and lips in a sucking motion. Tearing scrumptious moans and hiccups as you melted in his mouth. The way your abdomen sank and trembled with each drag his tongue did around your cunt before dipping itself in, or how your pussy-lips jiggled softly when he released them with a soft pop. 

The slurps slowly increased when he buried his mouth in between your folds. Hungry, thirsty, completely enraptured by your taste. Bewitched by the flurry of moans and whimpers he pulled with every suck. His chin glistened with the thickness of your slick, not minding one bit if it smeared all over his skin. Like his battle scars, he’d wear it proudly. Like a prize. 

His name floated in the air in several intonations he couldn’t pick a favorite, since each just turned sweeter and louder the more he ate. His hands grabbed your thighs, and placed them on his shoulders before lifting himself up, suspending the nether region of your body from the bed, while your back remained on the cushioned surface. 

The position granted you a privileged and unholy sight of his mouth devouring your pussy as though it was the last meal he’d ever have. Your sight made the effort of keeping yourself sane, because of the way his tongue snaked all over your clit. Provoking in all angles available. And if there was no other, he made it up. Just to see yourself coming undone for the first time in a man’s mouth. His mouth.

His hands refused to let your hips go. They didn’t care how much you squirmed and groaned and kicked. They didn’t. If anything, their grip doubled their firmness. And when his tongue slid above your clit, like a serpent, giving you this lewd and scrumptious sight of his tongue teasing your mount’s curls just to slide back again to press insistently on your clit. 

The hardened nub moved in whatever direction his tongue pushed it. You could see it in between bleary eyes, but nothing sent these electric shivers down your spine as hearing those satisfied clicks and hummings rumbling through his mouth, when his lips pursed, pulled and released your clit. Or when his mouth pried open and devoured your pussy, leaving a messy trail as he sucked and left teasing hickeys in your pussy-lips and inner thighs.

Broken and incomplete syllables came way before a flurry of sputtering of his name filled the room. Your hand tried to reach for his head, but he just grabbed your wrist to take a good look at your face. 

The flush in your cheeks, the blood rushing to your panting mouth; the daze in your unfocused and heavy-lidded eyes that almost rolled back a couple of times, had his tongue swiping left and right on your clit with such speed it almost vibrated. And his pupils blew once again, when your eyes widened. Desperate, almost fearful for the sensation coursing through your body like a whip. 

A big wobble of your legs announced the first of the many climaxes he was determined in giving you tonight. Your toes curled, and your eyes clamped shut despite the pitiful effort of keeping them on him. You didn’t want to miss a thing, but like the gentleman he was, he’d rather for you to be on the experiencing side of your very first orgasm. 

“M-Miguel!” an unknown pressure rushed upward. “Miguel!” Pulsating, bulldozing all coherence in your head. “Mig–” 

You came. 

Your hips stuttered in the air, your thighs squeezed him, almost drowning him for a second, but he’d die a happy man. He had seen heaven by just witnessing how his devotion had paid off in this gorgeous and sensual show of you experiencing pleasure for the first time ever.

“Fuck.” he lapped up gently, cleaning your spasming cunt as your shrieked and whimpered through the blissful waves suffocating your body. “Thank you-” He kissed your clit, and nodded approvingly with his eyes closed while his tongue took the last taste of your peak. “Thank you so much, corazón.” 

Carefully, his hands deposed you back to the bed, to admire a second time what he just provoked. Of course watching women cum was always something beautiful to witness, but you… Maker’s mercy. Nothing compared. None of the ones he had before compared to this, and he had just started. 

“Are you still with me, hermosa?” He returned to the initial position –shoulders between your legs– and pressed languid and soft caresses in your inner thighs. His eyes wandered all over your body, as you assimilated what you had just endured. 

“Hm-hm.” A weak nod of your head was everything you gave him. A satisfied smile stretched on his flushed face. 

Tan jodidamente bella. (so fucking beautiful)

“We’re not done yet.” With a gentle pull downward by your thighs, your cunt rested a few inches away from his face. “Give me your hand.” 

All he received was a hiccup and shaky hand, barely able to stand on its own. 

Miguel wasted no time and guided it between your legs. The contact sent another jolt through your body while he pressed your middle and right ring finger directly on your clit. 

“Now, look at that.” He kissed the side of your knee and watched keenly at the clumsy but effective rubs your fingers did. “Does touching yourself feel good?” 

A whine and a nod was all he got in return while his fingers led yours to move in a different motion. Soft circles. 

“Can’t hear you, preciosa. Does it feel good?” 

“Yes–” A hiccup, then another when your fingers pressed gently enough to bring that spark alive in your gut  again. “So good… so hnn!”

Your spine arched, and his fingers spread your outer lips wider. His tongue instinctively licked his bottom lip when the soft gleam of your juices coated your cunt. You were wet, yes. But not drenched. Not yet. So he rubbed two fingers around your spasming hole. 

“Keep moving those fingers, corazón” He approved when the circling moves your fingers did increase their speed. Each tore sweeter and desperate moans from you, but he stopped your hand, earning a yelp. “Don’t chase it too fast, let your body feel it.” 

Your fingers resumed their exploring, and he didn’t dally neither. His fingers separating your outer lips rubbed once again around your cunt, and with all the care and patience he mustered, Miguel dipped one finger first. A wet suck received him as the tightness inside almost crushed him. 

A hiccup made his eyes snap back to your face, which eyebrows had knitted together. 

“Does it hurt?” He stopped, but a wriggle of your hip to swallow him an inch deeper debunked the assumption. One finger in. You could do it. “Good.” He kissed your fingers, urging them to move again while he pushed, slowly and carefully, his finger inside out.

You could only obey, as your hand continued its praise. A quickened pace was a must when he gingerly added another finger, stretching you a bit more. A tad uncomfortable, sure,  but nothing the motions of your fingers on your clit dissipated. 

The combination of fingers slowly turned your mind into a mush, the more you kept touching like there was none watching you, but Miguel. You knew his eyes were fixed on your cunt, marvelling at the wetness pooling all over his fingers, dripping from it. Soft and thin threads of your slick glued to his fingers, sopping them completely. 

“You’re doing so wonderful, hermosa.” His fingers spread inside, gently, stretching you as gently as possible while his other hand pulled his pants down, releasing his aching cock, that bounced with a light slap against his abdomen. Angrily flushed and spitting precious beads of creamy pre-cum. 

His hand shook with every push, slowly picking up the tempo to match the growing spasms inside you. 

“Don’t cum yet.” He panted, letting the front strands of his hair fall on his forehead. A thin layer of sweat dressed his flushed skin the more he worked your insides. Two fingers fit in perfectly. 

“C-Cant hold it–” The words came rushing, as your hips swayed with every push his fingers delivered. They prodded and teased in all those spots you had just discovered in having. “I’m cumming— Oh I’m cumming, Miguel–” 

“Wait, hermosa–” He choked, and pushed a third finger, rather half of it inside before your insides trapped and squeezed them. “Dios mio…” He pushed the other half before another spasm hit you. His mouth watered upon seeing your insides, twitching and milking him, stretched at the makeshift girth his fingers created. 

That oppressive tightness no longer crushed him completely, rather embraced him with a warmth so maddening, that made him prod deeper once. A delicious and shaky moan got his cock spitting another bead. He pushed the fingers again, meeting your orgasm’s contractions, stretching the sensation to the point of curling your toes again. Sliding was easier, as you now were drenched. Just like he wanted. 

“Good girl.”

A few more pumps of his fingers inside almost drove you to the brink of doom again, but he pulled them out —just as he pushed them in— slowly.

“Such a good girl with a lovely pussy.” He brought the fingers before you. “See what you can do when you touch yourself? Pretty, isn’t it?” And he licked them clean. Savoring eagerly. He had only had your taste twice and his tastebuds were already addicted. 

But his mouth and finger have had enough filling for the day. The cushion sank underneath both as he moved a final time between your legs. His heart almost exploded out of tenderness when he saw your eyes widening upon the sight of his cock, in its full glory. 

Although your hand had seized and felt him, it didn’t compare to what stood before you. The veins tracing and pulsating –if you squinted enough– just added the perfect texture to that exquisitely proportioned cock. 

For a moment your mouth watered, and your eyes crossed with his. He smiled and hovered over you. 

“Do you need a break?” His lips reached your temple and kissed a couple of times before moving to your lips and neck. 

“I can do it.” You nodded, breathless, still hazed  and he chuckled. 

“Of course you can.” He scoffed and pecked your lips again. “Let me handle this, okay?” 

His thumb reached for your clit and pressed gently, pulling a deeper pant before tracing in those circles he taught you, while his other hand wrapped himself and pumped a couple of times, smearing that precum all over his tip. This was it. This was the moment he had been tasked with. 

His adam’s apple bobbed, and his eyes focused. His hand guided his tip to stroke in between your folds, soaking itself in all the slick he could. Before pressing in. Another gulp and your eyes shot back at your face, no discomfort yet.

Good. 

He pressed another inch and his breath hitched when your brows pinched together. Almost too softly, but he had noticed. 

“Does it hurts?” 

“Keep going.” You grunted, watching him with the same intent just as his before drifting your eyes to where his cock disappeared, slowly. 

Another inch pressed in and it made you gulp. But you breathed, steadying your breathing, letting another couple of inches in. Your insides clenched, and you hissed at the fullness, even though he wasn’t completely inside. 

Miguel stopped. The most difficult part of his cock was half buried inside, and if he pulled away, he’d have to start all over again and it’d only create unnecessary discomfort. So he pressed his thumb against your clit again and flicked it. Although it created another jot of discomfort, the well worked nerves and his expert touches provoked a new coat of wetness. Just enough for him to ease himself inside. 

You choked and your eyes squeezed shut, in a pained grimace. 

“Shit. Perdón–” His eyes rushed in between your legs but found nothing alarming, besides feeling the spasms turning stronger, like their grip. There weren’t tears in your eyes, just a pinch of distress when he bottomed completely. 

“S-Shut up.” You hissed and exhaled. “God—you’re big.” 

He silenced you instead with a kiss, to distract you when his hips rotated into this slow motion. Grinding tenderly against your insides, that squeezed and released him in a more controlled pace, as though understanding that he meant no harm. 

Your legs spread a bit further to properly fit his hips and ease the entrance for his cock. You weren’t by any means a natural, but your body guided you through it, like the many times it had done so in the battlefield. But again, this wasn’t the front lines. It was you and your best friend, kissing and doing things no friendship did. 

Miguel’s hands finally landed on your waist, the eagerness in each finger massaged your sides, as if finally feeling that waist he saw for the first time ever back at Jessica’s baths wings. His anger wasn’t enough to banish the image of your naked body, matter-of-fact, he stroked himself to exhaustion a week later. 

And that angered even more. He knew it was wrong. He knew that thinking about you in that way made him no better than the same men you often avoided. He understood many many things that day. But now, he was buried to the hilt within you as his arms wrapped around you in a secure embrace. 

You had chosen him for this. What better proof than allowing him to be your first? Even better yet, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him yourself while he slid in and out of you?

Oh, but the ultimate trust proof came on its own. When your mouth searched for his neck and kissed and bit, before exhaling your true name with a moan in his ear. Your most hidden treasure, now his too. 

Miguel stopped for a moment to take a proper look at you. Beautiful, breathless, and now his. His mind had come with a resolution and there was no coming back from it. He wasn’t known for stepping back in his decisions.

“Are you sure you want me to call you that, instead of mine?” His fingers wiped a droplet of sweat rolling on the side of your forehead.

Your breath hitched and your pupils could only blow for a thousandth time. He wanted you. 

“W-Well–” You hiccuped, melting under his body, “You’re not calling me Corvo when- Oh! –we’re like this. So yes.” 

“You’re still my raven.” His thumb now traced your bottom lip while his hips resumed their slow but steady and deep work. “And my captain.” He groaned. “And now mine.” 

Neither of your lips decided on who would conquer who. Nor cared. Everything around you was him. Because who else would’ve given you a chance at life? And now the ultimate reward to your sacrifices paid off in the shape of this gorgeous man that devoured your lips like he owned them. Maybe he did. 

Miguel had the authority to sell you out to the king and face execution. Instead, he increased the rhythm and force of his hips just enough to make you cling to him; with every bit of your body while your name, the real one, rolled off his lips like a prayer.  Because you were his.

His hands held, squeezed and reassured whenever doubts and pain appeared in your countenance. His moans melted your brain as he buried himself to the hilt over and over. Grazing at those spots that never in your life you had imagined to have. And like the great conqueror he was, he claimed each one of them in between hungry kisses. 

All the women he had before were gone. Their mementos, erased with every thrust he pushed inside and made you moan his name. But to make it completely official, his thighs spread and his hands went straight to your waist once more. And he pulled you up, your legs wrapped around him immediately. Your mouths couldn’t part from each other, not when he squeezed your hips and guided you to ride him.

“Fuck!”

He loved the sound of that. Of every moan and whimper that he provoked, and just urged him to move your hips faster. 

Your hands held on the tufts of his nape and both of your foreheads joined. Each panted and drank from each other’s breath, as there was no longer a single trace of pain. Just raw and utter pleasure every time you met his hips. 

“Gonna–” he hiccuped, when a particular clench squeezed so tight around him, that for a moment he saw stars dancing behind his lids. And another. You were close. “Gonna cum, hermosa. N-Need to-”

You gasped and held onto him like life depended on it while he increased the pace to a tempo that had your breast bouncing against his chest and your eyes heavy and lost. 

“Miguel!” A whimper. A beg. 

A broken, breathless and high-pitched whimper erupted from him before growling your name right into your ear. 

You gushed while he exploded in thick ropes of himself inside your spasming walls and held you tight against him. Both hearts beat wildly, so out of sync, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Not when something had irremediably changed between you both for good.

Your breaths fanned on each other’s mouths as your foreheads came together, sharing that well earned sweat. Your smile made his appear, before giving you a deep kiss to distract you as he slid himself out of you.

Miguel rolled to the side and pulled you to his chest. One of his hands rested behind your head, and the other on your waist, tracing idle circles on your hips. Silence fell comfortably between. At least until your breathing evened. 

“Are you okay?” The hand resting behind your head slowly kneaded at your scalp. “Was it too rough?” 

“It was perfect.” You kissed his chest. 

The fire crackled with soft snaps in the air, letting the flames land on the curves of your shoulders and every bit of exposed skin. Bathing you in this warm gleam.

“I wanna know something, though…” His eyes narrowed to one of the hickeys in your left breast. “Why Corvo?” 

Another ugly snort escaped your throat. “What?” 

“Why did you name yourself Corvo?” 

Your thigh draped over his as you scooted closer. “A pet of mine.” 

“You had a raven as a pet?” Miguel wrapped his arm around your waist and kissed your forehead. 

“No.” You chuckled. “It was a dog. A good boy.” Your fingers traced one of the scars above his pec. “He came one day, barking like the sky was falling and led me to this injured raven. I helped the poor bird and fed it.” Your eyes squeezed in a teary-eyed yawn. “And…ever since then, the bird and his friends just tagged along, I guess.”  

“So you’re not a witch.” His lips pursed in a thin line, trying to hold back a huff.

“No. But I might die like one if someone discovers me.” 

Although your words were nothing but an imminent truth, they weren’t any less jarring or uncomfortable to digest. Time was no longer an ally ever since Miguel found out. If he could, any other soldier would too, eventually, despite your obsessive precautions and routines. You could only be careful for so long before mishaps caught up to you and blew your cover.

“That won’t happen.” His lips pressed, a tad rough against the crown of your head. “I’ve got a plan.” 

Your eyes snapped at him. Curious and wary. He had spoken before about different sorts of solutions to your predicament, but the conversation often led to something else, leaving the plan behind for further discussion at another time.

“And that is?” 

“Marry me.” 

As much as both wanted to be brave enough to enter the king’s presence and reveal your secret, war called. It never stopped. 

The Blue Bastards had given the last offense and both kingdoms fought with everything they've got. They lost. Their lands were conquered, and redistributed to the real inhabitants that were forcefully displaced many centuries ago.

A kingdom lost its king, and your army had made sure to not leave loose ends in the succession line. Because that would mean to keep feeding a cycle Miguel refused to keep participating in. 

All that General O’Hara wanted to do was to go to his home in the prairies, throw or bury the armor in a place he wouldn’t remember in his future old days, take a hot bath until his muscles melted and sleep until a new era arrived. 

Battles always left him exhausted and drained in many ways. 

“General.” A soldier called, unsure to approach. “Are you okay?” 

Miguel just nodded, there were so many things to do ahead, and the least he needed right now was sympathy. He had somewhere to be.

The soldier watched him for a second longer. The Red Blight looked way too calm for someone that had just lost his raven in battle. 

The King, unfortunately, didn't take the news of his Captain’s death very well. Corvo was a quintessential part of his army, and without him, The Red Blight had asked for his early retirement. It had been both’s last battles. 

But as much as the king wanted to convince Miguel to honor Corvo’s legacy by staying, the General stood in his decision. And quite frankly, he was tired. War sickened him, the armor weighed too much and the food sucked; but choices were scarce for a man like him. A man whose whole life had been surrounded by conflict and blood, now wanted out. 

Not with grandeur or grand gestures revering his milestones, just peace. 

The king didn’t oppose it. He couldn’t. There wasn’t anything left he’d stay for anyway. His service with the crown had been completed, and a man could only last for too long before he started to hate everything around him. 

The only thing Miguel couldn’t escape was a goodbye feast. Where his men and Corvo’s honored the fallen captain’s memory between toasts and tears.

As soon as the palace’s gate closed behind him, the general title no longer belonged to him. Maybe for honor, but he couldn’t care less. The feast had been a mere formality; he had to smile at the memories, nod at the men’s speeches, and play his part. 

The only thing he’d miss was shaping good men. And meeting with you in your chambers at the crack of dawn. 

But now, with autumn knocking on earth’s doors, war had become a distant memory in his mind. Peaceful times had settled with the comfort that made his spine and every joint in his body pop back into place. Unfortunately, it stirred a sleepy wife awake with a yawn and a playful giggle upon listening to the crunch of his muscles. 

“You’re getting old.” 

Miguel chuckled, and wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you closer. “And you, slow.” 

“Me?” An undignified scoff escaped you. He smirked. “I wasn’t the one taking forever in faking mourning.” 

One of his hands picked your thighs from behind to scoop you closer to his chest.

“Had to make it convincing, or else the king would’ve kept me there forever.” He kissed the side of your head.

“Yeah, he’s always been so damn lazy.” Your hands cradled his face and kissed his cheek and lips as a response. “Bet he wanted you to pick and train your replacement.” 

“Not my problem anymore.” His hand reached for the back of your head, kneading your scalp gently through your hair. “Can’t be with my wife in peace if war keeps going. I had to win.” 

Of course he’d say so like winning wars just to be by your side was the most logical and easiest thing to do. 

“You won, for me?” 

“Who else?” That smug snort rumbling in his chest only sent a jolt to your heart. 

“I still can’t believe we almost didn’t make it.” Your fingers traced his bottom lip and he nodded. 

“But we did.” He took your hand and caressed your ringless finger. “And now I get to say that my wife fought in war with me too. That’s a double win.” He kissed your knuckles.

The soft and coy snort you did didn’t go unnoticed by him. He just smiled, letting his eyes crinkle at the corner.

“Yeah, about that…” You curled against his lap, leaving your cheek mushed against his pec. “I think the messenger stole our rings.” 

“Are you serious?” His brows furrowed instantly and his bottom lip jutted in a vexed pout, which you tried with all your might to not laugh at. “It took me a couple of weeks after I proposed to get them done.” 

You blinked. He hadn’t mentioned that, at all. Matter of fact, ever since that first time with him, there were many things Miguel didn’t tell you. Like about this home you both lived in, or that he had a replacement prepared and every possible detail covered to fake your death. 

The idea itself was risky, you both knew. But it’d be riskier to remain in the army and have your secret found out by someone else. And with Jessica’s help, the plan came into fruition.

Everyone had believed that The Raven had died. The body was too unrecognizable to be identified, but the height didn’t lie. None questioned a thing. And wrong as it was, Miguel saw the task through. He’d free you from the impostor you’d become to survive. 

Corvo was no longer needed. He needed his wife, the woman he still considered his best friend and had saved him twice. The only one he truly trusted his life with. And the one that had given him a purpose beyond barracks and scraped armor.

You had missed so much in life just to survive, and he was more than willing and ready to make sure you didn’t miss a single thing any more. 

“Wanna hunt him down?” The question only made him stand up and squeeze your chin as he kissed you until your lips turned purple. But you stomped on his feet softly, with enough force to let you go. “The last one getting to the horses cleans their stables next time!” 

And you bolted. He just watched you go with a resigned smile. It was his turn anyway. 

The smell of decay was soft. Almost a caress to his well trained nose. A mix of fructose and mothballs wafted in the air. More than appropriate for the kind of things a man like Allen chugged like his life depended on it. 

The pallor in his countenance didn’t faze Miguel, if anything, just dictated how long had passed before Allen’s death. Yet, despite the active pallor mortis acting in his body, his soldier’s skin refused to give into the cold awaiting for it.

Sadly, he couldn’t say the same of his eyes; the only visceral indicator of his terror El Diablo still mistook as joy. 

The once vibrant and shiny blue irises from the henchman, were now dull, sunken, devoid of any life and color as the pupil had atrophied enough to permanently swallow the blue in both of them. The cracks in his thin lips had pronounced deeper and his abdomen… 

A mild discomfort pinched his brows.

“They’re four now with Allen. I won’t even open him up as he’s the same as the others in the fridge.” Jessica warned as her hands hovered the lamp over Allen’s eyes, finding the exact same pattern of dilatation within, the same sort of dryness in the lips and sclera, and that unmistakably bloated belly. 

And that was a new milestone. One that had his jaw ticking bitterly at the mere logic behind it. 

Jessica no longer had to perform an autopsy on his men. What would be different this time? What would change besides Allen surviving long enough to give him a name, but nothing else to follow or hold on to? 

It should count for something, his brief survival. But nothing besides larger chunks of that shiny and dark berry in his stomach were found, and respiratory failure being the main cause of death.

The camera flashes burned briskly in the back of his brain, as they illuminated his fallen soldier’s body like timed lightning. The flush in some areas bloomed unnaturally, appalling even. Like around the pouch of fat spreading sideways Allen’s torso. Gently folded over his lower belly, covering the growing pubes the cloth was unable to hide. 

Curiosity once more took control over and he sunk two gloved fingers in a side. The skin didn’t fight and let them bury within, only to meet a padded firmness that bounced back as soon as he retired the exploration. 

Miguel prodded in other places, despite Jessica’s warning to not poke too much at the bladder area, since the corpse was still fresh. Meaning, a sure mess if it relaxed enough and something the blatant woman wouldn’t clean up.

But an imperceptible crunch stopped both Jessica and him on the spot. 

The don blinked as half his hand pressed against the area again, right above the navel where the fat fold grew larger, and his breath hitched. 

Jessica immediately put the camera away and fetched a metallic tray as Miguel pulled the skin upwards. The faint smell of sweat and mothballs prickled his nostrils, but his attention settled with widening eyes at the white piece falling to the side. A note. 

Warm, withered, with run on blotches of ink, due to the absorbed sweat, unlike crisp and fresh paper, but a note nonetheless. Whole and legible regardless of the circumstances involved, with a single and grotesque message scribbled in it. 

Took you a while. 

-N. 

His teeth clashed with such force he could hear them grating against each other within his mouth. The letters in the paper were everything but printed. He found no hesitation in the trace, no stuttering, just untampered boldness grazing in arrogance in those four words. 

Ah, but that mocking curl in the tip of the N irked him in ways none truly dimensioned, as it was written with all the patience and delicacy only a perfectionist could.

This son of a bitch knew I was there…

A violent chill ran down his spine as another revelation hit him with the force of a well delivered slap. Watchful eyes were on him. Would it be before meeting with Allen? No, it definitely had to be afterwards, or else he would’ve noticed the note, or his helper would have said something about it. 

There was nothing but medical staff coming and going, being the usual fearful idiots, bumping into him and getting in his way. And now this. A small and folded reminder of his failure against the invisible due date this… inconvenient fucker had imposed over him and his men. Mocking him for not being a match into whatever sick game he didn’t know he participated in.

But against his better judgment and pride, he had to agree with something. A little too late he had identified the elegant flame logo in a crumpled corner of the note. A logo he often saw and knew like the number of bullets in his gun. 

L’Enfer Club. 

His most personal lands within his kingdom had been compromised. And his brain had to pause for a moment to properly digest the flood of epiphanies a single note induced.  

Jessica watched him for a long couple of seconds, while several emotions fought for the control over his face to be expressed. First was disbelief, that made his mouth gap slightly ajar; then frustration. Probably for not realizing soon, therefore making the message in the paper a valid statement. And finally, wrath. 

Or was it outrage? Maybe both. What was certain, as the fact he’d catch the person poisoning his men, was that he needed to accept the invitation or war declaration and pay L’Enfer a visit. 

[Rosa S. 08:30 p.m.] El Diablo is on his way to the club. 

A simple message sent a tremor so violent and deep through your spine, it had your skin’s Ruffini and Krause corpuscles soaring at the mere thought of facing him properly this time. 

He had found the note. 

And it earned back those points in cunning he had lost at Allen’s deathbed. 

El Diablo had taken your invitation. 

Although the shower washed away the chemical smell from your body, for a moment you wished the running liquid would ease the maddening pumps your heart did. In a couple of hours the man crowned as your nemesis, would be having a drink and possibly flirting with an unsuspecting woman. But not any woman. No. 

You wouldn’t let any other to steal his attention. Not when he’ll have you, prodding at the tiger’s whiskers upfront, while dressed to kill. Talking to him, discussing war between lines hopefully. Vis-à-vis. 

However, as much as you’d love to hear him and having you entertained with his ego, you had to be careful. Knowing he headed towards L’Enfer meant he’d be jumpy and probably would be suspicious to anyone coming across him. 

You reached for the towel and began your ritual while scheming. The rich body oils saturated  your skin for a brief lapse, giving it a healthy glow, once you showered and dried. Perfect to catch the attention of a man whose eyes would be extra keen tonight. 

Errors were strictly prohibited. If you were to introduce yourself and leave an impression, everything had to be perfect. Everything had to be in place. Like each strand of hair and thread in your dress. After all, you only had once chance to poison his drink. 

Letting him live would mean trouble in the future, and your career could only stand for so long before he could even conceive the idea of considering your niche as his too. He had taken enough. 

Next came the skin care and face-prep. A soft smoky color in your eyes would suffice.  Something subtle to not compete with the attention towards your body. For once, you’d be truly willing to receive and allow a man’s gaze to linger over you, as it’d be his last and your presence, the final gift he’d receive. 

At least you hoped his brain made up the effort to give you what you wanted, and that by the end of the night, a silent yet lethal and powdery dose of toxins would conquer his insides.

He’d be your best subject so far in this new formula you had whipped up, just for him. 

And a chuckle escaped you. Thrilled and hyped.

You knew the amount of effort woven into this plan bordered devotion, but with a man like him, every effort worthed it, were it not for the fact that he ruined some financial plans you had set in course. He angered and stirred things within you no man had ever provoked before. But, depending on his performance tonight, he’d either suffer for minutes, or for  hours.

With a delicious red painting on your lips, a gentle gleaming touch of rouge in your cheeks, you completed your makeup. Time ticked and soon those leathery Prada pumps were on your feet. The dress didn’t dally too long in that minimalistic and luxurious box. A sigh fanned over the fabric, as it melted over your body, to dress those curves and settle on you with an exquisite embrace. 

The tasteful cleavage made those mounds of yours a perfect study for gravity; as they had perked and filled the upper bodice to the point of outlining the hardened bump of your nipple, thanks to not constricting them with that hellish invention of a bra. Leaving enough to the imagination to casual and fortunate peepers. 

For a moment, you looked over the matching black lace thong resting forgotten on the bed, staring right at you, waiting to be worn. With a roll of your eyes you slid it past your feet and up your knees. 

Maybe having the whole main course and your revenge in a single night counted as greedy, but you had seen him, had liked him, and now you wanted him. It was just a matter of time for you to get him.

With a modified golden ring, full with that blissful toxin, vendetta guiding your steps and a kiss to the mirror, you headed towards the war zone. 

There were few reasons why El Diablo had a favorite chauffeur. If being in the back seats just as the front rows had taught him something, was to learn people’s driving habits often revealed more of the person behind the wheel. 

Like Ben Reily, his to-go option everywhere. Not only the man drove smoothly and efficiently on the pavement. But his nature seemed more than appropriate for a soldier like him. Not to mention the wistful suave he carried himself with, wooing and charming the women that paraded into his life almost every week. 

A soft man, some would say. However, when it came to business, that suave bragger vanished, leaving a cold-thinker and tactical driver that had saved his life on more than one occasion from death’s bone-ish grip. 

And today was no exception. For all it could happen, a shootout would break out. A raid could knock on his door and catch him with the briefs around his ankles. Or, meeting the one responsible for thinning his ranks.

The linen and wool in his suit did its best to contain the entirety of him, feelings and emotions included, despite these not playing fair within his brain. When had they ever, though? 

For all he cared he could be purposely putting himself in this knock off of predator’s maws. Or maybe that was his plan all along. 

Someone had summoned him, and he attended the call; curious as to what the sacrifice for such a thing would’ve been, since a man like himself could be labeled as simplicity’s foe. 

To make it big, or go home. There were no inbetweens when it came to claim his attention.

Maybe he could go to the extent of turning this alleged war declaration, as a lesson on how not to mess with forces people didn’t understand.

A reason why he had put eyes and ears in L'Enfer. He even had worn his favorite cologne and his signature ring with his favorite mantra. ‘Acta, non verba’ engraved in a customized oval around the ruby, as a pretext to show this imposter a part of what real power was. 

Deeds and not words. 

For his reluctance, this… Nightshade guy had done so many deeds without crossing any words with him. Until now. 

Miguel had to admit that whatever the madman involved played at, his cunning and competence excelled far more than he had originally thought. To the point of the situation needing a note and an embarrassing push forward from the criminal himself, to point him towards the right direction. 

Unacceptable. 

For a minute he did try to search through his memories to recall a specific remembrance that could’ve unleashed this vexing domino effect. But found nothing deemed important. Just chunks of an assorted variety of blackflashes with the faces of his dead men, still haunting his peace from time to time.  

His mind however, gravitated towards the club once more as soon as the threshold approached. Giving him a prime view of his favorite hideout’s name in that slick, black and golden trimmed Vogue typography, merged with an elegant flame as part of the combination mark. 

The Cadillac parked right before the valets. One of them opened his door and held it for him. The man stepping out in an Armani suit quickly gained the attention of some paparazzis already awaiting at the spot. A few of them took pictures that wouldn’t last longer than three days on the internet. 

His steps guided him forward, making the bouncers at the entrance look elsewhere as the devil in the flesh and future owner arrived. 

Rigorous and cream-colored pillars and columns welcomed him, letting the warm and golden light from the classic lamps hanging in the Beaux-Arts’ roof, to light and guide him towards the lobby. As though receiving him with that regal air he sported like no other. 

Some powerful men —but not as him— greeted his way or raised their whiskey glasses as he marched towards the polished and imposing set of mahogany stairs, leading to the underworld’s predilect gathering spot. 

The wooden parquet floor didn’t creak nor wobbled as it received his weight. If anything, it made sure to make his steps known among the rest, announcing his presence to those inside. The crowd quieted just enough for their chatter to not reach his ears and bother him, others just took their fair share of him through admiring glances. Hoping one day to owe half the power he had.

His mind, however, had already scanned the faces since the moment he made a descent over those stairs. None struck him like the person he came for. 

In his mind, he’d made a concept of a man, not older than late twenties. Probably an average-joe looking subject, because, handsome and dangerous would only be a cliché, despite himself being one. He knew life granted one or the other, but never both. Maybe he had been sufficiently lucky to appeal to the universe’s favor. 

A waiter took him to his reserved table, with his favorite whiskey on hand. The usual. And just right after he sat and took a sip, the club breathed and the chatter went back to their usual lilt. 

In his imagination, the man would probably use glasses, thin and light rimmed ones as a measure to avoid them sliding off and interfering with his work. He’d have gentle hands, or thin ones. Probably his subject looked like an emaciated or worn out man, eaten alive by the stress and worry of handling such toxic components by himself. 

No. 

He definitely had a team. Probably someone used as a decoy to lure his men out.

Unless he’s into men and hunts them himself. 

The possibilities branched through, and the more they came with possible scenarios, the more the world around him vanished. Centralizing his complete attention to his drink and the inner monologue flowing rampant in his mind over this nemesis’ appearance.

It went from a specific subject, to an impossible guess as to who had declared him war, in a span no longer than twenty minutes.

The luscious and sinful red in a pair of lips, however, pulled him out of that momentarily isolated introspection. The lovely pair stretched in a smile towards an old man he knew too well. One of his stupid competitors.

And his head turned, as though God himself took him by the jaw to make him witness the vision a couple steps away from him. 

The lace encrusted in a dress he wouldn’t hesitate to buy, if his temporary woman wanted it, revealed just enough to scramble and stop his thoughts. Those lips painted in his new favorite color, made his eyes rake ever so subtly over the one flaunting them. 

Yet the eyes. Jesus… Her eyes…

He blinked. The woman didn’t. 

His throat bobbed almost imperceptibly when her eyes refused to flicker. 

One second. And his gaze bounced over her lips to meet her stare again. 

Two seconds and his jaw ticked. She must have noticed the muscles in his sharp features hardening even more, and her lips pursed, amused.

Matter of fact, an inviting smile crossed her lips as she broke her embrace in that old man's arms and headed for the bar. 

The sway of her hips, the soft bounce of her breasts as she walked, and her confident steps didn’t disarm him like usual. 

Her, looking over her shoulder to make sure he followed did. 

A roguish smile on his own appeared, and he stood. 

Another message confirmed your target’s presence inside. But you didn’t move. Not yet. 

Arriving alone equaled blowing your cover off. So you waited, out of respect for your effort involved, and the months invested into this very moment. 

If you had waited for months for him to notice you, you could wait a bit longer. 

Luxury kept parading before you in the shape of classic and last model cars, people dressed in the most ridiculous and exquisite fashion houses; and an exclusive catering caravan delivering their social-media picture worth food. 

A solid round of twenty minutes passed before the perfect subject for your decoy appeared. 

A banker, probably in his seventies, with more white hairs than a Santa’s fake beard, dressed in a suit, stepped out of a Rolls Royce. A couple of women trailed behind. Gorgeous, model-like and dressed to impress. 

Predictable. Simple. Like most elderly men with too much money on their arthritic hands. 

Another disgusting Hugh Hefner wannabe. 

“Don’t park in the lot. Keep the engine alive.” You stepped out from the back’s passenger seat, letting the vigorous and cold air to welcome you, exciting your skin with a pleasant goosegump. In a couple of strides, you hooked your arm in one of the women’s arms. 

She didn’t ask questions, nor addressed you directly. Just went along with it, and so did the rest of the women. The grandpa however, looked as though the lottery had just knocked on his door upon seeing you. 

“Come. Come dear.” He pulled you closer so his hand rested on your hip, but you linked your arm through the other woman’s and kept her close. Making two companions in each of his arms and a proud beam on his yellowed teeth. “That’s more like it, yes.” 

His eyes raked over your cleavage, and for a second, the correct amount of water hemlock’s extract you’d put in his drink, based on his looks and weight, came to your mind. His eyes couldn’t help themselves by serving a good and shameless ogling at your chest.

But nothing a couple of months of excess and overuse of viagra couldn’t fix. 

He guided you all through the lobby, speaking as though he had built the place himself a long time ago. Maybe he had, irrelevant in any case. 

Your eyes searched and memorized the faces appearing the more you ventured in. To your little surprise, a good bunch of the attendees had been your clients a couple of weeks and months ago. Your gaze kept wandering through the old-money salon, reeking of power, whiskey and lust. Maybe a bit of old money and undiagnosed senile dementia too. 

The indistinct voices overlapped, like the pungent perfumes each man distilled, almost overriding your nose as you crossed a group. The girl on your right heaved a relieved sigh once you all stepped away from them. Yet, among those stenches, a familiar and bewitching one rose like a spell. All it took was a deep inhale of that perfume for your skin to crawl. 

Enigma Pour Homme. 

Your teeth sunk briefly on your lower lip, letting the thrill to course through your skin.  

He was there. Your eyes twinkled but didn’t search for him immediately. Your stomach clenched, and your heartbeat pumped with extra force at that wondrous realization. 

He waited. For you. 

The group erupted in a raucous laugh, to praise the elder man’s moronic sense of humor as soon as another banker approached, to greet and acknowledge the grandpa’s company. 

His hand freed your waist to greet the other man, equally a pervert, if not more perhaps. You didn’t waste the chance to abandon him with the excuse of using the restroom. 

A half truth, especially when your body buzzed with that feeling of being watched. Grateful he didn’t reproach you for breaking away from the group, you stepped down the couple of stairs before you. 

Your lungs couldn’t get enough air, not when every blink the devil did, gave your senses a much needed relief from his scorching stare. 

Brave and bold as you were, you turned. And the world stopped as your eyes met. Neither coy, nor shy. Plain clashing, sharp and alluring. Regarding each other with that unmet but well hidden curiosity. 

And he blinked. 

Good boy.

The world continued moving around you. Your cue to lead him even further into this mortal tango. No matter the outcome, his minutes were counted. 

Like the steps you gave towards the bar. Fifteen in total. And like the exact grams of poison he’d need, tucked within your ring. 

Nights and sleep had evaded you to create this perfect combination of atropine and cicutoxin, all condensed in this bitter-earth smelling powder that would grant him thirty minutes of life. Or ninety, depending on how healthy his lungs and heart were. 

Your eyes glanced back, over your shoulders to call him again. Good thing the silk and lace adorning your thighs covered as best as they could the shiver in them that smile alone of his provoked.

The velvety high chair sank as you sat. A brief camaraderie glance towards the bartender had him approaching you. Your hands slid the ring his way as he pushed a black colored and golden trimmed coaster, with L’Enfer’s name engraved in it, holding a freshly served dry martini. 

The bartender retreated, paving the way for a clash. The people around them were too aloof to care or comprehend the possible shift the criminal world was about to endure if you succeeded.

You’ve already given the first step, maybe another reason to poison him, by leaving the initiative in your hands. 

Men. 

Just as your legs decided their comfort in an ankle cross, The King himself swallowed the seat next to your right side, as though the chair already belonged to him. But you didn’t spare him a glance. Your lips stretched in a triumphant smirk conceded enough time for him to properly seat and order his Macallan. 

“You came. How obedient.” 

One of your hands corrected the slippering strap off your left shoulder, instantly earning his gaze on your hands’ movements. And your eyes finally looked at him. Your insides clenched, hopefully he didn’t notice the widening of your pupils upon taking him in completely. Wasn’t the bastard handsome? Maybe too much for his own good.

He chuckled, flashing a brief side of those unusual but pretty large canines in his upper gums. Your tongue glided against your own, wondering how deep they would go before leaving their mark.

“I prefer perceptive.” The bartender handed him a Baccarat whiskey glass, dressed with a perfectly round iced sphere with the amber liquid swirling around. “It is not in my blood to ignore heaven when it calls.” 

The chill on your spine almost fried every nerve holding it together. Your toes curled inside the leather pumps.

“And what does it tell you?” Your fingers slid under the cup’s curve and sipped the drink first, the liqueur’s dryness flooded your throat with a good dosage of valor. He followed with his drink when your eyelashes batted, slowly, and one of your brows rose with an inquisitive pull, demanding for an answer. 

A couple of men sat next to you, too wrapped up in their own little world to care for the fire sparking between both, while they lighted heavy cigars. Yet you turned your frame to face him, completely, giving a more detailed view of yourself while the smoke the men beside you spilled, curled around your curves and profile. The smell of nicotine and vanilla took over the air.

“That this…” And he did appreciate the sight with a pleasant nod. “might look like a mistake I wouldn’t regret committing.” 

“That’s exactly what people say before regretting it. Big time.” The twinkle in your eyes disarmed some basic movement functions in his hands. It made him lean closer, swallowing more of your personal space. Your perfume tickled his nose. 

“You don’t know that.” His fingers tightened their grip in the glass and he sipped again. 

“Wanna find out?” 

A toothy grin, almost a beam drew over his face, easing the hard edges of his features. And god, you almost don't want to kill him now. You noticed the way his eyes shifted towards your body, your lips, face and the lace cupping your breast. It probably reminded him that no matter the crown atop of his silky waves, the devil has always been a man.

“If you allow me to.” 

“How compliant.” You praised and picked the impaled olive by the edge of the toothpick. “I like that in a man.” 

His fingers reached for the other toothpick’s end, gently pulling it away from your grip and popped one of the olives in his mouth. Your eyes were unable to remove themselves from the way his jaw and mouth’s muscles work to chew the briny fruit. 

The way his cheeks hollowed slightly as he changes the chewing sides inside. It’s hypnotic the way he worked the mauled olive until he swallowed, pit and all. And how his mouth pursed in a gentle but pleased pout at the taste. Your toes curled tighter. 

“Are you done showing me how you eat your women?” 

His shoulders tittered in disbelief. This time it's his turn to grab the last sip of his drink in order to gain himself some time. You weren’t soft nor easy to impress. Y bendito fuera el de arriba, because the urge of escaping with a gorgeous stranger in his arm, gnawed at him upon that question. Maybe he would, just to give you a proper example of his mouth’s repertoire of skills.

A knowing but evaluating smirk moved your lips, not appreciating his sudden quietude. “Leave the silence for the dead, it does not suit you.” 

He scoffed, delighted and unable to hold back the dangerous jumps his heart performed.

“Just trying to figure out whether those pretty eyes of yours wanna kill me or eat me alive.” 

“Maybe both. Who knows.” Your index finger circled the edge of the cup, in feathery touches that distracted him for a minute before forcing his eyes on you. “El que avisa no es traidor.” (He who warns, does not betray)

A flicker of suspicion crossed his gorgeous gaze, but amusement quickly replaced it upon hearing the natural roll of spanish in your tongue. Yet his eyes remained for a second too long on you. Had he heard that before?

Good.

From the corner of your eyes, you glanced towards the bar’s station, and your breath hitched for a second. The amber liquid grew darker. And it murked the more your insider swirled the ice sphere with the bar spoon before returning to its original color. 

It’s ready. 

You took a deliberate slow time to drink from your cup, just enough for the service man to bring the concoction over and give your devil a well deserved and last glance of yourself. 

The man’s gloved hand served you the bill first, then his drink.

“You better not touch that.” He warned with a chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes, as though the idea of you paying for your own drink outright offends him. 

The more reason to take the black and heavy pencil attached to the booklet and wield it just before his eyes. 

“Or what?” The speed you scribbled on the paper made him purse his lips and his eyelids to drop midway. Not because you didn’t stutter once while signing, but for you to sign it while looking directly at him, as though your hand had the confidence enough to not let itself be guided by lines. 

His eyes lock with the bartender’s while pointing at the bill. “Throw that way and—”

“About fucking time!” 

It all happened in a motion so slow, you were able to see with a mix of angered horror, the fingers of that raucous man on your left. His wrist, the pores, the clumps of hair protruding from the expensive buttoned shirt he sported. Opening —reaching towards the prepared drink, until his grip snatched it away. Caring little if he pushed, or rather shoved you out of his way. 

The need to stab him on his side for a moment almost overwhelmed you. You were sure that if the pencil lived, your squeezing force would’ve choked it to death.

No

Your eyes could only lock themselves in the deglutition movements the man’s throat did, chugging down the tampered liquid in a matter of seconds. 

You didn’t know at what moment Miguel’s arms embraced you closely, or plucked you away from the chair, too close from the man’s unstable swaying. For a slippery,  treacherous second your breath hitched —unwilling to depict him just as your enemy as his strong arms shielded you from the cackling idiot. 

With a purposeful shove, Miguel forced the agitated man back to his seat, but only caused his drunken steps to scramble even further and fall on his back with a vexed yelp. 

No. No. NO.

Your teeth ground together until they crunched, your heart soared with that unhealthy dose of adrenaline, matching your insider’s stupefied face. 

Maldito. Maldito hijo de puta. ¡Mil y un veces maldito!

The glass fell on the bar with a jarring crack, alerting the people around you with frowns and curious looks.  

The world stopped a third time. The clock ticked as the poison sat on the wrong man’s stomach. There were no second doses, nor second chances. 

The bartender’s eyes settled on yours and nodded lightly, almost imperceptible, once. 

Leave. 

Before your feet could even succeed at escaping, Miguel’s firm and secure grip gathered you by your waist, flicking his eyes between you and the idiot. 

The heated closeness and the powerful echoes of his heart pounding in your ears were no match for the rage boiling inside. He wasn’t supposed to be holding you, much less like you were his. Nor he being functional. Or safe. Especially the latter. He wasn’t supposed to be safe. And that fucking drink wasn’t supposed to be in someone else’s insides. 

Fuck. 

With the same firmness in your touch, you detached from him, almost pushing him away. And his hands released you. The divot between his brows deepened as he regarded your tense shoulders and clenched jaw.

“Wait–”

If he had something to say, you didn’t listen. Not when rancor and frustration whispered to your ear to escape through quickened steps, and gentle —or not— pushes through the scattered people, disappearing under his radar in a matter of seconds. 

The only solace remaining tonight was knowing an impulsive asshole had his well deserved end. 

Your angered steps left a trail of curious glances as you made your way up to the lobby. And with a door slam that made the valets cringe, you escaped. Too deep in that scorching fury of having your plan of months ruined by a stupid man, to over-think about details. 

No breath dared to make it past his lips. His shoulders slumped, confused as he stared at his hands, right where you had been. Empty, trying to hold onto whatever fleeting memory of you remained. Then looked at the man a few steps away from him. The oblivious fool, laughing and slurring words as though he hadn’t ruined what might have been the best night of his life.

Never once it crossed his mind that man’s impulsiveness had saved him from ending like Allen, and his men, six feet under.

He approached the bar, and sat back on his seat. Yet, to his surprise there was no bartender. Just a five minute break notice, the clean bar; your empty cup already forming a moisture ring over the coaster… and the bill. Still pending, since he didn’t remember you giving the bartender a card or cash. 

A forty five plus tax receipt remained untouched, unlike the pencil that looked slightly curved at the top. The name “Bella Neroni” paused his breathing once more as he blinked. Once, to convince himself that you had left a piece of yourself. Twice, to fixate his attention on that surname, and thrice, for his brain to finally connect two and two the more he stared at that wretched letter.

He had seen the pride which your hand had signed, mocking him. Miguel had seen that curl, the pattern, but El Diablo had seen the evidence before. 

With a dry gulp and his fingers tingling with this nagging and ugly sensation, he searched through his pocket. The soft crunch of the paper revolted his already jumpy stomach. 

Were it not for the wet and ugly coughing the idiot from before did, while he held his stomach as though something kept stabbing him, his soul would have left him completely. His eyes bounced from left to right, comparing, analyzing; hardly believing the unmistaken resemblance if not carbon copy of that stupid N. 

El Diablo wasn’t a man that often let fear to shroud him, but knowing he had been a drink away— The drink. His sight flickered towards the cracked glass on the jar, then at the unwell man. No spit he could swallow formed in his tongue.

It could’ve been me.

His dark skin warmed from the inside, a flush creeped up his neck and cheeks with rage. Like the one his brother’s death provoked once. It had to be, because fear knew better to not overstay. A man like him had no stable vacancy for a feeling like it within his mind.

He forced his lungs through a deep inhale to soothe the violent shot of adrenaline already pumping through his veins. 

Nightshade. He had met Nightshade. Flirted with her. A woman. 

A woman that had bled his organization dry for months, had kidnapped his cargo, had planted evidence in the intimacy of his men’s deaths and stole rest from his nights.

A woman  had been in his hideout, declared war on him, made him go after her like a dog. She drank with him, made him save her from a drunk fool, had poked at his horns right under his nose, and crawled under his skin like the very poison she had fed his men. 

His chest burned with the exertion his heart used to try and match the quickened breathing pattern. His hands trembled and both of the flimsy paper notes perished under his grip. 

The very danger hunting him had smiled and flirted back his way, tempted him even. And like the man he was, he had fallen for it. Fair and square. 

He had been played. By a gorgeous woman. A cunning, bold and infuriating woman. 

His hand slicked back his hair and an incredulous and still spiteful chuckle escaped him, unfiltered. Like the remains his pride had left after swallowing the brief panic. Respect. Reluctant, almost offensive and grotesque, but respect nonetheless. 

His teeth bit at his bottom lip, hard enough to taste a brief tinge of copper, as his brain tried to decide what to do with his hands; with the evidence in them, and his rampant mind, replaying in a loop your smile along that declaration disguised as ancient widsom. 

El que avisa no traiciona. 

And you had warned him, not once, but twice. And still he stayed. 

Delicious and ironic humiliation. One you’d pay each and every gram of it.

But that primal, basic and manly part of his brain had already decided otherwise. 

El Diablo knew two truths could coexist at once. To want you dead and to want you for himself. He had never been good at picking between extremes, not when each tasted even more scrumptious than the other.

A throaty yet silent laugh shook his shoulders as he uncrumpled the papers and folded them to put them in his chest pocket. Near his heart. Evidence or DNA, he didn’t know, but saved them like treasures. 

Cause only a genius or a monster —the same thing lately for him, could move like that in his territory. None of his men had the patience for such feats. None of them had that penchant for craft like you did, much less to do it for months, undetected. Not until you had decided to show yourself.

And God, what a sight.

The laughter vanished, leaving a clarity in his mind so bright it could blind everyone in L’Enfer. Now that he knew what Nightshade looked, sounded, felt and talked like, there was only one way out popping in his mind when it came to such a tameless and ruthless woman.

You’d be his.

He swallowed and pursed his lips with approval on the thought while his eyes settled on the whimpering man on the floor, wheezing for air as some people rushed his way.

Of course you had. No man in this city, and probably in the world deserved you as much as he did. 

And what a better scenario than seeing you in action? His eyes darted over the man on the floor, salivating, almost spitting his soul through mouthful and foamy blobs of spit while a group of security tended him. 

His wicked brain sapped the anger, replacing with a thrill only the most twisted of heavens induced in its worshipers. The gears in his mind turned like never before, scheming like only a devil could. Never had El Diablo felt this alive in years.  

May his fallen men forgive him, as his heart had to make space for a new devotion.

Maravillosa jugada, mi reina. (What a wonderful move, my queen)

With a slow and pitying smile towards the writhing man, he rose from his seat again; smoothened the lapels of his suit and walked over the stairs, even though his chest refused to choose between fury, pride or hunger. 

A woman. 

His equal. 

His queen. 

A complete serendipity for his twisted yearnings. All he had to do was to claim you for himself. 

Night had just begun. And the true hunt was on.

---------

Taglist:

…25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30. 

Thirty seconds. 

Thirty seconds was all he needed to disappear among the sea of cars and people coming and going. 

Thirty seconds for the leftover heat to disappear under your fingers, like the sliver of his cologne still tickling your nose. 

Reluctantly, your feet turned in the direction he had just come from, tracing back into his steps as you put a pair of gloves on.

Up the stairs, around the corner, dodging some people that approached with concerned faces in hopes to hear news from their relatives, and right before the room El Diablo had been not so long ago. 

Your chest puffed, thrilled as your hand itched towards the doorknob, and turned it. 

Nothing but a monotonous, vexing beeping and a gust of cold and filtered air welcomed you. It enhanced the plethora of smells in the room: the chemicals still pumping into the deceased man you had lunch with, almost sixteen hours ago; the new filter musk from the ac, and… His scent. A new favorite.

Your tongue swiped over your lips upon the latter as your chest swelled with the remains of his perfume. Strong, but not too overwhelming. Expensive, like his world and everything he touched. And tempting, like the devil he was. 

Enigma Pour Homme. Roja. Of course it had to be that one.

Or so you remembered from the receipt log your hackers had extended. Each perfume Miguel had bought was engraved in your lungs, so the day you’d cross paths you’d identify his favorite. And he did not disappoint. He never did. 

Maybe until now.

The sheets half covering Allen’s body were crumpled with evident signs of struggle. Something that you didn’t doubt El Diablo was unfazed with. And his eyes, wide with this fear, many mistook as joy stared right back to you. Like meeting his doom all over again.

“I told you that salad was trouble, Allen.” Your eyes wandered over his abdomen, fuller than the others. Probably thanks to those diuretic smoothies he swore by and promised to make you one someday after your second date with him. 

But it was perfect, as it created the right amount of fold to cover and hold things. 

Your hands searched your pockets and pulled a sterile piece of paper sheet from a small manila folder, then took a disposable pencil and placed it over Allen’s chest to act as a table, since the rest of surfaces would only unnecessarily contaminate your note. 

Your teeth sank into your lower lip as your hand wrote a simple message in it, never stuttering once. Then, gently, folded it and air-kissed it before placing it beneath the soft pouch of his abdomen. 

“But thanks for your help, mi vida. You were wonderful.” 

With nothing more to do, but to take the last whiff of Miguel’s perfume, you left the room. 

Soon. Very soon. 

You were grateful that the hospital purposely delayed whenever mob’s henchmen were the ones in their beds. The scum, or so they called the criminals, needed to be treated the same way they treated their victims, if not worse. 

Studying Allen’s habits was easier than others, so his routine came like an unchallenging recipe to you. The man had the personality of a young wannabe entrepreneur despite his thirty two years following, dreaming big while scamming people with pyramidal schemes, using Miguel’s resources as his —maybe to make up for the reduced problem between his legs. 

Big mouths always do so little.

Approaching him like the new girl in town had been like a fever-dream to his naive brain. Acting impressed with the useless knowledge he had, giving him fleeting and occasional touches  to keep him hooked, and laughing at his terrible jokes had prompted his eventual fall. 

As soon as your insiders told you where he’d be hospitalized, you were on your way. A bribe here to the security guards, a peek on the cameras there to know when Miguel had entered and when he was leaving, lead to the exact moment you purposely bumped into him. 

The clipboard had been a nice touch, as it drew the attention he did not want at the moment. And also, had given your first bite of him. 

You didn’t expect to meet such a fine and large man. The pictures your team delivered were good, but meeting unknowingly the devil in persona was a completely different experience.

But one bite wasn’t enough. 

Not when the main course flaunted himself like the king, and the rest his peasants. Not when said delicacy had encroached into your side of the business and expected no retaliation in return just for being who he was. 

And if there was something you loved about proving men wrong, was the look on their faces upon discovering your alias. Absolutely priceless and delicious. What kind of face El DIablo would wear? 

A handsome one, you hoped. 

That is, if he finds the damned note. 

The return to the lab had been interesting at best. 

First, your mind had come up with the wildest scenarios your revenge-starved brain could muster. All leading to the same result. Nueva York rising with a new underworld ruler such as yourself.

Second, the body fetching confirmation by one of the coroners, arrived in a text to your phone. 

Allen had been picked up, and if the timing your agents gave you was right, the deceased henchman would be arriving within at least forty minutes into Miguel’s forensics building. 

A thrilled beam widened in your lips. The mere thought of witnessing him discovering the note either by himself or through third parties, had your heart pirouetting and jumping in utter delight. 

You had to shake the sudden fantasies your brain created as they sent a pleasant flush into your cheeks. 

His discomfort would be first, and your tongue almost savoured it. You imagined him there, before the body, waiting for the most relevant questions to be answered. Followed by that lovely divot in his brows whenever he focused or pondered on something. 

Would he think about me? 

A silly question you knew, since, he still traced the ABC’s of clues you had been feeding him with.

The fantasy continued. 

You could picture him there, standing before Allen with a stern and critical gaze, examining and looking for clues where none paid attention. You trusted in his keen eyes and prayed for him to find the note, or else an assistant would ruin his surprise. 

The scene replayed vividly behind your eyes as you indulged your imagination. For a second you could hear his voice, mistrustful, ever commanding and demanding for answers his eyes asked alone. 

Who did this? Why? What are they after? Why now?

The second and latter were your favorite. Vendetta would be too simple to put it, but effective to describe the main dilemma. All revolving around betrayal or even a more simple yet, loyalty. Or the lack of it. 

Not only in your veins flooded the cursed blood of a fallen scientist and father, unfairly convicted for a crime he did not commit, and eventually killed in prison. 

The System’s lack of pressure towards the investigations to reach closure had been deliberate. A bit too intimate perhaps, since the judge seemed particularly engrossed with delaying your father’s trials to returning him to freedom. As though they all awaited his death. 

And when the news and his corpse were delivered to you, the line between being a system’s neglect victim and a victimizer blurred faster than Papa’s obituary and media impact. 

You were sure that if alive, your father would disapprove of your career’s choice. 

But it wouldn’t take you long to convince him to join you if you made the right ‘Please’ eyes he couldn’t say no to. And maybe the lack of boundaries was the main reason his dearest possession still remained in your power like a family heirloom. 

Poison Diaries. 

The epitome of sneaky toxicology. A little project Papa had been working on before his fall. His lessons with you on a Sunday evening were still missed from time to time.

Initially, the ‘how many drops would you need to make a man sick?’ question served no purpose, as there was none to explain you the whys, or show you the hows. What was to be done with all of that dangerous knowledge some people would kill for? 

Let them pay in order to have it, of course. 

And so, time made sure you went from a renown toxicologist’s assistant to an anonymous but prolific consultant. All thanks to Papa’s morbid fascination with natural toxins that crowned you as Nightshade (Your favorite poisonous plant)  in the felonry map.

And what better way to honor his legacy by finishing his research with El Diablo's men?

Originally, the man that haunted your dreams and business, was another don you had to avoid as many people had told you that Nueva York was his playground. So you looked elsewhere, away from his territory to avoid any unnecessary turf wars. 

While your Diablo walked and pranced through the streets and made appearances from time to time into the exclusive social circles, anonymity remained on your side like a trustworthy ally. It was your signature. Because, God forbid the men in charge to find out if a woman outmatched them in felonies. 

Or else, the unhealthy competition and abrupt market of creating customised poisons would skyrocket, and your father’s legacy would be damned. 

This niche was yours. You had earned it. No kings, no queens, just Nightshade. Poisonous and deathly until it was too late to see it coming 

Like Miguel. 

Little by little his connections led him towards your territory, and with promises of quality drugs and protection, a rift in your balance left you at the brink of getting sent to the retirement bench too soon. 

Most of your clients cut ties, as this new provider was not only faster in response, but the protection service was a plus. They weren’t only paying for their tax to operate in his lands, but the man also protected them, thus, feeding this self-sustainable illusion of mutual help. 

But you knew what a deal like that would require. He didn’t get that nickname for shits and giggles after all. Mostly didn’t read between the lines and just squeezed his hands like they had done the best deal of their wretched lives. It was almost poetic.

Miguel would seduce and lure his victims like mighty and possible associates, worth of his time. Then, he’d take them to a lavish meal, implicitly bragging about the benefits a pact with him would bring to the table. 

He made the fools feel special, cherished and important even to his business, that by the end of those first fifteen minutes of subliminal brain washing, they were already giving up their souls to this helpful man without questioning. 

You, however, had witnessed how that help was reaped if they failed. There was a time that irrelevance shrouded you like a safe blanket, and prevented you from joining the news’ insecurity statistics, just cause The King had decided to collect his souls. 

But what turned your vendetta’s direction against him, was witnessing not only through pictures and your own eyes how one of your most trustworthy and remaining allies, shook hands with him after a five star meal in his favorite club. All in the very same day they’ve told you they needed to “expand their wings”. 

The rest of your black list quickly resumed into one man. 

And so, your Diablito had turned into the main subject your brain lived and breathed for. 

Studying him was just the start, until it turned boring. Watching him from afar wasn’t enough, frequenting the places he went to had become routinary, learning his ways of pulling the invisible threads he had all over the city sure proved thrilling for a time. But again, a bite wasn’t enough.

He fascinated as much as he angered you. Some days you couldn’t decide whether to praise him for his wicked brain, or to curse him for that. 

Your father had been a fierce believer of  ‘an eye for an eye’ philosophy. And naturally, as his daughter the same convictions applied into your everyday life.

Miguel had wiped your resources? You’d kidnap his cargo. 

Miguel encroached your allies? You hit him in precise moments where his credibility would shake like a building previous to its collapsing and leave him to deal with the mess before expectant and judging eyes. 

El Diablo took over your territory? You’d start a cleansing and target his men, with the intention of reducing his workforce. No person in the business could do everything by themselves, could they? 

But, Miguel was a walking paradox. You could swear the man was a genius, but proved to be a man through and through when it came to understanding subtleties, and reading in between lines within lines.

At first, you suspected he believed the death of his men were nothing but casualties meant to happen in open shootouts against the police. You could confirm it when a new group of his men were offed, and your team had purposely planted a fake police scene to see if he had taken the bait. 

He wanted his cargo back, sure. Millions worth in coke packages coming from the south, rested in a safe, underground an old cathedral. Untouched. 

But he wasn’t looking in the right direction. Or rather, he refused to acknowledge you. 

So gently, you guided him towards you by changing physical evidence such as bullets, to something more personal, unique and completely yours. Poison.

And the willing blindfold he sported finally vanished.

Now that you had his attention, it was time for the next step. 

“Did my shoes come in the mail today, Max?” 

Maximilian, your right hand, nodded and pointed towards a neatly packed box from Prada second to a Tom Ford dress box before resuming his pruning on a cowbane's leaves. 

All you had to do was wait and let your intel team give you the green light so your next move came into play. Your hands rummaged through the layers of paper packing, just to feel the incrusted lace in the dress. Hoping his hands would somehow feel it too. 

This time, you’d make sure he never looks away again. 

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