Ducky

You didn't really think about it, the first time it happened. You'd been halfway through a chart, awareness pitched somewhere behind you in case someone needed you — someone always did, eventually — and when you heard the name Sharkbait, you knew instinctively Santos was talking to you. She's always giving out nicknames like that, and you didn't have one yet, and people had taken to dragging you over to present for Park the Shark, because apparently you were the only one who could handle him without getting your head bit off.

You didn't really get what the big deal was. It wasn't hard to figure out how to deal with him — that's what you do, after all, assess people and then figure out how to deal with them. He wants clear, concise answers, and respect, so you give him both. Easy.

He's not the kind of person you'd joke with, or get chummy with, not unless he crossed that line first. Even then, best to tread carefully.

But he's not complicated, and he's certainly not scary the way everyone seems to think he is — though you would categorize him as intense. Focused. It's what makes him such a good surgeon.

And sure, maybe he trains his laser focus on you more than anyone else in the ED. Maybe his attention is less sharp when it settles and finds you on the receiving end.

It doesn't mean anything, surely, but that didn't stop Santos from noticing, and it didn't stop her from making a shitty nickname, and if you were thinking a little more clearly, you'd have realized that you should've shut that shit down. Park is your much older, much more attractive, incredibly no-nonsense indirect boss, not to mention, you actually kind of like the guy. He probably wouldn't take lightly to everyone going around implying he's trying to get in your pants, and even if Santos is mean, she's not evil. She'd back off if you needed her to.

But you'd been tired, and distracted, and you hadn't really thought about it that hard. And when she called out "Sharkbait, get over here!" you hadn't corrected her.

Instead, you'd tapped out the last line of your sentence and carelessly called back, "Sharkbait, ooh-haha." It wasn't even a conscious decision.

It's from some fuckass movie you watched when you were eight, and you hadn't thought about it in years, but apparently that one word had been enough to trigger the call and response you learned in second grade. It shouldn't have stuck, either, but then Whittaker had called you Sharkbait while you were talking to a patient, and you'd muttered it under your breath, and now you just can't stop.

Everywhere you went, people called you Sharkbait. Even Robby does it sometimes, when he's calling you over to observe procedures. And you, in a true show of human adaptability, do not stop to think about why it's such a mistake. You hadn't caught it the first time, and you hadn't caught it the second time, and by the third it simply became another thing in the background. Another name, another title, none of them really you.

Everywhere you went, you'd parrot it back. Mostly it was an announcement, a way to say I'm here, I'm paying attention, tell me what you need, without quite so many words. In the more serious situations, it was a half-whispered thing under your breath, a reminder that there would be time where things weren't falling apart, and you would be capable of joy and whimsy again.

Either way, it always came.

Unless Brendan Park was in the room. The Shark walked in, and suddenly everyone was calling your full name like you're George fucking Bush. Even the mention of a consult from him was enough to dissuade the use of it for a few minutes.

All of which led to twenty minutes ago, when you'd been hunched over a trash can, shoveling a granola bar down your throat with such ferocity that you felt simultaneously like a starved horse and the kind owner feeding it.

You'd caught a glimpse of Park gliding through the ED like Moses parting the Red Sea, and had stuffed the last of your precious calories into your mouth in a desperate bid to be done by the time he reached you. Even when you weren't called over to present, he rarely came down without stopping by, so you'd gotten used to putting on your best face on a dime.

You could see that Dennis was going to call you over before he actually did it, so you'd already been shuffling over to the hand sanitizer when you it happened. "Sharkbait! Whittaker says you should present this one."

Your mind knew it was a bad idea — tried to stop your mouth from following through — but habit is a bitch. "Sharkbait, ooh-haha," you fired back, just loud enough to be heard over the ambient noise of the ED.

For a half-second, everyone froze.

Park turned to you, molasses slow. Arched an eyebrow. "You like that stupid nickname?"

You'd blinked at him. Refused to shrink under his gaze, or his tone, or the way it all made your blood sing and your skin burn. Forced your voice smooth and even, just as unbothered as he sounded about... well, everything. "I haven't really thought about it all that much, honestly. Mostly just reflex by now."

Maybe he genuinely believed you. Maybe it's because you've always been honest and efficient. Maybe he just doesn't think you have the balls to lie to him. Whatever it is, he hadn't commented on it further, so you didn't either.

You both pretended it never happened, right up until he disappeared back upstairs, and you allowed yourself a single moment to acknowledge the fact that you may have just lost all your goodwill with the best orthopod in the hospital.

What you don't know is that Park had been the one to start it with an offhand comment to Garcia about the ED dangling you in front of him like sharkbait every time he went down there. She'd repeated it to Santos, and soon it had spread like wildfire. Not what he'd intended, and he'd considered snapping at the mousy boy when he'd drifted by and heard him calling you that a few weeks ago — only to be stopped dead by your sweet little call-and-response, like you were fucking taunting him. Practically begging him to come bite.

The fact that you had the balls to do it with him right in front of you — and then look him dead in the eyes and call it reflex — has just cemented what everyone else already knows.

He wants you.

Chubby listens, and the truck rolls forward a little too quickly. Fuck. Fine. That's fine. She's capable. It doesn't matter if his heart is about to balloon up and out of his throat. She's as capable as her mother. Regretfully.

"You're fine, sweetheart. You can loosen up a little, okay? You're learning. That means you're allowed to be bad at it first."

She drives around the empty parking lot, a little too stiff. It's obvious she's trying to feign perfection so her dad won't panic. So. He guesses he has to pretend he's not panicking. Give him the Oscar.

Chubby frowns. "Don't think you really like me being bad at dangerous stuff. That's not on you, I guess. Any parent wouldn't...or whatever. I don't need a kid to know that."

Damn right. Shouldn't say that. Not going to, but damn right. Both about the parent thing and never having kids.

Jack clears his throat, straightening his spine against the seat.

"But...you know I'm not mad at you for not getting it first try, right? I'm not scared cause I don't trust you or think that you'll never be a good driver."

Chubby glances over. Jack points at the windshield.

"Eyes forward, Chubs."

Her gaze snaps back. "Jesus, sorry. Just...why are you scared, then?"

Jack could laugh at his babygirl's quiet question. That'd be rude. She sounds earnest. Still, she or anybody else may not need to have a kid to know how a parent's brain works, and she's her, she and you know how Jack Abbot's brain works.

But...you know, there are just some things that sit outside the pink bits within the skull. They sit in the heart, or the bones, and there are things you can't know and can't explain even if it's all yours, not to a daughter who doesn't need to be burdened by the bullshit of a life that's been consumed by her mother.

"...I'm---cause I'm..."

Cause I held you when your whole body fit on my chest. Your mother almost disappeared from my life once, and I was worse for it. I nearly didn't come back from it. Wouldn't have cared to. I've seen what cars do to bodies. A beautiful, perfect body that grew you. The world's not merciful and generous just cause you are loved, Chubs.

Because you're the second person in my life who taught me my heart could live outside my body, and I haven't forgiven either of you for it.

"I'm your dad. That good of an answer?"

Chubby shrugs. "I guess."

"It's gonna have to be. It’s the only one I can say without being embarrassing."

"Whatever. By the way, Mom says you can't lecture me with statistics about teen accidents. It'll make me nervous."

Jack smiles. It's small, but it's really. Brightly grey.

"I know. I'm not allowed to use the term vehicular manslaughter and definitely not allowed to tell you any ER stories. But...if you're ever interested for entertainment's sake, I wouldn't mind."

"Not while I'm behind the wheel, Dad. I'll get vomit on your dashboard."

Jack makes a scrunched face. Like that's anything to write home about.

"Pfft. That's baby stuff. Well, literal baby stuff would be your spit-up that I've cleaned many, many times before when you were in diapers. But, you know, hence why car vomit is the figurative baby stuff---"

"Dad, stop!"

You sat on the edge of your bed and scrolled through the texts on your phone. You’d noticed their responses to your texts getting shorter if they weren’t being ignored completely. As you scrolled you realized you were always the one that initiated the conversation, always sent the first message. Maybe you were just annoying them.

All of you had your own rooms, but you were used to them climbing into bed with you or dragging you into their rooms to sleep with them. Jack hadn’t been getting home until midmorning and Robby was closer to midnight some nights. You were already at work in the home office by the time Jack arrived home but he hadn’t popped his head in to say hello once. Hadn’t found you to say goodbye. You’d tried to stay up for Robby one night and woke up on the couch shivering in the chill at the two in the morning, telling you he hadn’t even noticed. A quick glance in his room showed him passed out in his bed. You could have crawled in with him, with either of them, but you weren’t certain they wanted you to anymore.

The last time you’d seen them, Robby had just seemed irritated that you were in his space and Jack hadn’t listened to a word you said before saying “That’s nice, sweetheart. I’m gonna get some sleep.”

So, you decided to stop. Stop messaging them first, stop seeking them out at home, just stop. The days passed and they didn’t seem to notice. You continued taking care of them for a few days, leaving food to make sure they ate, washing their scrubs, etc. You knew these back to back shifts were hard on them but you were hurting mentally and physically and just so, so tired. You knew you should talk to them, make them see you, but you didn’t want to burden them with anything else.

So, you called your best friend and packed your things, biting back your tears as you walked out the door.

Jack was the first to notice that something was wrong.

He came home just after ten from an extended shift. The house was quiet but that wasn’t out of the norm as you shut yourself up in your office to work. He opened the microwave and frowned at finding it empty. You always left them something, worried they wouldn’t eat unless you fed them. He checked the fridge only to find it devoid of a meal as well. Maybe you were annoyed that he hadn’t eaten the meals the last couple of days, grabbing something at work to combat the hollow feeling in his stomach during his long shifts. He grabbed a protein shake, too tired to do anything else.

As he headed for his bedroom, he paused outside your office, hesitating, wanting to see you, wondering if perhaps you hadn’t been up to cooking today. When your condition flared, you didn’t feel like doing much of anything. But if that was the case, you were more likely to be curled up on the couch. He sighed and eventually moved on without knocking. He didn’t want to bother you just to say hello and goodnight. After a shower, he had just enough energy left to collapse into his bed and crash, far too exhausted to realize it was Saturday and you shouldn’t be working at all.

When he woke a few hours later, he went looking for you, wanting to apologize for not eating the meals you’d undoubtedly left him. Besides, he just missed you. These long shifts were killing him. You didn’t answer his gentle knock at your office or bedroom doors. A glance in the garage showed your car was gone. He looked in the kitchen to find no note. He frowned. None of this was like you. He glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. He couldn’t worry about it now. Half an hour later found him standing by the hub talking to Robby.

“I’m telling you man, something’s not right,” Jack said.

Robby huffed. “Why because she didn’t make you breakfast? Maybe she just forgot.”

“Okay, but she didn’t leave a note. She always leaves a note. She knows we worry.”

Dana looked between them as they talked wondering how two incredibly intelligent men could be so fucking stupid. You’d been in her guestroom for two days now and they were just noticing something was up? No wonder you left their asses. Idiots. She made a sound of disgust.

Both men’s heads snapped in her direction. “What?” they asked in unison.

She arched one brow and pursed her lips. “Nothing. Don’t mind me.”

Robby and Jack turned to look at one another and reassess. Dana was your best friend. If she was pissed off at them, that meant you were as well. Shit. “Okay, well what did she say the last time you talked to her?”

“I think she told me to have a good shift,” Jack said with a frown, pulling out his phone. That had been five days ago and he’d responded with a terse thanx. “Uh, Mike, when’s the last time she texted you?”

He pulled out his phone to find much the same scenario as Jack. You usually texted them multiple times a day just to let them know you were thinking of them. “Oh.”

Jack raked his hand through his hair. “Okay, okay. Did anything seem off when you saw her?”

Robby shook his head. “I’ve been too tired when I get home to do anything but shower and crawl in bed. My bed. Figured she’d come to my room if she wanted.”

Jack’s brain short circuited and he froze. “Michael, when is the last time you physically laid eyes on our girlfriend?”

Robby sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I don’t know. Earlier this week? I’ve just been so fried I haven’t been seeking her out. What about you? What’s she been like with you?”

“I haven’t seen her either.” His voice was quiet, worried.

Robby’s gaze sharpened. “Like since when?”

Jack bowed his head as he thought. “Jesus. It’s been a week. At least. She sat at the table with me while I ate but I was too tired to even process what she was saying. I didn’t stress about it because I figured she had you.”

“And I was the same way. Fuck.” Robby’s eyes went wide and he pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “Fuck!”

Dana hummed in acknowledgment of their idiocy.

Jack turned to her immediately. “She’s obviously said something to you. What did she say? How mad is she?”

She glanced over the top of her glasses, entirely unimpressed. “Since when has that ever worked with me, Jack Abbot? You want to know how mad she is, try talking to her. If she’ll listen. I’m going home. You two better get your shit together.”

Handoff with Lena complete, Dana grabbed her things and headed out the door without looking back, Robby and Jack’s eyes trailing her as she went.

“Oh, our girl must be furious,” Robby muttered.

“Yeah,” Jack agreed, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Robby left his shift when he was supposed to for the first time in two weeks. This matter with you was more pressing. Your car was still gone. He knocked at your office out of habit as he opened the door. Everything you needed for work was gone. Shit. His footsteps carried him quickly down the hall. He threw open the door to your bedroom to find a neatly made bed. Your suitcase and a large amount of your clothes were missing.

Robby pulled out his phone, nearly dropping it in his haste. He called Jack who answered immediately. “Is she home?”

“She’s gone, Jack.” Robby’s voice broke on the words. “Her office is empty. Half of her clothes are gone.”

“Shit,” Jack said. “Trauma’s coming in. See if you can reach her.”

Robby tried to call first. You sent the call to voicemail three times before he gave up.

Next, he sent you a text. Baby please pick up the phone. I want to talk to you. I need to make sure you’re alright.

I’m fine, came not even a minute later.

He heaved a sigh of relief. At least you responded. I don’t think you are. Please talk to me.

You haven’t cared if you talked to me in weeks. Why should now be any different?

God, you always knew exactly what to say to make your point in the sharpest way possible. Please. He didn’t know what else to say.

I moved out two days ago. You didn’t even notice.

Two days? That can’t be true surely. Jesus. He knew you well enough to know that he and Jack had been horribly wrong. You weren’t pissed. You were hurt. That was so much worse. They’d hurt you. They were going to lose you and they’d deserve it.

I don’t know what I can say to that. There’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry. I love you. I love you so much.

Okay. Goodnight Michael.

No, no, no. That couldn’t be your response. This couldn’t be the end of everything. What the fuck had they done?

Baby please. Just meet us at least. Let us sit down and talk about this. Please.

The two of you will never have the time for that. I can say yes but it will never happen so why bother. I’m done talking.

Please talk to me.

Please don’t leave us.

I love you.

Just give us a chance

All four messages were left on read.

Jack tried next.

Robby hadn’t told him how things had gone until handoff, not wanting Jack to dwell on it all night. While part of him understood Robby’s reasoning, the rest of him was pissed off. If he’d known, maybe he could have gotten you to respond. It wasn’t logical, you weren’t any more likely to talk to him than Robby but Jack couldn’t just give up.

He sent the first text as he walked to the truck.

Honey I am so sorry. Please talk to us.

He tossed his phone on the passenger seat. When he pulled in the drive, he was disappointed to find no response.

I love you. I miss you.

He took a shower to scrub the day away. When he got out, he found that you had responded to his texts with a link. He clicked on it and was taken to a local housekeeping service that did cleaning and laundry. His brows snapped together and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

What’s that?

Figured that’s what you were missing. You can probably find someone to make meals for you too. Or doordash.

Jack scowled. What the fuck? I don’t give a shit about any of that. I miss you. I want you. Not some fucking maid service. Why would you think that?

Are you telling me that you didn’t notice stuff wasn’t getting done before you noticed you hadn’t seen me? It’s been days Jack. Days.

Look I know things haven’t been ideal lately. Mike and I have both been working more than we should have. We just have to get through this and then things will go back to normal.

I don’t want normal.

What?

When was the last time either of you texted me first? Took me on a date? It was a long time before the flu.

Jack frantically scrolled through his texts knowing you had to be wrong. The two of you talked all the time. Another message from you came through.

You just got off shift. You should get some sleep. Goodbye Jack.

Jesus fucking Christ. Now he understood what Robby had been talking about. You were talking like this was over. He wasn’t ready for this to be done. Didn’t think he would ever be.

I’m fine Honey. I’m worried about you and hating myself for fucking this up.

I can’t do this anymore Jack. Not right now.

He tried to text you two more times before switching to phone calls. The third time he called he went straight to voicemail. He raked a hand through his hair and tossed his phone on the bed before dropping back to lay flat. He pressed the heels of both hands against his eyes. How the fuck were they going to fix this?

Two days passed of them trying to call or text and getting no further response from you. They’d managed to learn from Dana that you were staying with her and were ‘doing just fine. Now fuck off’. Jack and Robby stood at the hub just before seven going over the schedule, trying to figure out who would be willing to shift around so they could head over to Dana’s together to beg for forgiveness.

Dana hurried through the bay doors and made her way straight to them. Both of them turned at her unusual behavior. “What’s up with you?” Robby asked.

“I need you both to behave like fucking adults or I’ll get Gloria down here,” she snapped.

Jack’s brows shot up. “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”

“Stow it, Abbot.” She glanced over her shoulder, eyes scanning the department. “Whitaker, grab a chair. Patient being dropped off in the bay.”

Both men straightened at that. “Dana,” Robby said drawing out the word.

She pursed her lips and sighed. “She’s been in a flare for days. Meds triggered an intractable migraine. Neuro told her to come here.”

“Is she okay?” Robby asked then immediately said, “Don’t answer that. Stupid question.”

“How long?” Jack asked already heading for the doors.

She huffed out a breath knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “Three days.”

Jack stopped and turned back. “Three fucking days? And she’s just now coming in?”

“I can’t imagine why she would be hesitant.” Dana rolled her eyes as she moved past him to meet Whitaker at the door.

“What’s open, Lena?” she called over her shoulder.

“Five is all yours.”

Robby and Jack froze as you were wheeled inside. You had an icepack pressed over your eyes, the elbow of the hand holding it resting on the arm of the chair. You were curled in on yourself and had an empty bucket in your lap. Dana shot them a look as she pushed you past them and into your room.

As much as they wanted to invade the room, to check on you themselves, they waited. Dana emerged nearly twenty minutes later. “I’ve got her in a gown and got an IV started for fluids. She’s checked in and waiting for a doctor. She said you can come in.”

They stepped forward and she held up a hand. “Don’t upset her or I’ll kick your ass.”

Entering the room quietly, their eyes immediately fell on you. You were curled on your side, icepack still laying on your head. They split, each one taking a different side of the bed. Jack sat on a stool and wheeled it to your side, clasping your hand in his. You sucked in a breath at the contact and immediately started to sob.

Robby had pulled a chair up on your other side, placing a heavy hand on your back. “Shh, baby. It’s okay.”

Jack touched the icepack to find it warm. He moved it aside so he could see your eyes. He wiped away your tears with his thumb. “Why are you crying, honey?”

“It hurts.” You practically whimpered the words. “It hurts so bad. Nothing is helping.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he said.

Before he could say anything else, Dana came back into the room hands full. She sat the tray full of medication aside and hung a bag of saline to run into your IV. “Doc Reynolds sent in the order for a cocktail.”

“What’s he giving her?” Robby asked as he put on his glasses and headed over to the computer.

Dana ignored him and started filling syringes with meds.

“Well?” Jack asked.

Robby glanced over with a frown. “Toradol, Reglan, Zomig, and Decadron.”

“Jesus.” Jack watched Dana inject the drugs into your IV. “Must be particularly stubborn, huh?”

Another tear ran down your face in answer.

Dana glanced at Robby. “You working or calling someone in?”

Robby ran a hand down his face. “Shit. Yeah. I’ll take care of it.”

She nodded and moved to the computer to make her notes.

Robby went back to your side and kissed your temple. “I’ll be back, sweetheart. Just let me get things settled out there.”

“I need to do handoff,” Jack said, looking between you and Robby.

You turned away from him, careful not to tangle your IV. “I’m fine. Just go.”

The pain in your voice pierced through him. “Honey—”

“Go!” you yelled then winced.

Dana’s gaze snapped over to Jack. “You heard her. Out.”

When he hesitated, she said, “Now.”

“We’ll be back,” he said at the door, turning back to look at you. Dana had her hand resting on the side of your face, talking to you in a low tone. He sighed and left the room, sliding the door shut behind him.

“I feel like we just failed a test,” Robby said, voice tired.

“Yeah.”

You didn’t want to be a bitch, to be unreasonable. You knew your temper was shorter because of your migraine, because of the pain that you had been drowning in for days. The truth was you’d been in a flare for two weeks at this point. You’d been careful with your meds but eventually they’d caused the headache you’d had since you left their house. Stress undoubtedly playing a large part in both the flare and the migraine. You’d only admitted to it three days ago. If Dana knew you were going on five days, she’d beat your ass.

But you’d told the neuro the truth. He’d told you if the cocktail didn’t work, they’d have to admit you for stronger meds. You knew that of course, this wasn’t your first trip to the hospital for a stubborn migraine, but you hated it. All you’d wanted from the beginning was to curl up with one of your men and let them take care of you.

You missed them and they always seemed to make everything better. Well, they used to. It’s why you’d told Dana they could come into the room. You’d hoped they’d choose you. Take care of you. Prioritize you. But once again the Pitt won.

It wasn’t rational. They needed to do their jobs. They were attending physicians. Lives literally hung in the balance. But you didn’t want to be rational. You were tired of always being understanding. Of always letting yourself take a back seat. You were tired of always being the second choice.

Your heart ached when you thought about how long it took for them to even notice you were gone. They didn’t need you. Didn’t want you. Not really. You’d been crippled with pain for days and they hadn’t known, hadn’t cared. Had never once asked how you were doing. Dana had told you that you could stay as long as you wanted but you knew you were wearing out your welcome. No one wants a permanent houseguest.

You wondered how much money was in your savings. You didn’t check the balance often as you were afraid you’d spend it, so you left it and just added to it when you could. You’d need enough for a deposit and first and last month’s rent. Jesus, you hated apartment hunting. Hated apartments. You’d gotten used to the quiet neighborhood where you lived now. You didn’t want to think about it right now, it certainly wasn’t helping your headache.

Your head had that floaty feeling that told you the meds were working. Your thoughts were a little slow and time passed in weird increments but you were still aware.

Dana popped back in after almost an hour had passed. “How you doing, doll?”

“It’s definitely better, but it still hurts.”

She pulled you up on the computer. “Instructions here for another round. After that…”

“Yeah, I know.”

She patted your leg. “I’m going to get you some more fluids and something to drink. Need anything else?”

“Another icepack?”

“Sure. I can do that.” Her gaze ran over you as she crossed her arms over her chest. “They’ve stationed themselves in the hallway, you know.”

You frowned at her. You’d assumed they were working. Hell, Jack might have gone home for all you knew. “What?”

“I told them they couldn’t come back in, not after they made you cry.”

“They didn’t. I was crying because it hurt.”

She hummed in agreement. “And then you were crying because they told you they had to go back to work.”

“That’s not their fault.”

“It is. If they didn’t keep picking this place over you, you would be more understanding when they didn’t have a choice. And that’s okay. You’re allowed to be upset. They fucked up.” She sighed. “But they love you. And you miss them. That’s okay too.”

Another tear ran down your cheek.

“Do you want me to send them in?” Her voice had taken on that mom tone of hers that always made you feel comforted.

“Yes, please.”

She nodded once and patted your leg again. She stepped past the curtain and out the door. You heard her say, “I’m getting another bag of fluids. She needs water and an icepack. I’ll let you deliver them. Don’t upset her.” Then she shut the door.

Jack appeared first, cup of water with a straw in hand. “Just chilled. Don’t want to shock your system.”

“Thanks.” You licked your lips before leaning forward to take a sip. You hadn’t realized how dry your mouth was until then.

He sat it on the table when you finished, his hazel eyes running over you. His hands gripped the railing. “How are you feeling? You look better.”

“Still hurts but it’s better. Dana’s bringing me more drugs in a bit.”

Before he could respond, Robby came into the room. “Hey, sweetheart. One icepack as requested.” He snapped it to activate it and kneaded it before handing it over. You pressed it to the back of your neck with a sigh.

“Here,” he said and folded your pillow so it would keep the icepack pressed where you wanted without you having to hold it. Your eyes closed in relief.

“Where are you at on the pain scale?” Robby asked as his fingers found your pulse on your wrist.

You huffed out a breath without opening your eyes. “Already have a doctor, Robinavitch. If you’re going to stay, you can’t doctor me.”

You could feel him wanting to argue without looking at him. Could practically feel it vibrating under his skin.

“Okay,” he said instead, hand shifting to lay on yours instead.

You opened one eye to look at him in disbelief.

A small laugh fell from his lips and he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Honey, I would do about anything you asked to keep you talking to me.”

You hummed and closed your eye. They settled to either side of you, each of them holding one of your hands. Jack kissed the back of the one he held, then Robby kissed the inside of your wrist on the other. Your lips twitched in amusement.

“You can talk. I meant it when I said I was feeling better. Another dose should kill it completely.”

“I’m going to lecture about one thing, then I’ll shut up,” Jack said.

You cracked your eyes to look at him.

“I don’t care how upset you are with us, you don’t wait three days to come to the hospital when you’re hurting like this.”

Your nose wrinkled before you could stop it. Damn it.

Robby’s gaze immediately narrowed. “How long?”

“It started before I even left the house.”

“What?” Jack snapped, the sharpness in his tone making you wince. “Sorry, sorry,” he immediately apologized, rubbing your hand with his thumb.

“Your doctor know that?” Robby asked.

“Yes.”

You could tell there was so much he wanted to say but he simply nodded once and said, “Okay.”

“I kinda like the you that’s trying to stay in my good graces,” you said. Guilt flashed through his eyes but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel bad for your words. They’d earned them.

Dana came in and hung another bag of saline. Jack slid out of the way so she could give you the next dose of meds. She looked between the men when neither of them said anything before looking to you in question.

You grinned. “I told them they couldn’t doctor if they wanted to stay.”

She laughed. “Good for you,” she said before putting them out of their misery. “Same meds as last time. If it works, she can go home under supervision. If not, she’s heading upstairs.”

“Thanks, Dana,” Jack said, voice rough with worry.

She gave you a nod and left.

“Don’t you guys need to go back to work?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even.

“Nope.” Robby leaned back in his chair, hand still on yours. “We put in for some of our PTO.”

“And Gloria’s just going to let you do that?”

“She doesn’t have a choice. Told her to get some temps in if she needed,” Robby said. “Neither one of us uses our time. Plus, we’re way over the hours we were supposed to be working the last two weeks.”

Your eyelids began to feel heavy as the new meds swamped your system.

“Hey, open your eyes, baby,” Jack said.

You blinked at him.

“This round working? Can we take you home?”

“Yeah, Jack. Take me home.”

You weren’t certain how much time passed before you became aware of your surroundings again. As you blinked away the slumber, you realized you were in Robby’s bed. Huh. At least you weren’t in the hospital. Seeing a glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand, you pushed yourself up on your elbow. You were halfway done downing it when the door opened slightly, Robby’s head popping into the gap. His concerned expression melted into a relieved smile. “Hey, you’re awake.”

You didn’t answer as you finished your water. You felt so dehydrated which was stupid considering how much fluid they’d given you at the hospital. Robby stepped into the room tapping on his phone which he slid back into his pocket when he saw you’d finished the water. He took the cup from you and set it aside. His fingers instantly found your wrist but he paused, “Can I doctor you for a second?”

“Sure,” you said, a smile teasing your lips.

He’d just finished checking your pulse when Jack stepped into the room. His gaze ran over you, assessing before giving you a bright smile. “Hey, baby. How you feeling?”

“Better. Much better.”

“Good.” He held a fresh glass of water out to you. “Mike said you were thirsty.”

“Thank you.” You took a drink then set the glass on the table. Your attention shifted to Robby who sat on the edge of the bed, fingers still on your wrist. “Will I live, doc?”

He nodded his head but didn’t look at you.

You tilted your head with a frown. “Michael, are you okay?”

“I’m sorry.” The words were quiet, broken. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your brow furrowed as Jack sighed. “I thought we were going to give her a chance to get her bearings before we got into this.”

Robby sniffed, finally releasing his hold on you only to wipe the moisture from his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Let me go to the bathroom,” you said and Robby hopped up, offering you a hand to help you out. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

You took your time in the other room, taking the chance to wash your face and feel a bit more human. Despite the obvious pain fatigue, you looked better than you had in days. Finally, you took a breath and stepped back into the bedroom. Both men stopped talking as you opened the door and stood from where they’d been sitting on the edge of the bed.

Robby cleared his throat after Jack nudged him. “I’m, uh, sorry about before. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine,” you said, cutting him off. “I’d rather get the conversation out of the way if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh, thank god,” Jack said, shoulders dropping as tension flowed from him.

You pressed your lips together to keep from snorting a laugh at the incredulous look Robby gave him. He muttered under his breath while he shook his head. He took your hand and led you over to the chair that sat in the corner of the room. “Sit. We have a couple of questions and then several things to say.”

Your gaze moved between the two of them. “Did you practice this or something?”

“Well, you were asleep for almost twenty-two hours,” Jack said.

You were only slightly surprised by that information. The meds always knocked you out. Usually not quite that long but you’d expected it. Jack sat on the edge of the bed in front of you while Robby stayed standing.

“First, Dana said you were in a flare before the headache. How long?” Jack asked.

You sighed, knowing they weren’t going to like the answer. “A couple of weeks.”

“Jesus, sweetheart. Why didn’t you say anything?” Robby said.

“What was I supposed to say? Hey, I know you’re incredibly busy at the hospital right now and barely have time to sleep but could you take care of me?”

“Yes,” Jack said without hesitation. He slid forward on the bed a bit. “That’s exactly what you should have done.”

You rolled your eyes. “Be serious, Jack.”

“I am.”

His tone was so sincere you could do nothing but look at him.

“I don’t know when you started believing that you were less important than us or our jobs, but you are not. And we’re so incredibly sorry for anything we’ve done that made you feel that way,” Robby said.

Hot tears rolled down your face before you could stop them. He swooped in immediately making hushing sounds as he wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Don’t cry, baby. You’ll get another headache.”

You sucked in a breath and tried to regulate your emotions. “I know.”

“Listen,” Jack said. “Mike and I have talked about this. We don’t want to start over. We all have to much history for that. But we do want to prove to you that you’re still our priority if you’ll let us.”

You thought about it for a moment. You loved these men. Yes, they’d hurt you, but there was reason you’d fallen in love with them in the first place. Maybe you all just needed a reminder of what that was. Finally, you nodded. “I’d like that very much.”

And prove themselves they did. They cut their hours, focused on making your relationship a priority. As Robby said, the three of you were hopefully going to be together long after they retired. It wasn’t long before your relationship was stronger than it ever had been. To the point that, though you maintained your own rooms on the off chance you needed the space, you all slept in Robby’s king-sized bed most of the time, whether he was home or not.

The fluorescent lights still hummed overhead with the same dull persistence they had at midnight. The air stilled smelled faintly of antiseptic and cold metal and the industrial cleaner the day shift janitors liked to use too heavily. 

The prep tables remained clean and pristine despite the three autopsies that you had preformed. It was peaceful for lack of a better word. But upstairs, however, the hospital would be just beginning to wake up. 

The emergency department at six in the morning was an entirely different beast than the morgue tucked neatly beneath it. This place moved fast even when exhausted. 

The whole floor pulsed with motion and noise and overstimulation. 

You hated it. 

Don't mistake your dislike for the environment for the dislike of the people inhabiting it. You wouldn't say you were friends with the ER staff, but you were on chit chatting terms with a lot of them since beginning dating Jack. But the sheer amount of everything put you especially at unease. 

Too many voices, too many bodies darting from one side of the ER to the other, and that meant too many opportunities for someone to accidentally touch you in passing. 

Which is why you usually stayed downstairs until Jack came to get you. That had become your routine somewhere along the line. Most mornings, by the time you clocked out and gathered your things, Jack was already leaning against your desk in the morgue office with that perpetually exhausted look on his face and a coffee in his hand. 

Then the two of you would leave together before either of your brains fully registered another twelve hour shift had passed. 

This morning, however, he hadn't shown. You were a little disappointed but you weren't outrageously upset about it. You knew that Jack got held up all the time and while this meant you would have to brave the ER again, it wasn't his fault. 

Trauma cases sometimes came in unexpectedly, shift hand off lasted longer when it was busier than usual, and you knew that Robby had a tendency to trap Jack into talking about things that didn't have anything to do with the hospital. Like his new on again, off again situationship with Noelle Hastings from social work. 

So after a few minutes, you simply slung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed your water bottle, and made your way upstairs. The elevator ride alone nearly convinced you to turn around. 

By the time the doors opened onto the ER floor, the department was already in full swing. Phones rang somewhere in the distance. Someone laughed too loudly near the nurses’ station. A monitor beeped insistently from one of the trauma bays, while an exhausted nurse muttered something under her breath about needing a Red Bull.

You immediately regretted coming up here. 

Keeping your head down, you slipped towards the break room near the back hallway, careful not to drift into anybody's path. The last thing you wanted after twelve hours underground was to become collateral damage in the organized chaos of emergency medicine. 

You set your things down carefully on the small table inside the break room before leaning your head just barely out the doorway. To the left sat the employee lockers and a supply alcove. To the right was the command desk, where everyone eventually flocked and housed the patient boards.

Jack stood there with Robby and Dana, one hand braced against the edge of the counter while the other rested loosely on his hip. 

Even from across the department, you could easily see the exhaustion that sat heavily across his shoulders. 

The dark scrub top stretched across his back whenever he shifted slightly, and the dark wash cargo pants he wore instead of scrub bottoms sat low on his hips beneath the hem of his shirt.

You couldn't hear from where you were, but you could see Robby's mouth moving and Dana's wholly unimpressed look. You can only imagine what they were talking about. Jack, meanwhile, looked like a man mentally calculating how quickly he could escape the conversation. 

Whether he saw you immediately when you entered the ER or simply felts your stare, you didn't know, but his head turned after a moment. 

His eyes landed on you instantly and his whole expression changed, annoyance discarded and replaced with pure unadulterated affection. The change was small enough that most people wouldn't have noticed it. But you spent more time staring at Jack Abbot's face than most, so it was easy for you to spot. 

Jack's brows lifted slightly before he brought his hands together in a quick apologetic and his mouth formed the word sorry from across the room. You smiled at him despite yourself. He glanced down at his watch before holding up five fingers. 

You nodded once. His mouth curved with something guilty and fond all at once before his expression returned to what it was before he saw you and he turned back towards Robby. It was almost comical how fast the stoicism settled over his face again like armor sliding back into place. 

You watched him for another moment longer than you probably should've. Long enough to notice the slight tension around his jaw. Long enough that you begun to wonder if his prosthetic was bothering him after being on it all night and then forced to stand there while Robby prodded him for dating advice. 

Long enough that the clap against your back caught you completely off guard and nearly sent your soul directly out of your body. You startled violently. "Oh my god—"

"Morning, Morgie." 

You turned to find Trinity grinning at you like she'd just caught you with your pants down and your hand in the cookie jar. Dennis lingered behind her with the distinct energy of a man who already regretted participating in whatever conversation was about to occur. 

You exhaled slowly, trying to calm your pulse. "Hi, Dr. Santos."

"You headed out?" she asked, a mischievous look in her eye. 

"Trying to," you answered honestly. 

Trinity barely acknowledged the response. She leaned casually against the doorway beside you like the two of you were old friends instead of occasional workplace acquaintances who primarily exchanged polite nods in passing. 

You had known people like Trinity your entire life. Loud people, you mean. People who filled silence immediately and naturally. People endlessly willing to push boundaries just to see what would happen. That wasn't to say you didn't like her. 

If anything, you suspected under different circumstances you could probably even be friends. Unfortunately, friendship required social energy you often did not possess after working nights in basement with dead people. 

Still, you tried. If not for your sake, then for Jack's. These were his coworkers and you were his girlfriend, you were bound to run into them more often than not, so a good relationship was paramount in your opinion. 

"How are you doing?" you asked politely. She had ignored the question entirely, opting for her own line of questioning. "So," she started, eye bright with mischief already, "you and Abbot are like a thing, right?" 

You stomach dropped. "What?" Never in a million years did you think that was going to be her question. 

Dennis looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him whole. Trinity, meanwhile, looked absolutely delighted with herself. "Oh, come one," she said. "You guys are not subtle."

You blinked at her. 

You genuinely had not realized that people knew. You and Jack were not actively hiding your relationship persay. The two of you just simply hadn't announced it. You didn't exactly have a social circle to update, and Jack was not the type to stand in the middle of the ER making declarations about his personal life. 

But apparently none of that really mattered. 

Apparently the entire hospital had functioning eyeballs. Before you could figure out how to respond to that, Trinity continued. "But I gotta ask," she said lowering her voice slightly despite the wicked grin still pulling at her mouth, "is he packing? Because that man walks like it's heavy."

Your brain stalled completely. 

Packing? Walks like it, what? Those were only some of the thoughts running through your head. You frowned in confusion. "What?"

Trinity stared at you, disbelieving. "You know," she waved her hands slightly as if that would suddenly make you understand what she was referring to. 

"No," you admitted slowly, "I actually don't."

For one horrifying second, you genuinely thought she was talkng about his prosthetic. You eyes flicked instinctively toward Jack again. He shifted slightly near the desk, probably trying to relieve pressure from standing too long. 

Concern immediately sparked in your chest. Was his leg hurting him?

"Santos," Dennis whisper hissed, scandalized, "you cannot ask people stuff like that."

"What?" she asked. "I've been catching print for the last hour. I'm curious!"

Now you were even more confused. What did that even mean, catching print? Surely she wasn't referring to his prosthetic. You didn't have the greatest view of his leg as it was obscured by the other, but even so it was very difficult to notice it under his cargo pants even under the right circumstances. 

"Catching what?" you asked.

She blinked at you incredulously. Dennis covered his face with one hand. "You don't know what that means?" she asked. 

"Should I?"

In hindsight, the grin that spread across Trinity's face then should have terrified you, but all you felt was embarrassment beginning to creep up your neck. "Oh my god," she breathed. "Okay. Wait."

Before you could react, she stepped closer beside you and pointed subtly towards the command desk. You followed her gaze automatically. Jack still stood talking with Robby and Dana, completely unaware he was currently the subject of discussion. 

"I'm confus—"

"Wait for it," Trinity interrupted. 

Jack shifted his weight to his good leg, trying to relieve some of the pressure. You noticed immediately because you always noticed when he was compensating with his good leg after a long shift. You eyes dropped instinctively toward the prosthetic, mentally cataloguing the stiffness in his posture and the slight adjustment of his hips. 

Beside you, she groaned dramatically. "Higher," she muttered. 

Your brows furrowed but you did as you were told and slowly your gaze dragged upward. Past the heavy line of his thigh. Past the dark wash cargo pants that stretched tighter from the weight shift. You finally understood as your gaze landed on his crotch. 

Oh.

Oh. 

Your entire body stilled because now that you saw, there was no way for you to unsee it. The fabric across the front of his pants had pulled taut enough to reveal the unmistakable outline of him beneath. 

It wasn't obscene or at all intentional. But it was incredibly, horribly noticeable once pointed out. Your stomach dropped directly into hell. Which is exactly where you felt you were. Was it getting hot in here?

It wasn't like this was new information to you. It wasn't like you hadn't seen him naked plenty of times before. It was quite the contrary. You knew exact what Jack looked like beneath his clothes. 

You knew the weight of him in your palm, the way his hands gripped your hips when he lost control, you knew the vulgar things that came out of his mouth when he got worked up enough. 

This was different. This was public. 

This was your boyfriend standing in the middle of the emergency department discussing hospital operations while his coworkers apparently conducted active investigations into the outline of his dick. 

Another reason you hated the ER, pointless conversation about topics that were better left unspoken.

And to make matters worse, Jack clearly had no idea. Because you knew that had Jack been turned on right now, his neck would be flushed under his stubble, his fists would flex unconsciously, his shoulders would tense. 

Instead he remained entirely relaxed, still focused on whatever Robby was saying. Meaning that it was simply him. Your face went hot enough to physically hurt. Beside you, Trinity looked seconds away from tears from how hard she was trying not to laugh. 

You couldn't speak. 

You couldn't breath. 

Trinity watched your expression transform in real time and absolutely lit up with satisfaction. Because not only had she succeeded in getting her answer, she had effectively embarrassed the life out of you. 

"There it is." 

Your eyes remained locked on Jack against your will. Because now that you noticed, your brain seemed insistent on replaying memory after memory. Dear God. 

Had it always been that noticeable?

You felt mildly sick and somehow even sicker knowing Trinity was watching you realize it. "I, um, have nothing to say on the matter." She finally broke and a loud laugh burst out of her before she slapped Dennis on the shoulder. 

"Come on, Huckleberry," she cackled, still grinning wildly. "We've ruined Morgie's morning enough." Then she simply walked away. Leaving you standing there in the break room doorway, staring at your boyfriend across the ER. 

You almost didn't answer the door. 

The thought had crossed your mind somewhere between your bed and the kitchen island, sometime after you'd buried yourself beneath your comforter and convinced yourself that if you ignored the problem it would eventually disappear. 

Unfortunately, simply not answering the door wouldn't make everything alright again, because Jack wasn't actually the problem. 

The problem was you. 

It was how Jack made you feel. 

Jack was thoughtful and kind. 

The sort of man who noticed when you skipped meals, remembered your favorite takeout order and worried when you took the bus home when he was supposed to drive you. 

The sort of man currently standing in your apartment hallway balancing enough food to feed a small family. You chewed nervously on your lip for a moment as you stared through the peephole. 

You hesitated opening the door but ultimately unlocked the dead bolt and pulled open the heavy door. "Jack?" you questioned. 

The second the door opened, his attention settled on you. "Hey, pretty girl."

The greeting came naturally as if it had been your name forever rather than just for the last few months. His gaze moved over you quickly but it didn't feel invasive or scrutinizing. You could tell he was looking for signs of the sickness you had told him you'd suddenly come down with. 

"Can I come in?"

You didn't really understand why but with those four words, your guilt doubled. Your stomach lurched as you stepped aside without argument. "You didn't have to do all this."

"Yeah, I did," he muttered. 

He leaned his crutches against the kitchen island as he began to pull out the various food items. 

The apartment suddenly felt smaller with him inside it, and it wasn't because his large frame took up most of your kitchen. His broad shoulders seemed to take up more space than physically possible. But more importantly, when he was here, it felt warmer and homey. Jack made your tiny studio feel different simply by existing in it. 

"You look better than I expected."

You could tell the statement was carefully curated. Meant to reassure himself of your state but not as to blatantly say I knew you were lying when you said you were sick. 

So you did what you do best in these situations. You doubled down. "I told you it wasn't serious," you explained. 

"Mhm." The hum could have meant absolutely anything and the different possibilities were making your head spin. 

You watched him continue unpacking the food. Container after container appeared. Then you also noticed the drink carrier and the large water bottle he pulled out from under his arm. 

"I didn't know what sounded good," he explained. "So I got options."

You stared. "Jack . . ," you trailed. 

"Breakfast sandwich. Turkey club, incase you were thinking lunch and chicken noodle, if you're feeling nauseous." Another container joined the lineup. "Hash browns, too."

"Jack, thats too much."

"I know you forget to eat sometimes and I am almost ninety nine percent sure that's what's making you feel sick." He finally glances over at you. "So please. Eat."

Your chest tightened because there it was again. That awful problem. The caring and the concern. The complete inability to stop looking after people. 

You had spent the entire bus ride home feeling ridiculous. Now you felt ridiculous and guilty. A terrible combination, especially when it came to you. 

"You sure your head's the only thing bothering you?" Your eyes snapped upward. 

Jack had settled on to the couch now, crutches leaned against the coffee table as he pulled off his prosthetic. Then leaned back against the cushions with the exhausted posture of a man who had spent twelve hours standing. 

He tilted his head back and rolled his neck. His legs spread as he shifted further into the couch. Your eyes gravitated towards his thighs and for the first time, you noticed he was wearing gray sweatpants. You immediately looked elsewhere. 

"I'm just tired," you said quickly, averting your eyes by any means necessary. 

"Baby, you've been tired before." His voice remained calm, very matter-of-fact. "This is different," he continued. 

You cursed yourself for letting this silly situation spiral like this. You cursed yourself for letting him in the door and most of all, you cursed yourself for being so damn readable. 

He had been in your apartment for all of ten minutes and he had already noticed the change in your behavior. Very Jack Abbot of him and very much the bane of your existence. 

You groaned loudly, "Oh my god, I'm acting weird."

"A little." You hadn't expected him to agree with you so outright, so your face fell a little when you heard his words. Jack immediately softened. "Not bad weird. Just a little off."

The apartment fell quiet. You looked away. Suddenly finding everything else more interesting. The outside city noises. A dog barking somewhere down the street. The soft hum of your ancient refrigerator. 

"Honey?"

"Hm?" You respond but you definitely don't look towards him.

"Tell me what's going on."

You continued to stare stubbornly at the floor. If you didn't answer maybe he'd forget. At least that's what your were foolish enough to think. Unfortunately for you, Jack Abbot possessed the patience of a man who spent his life talking terrified patients through terrible situations. 

Silence didn't scare him. It merely encouraged him to wait longer. When you sill didn't answer, he sighed. A change in tactics was in store for you. "C'mere." 

You blinked, confused, "What?"

"Your shoulders are practically touching your ears." He tipped his chin towards the couch. "Sit down," he ordered. 

"I don't think—"

"Sit."

His command wasn't malicious or harsh. It wasn't even particularly forceful. Yet somehow you found yourself crossing the room anyway. He shifted immediately to make space for you. The moment you sat down, he maneuvered you until your back was facing him and his hands settled on your shoulders. You nearly folded in half at the feeling. 

"Oh my god."

"I told you." His thumbs worked slowly through the knots gathered at the base of your neck. You hadn't noticed how tense you'd gotten until this moment. How every muscle in your body had tightened up in your fucked up sense of self preservation. 

But as his hands continued to work over the area, the more you relaxed and in more ways than one. The problem was that Jack's hands felt entirely too good. The problem was also that Jack himself felt entirely too good. The problem was definitely not helped by the gray sweatpants and the fact that you were still very much in the proverbial doghouse you had put yourself in. 

"You're tight as hell," he mumbled and a strangled sound escaped before you could stop it. Jack froze, one eyebrow raised. "Okay, seriously. What is going on?"

You immediately covered your face as heat flooded your cheeks. "Hey." A hand squeezed your shoulder. "Come on, baby. We talked about communicating, it's important to me."

You groaned into your hands. "Ugh, it's so embarrassing. I don't wanna tell you."

"Well, now you have to," he teased. "It's just me."

"Exactly my point. It's you." You swear if he lifted his eyebrows any further they'd brush his hairline. "Alright, now I'm definitely confused."

You debated lying again. Considered a different excuse, something wholly more believable. But again, Jack had that way about him, which somehow made honesty inevitable. 

"While I was waiting for you," you finally muttered, "Santos came up to me and she said—"

Jack straightened immediately. "What? If she crossed a line, I'll have a talk with her."

"No." You sat upright and turned to him so fast his hands slipped from your shoulders. "No. That would definitely not help."

"Okay," he conceded, though suspicion still laced his voice. "Can you tell me what she said?"

You sighed. "She was just being . . ." You searched for the appropriate description. "Being Santos."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"No, I know." You looked down at your hands. "She asked if we were together."

Jack frowned. "Does that make you upset? That people know?"

"No." You almost shout, the answer coming immediately. You softened slightly. "I mean, I know we weren't necessarily hiding it. I just didn't realize how many people knew."

Understanding flickered across his face. Then disappeared almost as quick as it had appeared. "Alright," his voice gentled. "Then what's got you so twisted up?"

And there it was.

This was the moment. The point of no return. 

You stared at the wall. Then the floor. Then your hands. Anywhere except Jack. Finally, mortified beyond belief, you mumbled, "she asked if you were 'packing.'"

The silence that followed was immediate.

"What?"

You squeezed your eyes shut, mentally preparing for your next words. "And then she said—and I quote—'he walks like it's heavy.'"

For one glorious second, Jack looked too stunned to react. Then he laughed.

It wasn't a cruel laugh or mocking. Just genuinely surprised. Which somehow made it worse. "Oh my god." You buried your face in your hands. "You're laughing at me. I knew this was stupid."

"No, baby." He was still smiling but he was shaking his head and waving his hands. "I'm not laughing at you."

"You literally are," you said bluntly because he really was still laughing. 

"It's just kinda silly," he confessed.

"Silly?" you repeated. "What about this is silly?"

Jack shook his head. "So what if people noticed?"

"You don't understand."

"No. I do."

The corners of his mouth twitched. "So what if you noticed? Ain't nothing you haven't seen before."

"Jack."

"What?"

His expression remained entirely too innocent. "It's the truth."

"Jack!" Your panicked voice earned another laugh. You groaned dramatically. "Stop laughing."

"I'm trying." He absolutely was not. The smile gave him away. 

"C'mere." His hand found your wrist before you could retreat again. The gesture was gentle and familiar. "Baby." The amusement faded slightly and he continued, "you're acting like this is some terrible thing."

"It is terrible."

"Why?"

"You weren't there."

"No." His thumb brushed across your skin."Sounds like I missed a hell of a conversation though," he joked. 

You glared. The effect was somewhat ruined by the fact that he looked unbearably fond. “I just—" you exhaled. "I know what you look like, okay? Obviously. But that's private."

Your hand waved vaguely between the two of you. "That's ours."

For the first time since arriving, Jack's smile softened completely. "Then suddenly she points it out and now I'm standing there staring at your pants in the middle of the ER like some kind of pervert."

"Oh."

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean oh?”

The grin returned instantly. "Are you jealous other people noticed?"

"No!"

You stood without really thinking it through. This was how it was with you. Your instinct was always flight over fight. Unfortunately, Jack caught your wrist. "Nope." The grin widened. "You started this conversation. You're finishing it."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

His eyes lingered on your face. "You're embarrassed because Dr. Santos pointed out something you already spend a lotta time thinkin' about."

Your mouth dropped open.

"I do not."

One eyebrow lifted. You immediately looked away. Which told him everything he needed to know.

His laugh returned. "Hey." Your eyes remained firmly fixed on the opposite wall. "Pretty girl."

"Jack, that's not helping."

"You know I like knowing you think about me like that, right?"

Your face somehow became hotter. "Stop."

"What?" His expression remained shameless. "Sweetheart, we've slept together. More than once."

"Please stop talking."

"There is nothin' embarrassing about bein' attracted to me." You stared. Jack shrugged. "Frankly, I'd be a little concerned if you weren't."

Despite everything. Despite the embarrassment. Despite Trinity Santos. Despite spending over two hours making yourself miserable, a laugh escaped.

The moment it did, Jack's expression softened.

"There she is."

You rolled your eyes. The words settled somewhere warm despite your best efforts to resist them.

And the knot that had been sitting in your chest since sunrise finally began to loosen.

“Hey, sweet girl.” His voice was gentle as always, soft. “How are you doing?”

You stared unseeing at the TV. “I’m okay.”

It was the same answer you always gave him. The same lie you told him and yourself every day. Your pain had dulled into something more manageable, but your life was still disrupted, too damaged for you to feel happy with it.

“I was calling because I wanted to see you. Maybe have you over for dinner tomorrow night? I can make your favorite.”

Your grip tightened on the phone as you considered the invitation. “At the house?” you finally asked.

“Yeah.”

“And will Robby be there?”

The silence stretched for a beat, then he said, “That’s the idea.”

“No.” The word came out sharp, irritated.

“No?” He managed to sound almost offended.

“Did I stutter?” You immediately regretted snapping and took a deep breath. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not upset with you. You did nothing wrong. I’m glad you went home and you and Robby made up. But if he wants to fix this, he has to fix it. Not you.”

You could picture him running a hand through his curls, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as he considered his response. “I’m just trying to—”

“Make things easier for him?” you finished for him, though you were positive that wasn’t what he was about to say. “That’s what you do when you love someone. You try to fix things. It’s one of the many things I love about you. But this actually has nothing to do with you. Something you made very clear when you went home. I accepted that and you need to as well. I’m sorry you’re stuck in the middle. If it’s too much, don’t feel like you owe me anything.” The words caught in your throat. “I need to go.”

“Wait—”

You ended the call before he could say anything else and dropped the phone into your lap. You turned off the TV, plunging the room into near-darkness, the only light in the room filtering in from the kitchen. The phone buzzed in your lap. You glanced down to see a text from Jack. I love you. We both do. You didn’t bother responding.

You tried to force your mind to think about anything but Jack telling you he was going home. But Robby’s angry face the last time you’d seen him. But your thoughts kept circling back. What else could you do when your whole world had collapsed but remember the end?

You’d gotten your revenge on Chelsea and her minions, publicly calling them out, making sure everyone knew what they had done. The boys had insisted on celebrating, so you’d sat at Sam’s bar and smiled and laughed at the appropriate moments. But it had all felt hollow. Because at the end of the day, you still went home to an empty apartment. Still woke up in the middle of the night reaching for someone that wasn’t there.

You weren’t angry at Jack for going home. For choosing his partner that he’d been with for years, that knew him more intimately than you could ever hope to. Not really. But sometimes, just sometimes, you wish he’d chosen to stay here with you. That you had been worth even a second’s hesitation on his part. Maybe it was time to just move on from it all.

Robby sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed as Jack paced the length of the living room. The call had gone as badly as Robby had feared it might. The silence that followed was thick with tension.

“This is all my fault,” he said finally, dragging a hand down his face. “Sit down, Jack. You’re going to hurt your leg.”

Jack stopped pacing and dropped into one of the chairs. “I shouldn’t have pushed her. We should have known she’d react like this.”

“It’s not your fault. She’s mad at me,” Robby insisted. “I’m the one who fucked up.”

“I knew she wasn’t ready. I just…” Jack sighed. “I miss her, man. I miss the three of us together. I thought if we could just get you two in the same room maybe you could start working things out.”

Robby leaned back. “I know. I was hoping for the same thing. What if I’ve lost her, Jack? What if she never forgives me?”

Jack was quiet for a long moment. “She loves you. I know she does. But what you did…” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“I know. I know how bad it is.” Robby closed his eyes, shame washing over him. “I hurt her so badly. I hurt both of you because I was too terrified she would hurt me first.”

“Yeah, you did. But you want to fix it. You’re trying to fix it. That counts for something.”

Robby turned his head to face him. “Not enough, apparently. So, what do I do now if she won’t come over for dinner?”

“You need to show her you’re serious. That you’re willing to put in the work. Hell, we both do at this point. I’m pretty sure she’s no happier with me at the moment,” Jack said.

“So what? Flowers? Candy? Hell, I’ll buy her fucking pony at this point if you think it would help.” The words came out more bitter than Robby had intended.

Jack rolled his eyes. “No ponies. No animals period while we’re on the topic. Gestures. Things that show you’re thinking about her, that you listen to her. The kind of things she always does for us without being asked.” He leaned forward to make sure his partner was really listening. “She loves making people feel seen. That’s why what you did hurt so much. You made her feel invisible. Like everything she thought you knew about her was wrong.”

Robby swallowed hard. He had reduced you to the worst possible version of yourself based on nothing but his own insecurities. “Where do I start?” His voice was little more than a whisper.

“You start with little things. Show her you’re paying attention. That you’re thinking about her. That you’re trying to be better.”

“And then what?” Robby was desperate for a map, instructions that might get him back to where he’d been before he threw it all away.

Jack shrugged. “Then you hope it’s enough to get her to give you the chance to do the big things.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then you keep trying.”

The knock came just after eight in the morning. You were already up and drinking your second cup of coffee. Sleep had been restless as of late, and you’d rolled out of bed just after five when it became clear you weren’t getting anymore rest. You grabbed Jack’s hoodie draped over the back of a chair and slid it on as you headed for the door. Through the peephole, you saw a delivery person holding a large bouquet of flowers. Your heart did that traitorous leap again as you opened the door.

The woman said your name and once you’d confirmed, handed over a massive arrangement of spring flowers. The scent of lilacs invaded your senses. “For you.”

“Thanks,” you managed, taking the flowers from her. “Just a second, let me get you a tip.”

She waved you off with a smile. “Already taken care of. Have a nice day.”

You stood in the doorway for a moment, arms full of flowers. You set the bouquet on the counter and searched for a card amongst the blooms. The only thing you found listed only your name and address, no greeting, no message. No apology. You snapped a picture and sent it to Jack. You or Robby?

Mike. Mine will be there later.

You rolled your eyes and set your phone on the counter beside the vase. The flowers were gorgeous, no question, but they meant nothing. Not really. A generic arrangement he could have ordered by calling almost any flower shop in town. A phone call where he’d evidently provided your name, address and his credit card number but couldn’t be bothered with a message.

You received another smaller arrangement of tea roses from Jack that afternoon. Peach and pink along with a lovely message apologizing for the dinner invitation. All of it signed off with an I love you, Jack. You sent a simple thank you text as your gaze turned once more to the arrangement from Robby. You sighed and wandered into the living room to get some work done.

The next morning started the same way, with a knock on the door and a delivery. Breakfast this time. You texted on and off with Jack and had a brief call with him before he started his shift.

Another morning and another knock. This time, when you opened the door, you were surprised to find your landlord. He handed you a piece of paper. “Here.”

You glanced at the paper and frowned. “What is this?”

“Rent’s paid. Three months.”

You blinked, certain you’d misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Your rent. It’s been paid in full for the next three months.” He tapped his fingers on his thigh obviously already done with the conversation.

“By who?” you asked, though you were certain you already knew the answer.

He leaned forward and tapped the paper in your hand. “Says right there. M. Robinavitch.” You tried not to cringe as he horribly butchered the pronunciation of Robby’s name. “The boyfriend, right?”

“Not the boyfriend,” you corrected automatically. “Thanks for letting me know.”

He nodded but was already on his way down the hall. You closed your door and leaned against it, mind racing. “Michael Robinavitch, you’re a fucking idiot.” You grabbed your keys and headed out, pushing the thought from your mind. An apology delivered via money order wasn’t an apology at all.

In the days that followed, you continued to talk with Jack both by call and text. He didn’t mention Robby again, instead simply checking in, asking how you were, filling each other in on your days. Robby, by contrast, remained silent. No calls, no texts. Just more flowers and gifts that never seemed to quit coming. A first edition of your favorite book. A bottle of an expensive whiskey you’d mentioned loving the taste of. A scarf in your favorite color. You accepted them all, used them even. But you didn’t call. Didn’t text. Didn’t acknowledge the gifts in any way. It wasn’t out of spite or anger, not anymore. It was simpler than that. You were waiting. Waiting for the one thing you hadn’t received yet. A sincere apology.

A week after the flowers had arrived, a small package was delivered to your door. It was wrapped in plain brown paper with no shipping label, just your name written across the front in Robby’s distinctive handwriting. You took it inside, staring at it before curiosity won out. You tore open the paper to find a small box. Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet was a silver chain with a small caduceus symbol.

You lifted it carefully, the metal cool against your fingers. It was beautiful, delicate. Simple but elegant and exactly the kind of thing you liked to wear every day. He certainly knew your taste. It was the kind of gift that showed thought, that acknowledged who you were and what mattered to you. You closed the lid and set the box on the shelf beside your tattoo fund jar that you kept for some reason despite no longer having a need for it. You left the gift there without another glance.

A knock sounded late afternoon of the next day. You’d gotten used to the pattern by now. A knock followed by a delivery with no note. You opened the door without checking the peephole first. Instead of a delivery person, you found a man in a suit holding a manilla envelope. He read your name off the front.

“That’s me,” you confirmed.

He handed you the envelope. No sooner had your fingers closed around it then he snapped a picture with his phone. “Consider yourself served. Have a nice day.”

He didn’t even give you a chance to respond before he turned and walked away. You closed the door and tore into the envelope, having a suspicion of what was inside and you were correct. Your family was suing you for what they felt was their due from your grandfather’s estate. They were alleging undue influence and diminished capacity claiming pops hadn’t been in his right mind when he changed his will to leave everything to you.

Your eyebrow ticked ever higher as you read through the papers. They were claiming you had isolated your grandfather from the rest of the family. That you’d manipulated him into changing the will. That you’d taken advantage of an elderly man’s confusion for your own gain.

Fucking assholes. You headed to the corner where you kept your printer/scanner and fed the papers into it. You called Max as you watched the document feed through the machine. He answered on the third ring.

“As anticipated, I’ve been served. They’re contesting the will.”

There was a moment of silence before he sighed. “I see. They’re stupider than I thought. Was there anything surprising in the filing?”

“Not that I could see. I’m scanning it to send to you as we speak.”

“Good. I’ll read over it and get back to you. Like I said, this is nothing to be concerned about. There were provisions in place for all of this. Your grandfather was thorough.” After a beat, he added, “I am sorry for this, though. You deserve better.”

You hummed in acknowledgement. “The universe seems to disagree with you at the moment. I’ll get this sent to you in just a bit. Thanks, Max.”

Your phone rang just after ten that night, Jack’s name lighting up the screen. You didn’t hesitate to answer, knowing he was at work and likely wouldn’t have long to talk. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself, sweetheart. How are you doing?” His voice was warm, though he sounded tired.

“I’m okay. Just a lot going on.” You had no intention of sharing any details about your grandfather’s estate. Not when they were still unaware you’d even inherited it.

Someone called his name in the background. “Just a minute,” he said before returning his attention to you. “Listen, I just have a second but I was wondering if you wanted to meet for breakfast tomorrow after my shift.”

“Just us?” you asked.

“Yeah. Just me and my girl.”

“Seven thirty at the usual place?” you asked, not even thinking of declining. You’d missed him.

“Sounds great. See you then.”

The diner looked the same as always, not that you’d expected anything different. You’d arrived a little early, content to get in an extra cup of coffee. You just taken the first sip of your second cup when Jack walked in. He’d stripped his scrub top leaving him in cargos and his t-shirt. He looked tired but his face broke into a wide smile when his gaze landed on you.

He pressed a quick kiss to your lips before sliding into the booth across from you, reaching for the menu. How he didn’t have it memorized by now, you had no idea. “Sorry I’m late. Got held up.”

“You’re like five minutes late. I got here early,” you told him.

He nodded, gaze flicking over you, taking you in. “You look tired.”

You huffed a humorless laugh. “Well, I’ve been sleeping like shit so…”

The waitress appeared and took your orders before disappearing once more.

Jack leaned forward slightly. “I miss you.”

Your fingers tightened around your mug. “I miss you too. Both of you, if I’m being honest.”

Something flashed in Jack’s eyes. Hope maybe, or relief. “Mike’s trying. The gifts, the rent, he’s doing everything he can think of to show you he’s sorry.”

You sighed and pushed your mug away from you. This is what you’d been afraid of when you accepted his invitation. It’s why you hadn’t pushed to see him sooner. “No, Jack. He’s trying to buy me. He called me a whore because I took things from you and then slept with you. He’s not going to get me back by spending his money.”

You stood, grabbing your bag from the seat beside you. You stopped at his side of the table and leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a slow, deliberate embrace. When you pulled back, his eyes were wide, a flush creeping across his cheeks.

“I love you, Jack.” Your voice was steady despite the tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. “But this isn’t fair to you. Maybe we should just put all of this on hold for a while.”

You turned to leave but his hand shot out, catching your wrist. His thumb moved in a slow circle against the inside of it, his touch gentle but insistent.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice low and urgent. “Please don’t do that. I’ll shut up about Mike.”

You looked at his hand on your wrist then back to his face. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

His grip didn’t loosen. “Then stay.”

You hesitated before nodding once. “Scoot.”

He hastily slid over, still holding onto your wrist, not letting go until you settled in the seat beside him. “I didn’t ask you here to talk about him. I asked because I wanted to see you. Because I’ve missed you. Every day without you feels wrong.”

The honesty in his voice had you swallowing a lump in your throat. “I’ve missed you, too. So much.”

The water in the white tub is tinged pink from blood. It’s warm, almost too warm. Your skin tingles, prickling with the heat. You can’t say anything.

The shock is still rendering you useless.

Fingers bite into your arms, squeezing tight across your chest, almost as if you might hide it from sight. Nudity is not something to be ashamed of in your culture, but now it feels almost violating to have one of them looking at you.

Your eyes are locked on your knees in the water, the claw foot tub just deep enough for the water to cover the joints. One of them is swollen, the right leg already dark with bruising. Your ankle is just as bad, and between the joints teeth marks leak red into the water. It stings and throbs but no words leave your lips.

There’s a slow drip of blood, sliding over your lips to your chin before it plops quietly into the water. It’s a steady stream from your nose, has been since it hit the floor.

Screaming, body flailing in a weak attempt at breaking free. Nails rake across skin, the smell of blood. Falling headfirst, face smashing into the wood. A crack, blood seeping. Stunned, unable to see.

A hiss leaves your lips as the rag is pressed against your nose. Broken, you think. Ragged nails bite into the skin of your arms, chipped and broken.

Hands on ankles, dragging. Nails digging into wood grain. Pulling, pulling. A pop. More pain.

“Sorry.” His soft voice reaches your ears over the screaming in your head. His hand is gentle, dabbing softly at the inflamed cartilage. Beta, you think, the only ones capable of such a gentle touch. His words are just as soft, but there’s still an edge to them.

Are you? You think bitterly.

The blood slows its dripping, already healing. The rag passes over your mouth and chin, wiping away the rest of the blood. It’s dropped with a wet plop into the pile, the white stained pink with your blood. A fresh one is dipped into the water, already taking on a pinkish hue thanks to the bloody water.

He doesn’t hold back as he presses the rag against the wound on your shoulder. You whimper, jerking away from him, but his hand grips tightly, keeping you still. It burns, the pressure against the raw, open wound. It’s steadily seeping blood, staining your white hair pink.

Struggling, weight pushing, hot breath. The sharp burn of breaking skin, the deep ache of teeth sinking into muscle. Screaming, blood pouring.

“Took a chunk out.” He says, applying pressure to the aching wound. “Must’ve hurt.”

If you’d had the energy, you might have said something. Now you can’t even manage a glare. You’re nothing but a shell, being bathed by a stranger in a strange house, watching the bath water turn pink with your blood.

The wash cloth dabs at the mutilated skin, tears blurring your vision in pain from the pressure against such an injury. It’ll heal, just like the rest, leaving a scar in its wake.

A scar that represents the finality of your situation.

Tears slide down your cheeks, dripping into the water as he finishes, pulling the plug. Slowly the water starts to drop, gurgling as it’s sucked down into the drain. There’s a pink line on the side of the tub, stained by your blood. It’ll be easily cleaned, just as easily as you were. Evidence wiped away leaving a blank slate in its wake.

A towel is draped over your head, blocking out the world for just a moment. Just a quick moment where you can forget everything that’s happened and imagine yourself back somewhere safe.

***

The fire is warm, logs cracking as they burn. The side of your body, the side facing the fire is hot but you refuse to move. Your leg has been propped up on a folded blanket, elevated to help the swelling. A white fur pelt has been draped over you, giving you a modicum of modesty among prying eyes.

Your broken nails have been trimmed, blunted down to almost nubs. You can’t hurt yourself, you can’t hurt them. Your face no longer hurts, but there’s an intense throbbing in your shoulder, matching in time with the throbbing of your knee.

You’re not going anywhere. Not in this state.

Not that you’d really try. Not with them sitting right there.

Two of them. They’re sitting there, scarily still as they watch you. You refuse to look at them, to acknowledge them. Acknowledging opens too many doors, doors you’d prefer remained closed.

That’s not your choice anymore.

Instead you lay there, listening to the thumping of your heart, feeling the pulsing aches in your body in time with that steady ba-bump. Ba-bump. Slow, even breaths to keep yourself from showing any fear. You’re not sure you have any left to show. You’ve gone numb inside, your brain a blank space to push the trauma aside for now. It’ll come back later, but for now, there’s nothing.

You’re not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

The two on the couch stiffen a bit, the first movement you’ve seen from them since they sat on the couch. You can feel the shift, your breath hitching as the strong scent of alpha fills the air. It’s the volatile one, the big one with tattoos. He moves to stand behind the couch, between the two betas sitting there watching you. They know how helpless you are. They left you in the care of betas. His sharp eyes fall to you, piercing through your skin like he’s trying to see the muscle beneath.

Goosebumps prickle your skin under his gaze, your eyes still glued to the wood beams on the ceiling. You won’t look at him, you won’t give him that satisfaction. The last act of defiance you can manage in such a vulnerable state. Left that way on purpose to make you feel weaker, smaller, more helpless.

You’ve felt what those hands can do, the destruction they’re capable of bringing. Guiltless, soulless, merciless.

The executioner.

The three of them turn their heads, seamless and consecutive as they glance at the hallway behind you. You don’t need to see yourself. You already know.

You refuse to lower your gaze, refuse to move as he approaches, footsteps heavy on the creaky wood. Tension brews in the air, suffocating like the heat starting to prickle painfully under your skin. You’re too hot under the fur but you won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you move, exposing yourself to their eyes more than you already have been.

The creaking wood gets closer and closer to you. You can almost feel the floor shifting, rocking with every step. They’re not stealthy, instead meant for brute force. Big and heavy and relentless.

The floor cracks beside you, nearly making you jump. Your hands close into fists under the blanket, fingers clenching into your palms. A hand closes around your jaw, forcing your head down and to the side.

The grizzled face comes into view, thick beard peppered with grey. Bright, icy eyes stare into your soul, seeping past the front of indifference you’ve put up. The attempt at being strong and defiant against them. His eyes gaze into yours, boring holes in your skull as he forces his way past your defenses. A battle of wills and you have little will left. Not with him around.

His eyes leave yours to rove your face, burning a trail across your skin.

“You’re healing well.” His voice rumbles in the quiet, paired with a cracking of a log in the fireplace. It makes you flinch, pushing against his fingers which offer no give. Steel limbs holding you in place.

Those limbs let up, a big paw of a hand sliding down your throat. Your breath freezes in your lungs, body tense as his hand pushes the soft fur down slightly until his hand rests against your chest. He can feel the racing of your heart against his palm, the rush of blood through your limbs, the throbbing pain in your knee and shoulder. You’d wish this pain, this discomfort on him if only to bring him to your level, lower him on his pedestal just a bit.

You could only be so lucky.

“Bit warm under there.” He murmurs, fingers curling around the edge of the fur blanket.

The protest dies on your tongue as he rips the fur from you, shame heating your body as you’re suddenly exposed to the room, naked and vulnerable. It’s not like they haven’t seen you already, but this is so different. Here they can look, they can criticize.

He sits back on his heel, dragging his eyes across your body. Goosebumps prickle at your skin under his gaze, muscles flexing as you tense. You dare not move, hide yourself from his gaze. There would be no use in fighting, no matter how much your brain screams at you to retaliate.

The inhale catches in your throat as his palm comes to rest flat against your stomach, fingers dimpling the skin as he tags weight into the press of his hand against you. It’s possessive, tagging you like a fresh kill. He sits there, staring down at you with his hand pressed against your womb. It’s silent in the room, the three others watching the exchange curiously with rapt attention. Waiting, seeking the answer to the question of what’s going to happen next.

He’s dismantling you, breaking down those last few barriers of self control. He wants you angry and humiliated, broken down and malleable. You’re waiting, clinging to those last few shreds of sanity, hands still curled into fists as you prepare yourself for what’s going to happen next. What his next move will be. He’s the one in control, he’s the one they’re all looking to for direction.

He could do it now, while you’re in a weakened state. Invoke that right, partake of that offensive ritual. Strip you of the last of your decency, your resolve, your humanity. You’re trembling under his hand, breaths shallow as you wait, you anticipate.

You’re helpless, completely helpless. 

He removes his hand, resting it on his bent knee. He rocks back onto his heels, pushing himself up to stand. You shift for the first time, sweat making the blanket under your back soggy. 

“What?” You ask, your resolve beginning to come back now that the direct threat is gone. Anger is starting to bubble inside of you, the last bit of your honor still intact. “Not going to rape me in front of them? Not going to let them take turns?”

A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, his chest shaking in a chuckle. “Not yet.” 

The words strike a chord of fear in you despite your attempts to remain indifferent. Not yet. He would sink so low as to partake in such a ritual. He's already taken you, stripped you of your freedoms and your pride. He's dangerous, they all are, and they've made sure you know that.

***

“C’mon lass. Don’ make me do it.”

The one with the god-awful hair is speaking to you. You had decided not to take him seriously because who in their right mind has a mohawk willingly? Deep down you know you should take him seriously. Big, stocky, meant for power not speed. You might have thought him an alpha, if it wasn’t for the playful glint in his eye. He doesn’t hold himself like an alpha, no domineering scent overpowering your senses.

His scent is surprisingly soft. You’re getting a strong whiff of it with your close proximity.

He’s pulled you up so you’re sitting, the fur pooled at your waist. He’s trying to get you up, but you’re trying your best to make it as hard as possible. You could probably get up on your own if you had to, even with one and a half usable legs. You’re being stubborn on purpose. Not out of hope he’d give up and let you lay there, but instead you do it in your weak attempts at defiance. They probably find it amusing, but to you it’s the only shreds of your hope and sanity you have left.

The situation hasn’t quite registered yet. It still feels very surreal. Despite the painful reminders your injuries conjure up, there’s still a delightful cloudiness in your brain when you think about your new reality. It still feels temporary, like your parents will walk through the door at any moment to take you back to your home, your pack.

You’re not stuck in this nightmare, you’re just waiting for the moment when it all gets revealed as some kind of sick joke.

It’s not a joke. It’s very real.

The hand groping your chest brings you back into that nightmarish reality.

“Stop.” You say firmly, trying to bat his hand away where it squeezes your bare breast.

He doesn’t stop, not like you expected him to. Instead he grips you harder, his fingers pinching your nipple. You swing at him, hitting his bare chest but it doesn’t phase him in the slightest.

“Stop!” You shriek, and he finally does let go, only to catch your hands.

He grips both of your wrists in one of his hands, the other closing around your jaw, cheeks squished as he holds your face. That playful glint has been replaced by an intensity in his gaze, the back of your neck prickling as the sense of danger rolls through you.

“Yer our omega.” He grits out through his teeth, baring them at you. “I can damn well touch ye if I please.”

“Ease up, Johnny.” The rough voice of the big alpha cuts through the tension.

Johnny.

It’s the first of their names you’ve heard. It fits him, you have to admit. You wonder what the others’ names are. They won’t come easily, you don’t think. They’re not likely to do a meet and greet with you.

“I don’t want no sniffling bird at the table.” The big alpha says, continuing on his path into the kitchen.

Johnny releases you slowly, lowering his hands. Your chest is heaving from the adrenaline that had coursed through your body. Your poor adrenal glands are probably exhausted and it’s not even dark outside yet. There’s tears in your eyes, but the words of the big alpha come back to you. The last thing you want to do is anger him. Your knee throbs as a reminder as to why.

“Can I get a shirt?” You ask quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself. The fire is hot against your back and you know as soon as you’re away from it you’ll be cold.

“No.” Johnny says before tugging the blanket off you completely.

Tears prick behind your eyes, tears of shame as you’re lifted off the floor and into his arms. You refuse to look at him, refuse to hold on as he begins to move, carrying you from the living area over to the table.

The light is on above the table, casting a bright, warm glow around the nook. You’re placed in a chair on the far side of the table facing the door. The way out so close, but yet so far. There’s no way you could get out. You can’t run, not in this state.

It feels so cruel.

The others join you, the other beta and the big alpha bringing steaming bowls of soup to the table. They’re all still bare chested, clad in only bottoms of varying sorts. The big alpha sports jeans, the other beta having chosen sweatpants. Johnny wears a pair of basketball shorts, and the head alpha sports a pair of cargo pants. You can’t help but wonder if they’re wearing them simply for your comfort, if they’d otherwise be walking around naked.

No, they wouldn’t have given you such a comfort.

If nudity was the norm for them, they wouldn’t have stopped it on your behalf.

The don’t seem to hold the same care for you, though.

The wood of the chair is cold against your skin that had been heated by the fire under the fur. It has your nipples pebbling, your arms still crossed in front of your body as a bowl of soup is placed in front of you. It’s brothy, and you can see various vegetables floating in it. There’s a biscuit on the side, butter and jam placed on the table.

You watch them sit, the big alpha taking the lone seat on the right side of the table, the two betas taking the chairs on the left, Johnny sitting closer to you. The head alpha takes the seat at the head of the table, directly across from you. It’s a purposeful placement. Second alpha to the right, the beta closest to the alpha on the left, the omega across at the other end of the table. Positions based on rank of power.

You doubt you’ll be allowed such power in this pack.

“Something wrong?” The head alpha says, and you quickly realize you’ve been staring. You’re tired, your brain exhausted from fighting. It’s purposeful. It’s all so purposeful. Put you through the ringer until you’re exhausted and forced to submit.

“I’m cold.” You say quietly, arms still wrapped around yourself as you hunch in the chair, trying to give yourself some modicum of modesty.

“Soup’ll fix that.” He says simply, picking up his spoon.

The others follow, the clinking of silverware starting to fill the quiet cabin. You continue to stare at the soup, your eyes filling with tears. You’re not hungry, but you know they’ll force feed you if you don’t eat. It’ll only heighten the shame already burning through you. You feel violated, embarrassed, vulnerable. The worst part is none of them seem to even care. Not one of them seem bothered by this treatment of you.

There truly is no mercy to be found here.

You pick up your spoon, one arm still across your chest as you stir the soup. Chunks of meat kick up to the surface. You wonder if they grow and hunt themselves, or if they go into town for food. You’ve never seen them in town, but then again, you never get to go to town often. Too many eyes, too many possibilities. You were to be hidden away, kept secret and protected.

Now look at you.

You try not to cry as you lift a spoonful of soup to your mouth. I don’t want no sniffling bird at the table, the big one had said. You don’t want to test him, scared of what he might do. Instead you shove the emotions down, focusing on the soup. You are hungry. You can feel the beginning pangs deep in your stomach as the savory scent of the soup fills your nose. You haven’t eaten since this morning.

How long ago that feels now.

The soup is good. Decent flavor. The biscuit is a bit dry, but that’s what the soup is for. It’s quiet at the table, though, no conversation to drown out the sound of silverware and chewing. You wonder if that’s normal, or if no one really knows what to say in this situation. They all eat, none of them looking at each other. None of them look at you either. It’s a small relief.

Your hand is shaking by the time you finish your soup. Nerves are still eating away at you, your brain still hypervigilant of the danger you’re in. You’re sitting with an unknown pack in an unknown place, injured and frightened. You can’t overpower them, you can’t even outrun them. They had proven that. They’re bigger, stronger, faster than you. You’re just an omega, forced to be at their mercy.

You wrap your arms around yourself again, trying to seem as small as possible in your seat. All you want to do is lay down and sleep but you’re too aware, too afraid. You don’t want to know what kinds of things they might do to you as you sleep. Nothing would stop them anyway, but the prospect of you being unaware has your skin crawling.

You’re shaking as you sit there, wrapped in your own arms. Your knee is throbbing from the position it’s been forced into. You can’t wait for that to heal. It’s a nuisance and it’s inhibiting your ability to run. If you’re going to escape and get back home, you need to be able to sneak around and run when you get the chance.

You don’t know when that chance will be.

You’re not sure it will ever come. You’d have to get past all four of them, which you doubt they’ll make an easy task for you. One of them will always be hovering, always near the door. A window is a possibility, but you haven’t seen much else of the house besides this main area. There have to be windows you could possibly climb out of if you can just get a moment alone.

You don’t know when that will be either.

First you need your knee to heal. Then you’ll deal with creating an escape plan.

Sweat is beading on your forehead from the deep throbbing in your knee. You try to shift, straightening it as best you can even as the edge of the chair bites into the back of your leg uncomfortably. You’d love to lay back down, but you’re not sure what their next move will be, what their plan is.

The head alpha is staring at you, no doubt having sensed your discomfort. He doesn’t say anything, his elbows resting on the table as he watches you. Maybe he’s waiting, testing how strong your resolve is, how far he can push you before you break. You refuse to give in that easily, refuse to let him win. It’s what he wants, your full submission. You’re not going to give him that pleasure.

Your skin prickles as his gaze darkens, his eyes trailing down your front to where your breasts peak out above the table. The urge to cover yourself is strong, but you won’t give him that satisfaction. You won’t give him any satisfaction.

You’re going to make this as hard for him as possible.

“We’re going to lay down some ground rules.” He finally says, breaking the tense silence around the table. All eyes flicker to him, waiting, ready to obey. “You’re not to leave this house.” He says, staring pointedly at you. “The world is a dangerous place for an omega. You never know who’s lurking out in the woods.”

He’s taunting you.

“We’re nowhere near civilization, and I won’t have you getting lost in the woods.”

You doubt he’d let you go far enough to even touch the door, much less pass through it.

“You’re part of this pack now, so you’re going to pitch in.” He continues. “I know you have skills. Cooking, cleaning, mending. You do your part, we won’t have any problems.”

He speaks as if you’re going to be here forever. Well, in his mind you are.

“You’re the lowest rank in this pack. You’re here to serve. My boys ask something of you, you do it.” He says. You ignore Johnny’s smirk. “There’s punishment for making trouble. I’d hate to have to enforce that upon you.”

No you wouldn’t.

“This is your home now.” He says. “The sooner you accept that, the easier this all will be.”

You doubt it.

Your gaze leaves his as Johnny stands, your eyes flickering to watch him as he starts to gather bowls. He does so wordlessly, the other beta standing to join him. The meeting is adjourned, the conversation over. He takes your empty bowl, the spoon clacking as he drops it inside before taking it from in front of you. Your eyes flicker back to the alpha, his eyes still on you. You feel more exposed now without the safety of the bowl before you. How strange that such a little thing could offer so much security.

The other alpha pushes his chair back before standing. You can’t stop your gaze from lifting to stare at his hulking form. He’s not any taller than the head alpha, but he seems bigger. He carries himself differently, with more power. If you hadn’t known, you would have assumed he was the head alpha just by looks.

The head alpha stands as well, looming over the table. You lower your gaze to the wood in front of you, not wanting to stare at him as he slowly approaches you, stalking towards you like a predator hunting his prey. You suppose you are his prey. He hunted you down like you were.

How stupid you were going so far into the woods.

Tears prick your eyes as his hands slip under you, arms looping under your knees and around your shoulders. He lifts you easily, hoisting you up into his grasp. He doesn’t even seem to struggle with your weight, a show of power. How easily he can control you. If he can’t break you mentally, he will break you physically. His words had bordered on that threat, the double meaning not lost on you.

He had proven that to you already.

He lays you back down in front of the fire, head pillowed on the cushion, his hands propping your knee back up on the stack of pillows and blankets. That hand drags slowly down your thigh, rough skin catching on yours. A worker’s hands. He pauses for a moment, big hand gripping your thigh before he removes it, grabbing the white fur and draping it back over you.

****

It’s the head alpha that carries you to bed. You hadn’t slept any, even as the night crawled on. It’s late, the moon already up and drifting through the sky. How you wish you could see her, beg her to fix this, to take you away from this nightmare. Instead you’re met with a small window above the bed reflecting the light fixture on the ceiling in the inky blackness.

You’re laid down on the bed gently. Wood framed, hand-made you think. The mattress is soft, the pillows fluffy. Feathers, you think. He’s nice enough to tuck one under your knee, moving the blankets down out of the way. The white fur has come with you, draped over your form as you lay there on the bed. You wish you were home, you wish you were being tucked in and kissed by your mother. You were too old for that but she still insisted. You’re her baby, her only child.

Does she think you’re dead​?

They’ll be looking for you. All night they’ll search. Maybe they’ll find the blood, maybe they’ll assume the worst. Or maybe they’ll know. Maybe they’ll come looking. Maybe you won’t have to escape at all.

The alpha moves away from the bed, heading towards a door on the far wall. It opens, a light switching on inside. A bathroom. He doesn’t close the door as he goes in, your eyes floating to the ceiling as you listen to him. Running water, a toothbrush, a stream of piss into the toilet, the light switch flicking as he comes back out. Your eyes dart to him before quickly jumping back to the ceiling.

He’s nude.

It’s not unusual, but this feels different. It’s intentional. Degrading.

You continue to stare up at the ceiling as he approaches the bed, cock swinging between his legs. If you had the strength you would have stared at him, fighting that dominance he’s engaging by presenting himself in such a state. He’s testing you, showing you where the boundaries lie. There are little boundaries between the two of you. You’ve been claimed, a shackle of ownership placed around your throat where his teeth dug into your skin and tore out a chunk. You’ll wear that shackle for the rest of your life, a constant reminder of who you belong to, who you answer to.

He turns on the lamp beside the bed before turning off the overhead light, bathing the room in the soft glow of the yellow light bulb.

Tears prickle your eyes as he climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your leg twitches as his hands touch your skin, pressing against your bruised and throbbing knee. You hiss, your eyes squeezing closed at the pain as he pushes lightly against the swollen joint.

“It’ll be healed by tomorrow night.” He says, releasing your leg to lay against the pillow again.

You keep your gaze up, fighting tears as he settles onto the bed next to you with a sigh. He pulls the blankets up, covering you with them before he settles on his side facing you. He’s staring at you but you’re not brave enough to stare back. All that strength you held at the dinner table is gone, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. You’re too afraid to sleep, laying next to a stranger. A stranger who attacked you, forced you to be his mate, forced you here into his home, into his pack.

Why did you stray so far from home?

His fingers close around your jaw, forcing your head to the side. A tear slides down your cheek as you stare at him, his eyes lidded. “You’ll be happy here.”

It’s not a question, not even a suggestion. He’s telling you what you’re going to feel. You’ll be happy here because you have no choice. This is your home, your family now. These men who stole you away and forced you to be one of them, these men whose hands only know violence.

The rough grips on your body, hands pinching and twisting and breaking, teeth sinking in deep, ripping and tearing you apart.

His thumb wipes the tear that slides down our cheek. Such a soft, tender caress compared to what you know he’s capable of. He stares deep into your eyes, digging, searching, reaching in to find your very soul tucked safely away. That’s one thing he can never have. He can take your body and your mind, but he can’t touch your soul, no matter how hard he tries.

He pulls your head forward, leaning close to you. Your breath hitches, your heart racing hard in your chest. There’s a moment of stillness before he closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours. It’s shockingly soft and gentle, a small peck of the lips, but it does nothing to quell the fear rising in you. How contradicting his actions are. The tight grip on your jaw keeping you in place, the soft almost tender press of his lips.

Danger! Your mind screams. He’s dangerous and he’s only further proving it right now.

He pulls back, holding you there for a moment before he releases you. He rolls over onto his back, laying there in the bed next to you. In bed with a stranger, wounded and claimed. Not an ideal situation, and certainly not how you expected your night to end. You want to be back home, back in your bed, back safe with your parents. You’ll never see them again.

More tears cascade down your cheeks as you lay there, the reality of your situation hitting you.

“Can I ask you something?” You speak quietly, your voice trembling.

“Hm?” He hums, already half asleep.

“What’s your name?” You ask.

He’s silent for a moment, and you’re worried he might have fallen asleep already. Instead he speaks, giving you his name in the darkness.

“John.”

Titus nodded. He’d expected as much. The El Caidos were the newest family to be added to the council, having signed their contracts in the last century. Beginning as a minor family, they moved up as they accumulated wealth and power. They filled the seat that the destruction of the Richards family had left vacant for over four decades.

Ignatio El Caido had become something of a celebrity in Europe. It was too flashy for Titus, too much, but he was in no position to judge what the other families did with their bargains. He had met Ignatio several times over the years, though he wouldn’t call the man a friend. A better acquaintance than Bill Wilkinson certainly, but not one Titus would choose to associate with if not necessary.

You leaned back in your seat and studied him, your gaze focused as if you were trying to solve a difficult puzzle. “I believe we could use a bit of a break before that meeting, however.”

He stilled, gaze flicking over you. He wouldn’t mind a break, truth be told, but he was in no hurry to return to his regular life. He’d become far too accustomed to spending all of his time with you.

“You’ll stay with me, won’t you, Titus?” The question was quiet, a soft smile playing on your lips.

He answered without hesitation. “Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

Your smile spread across your face, warm and bright. Titus’ chest tightened. He’d do whatever it took to keep seeing that smile from you.

You took a helicopter from the mainland across a turquoise expanse of ocean straight to your private island. The pilot didn’t speak, simply handing you both a set of headphones before taking his place at the controls. The island appeared on the horizon, first as a small green speck before growing larger with every passing minute. It wasn’t huge but the white sand beaches and lush vegetation gave it an almost dreamlike quality.

The helicopter touched down on a patch of smooth stone near a large colonial style home that overlooked the water. But it was a separate smaller structure that caught Titus’ attention. A hut built on stilts sat directly over the ocean, surrounded by a roomy deck connected to the shore by a long wooden walkway.

“I prefer it to the house,” you said, following his gaze. “My own personal haven.”

As you approached the main building, a figure emerged from the front door. Titus did a double take, nearly stumbling over his own feet as he recognized The Lawyer. The man was dressed in navy trunks and a loose linen shirt, sunglasses perched on his nose, a pink drink in one hand with an umbrella stuck in the top of it. He raised his glass in greeting, a small smile on his lips.

Titus blinked in surprise. “I’ve never seen him in anything but a suit. I don’t think anyone has.”

You laughed. “Well, surely you didn’t think he wore one all the time. Did you think he wore suits to bed?”

“To be honest, I wasn’t certain he slept.”

That earned him another laugh as you led the way out to the hut. The interior was larger than it appeared from the outside, with wide windows on all sides letting in the brilliant sunlight. The glass floor showcased the brilliant blue water and colorful fish below. A kitchenette sat in one corner, complete with a small refrigerator and a two-burner stove. A bathroom with a rainfall shower stood on the opposite side. And in the center of it all was a king-sized bed with crisp white sheets.

Titus glanced around, genuinely impressed. “This is amazing.”

“Thank you.” You tossed your bag into a chair. “I had it built several decades ago. It’s the favorite of all my properties.”

He rocked on his heels, hands in his pockets. “Will you be okay out here alone?”

You tilted your head, studying him with eyes that always seemed to see more than he intended to reveal. “You’re welcome to stay in the house with Sol, but I assumed you’d rather stay here with me.”

“Sol?” Titus glanced out the door to where The Lawyer lay reclined on a lounger on the deck just outside your hut enjoying the sunshine.

You smiled. “I wouldn’t let him hear you calling him that. He gets rather testy about it.”

Titus’ mind caught up with the rest of your statement and he took a step closer. “You want me to stay here? With you?”

“Only if you’d like. You’re certainly under no obligation to humor me.” Your tone was casual but there was a flicker of vulnerability in your gaze that you quickly masked.

He wanted to touch you, wanted to trace his fingers along your jaw and feel the softness of your skin. Instead, he nodded, keeping his voice as steady as he could manage. “Of course. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

You gave him that unforgettable smile again then ducked behind a wooden screen set up in the corner of the hut. “There should be a couple of drawers cleared for you on the lefthand side of the dresser,” you said.

Titus slid the top drawer open and found two pairs of trunks laying inside.

“I had those delivered for you. Hopefully they fit.”

He turned at the sound of your voice and his mouth went dry. You wore a simple black one-piece swimsuit with a lightweight cover up open over the top of it. The sight of you, all smooth skin and curves, sent a jolt of heat straight through him.

He swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll be outside if you need anything.”

He unpacked quickly then changed into a pair of dark green trunks that fit perfectly. When he stepped outside, he found you on one of the loungers, a wide-brimmed hat shading your face. The Lawyer was on your left and an empty lounger sat to your right. He was certain there had only been two chairs present when you entered the hut. He shook the thought away. What did it matter really?

“There he is,” The Lawyer greeted, lifting his glass. “Drinks are on the table.”

Titus nodded and picked up a glass of amber liquid before settling himself beside you.

The day passed in a haze of pleasant conversations. You spoke of places you’d been, things you’d seen, with The Lawyer contributing his own stories. The two of you bounced topics off each other with the ease of very old friends. Titus found himself utterly enthralled, hanging off your every word.

As the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, The Lawyer’s phone buzzed making you scrunch up your nose in irritation. He pulled it from his pocket, read the message and sighed.

He stood and stretched. “I have a matter to see to. You two enjoy your evening. I’ll have a meal sent out.”

Titus watched him walk back to the main house, visibly relaxed and loose. It was strange to see the normally impeccable man be so casual but it somehow suited him.

“He works too much,” you said with a sigh, pulling Titus’ attention back to you.

“He’s dedicated.”

You hummed in acknowledgement. “That is one word for it, yes.”

You stood suddenly, dropping your coverup onto the lounger before diving smoothly into the water. Titus watched transfixed as you sliced through the surface and disappeared beneath the waves. A moment later, you resurfaced. “Coming?” you called, treading the water.

Titus followed you into the ocean, the cool water a shock against his sun-warmed skin. You smiled as he swam toward you, then turned and began to move farther from the shore with strong even strokes. Titus matched your pace, staying slightly behind so he could keep an eye on you.

“You’re a good swimmer,” you said when you paused to float on your back.

“So are you.”

You laughed. “I’ve had a lot of time to practice.”

You swam together until the sun touched the water, painting the surface in shades of gold, pink and orange. When you finally turned back toward the hut, Titus followed, admiring the play of muscles under your skin as you cut through the water.

At the ladder, you climbed up first. It was only then, that Titus saw your back clearly for the first time. Scars crisscrossed your skin. Thin lines, some deeper than others overlapped the expanse of your flesh, a pattern that showed a history of suffering and survival.

Titus’ breath caught in his throat. He followed quickly behind you, water dripping from his body as he stepped onto the deck. You reached for your coverup, but he caught your wrist, stopping you.

“What?” you asked, looking over your shoulder at him.

His free hand reached out, fingers tracing over the worst of the scars, a thick ropy line that ran from just below one shoulder blade to the small of your back. “Tell me they’re dead.” His voice was tight with a rage that surprised even him.

You blinked, confusion evident in your expression. “What?”

“The scars.” His fingers still rested lightly on your skin. “Tell me whoever is responsible is dead.”

You turned to face him completely, searching his expression. “Yes,” you said finally. “For a very long time now.”

“Did they suffer?”

Your lips curved into a cold smile. “Most assuredly.”

“Good.”

You reached up, your palm resting against his cheek. “You’re angry.”

“For you.” The words felt inadequate but he couldn’t find better ones. Not at the moment.

Your smile softened. “No one’s been angry on my behalf in a very long time.”

Titus leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “Then they’re idiots.”

You laughed. “I like you, Titus Danforth.”

“I like you, too.” More than like if he was being honest but that felt like a truth too fragile to voice. Not yet.

You stepped back, picking up your coverup and slipping it on. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Good. There should be a meal waiting inside for us.” You headed for the door, then paused, looking back at him over your shoulder. “And Titus?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

He nodded, not trusting his voice. As you disappeared inside, he took a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. He was in deep, deeper than he’d ever been with anyone, and there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

Three weeks passed in a blur of sun-drenched days and starlit nights. Titus held you every evening in that bed over the water, your body warm against his, your breath soft against his skin. You’d kissed, gods how you’d kissed, your hands exploring, your lips demanding. But that was the extent of it. So far.

Now, as the car pulled up to the sprawling El Caido estate in the Spanish countryside, Titus found himself reluctant to share you, even for the span of a single evening.

“They’ve pulled out all the stops,” you observed as the driver opened your door.

Titus followed your gaze to where Ignatio El Caido waited at the top of the wide stone steps, his children flanking him on either side. Flowers in enormous arrangements lined the path, servants stood at attention and the massive front doors stood open, inviting you into the opulence within.

“They’re showing off,” Titus said in a low tone as he offered his hand to help you from the car.

You smiled, your fingers warm in his. “Let them.”

Ignatio descended the steps as you approached, arms spread wide in welcome. He was a handsome man in his late forties with a bright white smile and laugh lines around his eyes. His suit was impeccably tailored, his shoes polished to a mirror shine.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said, his accent thick but his English flawless. “It is an honor to host you in our humble home.”

Titus bit back a laugh at the description. The El Caido estate was many things, but humble wasn’t one of them.

“Thank you for having us,” you replied, your smile cool but polite.

Ignatio’s gaze lingered on your face for a moment before shifting to Titus. “Titus. A pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise.” The lie came easily.

“And these are my children, Francesca and Felipe.” Ignatio gestured to them in turn.

Francesca was beautiful in a way that came from excellent genes and the best regimens money could buy. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes as she offered a slight nod. Felipe, no more than ten, stood straight-backed and serious beside his sister, his dark eyes taking in everything.

“Please come inside. Dinner has been prepared.” Ignatio offered an arm to escort you.

Titus followed, watching as Ignatio leaned close to whisper in your ear. Your expression didn’t change but Titus caught the slight stiffening of your shoulders. He’d spent enough time with you now to recognize the signs of your annoyance. His lips twitched as he reined in a smile.

The dining room was as opulent as the rest of the house. A massive table was set with silver and crystal, candles casting a warm glow. Ignatio seated you at his right hand with Titus beside you. Francesca sat across from you, Felipe beside her.

Ignatio filled your glass with a deep red wine. “I hope you enjoy Spanish cuisine. I’ve taken the liberty of having some of our traditional dishes prepared.”

“It looks wonderful,” you said as you picked up your fork.

Throughout the meal, Ignatio maintained a steady stream of conversation, his eyes never leaving your face for long. He laughed too loudly at your responses, leaned too close when speaking, his hand brushing against yours with deliberate frequency.

Titus watched it all with growing irritation. You weren’t his, not exactly, but the thought of Ignatio’s hands on you made his blood boil. Titus had held you every night for weeks, had memorized the curve of your smile, the taste of your tongue. He knew the sound of your laugh and the feel of your skin beneath his palms. And while you’d never discussed labels, the idea of sharing you with anyone, let alone a preening peacock like Ignatio El Caido, made him want to break something. Preferably the other man’s face.

“I don’t see why I needed to be here for this. I could be with Alex right now,” Francesca said, pushing food around her plate with disinterest.

Ignatio’s smile tightened. “Because, as I’ve explained numerous times, our guest wished to meet the entire family.”

“Well, she met us. Can I go now?”

“Francesca.” The warning in his tone was clear.

She rolled her eyes dramatically. “It’s just dinner. It’s not like it’s anything important.”

Your gaze moved between the father and daughter, something close to amusement in your eyes.

“Enough,” Ignatio snapped, finally losing his patience. He turned to you with an apologetic smile. “I apologize for my daughter’s behavior. She’s very much in love.”

“Is she?” you replied in a flat tone as you set down your utensils. “Perhaps we should move onto our business.”

You adjourned to a room lined with dark bookcases filled with leather bound books and heavy furniture. Ignatio offered drinks, which you declined. Once everyone was seated, save for Titus who stood slightly behind you, you got straight to the point.

“Francesca will not be marrying Alex Le Domas.” Your tone was almost bored.

Francesca’s head snapped up from where she sat on a small sofa to the side of the room with her brother. “What?”

Ignatio held up a hand to silence his daughter as he struggled to maintain his perpetual smile. “I’m sorry, would you repeat that?”

“You heard me perfectly well. The marriage will not take place.”

Francesca shot to her feet. “You can’t just—”

Ignatio snapped her name, his tone sharp and firm. “Be quiet.”

“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest, glaring at her father. “This is my life you’re talking about. I’m not going to just stand here while you—”

“Just give me a moment to sort this out,” Ignatio forced through clenched teeth. He turned his focus back to you, his expression carefully composed. “May I ask why Mr. Le Bail would not want two of the families to merge? It has never been a problem before.”

“You are not owed an explanation, just a decree.”

His jaw tightened and Titus shifted subtly closer to you. “With all due respect,” Ignatio continued, “a union between the El Caido and Le Domas families has been in the works for years now. The contracts are signed, the arrangements made. To cancel now would—”

“What?” you interrupted, one eyebrow raised. “Would what? Cost you time? Money perhaps? I assure you the cost of proceeding would be far greater.”

Titus watched as Ignatio’s entire demeanor changed in the blink of an eye. His defiance fell away to be replaced by something close to terror, his pallor becoming noticeably paler. Eyes wide as a sheen of sweat formed on his brow.

“I love him,” Francesca pleaded.

“Francesca, for fuck’s sake, shut up,” her father snapped, not taking his eyes off you.

“I will not shut up! This is—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ignatio yelled, turning to face his daughter with a fury that finally had the girl shrinking back. He turned back to you, a fake smile firmly in place. “Understood. It won’t be a problem, I assure you.”

You hummed in agreement and gave him a nod. “Excellent. I think we’re done here.”

As you stood, Ignatio moved around the desk, offering his hand. “Thank you for coming. We appreciate your guidance in this matter.”

Your handshake was brief, professional. “Of course. Good evening, Mr. El Caido.”

Titus followed you from the room, hyper aware of the tension radiating from Ignatio behind you. Whatever had passed between you, whatever you’d shown him that the rest of them didn’t see, had been enough to bring one of the most powerful men in Europe to heel.

And gods, it was one of the most attractive things Titus had ever witnessed.

He settled into the back of the car beside you. The driver had been instructed to take you directly to the airport much to Titus’ surprise. He’d assumed you’d be spending time in country like you had in Beijing and India.

Your interaction with Ignatio had left Titus slightly unsettled. “How did you make Ignatio fall in line so quickly? I’ve known that man to argue for hours over something he believed in. One minute he was ready to go head-to-head with you, the next he couldn’t comply fast enough.”

The corner of your lips kicked up in a smirk. “I just reminded him who he was dealing with.”

One brow lifted. “That’s all?”

You shifted in your seat, angling your body toward his. “That’s all it took. He grew comfortable in his power. He forgot it was given, not earned. That it can be taken away just as easily.”

Titus nodded slowly, considering your words. He’d seen the change in real time, sudden understanding replacing Ignatio’s indignation. Whatever you’d shown him had been enough to strip away all of his carefully cultivated arrogance.

“And why is Le Bail opposed to Le Domas marrying Francesca?” he asked, the question had been gnawing at him since your announcement. “The families have intermarried before. It’s never been an issue.”

You hummed, your gaze on the passing scenery rather than him. “The Le Domas family has grown weak. The current generation lacks the fervor of their ancestors. They’ve grown complacent, content to rest on the achievements of those who came before them.”

Titus nodded. What he’d seen of the Le Domas family had left him unimpressed. They were wealthy certainly, well connected, but there was always the sense they were playing at power rather than wielding it.

“The new heirs don’t look much better, unfortunately,” you continued without prompting. “Alex Le Domas is not committed to the family or the contract. He’ll drag the El Caido line down with him.”

“But why intervene now? Why not let nature take its course?”

Your smile widened, taking on a predatory edge. “Le Bail wants a hunt. It’s time for the Le Domas family to prove themselves.”

Titus’ brows shot up. Though written into all the contracts in one form or another, the wedding hunts actually didn’t happen very often. Once every generation or so.

You studied his face gauging his reaction. “They need a reminder of what’s at stake.”

Titus leaned back in his seat, mind racing. “When?”

You shrugged. “Whenever Alex Le Domas finds a new bride. I don’t expect it will take long. He wasn’t as enamored with Francesca as she likes to believe.”

When you arrived at the jet, Titus followed you up the stairs watching the sway of your hips, the set of your shoulders. These were the moments he liked best, between visits, between families. When you were just you and he was just Titus, neither of you pretending to more than you were. You disappeared through a door and emerged minutes later wearing clothing more suitable for travel. You had on dark leggings and a sweater hanging off one shoulder. You looked softer like this, more approachable, though he knew better than to ever mistake that for weakness.

You sat across from him as the engines kicked on, preparing for takeoff. He handed you a glass of bourbon.

“Who’s next?” he asked once you were airborne.

You took a sip, eyes meeting his over the glass. “We’re finished for the time being.”

His chest felt tight. Finished. As in no more families to visit, no more reasons for the two of you to travel together. As in his time with you was coming to an end.

“I see.” He kept his voice neutral despite the sudden hollow feeling in his gut.

Your head titled as you studied him. “Do you?”

Titus took a breath, weighing his words. He could play it cool, act as if your announcement hadn’t just flipped his world upside down. Could return to his life, his responsibilities. His family. Could pretend that these weeks with you hadn’t fundamentally altered something inside of him.

But you valued honesty. Above all else, The Lawyer had said. And Titus had never wanted anything as much as he wanted you.

“Let me stay with you.” The words left his lips before he could reconsider.

You watched him for a beat then asked, “Why?”

“Because I can’t bear to be separated from you. I’m not willing to say goodbye. Not now. Not ever.”

For a long moment you were silent, your expression unreadable. Titus held his breath, waiting for your response, for the rejection he was certain would come. Then your face transformed, a smile spreading across your lips that stole the air from his lungs.

“Oh, Titus.” You reached across the space between you, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “We’re going to have so much fun you and I.”

Relief washed through him, warm and intoxicating. You wanted him. You were choosing him. The knowledge settled in his chest, a weight he welcomed.

You leaned back in your seat, pulling a cigarette from the case you always carried. Titus reached for his lighter, but before he could produce it, you held up a finger as if to shush him. A flame appeared on the tip of your finger, orange and hungry.

Titus watched transfixed as you brought the flame to the end of your cigarette, lighting it. You closed your eyes as you took the first drag, your face relaxed in obvious pleasure. When you opened them again, flames danced in the depths of your eyes.

He suddenly had a perfect understanding of what you had shown to Ignatio, of the glimpse of your truth you had allowed the man the privilege of seeing. Titus supposed he should have been terrified, should have been scrambling for safety. Instead, he found himself leaning closer, drawn to you like a moth to a flame. You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, the glimpse of your true nature breathtaking.

He was constantly astonished by you. Your mind, your power, your capacity for cruelty matched only your capacity for kindness. The flames in your eyes were just the latest revelation in a seemingly endless stream of them. He sat his drink down, his gaze never leaving your face.

“You are exquisite.” He left his seat in a single fluid motion, moving to kneel at your feet. Your eyes widened slightly, the flames dancing brighter before your normal gaze returned as you looked down at him.

“What are you doing?” you asked, voice soft.

“Let me show you how I feel.” His hands rested lightly on your knees, not pushing, not demanding.

You studied him for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Then your hand came down and your fingers traced the line of his jaw with a feather-light touch. “You can show me anything you want to, baby.”

The permission, the endearment sent a rush of heat straight through him. Titus reached up and took the cigarette from between your fingers. He held your gaze as he stubbed it out in the ashtray beside your seat.

Then he was moving, one hand sliding behind your neck as he pulled you down to meet his kiss. Your lips were soft, yielding, then demanding as you responded with equal fervor. His tongue traced the seam of your mouth and you opened for him with a soft sound that went directly to his cock.

Titus kissed his way along your jaw to the sensitive spot beneath your ear, smiling against your skin as you shivered. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, tracing the warm skin of your stomach, feeling the muscles contract at his touch.

“May I?” he asked, fingers hovering at the waistband of your leggings.

In answer, you lifted your hips to give him better access. Titus didn’t need to be told twice. He worked your leggings down, taking your panties with them, his mouth following the path of his hands. Kisses pressed to your inner thigh, your knee, the curve of your calf.

You were bare before him, exposed and beautiful. Titus took a moment to simply look, to memorize the sight of you like this. Then he bent his head, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the juncture of your thigh and hip.

Your hand came down to tangle in his hair. Titus turned his head, pressing a kiss to your palm before continuing his journey. His tongue traced your folds, teasing. You made a sound of frustration as your hips shifted restlessly.

“Titus,” you said his name, half plea, half command.

He smiled against your skin, then finally, finally gave you what you wanted. His tongue delved inside you, tasting the evidence of your desire. Your fingers tightened in his hair. Titus worked you with his mouth, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention to the bundle of nerves that had you gasping.

Your thighs began to tremble, your breath coming in short, sharp pants. Titus slid a finger inside of you, then another, curling them to find the spot that made you cry out. Your release built quickly after that, your body tensing beneath his hands.

“Titus,” you gasped, hips arching against him.

He doubled his efforts, his tongue and fingers working in concert as you came apart above him. Your thighs clamped around his head as pleasure washed through you. Titus worked you through it, gentling his touch as your tremors began to subside.

Before he could fully pull away, your hand was in his hair again, tugging him up. “Come here.”

He straightened still on his knees and you leaned down to capture his mouth with yours. The kiss was deep, hungry, your tongue exploring his mouth as if you wanted to taste yourself on his lips. Which, Titus realized with a surge of desire, you did.

“Up,” you said when you finally broke the kiss.

He obeyed without hesitation, rising to his feet. You stood with him, your hands going to the buttons of the shirt. You made quick work of them, pushing the fabric from his shoulders once the last one was free. Your palms ran over his chest, tracing the lines of muscle there.

“Pants,” you said, fingers working at his belt.

Titus toed off his shoes as you opened his fly, pushing his pants and boxers down in one smooth motion. He stepped out of them, kicking them aside. You were already moving, pushing him back until his legs hit his chair. He sat, looking up at you with naked desire.

You reached for the hem of your sweater, pulling it over your head in one swift motion. Your bra followed, leaving you bare. Titus couldn’t look away, mesmerized by the sight of you. You straddled his lap, your heat pressed against his erection. His hands found your hips, holding you steady as you rocked against him.

“I need you, Titus.” You reached between you to guide him to your entrance.

He caught your wrist, stopping you. “Wait.”

You paused, brow furrowed in confusion. “What’s wrong?”

His nose traced the line of your neck. “Say you’re mine.” The words left his mouth before he could reconsider, raw and honest.

You pulled back slightly, eyes searching his. “What?”

“Be mine.” His hands tightened on your hips. “Let me take care of you. Let me worship you. Let me stay with you.”

One hand came up to cup his cheek. “For how long?”

“For as long as you’ll have me.”

Something flashed in your eyes before your lips curved into a smile. “Yes, I’m yours, Titus.” You leaned forward, your breath warm against his ear. “Please.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. His hand replaced yours between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance. You sank down onto him in one smooth motion, taking him to the hilt. The feeling of you hot and tight around him, drew a groan from deep in his throat.

You began to move, setting a pace that had you both gasping. Titus’ hands grasped your waist, helping to guide your movements, to deepen each thrust. Your forehead rested against his, your breath mingling with his as pleasure built between you.

“I’ve wanted this,” you admitted, the words broken by a particularly deep thrust. “Since the moment I first saw you.”

Titus couldn’t respond, could only hold you tighter as his release approached. You sensed it, your movements becoming more deliberate, designed to push him over the edge. When his release came it roared through him with the force of a tidal wave, his body arching beneath yours as his pleasure overwhelmed him.

You followed moments later, your body clenching around him as you climaxed. Titus held you through it, whispering praises against your skin along with promises of devotion and desire.

As your breathing began to slow, you lifted your head to look at him. “Mine,” you said, the word both statement and question.

“Yours,” he agreed when he finally found his voice.

Pussy inspections. Whenever he felt they were necessary. Which was usually when you got home for the day. First off, it’s important to know how Brendon feels about panties. Which is unfavorable. When you’re home, he wants them off. So your inspection, and his feeling about it, depend a lot on how your inspection goes. Brendon doesn’t especially like you in pants, either. But he’s not a barbarian. You can wear whatever you want! He’s not crazy. If you’re in a skirt, like a good girl, your inspection starts one of two ways. Either A) you just got home, so he demands you take your panties off to give to him, or B) he confirms weather you were good already did so already. And why would you ever be bad for your daddy? He’d never catch you disappointing him, you’re his good girl. His best girl. If you’re in pants from being outside? Oh, you can just strip all the way down for him. That’s fine.

Either way. Once you pass the first step, you know how he wants you to present. Hands behind your back, legs shoulder length apart. Sometimes, usually, that’s not enough for him, and he’ll kick your legs apart with one of his feet. It’s deeply humiliating, the way it knocks you down.

He then bends you over with a gentle hand between your shoulder blades and no words. You know by now what he wants. And he’s not cruel, he usually does it over something go you to rest on. The table, the counter, the couch, rarely the bed or your dresser- but usually this happens on the first floor of your house.

Then he takes his time. Staring at your sensitive, fluttering little hole. Checking your reflex’s to made sure you respond to his touch right, stroking your lips, pinching your clit, expanding it and rubbing it to make you cry out and shake, begging your daddy. Pushing a finger in to make sure you’re tight, that no one else has been in his pussy. Pushing that wet finger against your little hole, to check, just incase. Sometimes he toys with you longer than you expected, you don’t question it. Let him pinch and stroke and fondle. But you know that this isn’t for your pleasure.

He doesn’t like bras at home, either. And daddy’s inspections are through, so usually he checks for tits too. But that’s just for your health, of corse. When he orders you to turn around so he can squeeze them, thumb your nipples. The way he states in your eyes as he gently tugs on your nipples at his leisure, groping the heavy weights on your chest.

Then comes your mouth. Ordering it open, and brushing his thumb over your teeth, ensuring your oral health. Ensuring your gag reflex is intact- after all, that exists for a reason, it’s important, baby.

And then he makes a distant sound of satisfaction, nodding that your inspection is over. He approves. You’ve been chaste, and kept yourself for your husband. You redress if you must like nothing happened, usually jumping to happily finally greet your hubby home from work, kissing his cheek and hugging him tight, or talking him though your mall haul. And he smiles in pure bliss. “I missed you too, kitten. Tell me everything about your day.”, he asked, carrying you over to the couch so you can snuggle up while you fill him in.

Inspections are a daily occurrence. You can set your clock to it. Even in those rare miserable instances Brendon travels for a conference, best believe he’ll have you on face time, stripped down and fallowing his orders to present to him.

Spankings. There were two kinds of spankings. Maintenance and punishment.

Maintenance was for your own good, he reminded you. They happened twice a week, before bed. You knew the routine by now. It had never changed. At 9 pm you stripped bare, and bent over Brendon’s knee where he sat on the edge of the bed. He started with his hand. He reminded you that he loved you more than all the stars in the sky, and that this was to remind you of that. That daddy was grounding you, helping you release your stress and anxiety through the pain.

First came his hand, alternating between each cheek. Some spanks soft and firm, some hard and fast. 10 to each cheek. And then, five to your pussy. And you were usually so good about it, lacking ego and shame as you opened your legs for him, allowing him access to the sensitive flesh even if it hurt, even if it humiliated you and stung.

Then he moved onto his paddle, a special one of wood and leather you’d picked out together, five hits to each cheek and one blow between your legs to finish you off for the night. Short and fast. And he’d be so proud of you when you were done.

Unless.

Unless you acted up.

Oh, then things are different. See, you know to take your spanking like a good girl. To stay calm on his knee, to breath in and out slowly and steady, you know to ask daddy for his other hand to hold if you’re feeling too overwhelmed (because he’ll always give you it, you’re his fucking wife, he loves you, of corse he’ll hold your hand. He’ll take a break to stroke your hair, to kiss your head and remind you he loves you and you’re a good girl.). You know how to be good and take it. And you know if you do, if you are, when he looks between your legs and sees you got wet like his perfect girl, he’ll reward you for taking it so well.

So because you know better, if you act up there’s consequences.

His spankings are so short. He’s too soft on you, really. So there’s no excuse for insolence.

But if you squirm, and wiggle, and jump away, and fight it? You will be punished.

Those soft and firm spanks from before are gone once he has to get mean with you. And when you’re acting up like this, you both know, it’s because you’re craving that firmer hand. You need the discipline and structure. So he’ll give it.

He holds your back down hard as he adds firm slaps to your ass. And breaks out his horse whip for your pussy. Usually on these nights he has to hold you down with one hand as he spanks you hard, has to force your legs open to abuse your little holes. He’s only satisfied once he breaks you back into being his good girl, tears and sobs and apologies for being bad. That’s when he knows he’s done his job, and he can pull you into his arms, shush and rock you as he insists it’s all okay, all forgiven, and daddy loves you. When you act out, he knows, maybe even subconsciously, you need extra to get the release and rebirth this gives you. Need him to break you down to build you back up.

Punishment spankings are different. Not just on Wednesday and Sunday nights, but when they’re needed. They’re not as soft as maintenance spankings are. They’re intense. There’s different paddles and rules.

Rule one. No moving. No asking daddy to hold your hand, no subtly rubbing against his leg and him pretending to ignore it. This isn’t for anyone pleasure. It’s a punishment. You don’t get the comfort of daddy’s lap for these.

They vary depending on how angry he is and his mood.

Of corse, he knows how to calm down. He wouldn’t actually risk really hurting you in a blond rage.

Brendon’s a good man. And a good husband. You know he’d never hit you anywhere but your bottom. He’s expressed his loud and firm disgust at the idea of any man raising his hand to their wife. He’d never lay a finger on your face that wasn’t gentle and full of adoration. He’d never hurt you. But spanking is different.

Punishment is necessary.

Sometimes he’ll tie your hands behind your back with one of his belts.

Sometimes he’ll tie you to the 4 corners of the bed if you’ve been really bad.

Sometimes he can just expect you to stay in place and take it, those sessions where you know you ere bad.

And your misdeeds vary. And they affect how you’re punished. As does your remorse.

Not wearing panties out of the house, lying by omission, back talk, not taking proper care of yourself, being unkind to him, being unkind to yourself, making bad decisions, forgetting your wedding ring at home. Teasing him at work, touching yourself without permission, pushing stupid fights because you’re hormonal or stressed. All these things have different punishments.

But punishment spankings are hard. They’re can involve his hand, far harsher than normal. They can involve one of his expensive leather belts, making clean lines across your rear. It can be your paddle, harder than usual. Your horse whip, focused on your ass instead of your pussy, painful and mean to the puckered hole.

And satisfied last until he’s satisfied. He can count the amount of times on one hand, but you’ve bled. You’ve cried yourself horse. He’s done when he’s done, or you safe word. And you never have. He needs to be confident he’s broken the rebellious spirit.

He’ll take care of you after, of corse. Lotion and bandages and kisses better and honey green tea.

But only after you’ve gotten the message, and apologized for being a bad girl.

It’s not the only punishment you use. But it’s common.

Another rule in your home is that you sleep naked. It’s pretty obvious isn’t it? After your spankings, you generally went right into bed, so why would you re dress? You never wore pajamas. Maybe if you were traveling Brendon made exceptions, but not at home.

You took your shower, came out in your towel, and put it in the hamper before climbing into bed with your husband. At first the idea was intimidating and embarrassing. Now it was just normal.

Seldom a night goes by where you go to bed without having sex, anyway, so why would you waste the energy on clothes you don’t need?

Brendon bought you two the most amazing marital home. So you have the freedom and privacy for all these kinds of free displays of your body.

Besides from sleeping naked, you also are free to swaim in your swimming pool perfectly bare, too, with the massive trees surrounding your lawn. No tan lines for this girl.

Brendon fucking loves it, coming home to your nude form dozing by the pool tanning (soooo lucky he can see the high SPF beside you) or swimming laps the way god intended.

That privacy also means you two can do whatever you’d like in and beside that pool. And believe me. You have.

You have sex when and where and how Brendon wants. Free use. It’s a negotiated part of your relationship, one which always brings you a little rush. Becuase it’s so fucking nice to feel wanted, especially by your sexy husband. He just can’t keep his hands off of you. How lucky are you?

Brendon’s not greedy. It’s not like he’s interrupting your housework for a blowjob, or bending you over every surface. But sex happens on his terms. You’ve never even imagined having to initiate before. When you get horny before Brendon does, usually a desperate look and some fluttered eyelashes are enough to get him to take you.

Brendon sat on the couch, lazily reading though a case study when he watched you walk across the room in a little sundress. And he stopped you, making a beckoning gesture with his hand wordlessly, placing his iPad down. “What’s up, baby?” You asked, seeming innocent to the effect you were having on him. Heavy ties free in the dresses, nipples pushing the fabric. Skirt so short when you bent down to pick up a fallen piece of paper he saw your glistening folds. You realized quickly what he wanted, as he firmly held your waist, maneuvering you and man handling do you were now laying on the plush, large sectional couch. He pushed your dress up your hips and down your chest, straps falling down your arms to put your goodies on display for him. He unzipped his jeans, pulling out his rock hard cock. He brushed his fingers along your lips to see how wet you were, and of corse you were. You always got so worked up by his strength. He actually enjoyed foreplay a lot. Pleasing you. Making you cum on his fingers and tongue, playing with you. But you didn’t need that right now. He pushed in fast, enjoying the sounds you made in shock. You held your legs open for him before he took over, keeping you in a makeshift mating press. And he kissed as he fucked you, too. Always did, the romantic. Rubbed your clit softly, bringing you to peak before he emptied inside you. Watched his cum drip from you before he helped you up, righting your dress and slapping your ass as you walked away happy and mindless.

Half asleep, you felt his lips on your shoulder. “Sorry, Princess. I’ll be quick” he grunted. And then he was easing into you. You gasped, reaching behind you for him. You just went. And he needed you again. “Relax, relax. Good girl” he muttered. You fell asleep before you could see how the story ended. You woke up with Brendon still inside you.

You’ll settle into bed for the night, and Brendon will roll over to position himself on top of you, stroking your cheeks, saying how much he loves you, caressing and fondling and taking whatever he’d like. He’ll fuck you romantically like a good husband, rating you out, licking you clit, and fuck you steady, slow and deep.

And yes. Of corse, cliche as it is, bending you over the kitchen counter and taking.

And your ass belongs to him, too. Don’t try to fight it. Accept it. He’ll prep you, of corse, but if he wants your ass he’s gonna take it. Using lube to finger you while your bent over his knee, ignoring whines and moans and protests. Sometimes that’s all he wants, to play with your ass. Sometimes, he’ll full on fuck it. Or maybe put a toy in it. He likes to play with how wet you get while he’s in your ass.

Toys are for him, not you. He’ll use them however he wants. Harsh vibrators to make you cum over and over again until your sobbing pulling at the ropes that bind you desperately, but plugs nuzzled in your tiny little princess hole to keep you ready for him. He likes to make you suck on them before he puts them inside you.

Oh. And obviously he cums inside you. Every time. He’s your husband. That’s where his cum belongs, deep in his wife’s pussy. Sometimes he’ll shyly- a shock for Brendon- ask you to pretend you don want it. Only sometimes, rarely. He gets very into it. And so do you, because you love making him happy. “Please, please daddy don’t, don’t cum inside me, please. I don’t want it.” He knows what’s best for you. And what’s best for you it to carry his load every day.

There really isn’t any privacy between you two. Why would you need it?

Brendon loves your bathroom, and the crystal clear glass shower walls. Comes in just to watch you clean yourself sometimes. Often. Only joins on rare occasion. Usually he just likes the show. He tracks your location, all the time. For your safety of corse. Checks your phone. Watches you change. Come to all your doctors appointments. That’s all his right.

And the lack of “privacy”, or boundaries between you is actually a good thing. Seriously! It’s so helpful. For example, when you’re completely exhausted, Brendon can come into the shower, scrub you down, and carry you to bed like the princess you are. And when you get a flat tire, and are scared and lost, he knows exactly where to come save you. And a doctors ear at every appointment you admitted, and your doting husband advocating for you, is truly for the best.

Pussy inspections. Whenever he felt they were necessary. Which was usually when you got home for the day. First off, it’s important to know how Brendon feels about panties. Which is unfavorable. When you’re home, he wants them off. So your inspection, and his feeling about it, depend a lot on how your inspection goes. Brendon doesn’t especially like you in pants, either. But he’s not a barbarian. You can wear whatever you want! He’s not crazy. If you’re in a skirt, like a good girl, your inspection starts one of two ways. Either A) you just got home, so he demands you take your panties off to give to him, or B) he confirms weather you were good already did so already. And why would you ever be bad for your daddy? He’d never catch you disappointing him, you’re his good girl. His best girl. If you’re in pants from being outside? Oh, you can just strip all the way down for him. That’s fine.

Either way. Once you pass the first step, you know how he wants you to present. Hands behind your back, legs shoulder length apart. Sometimes, usually, that’s not enough for him, and he’ll kick your legs apart with one of his feet. It’s deeply humiliating, the way it knocks you down.

He then bends you over with a gentle hand between your shoulder blades and no words. You know by now what he wants. And he’s not cruel, he usually does it over something go you to rest on. The table, the counter, the couch, rarely the bed or your dresser- but usually this happens on the first floor of your house.

Then he takes his time. Staring at your sensitive, fluttering little hole. Checking your reflex’s to made sure you respond to his touch right, stroking your lips, pinching your clit, expanding it and rubbing it to make you cry out and shake, begging your daddy. Pushing a finger in to make sure you’re tight, that no one else has been in his pussy. Pushing that wet finger against your little hole, to check, just incase. Sometimes he toys with you longer than you expected, you don’t question it. Let him pinch and stroke and fondle. But you know that this isn’t for your pleasure.

He doesn’t like bras at home, either. And daddy’s inspections are through, so usually he checks for tits too. But that’s just for your health, of corse. When he orders you to turn around so he can squeeze them, thumb your nipples. The way he states in your eyes as he gently tugs on your nipples at his leisure, groping the heavy weights on your chest.

Then comes your mouth. Ordering it open, and brushing his thumb over your teeth, ensuring your oral health. Ensuring your gag reflex is intact- after all, that exists for a reason, it’s important, baby.

And then he makes a distant sound of satisfaction, nodding that your inspection is over. He approves. You’ve been chaste, and kept yourself for your husband. You redress if you must like nothing happened, usually jumping to happily finally greet your hubby home from work, kissing his cheek and hugging him tight, or talking him though your mall haul. And he smiles in pure bliss. “I missed you too, kitten. Tell me everything about your day.”, he asked, carrying you over to the couch so you can snuggle up while you fill him in.

Inspections are a daily occurrence. You can set your clock to it. Even in those rare miserable instances Brendon travels for a conference, best believe he’ll have you on face time, stripped down and fallowing his orders to present to him.

Spankings. There were two kinds of spankings. Maintenance and punishment.

Maintenance was for your own good, he reminded you. They happened twice a week, before bed. You knew the routine by now. It had never changed. At 9 pm you stripped bare, and bent over Brendon’s knee where he sat on the edge of the bed. He started with his hand. He reminded you that he loved you more than all the stars in the sky, and that this was to remind you of that. That daddy was grounding you, helping you release your stress and anxiety through the pain.

First came his hand, alternating between each cheek. Some spanks soft and firm, some hard and fast. 10 to each cheek. And then, five to your pussy. And you were usually so good about it, lacking ego and shame as you opened your legs for him, allowing him access to the sensitive flesh even if it hurt, even if it humiliated you and stung.

Then he moved onto his paddle, a special one of wood and leather you’d picked out together, five hits to each cheek and one blow between your legs to finish you off for the night. Short and fast. And he’d be so proud of you when you were done.

Unless.

Unless you acted up.

Oh, then things are different. See, you know to take your spanking like a good girl. To stay calm on his knee, to breath in and out slowly and steady, you know to ask daddy for his other hand to hold if you’re feeling too overwhelmed (because he’ll always give you it, you’re his fucking wife, he loves you, of corse he’ll hold your hand. He’ll take a break to stroke your hair, to kiss your head and remind you he loves you and you’re a good girl.). You know how to be good and take it. And you know if you do, if you are, when he looks between your legs and sees you got wet like his perfect girl, he’ll reward you for taking it so well.

So because you know better, if you act up there’s consequences.

His spankings are so short. He’s too soft on you, really. So there’s no excuse for insolence.

But if you squirm, and wiggle, and jump away, and fight it? You will be punished.

Those soft and firm spanks from before are gone once he has to get mean with you. And when you’re acting up like this, you both know, it’s because you’re craving that firmer hand. You need the discipline and structure. So he’ll give it.

He holds your back down hard as he adds firm slaps to your ass. And breaks out his horse whip for your pussy. Usually on these nights he has to hold you down with one hand as he spanks you hard, has to force your legs open to abuse your little holes. He’s only satisfied once he breaks you back into being his good girl, tears and sobs and apologies for being bad. That’s when he knows he’s done his job, and he can pull you into his arms, shush and rock you as he insists it’s all okay, all forgiven, and daddy loves you. When you act out, he knows, maybe even subconsciously, you need extra to get the release and rebirth this gives you. Need him to break you down to build you back up.

Punishment spankings are different. Not just on Wednesday and Sunday nights, but when they’re needed. They’re not as soft as maintenance spankings are. They’re intense. There’s different paddles and rules.

Rule one. No moving. No asking daddy to hold your hand, no subtly rubbing against his leg and him pretending to ignore it. This isn’t for anyone pleasure. It’s a punishment. You don’t get the comfort of daddy’s lap for these.

They vary depending on how angry he is and his mood.

Of corse, he knows how to calm down. He wouldn’t actually risk really hurting you in a blond rage.

Brendon’s a good man. And a good husband. You know he’d never hit you anywhere but your bottom. He’s expressed his loud and firm disgust at the idea of any man raising his hand to their wife. He’d never lay a finger on your face that wasn’t gentle and full of adoration. He’d never hurt you. But spanking is different.

Punishment is necessary.

Sometimes he’ll tie your hands behind your back with one of his belts.

Sometimes he’ll tie you to the 4 corners of the bed if you’ve been really bad.

Sometimes he can just expect you to stay in place and take it, those sessions where you know you ere bad.

And your misdeeds vary. And they affect how you’re punished. As does your remorse.

Not wearing panties out of the house, lying by omission, back talk, not taking proper care of yourself, being unkind to him, being unkind to yourself, making bad decisions, forgetting your wedding ring at home. Teasing him at work, touching yourself without permission, pushing stupid fights because you’re hormonal or stressed. All these things have different punishments.

But punishment spankings are hard. They’re can involve his hand, far harsher than normal. They can involve one of his expensive leather belts, making clean lines across your rear. It can be your paddle, harder than usual. Your horse whip, focused on your ass instead of your pussy, painful and mean to the puckered hole.

And satisfied last until he’s satisfied. He can count the amount of times on one hand, but you’ve bled. You’ve cried yourself horse. He’s done when he’s done, or you safe word. And you never have. He needs to be confident he’s broken the rebellious spirit.

He’ll take care of you after, of corse. Lotion and bandages and kisses better and honey green tea.

But only after you’ve gotten the message, and apologized for being a bad girl.

It’s not the only punishment you use. But it’s common.

Another rule in your home is that you sleep naked. It’s pretty obvious isn’t it? After your spankings, you generally went right into bed, so why would you re dress? You never wore pajamas. Maybe if you were traveling Brendon made exceptions, but not at home.

You took your shower, came out in your towel, and put it in the hamper before climbing into bed with your husband. At first the idea was intimidating and embarrassing. Now it was just normal.

Seldom a night goes by where you go to bed without having sex, anyway, so why would you waste the energy on clothes you don’t need?

Brendon bought you two the most amazing marital home. So you have the freedom and privacy for all these kinds of free displays of your body.

Besides from sleeping naked, you also are free to swaim in your swimming pool perfectly bare, too, with the massive trees surrounding your lawn. No tan lines for this girl.

Brendon fucking loves it, coming home to your nude form dozing by the pool tanning (soooo lucky he can see the high SPF beside you) or swimming laps the way god intended.

That privacy also means you two can do whatever you’d like in and beside that pool. And believe me. You have.

You have sex when and where and how Brendon wants. Free use. It’s a negotiated part of your relationship, one which always brings you a little rush. Becuase it’s so fucking nice to feel wanted, especially by your sexy husband. He just can’t keep his hands off of you. How lucky are you?

Brendon’s not greedy. It’s not like he’s interrupting your housework for a blowjob, or bending you over every surface. But sex happens on his terms. You’ve never even imagined having to initiate before. When you get horny before Brendon does, usually a desperate look and some fluttered eyelashes are enough to get him to take you.

Brendon sat on the couch, lazily reading though a case study when he watched you walk across the room in a little sundress. And he stopped you, making a beckoning gesture with his hand wordlessly, placing his iPad down. “What’s up, baby?” You asked, seeming innocent to the effect you were having on him. Heavy ties free in the dresses, nipples pushing the fabric. Skirt so short when you bent down to pick up a fallen piece of paper he saw your glistening folds. You realized quickly what he wanted, as he firmly held your waist, maneuvering you and man handling do you were now laying on the plush, large sectional couch. He pushed your dress up your hips and down your chest, straps falling down your arms to put your goodies on display for him. He unzipped his jeans, pulling out his rock hard cock. He brushed his fingers along your lips to see how wet you were, and of corse you were. You always got so worked up by his strength. He actually enjoyed foreplay a lot. Pleasing you. Making you cum on his fingers and tongue, playing with you. But you didn’t need that right now. He pushed in fast, enjoying the sounds you made in shock. You held your legs open for him before he took over, keeping you in a makeshift mating press. And he kissed as he fucked you, too. Always did, the romantic. Rubbed your clit softly, bringing you to peak before he emptied inside you. Watched his cum drip from you before he helped you up, righting your dress and slapping your ass as you walked away happy and mindless.

Half asleep, you felt his lips on your shoulder. “Sorry, Princess. I’ll be quick” he grunted. And then he was easing into you. You gasped, reaching behind you for him. You just went. And he needed you again. “Relax, relax. Good girl” he muttered. You fell asleep before you could see how the story ended. You woke up with Brendon still inside you.

You’ll settle into bed for the night, and Brendon will roll over to position himself on top of you, stroking your cheeks, saying how much he loves you, caressing and fondling and taking whatever he’d like. He’ll fuck you romantically like a good husband, rating you out, licking you clit, and fuck you steady, slow and deep.

And yes. Of corse, cliche as it is, bending you over the kitchen counter and taking.

And your ass belongs to him, too. Don’t try to fight it. Accept it. He’ll prep you, of corse, but if he wants your ass he’s gonna take it. Using lube to finger you while your bent over his knee, ignoring whines and moans and protests. Sometimes that’s all he wants, to play with your ass. Sometimes, he’ll full on fuck it. Or maybe put a toy in it. He likes to play with how wet you get while he’s in your ass.

Toys are for him, not you. He’ll use them however he wants. Harsh vibrators to make you cum over and over again until your sobbing pulling at the ropes that bind you desperately, but plugs nuzzled in your tiny little princess hole to keep you ready for him. He likes to make you suck on them before he puts them inside you.

Oh. And obviously he cums inside you. Every time. He’s your husband. That’s where his cum belongs, deep in his wife’s pussy. Sometimes he’ll shyly- a shock for Brendon- ask you to pretend you don want it. Only sometimes, rarely. He gets very into it. And so do you, because you love making him happy. “Please, please daddy don’t, don’t cum inside me, please. I don’t want it.” He knows what’s best for you. And what’s best for you it to carry his load every day.

There really isn’t any privacy between you two. Why would you need it?

Brendon loves your bathroom, and the crystal clear glass shower walls. Comes in just to watch you clean yourself sometimes. Often. Only joins on rare occasion. Usually he just likes the show. He tracks your location, all the time. For your safety of corse. Checks your phone. Watches you change. Come to all your doctors appointments. That’s all his right.

And the lack of “privacy”, or boundaries between you is actually a good thing. Seriously! It’s so helpful. For example, when you’re completely exhausted, Brendon can come into the shower, scrub you down, and carry you to bed like the princess you are. And when you get a flat tire, and are scared and lost, he knows exactly where to come save you. And a doctors ear at every appointment you admitted, and your doting husband advocating for you, is truly for the best.