p4neminem

He is practically slamming onto the buttons of his Nintendo controller now… with purpose, mind you—he has a plan, he will always pattern it, before anything has the chance to bite him back.

Yes, even a stupid game.

But with this amount of rigorous dedication—it is a miracle the joystick hasn’t come off—especially because then Dee might be tempted to force feed it to T. 

The single source of all his frustration—Taylor, who seems to have the reflects of a wet wipe. According to Dee, that might even be a generous assessment, especially when he is stoned. 

“Yo, dickhead—you have to chop the fucking lettuce before I can put it in the salad!”, Dee doesn’t look at T, laser-focused on getting his alligator chef to run to the serving station. Somehow that is even more terrifying than him actually putting down the game to have a go at the other man. 

Taylor filches instinctively, muttering a half-cognizant apology, trying desperately to keep up—like his life depends on it. Dee has this way of flipping everything on its head. If it is his problem, you can bet your nan’s birthday money that he will make it everyone else’s too.

“Who in their right fucking mind suggested we play ‘Overcooked’? When this clown can’t even tie his own shoes in this sorry state?!”, he is close to throwing that controller across the room as he slaps the back of Taylor’s neck. It’s not like the wall doesn’t bear evidence of his repeated appliance misuse. 

Instead, the level does that for him—the chiming ‘We are Toast!’ screen appearing in his face. Dee runs a hand through his face, yawning—suddenly bored when the adrenaline lowers enough. He is reactive like that without even realizing why—correction, before he can even realize why. “Introspection” was for pussies who deserve to get kicked in—what is important is what’s in front of you—surviving another day. 

Paul—the oldest man in the crew, gives an exacerbated look from where he is lounging at his usual deckchair. Why is that thing currently propped inside so he could read his newspaper? It's an old man thing—Dee stopped questioning it a long time ago. Especially now, when Paul had to lay low because he was reckless enough to get himself almost locked up. His seat was placed higher than the sunken lounge of the couch area—a testament to his place in the hierarchy. Some days ago, Dee had watched a ‘Planet Earth’ episode about alpha baboons sitting on elevated spots… the parallel sure get a laugh out of him in this baked state.

The older man's usual slow-paced cadence is even more dragged out, relaying just how tired he's gotten by the other two’s antics: “Settle down, will you? Bloody toddlers…”

Dee scoffs, already reaching for the bong again—another hit never hurt anyone… maybe? At least it never hurt him, not like people can. What little light enters the room through the taped cardboard boxes and newspaper clippings on the windows still manages to hurt his eyes—courtesy of dilated capillaries. And then his phone dings—not even the burner one, but the proper smartphone. He hasn’t heard that sound in ages, not unless it is noise from some Instagram page. 

He lowers the brightness and makes out the message—you, well the nickname he had fashioned for you after that night. 

Hey, haven’t heard from you in a while. I hope you are doing okay, Dee… I was wondering if we could hang out again soon? If you wanted to, of course.

His neck strains as he sends his head flying backwards. He doesn’t deserve good things. You definitely don’t need to be going down that road with him. Sure, he had been your trip sitter so many times, and sure he loved every second of how your face would somehow grow even softer as you let the weed relax you. But a girl like you… shouldn’t do that, shouldn’t want him. 

Had he been anyone else from this crew, save for Taylor—you'd probably been taken advantage of when you first met... and any time after. Hell, he knew even Paul had girls hooked on his shit, so he'd get the occasional fuck. “Strawberries”, they call them… And Dee is no saint either… but when he saw you that night—the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He just wanted to see what you were about, how you moved… to rub his eyes to a reality where something good still existed in this fucked up world.

Maybe it had been the Sabutex talking…

You know, angel, people don’t usually ask their dealer about their day before demanding smack. 

Great deflection, he feels almost proud if it’s not for the pang in his chest at the forced distance he put between you.

His thumb joints tremble across the phone screen as he adds:

Appreciate it, still.  

“You linking that girl again?”, Gaz, second in command, asks from the cushion next to Paul—voice far too peppy for Dee's liking. The man is making fun of him for growing soft—anything 'genuine' around these blokes reads like that. And the confirmation comes swiftly: “Look who's got man smiling at his phone!”, he laughs hoarsely, a guttural sound from his blackened lungs and nudges Paul like the lap dog he is.

“Whatever—just don't go moving my stock for free, yeah?”, Paul warns, putting his newspaper back up. Nonchalance embodied even if he can bite any second.

‘His’ stock… Dee hated being dependent on that snake. But the old man is clever—he didn't let any of the ‘low-level’ dealers get close to his supplier, or even meet him. If there is one thing big ego pricks like Paul hate is for someone to go over their heads. Paul eats first while shit… always flows downwards. But Dee has plans—a bigger player on the horizon. One he'd linked up with thanks to his work at a local garage. Patience is the name of the game now—even if he hates waiting. He has the ‘entrepreneurial’ mind to move stock better than Paul—has better ideas about it than that dinosaur could ever scramble together with his eggs of a brain.

“She's not my girl—”, Dee bites back, far too defensive, temperature slowly rising to a boiling point.

“No one said she was…”, Taylor corrects meekly.

That warning makes Dee’s jaw tense. He doesn't need the nervous wreck looking out for him. “And last I checked, bruv, no one was chatting to you!”, he gets off the couch abruptly.

As he passes the two older men on his way upstairs, however, Gaz can't help but rub salt in the wound—still sitting leisurely as ever, but extending a hand to stop Dee: “No? Say it with your chest then, big man… Maybe if she is free use, us old dogs can get some?”, he gestures between himself and Paul, getting up in Dee’s face. God help him—Dee tries to not cause a scene. He has to make this new connection work and for that… he needs to not have such a short fuse, to not call attention to himself like this. And over some... supposedly random girl?

But then the slimy fuck continues: “She looked mad with her pretty little dress. Bet she'd cry real sweet when I—” 

That does it—Dee sees red and swings. And it's none of them pillow hands—he lands heavy, putting his whole body into it without letting the man finish that sentence. The fat on Gaz's face isn't enough to cushion the blow, not when Dee is already looking to land a second, a third—his knuckles throbbing, already bloody. He can't hear anything around him at that point—not Paul shouting for his other attack dogs, not them coming hauling down and certainly not Taylor muttering self-soothing stims, curled on the couch, knees pressed against his face. Dee would get like this when he perceives a challenge, a threat—no way out of the gutter except for punching his way out.

Gaz has already stumbled backwards into his cheap folding chair—its limbs creaking under the sudden weight. Unlike Dee… who feels renewed. But then, two pairs of hands grab at each shoulder and drag him backwards. And just like that, he is swiftly put in time out…

Laying at his old childhood bedroom, Dee stares at his phone, catching a glimpse of the slashes across his knuckles. He is suddenly reminded of how he'd lay here—his mother having bandaged him tenderly after a fight at school... or at home—protecting her. She'd hum to him… the only sound that would get his heart to beat calmer, that would make his thoughts quieten. Even with a split lip—courtesy of Dee's father—her voice would never tremble. She had that quiet strength about her—that's not enough in this world. He shakes his head like the memory can slip loose with it…

You haven't responded yet… Did he scare you off by suggesting you'd text him just for exchanging favors? Nah, you are a smart girl… you had patience, even for low lives like him. A bleeding heart. Like his mother had been…

‘Angel’—damn it, damn you with that red sparking soft dress when you had entered their 'place of business' among the neon glow of that posh house party. Rich kids had vices—and they could indulge gluttonously. Dee enjoyed working the nights in these places—milking all those trust fund, silver spooned college kids. He could up his prices without any protest on the other side. They'd just hand the cash like it was nothing—all to get another high. Need for instant gratification definitely ran deeper for spoiled brats.

And then, there you were—you didn’t even know what you were in the mood for—just being sent on a mission from your friends, hoping your inexperience would result in a discount. Dee lets out a huff now, remembering how you had a list prepared, crumpled from sweat and nerves. What a good, proper girl—he'd thought to himself. You looked overwhelmed, not just by the fact you were soliciting drugs but something about the music at that point had made you flinch at almost every beat drop.

What were you doing here? You'd almost bumped into him on the way in—looking anywhere else in an attempt to not meet anyone's eyes. Like someone would be able to sniff out that you didn't belong. 

“S-sorry—”, you'd murmured. Dee wouldn't have known what you were saying hadn't he gotten scarily good at reading lips in such loud environments.

He could see that you were trying to gather yourself as you were forced to take him in. His tall, broad and covered in tattoos frame probably made him look like the big bad wolf, just itching to munch on the little red riding hood in front of him, who'd wandered into his debauched forest. 

“I-I am looking for Dee?”, you had clarified. 

He was definitely making you nervous… why did he enjoy that?

“Well, you've found him.”, he stretched out his arms to emphasize: “Though you look like you've stumbled into the wrong fairytale, angel…”, the pet name had left his lips before he could think better of it. It was far too fitting...

And then there was your chuckle that cut through the thrumming bass like sun rays through rain clouds. He wanted to bottle that sound and listen to it on repeat when things got dark. 

In the meantime, someone was gracefully vomiting into a potted plant just behind you in the hallway, but Dee didn't hear, couldn't and wouldn't care… not when he was certain you were placing him under some spell. When you'd looked back to your mandated 'shopping list' and he lost your gaze, he wanted to gain it back immediately—bending at his knees slightly just to catch that curious twinkle as you came back up. 

“Believe me… I'd much rather be getting a milkshake or something.”, you'd confessed: “Uhm, just the pie—silo—psilo—sila—”

Shrooms. Your friends had sent you for shrooms and you'd written down their scientific name all proper like it was some textbook you were getting for your courses. You shook your head, abandoning any attempt to pronounce it and just listed off the rest—looking up at him, relief in your eyes like he would finally give you candy.

Instead, he just took the paper, crumpled it and stuffed it into his pocket: “Sweetheart, no.”, his voice sliced—determination so palpable that it left no room for rebuttals. His blue eyes had fixed you with a look that was far too… careful?

Dee didn't want to believe it—as he doesn't want to accept it now while waiting for your text back. He'd denied easy money and for what? So that you wouldn't be 'corrupted' by your so-called friends? He somehow knew exactly who would send you, because he'd seen his sorry ass getting shitfaced in the garden of the large house not ten minutes ago… that crackhead Alex with too much money and too little sense. 

His folks had figured out his habits—like it was hard detective work to put two and two together when his allowance would get drained faster than he could fail his exams. Alex had gone to Dee after—tail between his legs—asking to sell as a means to fund his addiction. But in all his experience, the dealer knew better. Sure he’d partake—“get high on his own supply” every now and again, but he wasn't a slave to it. He could be trusted. And that was precisely why he didn't want you doing Alex’s dirty business. Or worse yet—that waste man getting you hooked on shit. 

Why did he have an issue with that? He sold drugs, for crying out loud—he had no morals to speak of. Many people went down the rabbit hole because of him. But maybe when it came to you… it wasn't something as general as suddenly growing a heart.

“B-but I have to—”, you tried to argue, voice quivering. As your eyes darted around, worried about what to tell that leech if you didn't return with his order—you'd landed on Paul's scowl... and just froze. Like a deer caught in headlights.

The old bastard wasn't exactly pleasant, but… your reaction had been something far beyond casual discomfort. Weird—he cataloged it for later. 

Wait—run that back? He noted something about someone that wasn't pure business? Maybe he was indeed more stoned than usual…

“You don't have to do anything, angel.”, he was almost pissed at you, for you? No, no way—but his mouth had moved on its own: “Tell you what…”, he'd sidestepped, shielding you automatically: “I'll go speak with that mug myself. And this—”, he reached into his endless pocket—the metallic shine of his cigarette case catching in the colorful lights all around the room. With a soft clink, it opened and he produced a joint, inspecting it almost proudly. Tightly wound, the filter tip so carefully folded into a signature triangle shape—a slight squeeze of it sealed it as Dee had passed it to you: “—is on the house. For you. Not Alex's greedy ass.”

You'd picked it up, the brush of your fingers with his was far too electric. Then… you were sniffing it like a… curious rabbit.

“It smells like basement—but thanks… I think.”, you'd smiled—small and careful and Dee was sure he must have some undiagnosed heart issues. 

He recovered quickly though, or he liked to remember he did: “Basement's one way to put it…”, he rolled his eyes, feigning offense as you’d fumbled with the joint he'd so carefully crafted—ground, laid out, mixed with tobacco and rolled. To him, it was a science—a ritual that'd calm him every time he would open a baggie and now… he was passing the dissolute torch to you. Yet there you were—pawing at it like a kitten with a new toy. “You know, streets call my cali top-shelf more like—”, he corrected with no bite to it, just a joke that settled like tasty smoke between the two of you: “—but sure, let's go with ‘dank crypt’.”

Yet another chuckle, although more strained as you’d tried to exit the room—putting any distance you could with Paul… for some reason. Dee should have let you walk away then… he should have—he had a whole shift to cover, more money to make. You know—the actually important things. 

But he wanted to see what you were made of—looking all anxious, yet as if you'd seen enough from the world and people in it to know better. Not timid, but careful… He enjoyed taking complicated things apart, only to make sense of them and put them back together. A mechanic at heart as well as in practice—he needed to see it for himself that there were good things in life still, kind things—not because they were untouched by its ugly sides but in spite of that.

And so, he had reached for your retreating form, grabbing lightly on your shoulder out of nowhere—that rose tattoo sprouting on the back of his hand weirdly fitting right in with the red straps of your dress. Your shoulders had slumped—not in fear but relief—like you'd been holding your breath all night but for some unexplainable reason you'd finally let it out when you met his eyes again.

“About that milkshake—”, he wanted to speak more softly—discussing something as innocent seemed far more daunting to him than shouting off his various illegal on-sell options. But, forced to raise his voice over the music, he continued: “There's a 24-hour diner two blocks from here. They do mad desserts and… something tells me you could use a break from this place. Maybe have a chill trip after and all?”, he'd enticed. 

You'd looked around, biting your lip in contemplation… he wanted to bring his fingers to your chin—tilt it just so, in order to never lose sight of your warmth. But this wasn't some “get down fast and dirty” situation… he'd savor this—like you were his to grind and roll. His ritual.

“You sure? I don't want to get in the way of your work.”, you'd tilted your head inquisitively as your voice cut through his brain fog. That's all the confirmation he needed that you, in fact, were itching to get in the way—to share this with someone. 

“Work?”, Dee echoed with a wholehearted snort, shaking his head: “Nah, angel—these idiots'll still be here at sunrise—begging for another hit.”

Like a conveniently placed prop, proving his point, Dee kicked at a fully passed out guy with his sneakers—just to check if he was still breathing. The poor trust-fund bloke was alive, alright—bet his pride would be intact as well come morning even if he was gone down the slide now. Money could earn you all of it back.

You’d looked between Dee and the sight at your feet, nodding along. Then, something had crept up in you—an unguarded smile spreading to your eyes as you'd added more confidently: “Okay but fair warning… I get an extreme case of the munchies when I'm high.”

That sweet smile juxtaposed your words in the most maddeningly enticing way possible. You weren't all that innocent after all… the little red riding hood didn't know how to get her supply well enough but she'd indulged before… Perfect.

“Oh, angel, Jacob's waffles will have you full in no time. But if you get that desperate, we could always go back for round two…”, he winked and almost instantly regretted it. 

What happened to getting to see what you were, instead of pouncing on you? It was a difficult instinct to keep in check. Again… he was no better than his associates and he wasn't trying to be. It'd more so be… an experiment—taking you apart.

That diner had become his meeting spot for all things unsavory. What with Jacob—the owner—having known Dee from as far back as when he’d barely reach the gruff man’s waist. Now, Dee towered over the old guy with good two heads or so—allowing him to move however he pleased. A dangerous thing to get used to. Jacob had seen worse… used needles and wrappers left all over the small bathroom stalls after Dee would bring some of his prettier clientele. But he would always cut Jacob a piece of the pie. So, yes—you could show up with him—high as a kite and the owner wouldn't bat an eye. No reason to gut your golden goose if it can continue shitting you golden eggs.

You hadn't addressed his double entendre directly—your own way of graciously allowing him to correct the course: “I'll see you in ten minutes then—by the statue outside the house? I'd prefer the milkshake sober…”

That's when Dee had realized that maybe it was an experiment for you too. The other side of the same coin—seeing whether people like him were all bad after all.

He is so lost in the memory now, almost reliving it—heavy limbs and eyes—just staring at the gray skyline as he lays on his side. When he was little and staying over at his grandparents… he'd imagine he could grow wings and fly over the roofs of all those identical houses. Going… nowhere—just consumed by a constant need to run and escape from life. Even his image as “top dog” now is… well, just another form of escape—‘the “good life” lets you hide all the sadness you feel’… or whatever that song is that he pretended he didn’t give a rat’s ass about.

Then there was your shared getaway—you'd never told Dee what it was about Paul that made you fold in on yourself and he never asked… he figured you telling him about your abusive shit of an ex was more than enough. That your only ever experience with weed had actually been a panic attack, caused by your ex's shouting—not some warm, hungry feeling like you'd made it out to be initially. You'd been running late, unable to cook him dinner because you had to study… he'd made you believe it was okay— even offered you to smoke together. Turns out, it had all been a ploy to get you vulnerable and more pliant… as he'd start accusing and throwing things.

“Granted, I'd get panic attacks just on the daily—it really messes with your head when someone that's supposed to love you tells you that you don’t deserve to live… Just for not being of use to them...”, you'd said as Dee pushed you on the swing. 

“You are much more than that—”, he'd tried to assure. Empty words that were spoken a thousand times in human history. But he'd tried—to relay something meaningful with them.

“Issue is, you feel like that's all you can be when you are with someone like that… it's like… that it's all you ever were—useless.”, you'd interrupted, like you were afraid Dee would fill your heart with void promises. And he knew that feeling well—maybe not firsthand but… the dynamic of it. 

“But now you are finding out who you can be? Ain't that exciting?”, he'd tried and you'd nodded with a carefree giggle. 

He'd found it hard to speak at that moment… but once he could, he told you about Sophia—about his mother. Her name—a constant tattooed reminder on his neck. The stars had become so blurry that night but he didn’t think for a second about leaving you as he sat on the swing next to you, passing you a lit cigarette. 

“Those always taste more tolerable when I'm not sober…”, you'd admitted. Not to try and wallow in pity or as a self-deprecating joke, but to just be present… to observe it all. 

Dee had noticed you were far more chatty when you were high—perceptive, analytical and daring all at once. Your next question assured him of it.

“Why have it tattooed there?”, you'd just taken a long drag as if the question had been brewing in your lungs and now you had to fill them back up with something—with the smoke. Your legs dangled off the swing and for a moment he thought maybe you were flying—not off to somewhere, not away—but with him.

“My father strangled her—”, he said, his turn to fill his chest: “—it's fucked up—”, the tar burned his throat: “—but I needed to remember… that she had a chance to find out what she can be without him too… But he took it from her.”, he'd averted his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek as his voice wavered uncharacteristically: “And I wasn't there to—” 

He hadn't cried… at least that's what he'd liked to remember of that night as you took his hand, squeezing it tight. That moment had felt far more intimate than any physical “escape” he'd ever had before… with girls who'd rather snort lines he'd chop in the bathroom for a quick blowjob than notice the amazing Oreo crunch Jacob would always add to the strawberry milkshakes. 

You'd noticed. You'd seen so much it felt like he'd shed his skin.

“The forget-me-nots are beautiful around her name… we used to have so many of these blue little things in my grandfather's garden.”, you'd illustrated as your hand had trembled in his. Like you could reach out to the past and grab the flowers and maybe something else too.

The memory of the sun coming up, washing the two of you clean as you'd sat there in the park suddenly shrinked as Dee feels his phone vibrate against his hand on the bed. Blurry stars turn into blurry pixels as he reads…

I just want to see you… if you want it too. I prefer my milkshake sober.

He laughs out loud, a breathless sound… he'd sold you weed a couple of times after. Each of them resulted in you calling him hyperventilating and him telling you about his stupid day to calm you down. You were his favorite customer but once you'd stopped calling or texting—he'd figured you got your fix and moved on. 

Maybe there's more to it after all. Maybe not everyone flies away eventually.

Your apartment is a reflection of you—soft but hiding under layers of doubt. Blankets and plushies tucked away hastily as you make him tea.

“My roommate is on an exchange thing…”, you aren't sure where you are going with that sentence. It's not like you expect to sleep with him—you'd called, texted, been in his van but he never once made a move on you… not fully.

“Ah, so I'm just a replacement because you got bored, angel?”, he teases as he takes the tea from you—warmth spreading from his palms across his body.

You chuckle, nudging him as you settle on the couch: “No! Of course not…”, you assure: “I've actually wanted to invite you over for a while now. But my ex started showing up to uni, he almost… followed me here until campus security got involved. So I guess I've been… hiding from everything.”, you shrug, buzzing with honesty like you need to untie that ball of nerves that's been matted.

“You should've said something—”, Dee puts down the tea, suddenly pained: “—I mean, angel—look at me, I can scare that coward shitless just by glaring at him.”

He doesn't say it from a place of care, he can't admit to that. More territorial than anything, expecting you to hang onto his every word. Wanting you to swoon at his show of raw power over everything and anything, to rely on him. Instead, you do something far more precarious—you see him as human—

“You don't owe me that…”, you assure, thumb tracing the warm mug where you hold it—self-soothing.

He doubles down, putting that distance back between you two: “Psh”, he releases a breath between his teeth, dismissive: “Of course not—I'm just the guy you buy from every single fucking week—knowing it'd make you feel anxious. Then you don't get a restraining order on your ex's ass, you play errand girl for the likes of Alex—the list goes on. What—you don't have a head on your shoulders?”, he raises his voice, fully facing you from where he sits.

“I didn't say that, Dee, come on. I told you—this isn't about me wanting a free hit!”, you defend, voice catching in your throat: “You came knowing it'd just be… us.”

He laughs with his full body, almost offended: “And what's ‘us’, angel? What do you think I am to you, hm, if not your dealer? Since I don't ‘owe you’ shit.”, he air quotes, mimicking your voice in a shrill.

Dee could be anywhere else now, yet in his mind—he is humiliating himself with petty things like ‘emotions’, dangerous things—all because you know how to pull at his strings. There are half a dozen girls who are one call away, waiting for the cheap thrill of it. But he is here… So maybe his “needs” were of a far different caliber ever since that first night.

“That's what I'm trying to figure out… with you. Don't you think there's more to this than feeling like a puppet on strings? After how much we've shared?”, you emphasize.

That's how you'd described being high—uninhibited but not on your own accord, like something was pulling you and the honesty out. It had aided in stripping down some walls between you two… but what is the point if, once sober, it's like nothing happened? 

You don't dare ask what he sees you as—not now, after he got to the question first. But at the mere reminder of how open he'd been with you, he flinches like you'd burned him—like you are using it against him. He doesn't see the care in your voice—and even if he does, he cannot trust it. Dee had never trusted anyone else enough to share the meaning of that tattoo. To him, the way you'd held him that night should've made him nauseous. He is a man, a pillar, he isn't weak… he will show you as much. 

“More to it?”, he huffs a frustrated laugh as he smirks sharply—an aligator ready to deliver its death roll: “Cuz you shared so much, yeah? The little sob story over your ex? Bet you never went where it really hurts—not like I did.”, he accuses, cruel now.

“It's not a competition of who opens up first, Dee—”, you try but that only angers him more, as you try to get through to him: “I didn't bring it up to make you feel like you owe me something… just to know it meant a lot to me.”

“Aw that's just precious—”, his tone bites, teeth-grinding, hating what bubbles inside him… he turns on the offensive again: “Who's Paul to you then, angel?”

You widen your eyes, trying to swallow down the lump that suddenly forms in your throat… so you keep silent, thoughts racing. Had he seen how you reacted that night? Of course he did —you'd tried to not let it affect you but you always wear your emotions on your sleeve. 

“Ha, not so easy to ‘share’, is it? So what—you just want to squeeze it out of me—get to dangle it in my face, thinking you know me?! But when it's time for you to pay up, you play scared…”, he taunts to assert he's stronger, braver for not caring. Always on the lookout…

“Paul? I—I don't know a Paul…”, you try to play, but your voice is thinner now.

“Angel…”, his voice wavered with frustration: “—don’t play nitty with me, yeah? I saw how small you got that night when you caught just a whiff of him…”, every word was slower, building up to him glaring at you: “Here, imma spell it out real nice and slow: Who. Is. Paul. To. You?”. Every word feels like an icicle drilling into you.

You suck in air as you look away—gripping onto the cushions tight, your knuckles almost white. “Why do you think I'll tell you, when you're being like this?”, your voice is barely audible.

Dee abandons his tea then, pushing himself off the couch fast—to look at you, to corner you: “Like what?! News flash, angel—this is who I am!”, his voice raises slowly but surely, hands flailing to match his tone: “Not some sorry case you can ‘save’ if you just sit pretty and listen to my shit! Some fucking stray you can domesticate so you can feel better about yourself!”

You flinch at the sudden movement, recoiling in an attempt to become one with the couch. The look on his face is cold and detached, a furious storm dancing in his blue eyes—like his words come from the deepest pits of his soul but emotionally he is somewhere else, protecting himself too. You've seen that look before—granted, not on Dee— but like muscle memory, your immediate response is to make yourself smaller, hands over your ears, chanting apologies that no one heard before…. that were never needed. 

Suddenly, his rant stops with a hiccup—like a hammer has come to nail him down back to reality—and he sees you, trembling, shrinking… because of him. And for what is probably the first time in his life, he doesn't feel good about asserting his ego above all else. For the first time —the cost of it is too great. Because you are the only person with whom life hasn't felt like it's all about survival. Even if he doesn't allow himself to think that—even if it's ‘beneath him’ to consider it. Maybe it was the weed… or a weird ass combination of you and the weed. It hurts to think about emotions, when he’s so unused to. It’s foreign, because ‘men shouldn't cry’. Anger—that is allowed, in fact, it's ‘good’, because it means you are an authority. But that belief… is what got him here—the reflection of his father staring back from the glass coffee table. In all his attempts to escape—he'd wound up exactly where he'd feared... because he knew nothing else.

And just like that, the big bad wolf, covered in ink from head to toe, crouches next to you—shedding his fur, his shield—to reveal a lamb long-lost, approaching another. It isn’t warm, it isn’t even fully realized, but he is trying—even if it is just to get through to you. 

“Shit, I—”, Dee starts, fog lifting from his eyes: “—I didn't mean to get you spooked.”

He did mean it—but just never thought it'd hurt to see the results. You shake your head, trying to apologize on repeat—like a broken record. He is suddenly reminded of Taylor and how he'd get all twitchy. Not that Dee knew how to deal with that besides popping a pill and running from it. 

Then two words enter his mind. Dog fights… Well, not the fighting itself, dumbass—Dee thinks to himself. But rather… he knows how to calm a pit bull after—his father had made sure of it. And in a sense… you are battling with yourself now, right? It shouldn't be so different…

He raises his hand from a distance, testing the waters—shushing you, largely speaking nonsense of ‘you are okay, it's safe’. But when someone is so scared… would the contents really matter? So long as the intent was there—selfish intent, yet fully his. You blink, like you are coming back from a particularly nasty dream—seeing his mouth move, perceiving more so his body language and… his eyes—clearer, brighter, almost hopeful and begging you to come back to him.

You don't know why… but it just feels right to slowly remove one hand from where it was cupping your ear and bring it up to his extended palm. First, the fingers, then the rest—making full contact. His hand was so much bigger than yours… and somehow that doesn't make you feel scared but… safe and warm. You swear you see Dee's breath hitch at that as he takes his other hand to unclasp yours from where it still gripped your hair on the other side—gently. You had never imagined him being capable of that, yet here he is—trying. Maybe for a selfish reason… maybe even manipulating his way into your heart, but fuck… it works.

And then you realize, it isn't just words anymore… he is singing. Not with his full chest like one would do at karaoke but— softly humming. 

Oh the good life To be free and explore the unknown Please remember, I still want you And in case you wonder why Well, just wake up and kiss the good life goodbye

A song his mother would sing to him too—about the facade of an ideal life… about how waking up from it means being vulnerable.

“Y-you have a nice voice—calming…”, you admit and your sudden lucidity almost startles him.

“The only good thing my old man left me, it seems.”, he sighs.

“I'm sorry—you're right. I can't—well, it's hard for me to put myself first, you know. Talking to you, buying from you was actually an attempt at that… sounds pathetic probably.”, you chuckle self-degrading and realize just how tangled the two of you are now. Each hand was occupied with the other's.

“It's not—it wasn't fair for me to hold it against you, angel…”, he admits, far too introspective for his liking—'kissing' the ‘good life’ goodbye it seems, if only attempting to: “Hell, I am the one who sold to you—hoping you'd call all nervous, that you'd come again… I liked… seeing you like that.”

Dependent on him—he’d just admitted as much. Yet, in your head—the only thing that matters, the only thing that echoes and that you want to make sense of is—

Your brows furrow: “You… wanted me coming back?”

Not all the other fucked up implications of it—he is who he is and you are who you are. And maybe that's enough… for two lost people.

Dee nods, not able to voice the real feelings underneath it, masking them still: “I mean who’s gonna ask me all those stupid questions? ‘Hey, Dee do you think squirrels know they are cute—like, conceptually?’—who thinks of shit like this but you, angel? And then... you doing all that magic card trickery for me—that sent me in a frenzy… deadass.”, he chuckles so fondly remembering it now.

Over the facetime—you having laid the cards out and suddenly going: ‘Yikes’ when The Tower had fallen off. He had that big meeting with his then-potential supplier the next day. So, there he’d been—pacing his room, low groans of frustration leaving him with each step, hands combing through his hair messily: ‘Why's The Tower bad?! Ain't they like escaping from it and shit? Look at that bloke, he is basically out of the flames already! Angel, don't play with me—this is some serious shit I'm dealing with, yeah?’. You'd laughed with tears in your eyes then, assuring him it could be just ‘new beginnings’. Then, the Ace of Pentacles appeared and he could breathe more easily. ‘Gave me heart palpitations worse than my parley… I should let you tag along next time I'm betting, you hear?’

You are his lucky charm after all. Because he'd scored the deal… just like the cards—just like you—had told him.

“Yeah, well—”, you sniff, lighter now: “—you have to think on those existential topics from time to time… it's good for your brain!”

You flick Dee's forehead for emphasis and he is just as surprised as you are at the audacity. Then, he matches it by plopping back next to you—sinking into the couch cushions. 

“You know what else’s real good for the brain?”, he drawls as he raises his hips slightly—his sweatpants leaving little to the imagination with the teasing V-line that appears—producing the very same cigarette case you’d seen when you first met him. And there, in its silvery confines, stood a perfectly rolled joint… with a bow on its narrow tip, made from the same rolling paper. “The paper smells like Skittles by the way—thought you might appreciate a little flare and all.”

“Thank you, but... I think I want to tell you about Paul before that…”, you say—putting yourself first.

He nods and leaves the cigarette case opened on the table—a silent offering. But he doesn't say another word—both because he doesn't know what he should be saying right now and because he wants you to have the space. Intuitively… that's the right move. 

“Paul is… was my father.”, you say, swallowing the truth down: “He left or… was made to leave when my mom was pregnant with my sister. I'm not sure he even recognized me at the party—it's been years, but… it felt like I was back again at that awful place when I saw him.”, you take a sip from the tea, long gone cold, in an attempt to ground yourself. 

Dee inches closer, wanting to feel what it's like to be so open without the high. He doesn't like it—not fully. It's like small wasp bites dancing on his skin or like low but persistent voltage settling in his stomach. Uncomfortable… not unwanted, maybe? 

“But you aren't—I'm not there either.”, he tells you and himself—even if he knows he acts the way he does, because sometimes he too gets sent to his own helpless time. “You know…”, Dee says, throat dry but he continues grating through it: “… I'll be leaving Paul's ‘employment’ soon enough—he is a jackass to everyone ‘under’ him. So, let's just say, I'm even more motivated to succeed now, in my endeavors and all. Bastard deserves a proper beating.” You shake your head with a huff and Dee puts his hands up in mock defense: “Metaphorically speaking or whatever—”

He doesn't thank you for telling him about it… somehow it feels like if he does, he'd be suggesting it's really ‘leverage’. But a part of him definitely wishes he'd taken a swing at Paul too this morning, or at least made sure Gaz landed conveniently on top of him. Things happen in a fight…

Whatever life had been—it got you two here, passing a skittles-smelling twinkling stick on the small apartment terrace.

You are not sure how you'd ended up in his lap but the bean bag is snug enough for two… and his solid chest is far more comfortable than the raggedy metal chair. His hands come to encircle your waist as he taps to get rid of the residue in the ashtray. 

Then, instead of passing you the joint like he'd done the past three rounds or so, he pinches the tip between his thumb and pointer finger—like he might take another hit himself. He is a greedy man but it seems his indulgence takes another, more pointed direction as he brings it to your lips directly. You turn slightly, surprised—your left peripheral vision meeting his eyes, set dead on you and your every movement.

“What? Afraid it'll suddenly bite because it's from my hands?”, Dee teases, his voice thicker from all the heavy smoke that still rests at his throat: “Guess you won't be needing that then…”

As he slowly tries to bring the joint back to his lips instead, you clasp your fingers around his wrist, trying to pull his hand back to your mouth with a small whine. He's unmoving through it—the tiniest bracing of his forearm muscles enough to catch you at a standstill. “Nah, you had your chance for a freebie—now you gotta ask real nice, angel… grease a bit, come on.” 

You puff out in a pout and squirm in place—trapped between his thighs. Now that you look down you realize just how massive he is compared to you. It makes you feel… flustered, safely so. Not the kind that rushes, but the slow and steady kind. The kind that makes you stand up, turn to face him and bracket his legs with your own—effectively straddling him. 

“Is this better?”, you ask, trying to sound more confident… more alluring.

He huffs in disbelief but quickly nudges his chest forward… pretending that the abrupt change in position doesn't affect him in the slightest. 

“I didn't hear you asking, angel… just trying to take like this—very naughty.”, he tsks with a smirk, stretching so that the joint is even further away from your reach. The moment he leans back, you feel an unmistakable hardness pressing against your core—like you'd slotted in the perfect spot with your thighs spread like this. You try to not make a sound as you clutch your knees like it will somehow make the want spreading through you less obvious. He doesn't move to get you off of him… but he isn't pushing for anything to happen. Like he's content with playing this game—so long as it's with you. Instead, he snakes his free hand up your thigh where your shorts ride higher… you feel each callous—undoubtedly from all the lifting at the gym and it sends shivers through you. And then a yelp as he pinches at your waist… a reprimand for taking your time, for getting lost without him.

He isn't used to the patience of it—but it seems everything around him demanded he start taking things in stride. Starting with the supplier deal and ending with you, both intoxicatingly lucrative for entirely different reasons—one to give him independence, the other—his to savor, long and sweet. 

“May I have the joint back, Dee…”, you look away, licking your lips—tasting the artificial rainbow: “… please?", you add with forced reluctance.

He scratches the slight stubble on his chin in mock contemplation, rolling his eyes from side to side—the capillaries already so angry and red… unlike him.

“Sure… but you gotta kiss me first.”, he says, and surprisingly points to his cheek. You want to laugh out loud at that—you never expected him to ask for something so childishly silly. Yet, it makes you melt… that he isn't pressuring you into anything further—just wants you to enjoy the feeling of him. 

It feels so right… so dizzyingly right that you lean and press your lips right next to where his finger still rests. You sense the rough stubble against your plush lips and you take him in… lavender, his grandmother’s detergent—always used, he'd told you, even all those years later. Your eyelashes flutter against his face— and you can't help yourself… you move to gently bite on his finger. It's his fault that he is so frozen by your willingness after all… He hissed at that, hips stuttering below you in synchrony with his breath as he then tugs the very same hand up through your scalp—the small pull making you roll your hips unintentionally against him.

Dee drawls in that dangerous but warm tone, just for you: “Baby… I said ‘ask nicely’, not ‘bite the hand that feeds you’…” 

“Something tells me you preferred the second option.”, you assure, pulling out your tongue at him as you try to bring your mouth closer to the joint that threatened to go out soon.

He relents that much and offers it up to you—holding tightly on both you and it with almost equal intensity. As you inhale deeply, your throat tingling with that rich taste like honey, Dee doesn't let you rest. He leaves your scalp only for his now free hand to travel up your sides—below his hoodie, the one he'd draped over you on the first night so you won't get cold. You held onto it, greedily and now—you are paying with interest. Because watching it swallow you whole does things to him, makes him want to feel just how much his hands could cup and cherish. It's ticklish, how his fingers dance along your ribs, so much so that your breath catches around the tip of the joint, making you choke. He tries to bite back a groan the moment he realizes you really aren't wearing a bra. It's your house after all… you are just getting comfy—lucky him…

“Easy, angel…”, he hushes as his hand cups the swell of your breast, thumb resting but not yet teasing your nipple.

“Dee—”, you whine into his touch, choking out smoke and inevitably driving him mad with all those small little trembles against him.

“What's that? Just some weed and a little touching and you're already all stupid f'me, huh?”, he teases but it's clear from how tight his jaw clenches, how slurred his words are and the slow drag he takes—that he's just as far gone as you are. His eyes never leave yours though as he holds the smoke, swallowing it down all the while pressing circles into your nipple… like he's trying to memorize the shape of you, every tremble you make. You can't help but nod feverishly, agreeing with his assessment—twisting your hands into the fabric of his tee, searching to stay present, to not fly away at how good it feels.

As he leaves the joint onto the ashtray, appearing carefree… the casualty of it all makes your heart stutter. You take that hand gently in yours, scratching your nails along his forearm purposefully as you bring his fingers to your lips. Slowly, you kiss every tip, open-mouthed, sighing as you close your eyes—like the action itself, being so close to him is the most soothing thing. And maybe right now it is… when you are both so floaty. He lets out soft curses, rolling your nipples with every kiss you leave as he cups your cheek, bringing you closer—forehead to forehead. Now, it's his turn to drive upward into you—chasing some pressure, any pressure, every inch of you against the throbbing ache.

The joke is right on the tip of his tongue— are you both in high-school or something? Humping like rabbits in heat… but it doesn't leave his mouth, not when you whimper so sweetly, breath heavy against his lips. It's desperate but waiting, savoring—just what he needs but could never bring himself to seek. And with you—he doesn't have to—you are the velvet wrapping around his ragged edges. Never able to smooth them, always poking and prodding at you, lodging in the very fibre of your being. You won't have it any other way, you realize as his face inches impossibly closer—tongue darting out to swipe across your lips, curling in tandem with a smirk—the softest question he can muster. And you let it consume you as you chase the taste of him back. He captures your lips earnestly then—hunger given flesh, not a fairytale, but a cacophony of teeth and ragged breaths. A desperate sound is caught in your throat as he pulls at your bottom lip, hand twitching around the back of your neck—unsure of whether to claim more or to push you away. Instead, both of his hands come to rest around you, low on your back—making sure you are still real as he looks past your shoulder onto the skyline. 

“I love the sunset after rain…”, he ponders absent-mindedly. 

“Me too—feels like it takes everything bad away.”, you smile as you rest your head on his chest. 

He is big, so it is no wonder, but it still catches you by surprise—just how big his heart is as the thumps pull you inevitably closer to him. You reach your hand up and comb through his buzzcut, feeling the small hairs prickle at your fingers as he rests his head on top of yours. And when the sun fully sets and the smell of rain lingers… everything bad flies away, but somehow there's enough left of everything else for both of you to finally stay. 

The lecture hall was far too exposing—pristine white walls with golden ornaments that only served to echo the cold fluorescent light coming from the bulbous fixtures. Those vial-like tubes covered the ceiling in a manner that was far too symmetrical—humming, not with life, but with caged energy. She'd hoped that at least when it came to literary analysis of the classics, the auditorium would match the lyrical decorum of the material discussed, the balmy comfort the texts would bring. But it seemed the only place that held any semblance of warmth within the University was its library—a separate building erected right next to the glass-domed Presidential greenhouse. The ceramic water-colored lamp lights and carved wooden benches, cushioned with velvet, that echoed a pre-War era certainly brought comfort. Naturally, this was all funded by Coriolanus a long time ago… anyone looking out of the baroque floor-to-ceiling windows, intricately framed with wrought iron, would see the white roses emerging from emerald bushes in the adjacent hothouse— ever-watching, a reminder that any unpalatable reading material can quickly be uprooted. 

Nowhere is truly ‘private’ in the Panem, or in the Capitol for that matter. Citizens prefer to think they are the exception, certainly that is how it has always been portrayed… but they are just as much of a cog in the machine. With the important distinction that they got to keep their lives far more often on average—unless they got in way over their heads… 

Coriolanus had cameras everywhere, even places he wouldn't care for in the past had some Peacekeeper assigned to keep watch. Now, however, those previously trivial locations are where his little siren swims. So, needless to say, he monitored those very closely when he had the time. Even when he didn't—sometimes just her image flickering across the monitor would bring him comfort he wasn’t ready to admit to. Seeing his sugar baby grateful and admiring—well-kept and close at hand—gave him a sense of euphoria he couldn't begin to describe. When he'd get furious at a Senator for being neglectful or outright dim-witted, the President had his siren—fingers tracing her image even now as she sat upright at the ebony desk, eyebrows furrowed in attempted focus. 

For Adriana, it had been an eerie adjustment when first she'd first realized just how observed she truly was. Chewing on her bottom lip in absent-minded nervousness during class as Professor Crane had droned on about an upcoming exam—her phone had buzzed almost at the same time as she tasted copper. 

Keep those sharp little fangs where they belong—I won't have you ruining the gloss I am paying for…

Her breath had hitched then—eyes darting around like prey caught in a trap, a mermaid entangled in a sailor's net, not realizing what angle the ship had come from. Her fingers moved—shakily drafting a message.

You have cameras here?

A pause as she deleted it—of course he did, why ask? Wasn't a siren the one supposed to lure instead of being cornered? Her eyes moved across the small screen—decisive now.

What if I have to bite my lip to stop myself from squirming, Daddy? Doesn't that earn me some good girl points?

After all she did feel quite sore after the punishments she'd earned herself the past few nights. Though Coriolanus preferred to call them ‘corrections’—she was still his good girl by the end, she just needed a firm reminder sometimes. 

The message he sent in response then had been sharp in its tone, not patiently crafted—proving she had managed to provoke him quite well. A proud smile had dawned on her features.

Try it. Since you are so eager to play games… 

That was all for a while, like he was waiting for her to crack, to break as well. Instead, she sat and waited, taking notes as if the whole ordeal didn't send a spark across her body. Then, the game rules came—from the man who played them best.

Every mark you leave on your lip before I see you? That's one less privilege you'll have this week.

A verdict brutal in its finality—she had lured him, sure enough, but possession was all she'd get from that haul. Not bad at all…

A ‘privilege’ in Coriolanus’ rule book could be anything—from as trivial as her being allowed to drink coffee or alcohol to the more extreme end of her being allowed to eat with her own hands, going to the bathroom without needing permission… getting to cum at all. The severity of her transgressions would determine which one of these would be removed—always and entirely up to him. 

And so, on that day, Coriolanus had counted a total of four lacerations across Adriana's lip. His thumb carefully combed through the tender skin as she had knelt in front of him in the dark office in the Presidential mansion—warm licks of ember dancing on her face from the crackling fireplace. 

“Have you no shame, hm?”, he had grabbed her jaw hard, yanking it from side to side — inspecting for any additional damage: “Hurting what belongs to me?”

His fingers bore into her cheeks in an attempt to reclaim the earlier pain as his own. And for that week… she couldn't go outside besides the gardens, she hadn't been allowed to feed or dress herself and… she had to swim for Coriolanus naked in his custom-ordered pool.

That, having happened almost a month ago, gave Adriana more than enough of an introduction into just how intense Coriolanus truly was when it came to their arrangement. And so, most alarmingly… it gave her a full show of just how much she loved being on the receiving end of it—their dynamic was his way of coming up for air freely… and maybe it had become hers too. Her whole body had trembled as she would swim, not from the coldness, but knowing she was watched—every stroke, every breath, every minute movement of the water teasing her, gliding across her bare skin—pressure wanting to enter. 

Now, Adriana sat in a lecture almost squirming thinking back on that particular ‘correction’ whilst a rather fitting Odyssey passage was discussed. 

Never has any sailor passed our shores in his black craft until he has heard the honeyed voices pouring from our lips, and once he hears to his heart's content sails on, a wiser man We know all the pains that the Greeks and Trojans once endured…

Did she lull his pain away just like the mystical creatures Circe had warned of? Adriana surely wasn't as deadly to him—or maybe so she thought. She didn't know all his worries in the end, all his walls—even if some of them would crack under the salt water of her tears every so often—not by virtue of her freedom, but her willing captivity.

It was getting increasingly difficult for her to pay any attention with the distracting opacity of the auditorium, courtesy of its eye-piercing lights—far too overstimulating for someone who had her head down under the waves. And so she pulled out her phone to serve as the welcomed distraction once again.

Since I'm getting my nails done after… how would you want them, Daddy?

Coriolanus would have given her the instructions regardless, but when she'd ask—that was yet another surrender she was readily giving. And that was why he'd keep her his forevermore—a satisfied smirk spreading on his lips as soon as he read her message during a particularly dull policy review. He never kept her waiting too long—especially not on matters of her appearance and especially not when she’d been so good—asking first. The response was familiarly precise, leaving no room for artistic interpretation, but still tinged with that care he always gave. Care for detail, sure, but it also extended to her…

Crimson, high gloss, with gold filigree at the tips. The same shade as the ribbons I ordered for you when we saw ‘La traviata’ last week.And don’t forget… the manicurist knows better than to cut them too short—I prefer them just long enough to leave marks, sharp enough to match that tongue of yours. Send me a photo when they are done so I can decide whether you've earned your allowance this week…

Her heart was already pounding imagining herself sitting there, no thoughts in her head safe for that she was being further shaped to suit him. The pause preceding the next message was brief, not long enough to allow her to gather herself for the lower tone Coriolanus brought on through the bright screen:

And don’t forget… I expect them wrapped around me by tonight. My evening has been cleared. 

The ping that followed sealed the fact that hers had now been swiftly occupied. Her calendar now sported a navy-colored dinner event, prefaced by a fitting slot in the high-end boutique she came to know well— ‘Velvet & Satin’. He rarely allowed her to attend unaccompanied. At the very least, he'd usually just have the seamstress sent to his mansion so he'd supervise the fitting… and when he was feeling particularly territorial, he'd only allow Tigris to fix Adriana's attire. Not only that but she was almost certain Coriolanus was rumored to be expected as a guest to Livia Cardew's gallery opening—his future fiance in all but name… yet he had preferred to spend the evening with his sugar baby? Certainly not a decision someone so image-conscious would easily make.

Adriana swallowed hard— something more was afoot here and she wasn't sure if the shiver she felt was entirely of a good origin.

Just a little something to make sure you are prepared for our two-month anniversary… a reward is due, like I promised. 

Adrian's mind raced, wondering what would call for such a long session. But she quickly typed back, almost afraid to be perceived as unappreciative. Like the gift could slip through her fingers if she wasn't cautious enough. With Coriolanus, one could never be too sure and he had ingrained gratitude within her like a Pavlovian response—in just ninety days’ time. Efficient, if you'd ask him…

Thank you so much, Daddy… you always make me feel taken care of <3  I hope your meetings have been going well?

She had quickly learned how to cater to him. Rosalind, as someone very well-versed in the lifestyle, had told her younger ‘apprentice’ from the very beginning how she needed to ask her sugar daddy about his day, to make sure he knew she was thinking about him—how this made all the difference. After all, he was not just paying for her trinkets, but for her time, her thoughtfulness too… 

It had started like this—asking because it made sense to. But as the days rolled on, Adriana had become genuinely interested in how Coriolanus was feeling, what he was feeling. Not just because of the exclusivity of it—being able to peer into the unreachable President's mind, but because she had come to see a certain sensitivity within him, juxtaposed to the rational, cold tyrant. That didn't make him any less merciless, on the contrary—it only further drove him. Beneath the harsh exterior stood a man who appreciated the complexities of the world around him. And how deeply they may cut if he wasn't the one holding the dagger…

The message only reflected that—his growing contentment at having someone to own, someone sure in the ever-shifting world. Someone to match his hunger…

They have—they always will go well. Though certainly better when my favorite distraction remembers her place so well… such a well-behaved little thing when you are given the proper stimulation.

Ah, so he wouldn't be honest immediately, that was okay… Adriana knew when to wait and listen.

The Senate debates were tedious though. Creed wouldn't stop grandstanding… I nearly had him removed.

There was the real truth—not everything was going well all of the time. And he was allowed to feel that way, to still have something… or someone to feel in control of when the reigns were slipping away. And that was the closest he'd ever come to admitting that Adriana's care and attention weren't just part of the arrangement for him—his rose had grown thorns. 

I fear grandstanding is out of his arsenal. Naturally, I spared him the humiliation but at the intermission last week he butchered that District Four quota report… truly an embarrassment if he can't tell apart the cod he was gobbling down from the haddock his policy supposedly aided in exporting

Coriolanus let out a rich chuckle at that—so unburdened that the maid serving coffee for the round meeting table jumped out of her skin. She most definitely didn't know the President could produce such a sound, or allow himself to—more accurately.

But it was ironic and so the reaction was well-placed, Coriolanus had determined—the fat Senators would pass rule when none of them had truly known what it was like to rise from the ashes of the War—not fully, not like he had. They didn’t know how fragile peace was, because they never got to see the ugliest sides of humanity. And that made them inept at making chief decisions… He found it fascinating when his own little siren was the one humbling them—an oyster with unassuming origins, opening up to reveal a pearl. He loved how tasteful she was about it too—unlike Livia who'd make the loudest statement whenever she'd get the chance to shame someone, Adriana kept her tact. Ten years Cardew's junior, yet the little siren already had her ways to uplift the man next to her…

So insightful, like always… why am I not surprised that my little urchin would know her fish?  But you are right… he is too overconfident for what he pitifully contributes

Naturally, he wouldn't allow the praise to get to her head. Her background and thus her reliance on him for a Capitol citizenship was something Coriolanus had no qualms about exploiting to his full advantage—reminding her subtly but in a manner that cut nonetheless, that she was special because she was his, not because of who she was…

Adriana's hand trembled—her somewhat intact traces of pride not allowing her to admit that the degradation had sparked not hate, but a sense of belonging. Like despite it all, Coriolanus still chose her… Before she could come up with a response that wouldn't give her away, Professor Crane's hoarse voice rang louder as students fluttered to leave the auditorium: “Professor Demigloss has asked me to remind you about Monday's research group on neural responses to patriotic materials—sign up at the exit!”

A fancy way of saying ‘propaganda’, Adriana thought. But she had wanted to study precisely to understand more about everything around her—literature as an art, but also the psychology classes she clung to as if they could somehow explain why she had to suffer through her past. To finally make sense of it… she wasn't allowed to veer too much in her thoughts though as a follow-up message graced her screen:

While we are on the topic of people who don't contribute… The car is waiting for you, don't dawdle entertaining that boy. I won't tolerate distractions, especially not ones with bleeding hearts. 

Coriolanus had had his fill dealing with do-gooders—hypocrites, the lot of them, thinking they were capable of ‘fixing’ things that needed to be left alone, thinking they knew better… playing humble, yet appealing to some higher moral standing. As if their actions were outside of them when they’d inevitably harm others. Their fate was at the end of a rope, like his dear ‘friend’ of old—a fool who never once stopped to consider that he didn't understand the reality around him. Lysander reminded Coriolanus of Sejanus far too much, and so every interaction he'd witnessed Adriana having with the intern gritted his nerves. The boy was playing knight in shining armor, thinking he'd ever be capable of giving her what she hungered for, believing his naive kindness was the balm… No, his little siren saw the world for what it truly was. She was a survivor—but unlike Lucy Gray—one content with being devoured. 

Adriana's throat went dry—she had her defiant spark still, always wanting to dive deeper, wanting Coriolanus to be there when she came back up... guided, owned, but still swimming forward. Unfortunately, the President wasn't trusting enough for that. And what they had was never about freedom. She'd experience depths, sure—but only the ones he permitted, only the ones he'd be there for—dragging her down himself. 

He is just a friend, Daddy… so is Rosalind

Oh, she tried to be sweet about her escape—it wasn’t like Coriolanus hadn’t wanted the challenge with her. He scoffed, irritated now—close to reeling the still filled coffee cup at the nearest wall. Instead, he channeled that energy into typing way too fast.

Did I ask for your input on semantics, little siren? Keep your interactions with him strictly professional… unless you'd prefer I come to collect what I'm owed in person and remind where your loyalties lie… I do have a gap between meetings

Adriana was just getting to the window-tinted car, the driver—nameless to her and the world—opening the door for her, when a tap on her shoulder woke her up to the reality outside her phone screen. 

Lysander’s warm eyes—looking concerned, right with Rosalind on his tail. The girl, quite on the contrary—appeared buzzing with barely contained excitement. It left one wondering how did the two of them manage to stay friends, being so different.

“Hey… I-we just wanted to make you are okay, little pearl. You seem distracted lately... You know—we can always talk, like we used to…”, he nudged her shoulder. The nickname now seemed far too familiar—a reminder of a time when Adriana would live, cramped in the Gamemaker accommodation, with the suffocating presence of her father. And Lysander… being the only one who’d keep her company outside of work.

“I'm fine, Lysi… you know I'm excelling with my studies, no? See how fast I got used to it all!”, Adriana assured, spinning elegantly at the University gates as if proving the world hadn’t swallowed her whole. As if she wasn’t willingly letting herself be crushed and remade between a shark’s sharp teeth.

“You know that's not what I meant— you used to trust me—”, Lysander started again, voice too low but still sharp, like he was afraid even the ornate doors or the summer sunlight itself—far too unmasking in its brightness—might carry his words straight to Coriolanus. 

Rosalind took a step in front of him unprompted, rolling her eyes: “Boo-hoo, we actually wanted to invite you to the freshmen outing, Addie! Not this melodrama…”, she huffed, apparently fed-up with her best friend: “Anyways you have to come—everyone will be there. It’s a great way to meet all of the elite around our age…”

Her conspiratorial tone unveiled all the subtext—that while both of them were sugar babies, Adriana needed to enrich herself beyond the confines of Coriolanus. Rosalind cleared her throat, already calculating how to soften the blow when she realized the driver was still there—not arresting, not threatening—just a silent ever-present escort and witness to any possible transgressions. Even Lysander, who liked to pretend he was above Capitol fear conditioning and who had been slouching angrily —now straightened his posture and took a small step away from Adriana. Renouncing his mission… for now.

“Not that you don’t have all the connections you could ever want! Just, you know— you could always show off that diamond choker you had on at the opera last week.”, she quickly boasted loudly on the other girl's behalf, worried that the President was somehow omnipresent.

Little did she know… that exact piece of jewelry had other functions. Chief of all—ensuring Adriana was reminded of Coriolanus’ ownership with every step she took wearing it and after. The velvet-lined inside—embossed with his initials—would press into her soft neck, wound tightly enough to break the skin delicately around each letter, leaving them imprinted, branded there. At Rosalind's unknowing suggestion, Adriana moved automatically, adjusting the silk foulard that was now hiding the tender C.S. scarring—her neck having learned the shape of them, of him.  

Before she had any time to blush and further give herself away, however, Rosalind was already moving onto another topic—overexcitable as always. She had lowered her voice to a whisper, slithering closer: “If I'd known you'd snatch the President so well, I'd have gone for the take myself. Ugh, Festus can be such a scrooge sometimes! I listen to him whine and whine all day, I ride his dick—and what do I get?! A fugly bracelet…”, she whined, wiggling her wrist around with a jingle. The beads weren't exactly tasteful, but, well… there was more to life than that.

Adriana looked around embarrassed at the brazen steer of the conversation. She was used to Rosalind's energy. Sure, she'd even join in after a drink or two—but at the University central gate—in broad daylight?! Really? She couldn't claim any modesty after what she was doing with Coriolanus, but she could still be shy at Lysander and the driver being right there, even if the conversation was hushed.

“Aw, come now, Rosa—Festus cares for you just as much, you know that…”, she assured, patting her friend on the shoulder. But the other girl frowned even deeper and Adriana was forced to scramble a puppet show, praising: “Y-your dress! At the gala—the white flowing one—wasn't it like part of the new winter collection?! Very chic to be ahead of it all…”

Rosalind sighed, a lighter expression on her face now, despite the audible pout: “Yeah, well… I guess you're right…”

Lysander swooped in, putting an end to the pity party: “Anyways! Think about the party, yes? It's tomorrow… I will be very happy to see you there.”, he hastily added.

“Sure… I will ask Coriolanus if I'll be available.”, Adriana gave a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. These were the things she wanted to be able to just agree to if she wanted to—to dive, not alone, but supported. Lysander echoed his distaste for her situation but the words were muffled by her loud thoughts.

So loud in fact that she had neglected to hear or feel the ceaseless notifications her smartphone had accumulated. An error in judgement that was swiftly corrected by one of the Peacekeepers keeping guard of the car moving to seize her wrist and attempt to haul her into the car without a word.

She quickly did the math and peeked to see the remnants of the last message:

Time's up, little siren… And if I ever hear you comparing me to Creed again, you'll spend the weekend learning the difference firsthand. Bound to my bed, gagged and silent.

“Oops, Daddy is mad…”, Rosalind singsonged, too obliviously lighthearted as the heavy door closed in on Adriana. The other girl's voice was subdued in the process: “Toodles! Tell us if you're coming!” 

And then—real silence enveloped Adriana. Left with the Avox driver and the inharmoniously twinkling star-lit car roof, she felt like the walls were closing in on her—like she was drowning. Just like she was plunged into panic when she'd first realized Coriolanus had eyes on her everywhere. But now that he had ears as well—even her voice wasn't her own. What would be next—her thoughts? 

Her eyes darted around again—unable to bring herself to read the bulk of his messages… When she finally landed on the rear-view mirror—a bright red rose lapel pinned to the collar of the driver looked back at her, almost mocking in its prominence against the white uniform. A microphone—like blood on snow… 

Coriolanus had ensured almost all servants tending to Adriana were Avoxes… but it seemed their silence only worked one way. 

The sudden ringing of her phone made her twitch back to life as she picked up, feeling his warm voice coil around her ear: “Don’t look so shocked, now. It's for your protection, little siren… for your own good. I'm simply looking out for you, like always.”

Was that what people meant when they'd speak of a boiling frog? The creeping normality of it all—of his claim on her. Not even just ordinary, but… appreciated, sending goosebumps along Adriana's whole body, despite how controlling the words sounded. Maybe because of that…

“I could just tell you how my day has been? Instead of this…”, she suggested, testing the waters.

“Ah, but my little siren can be so forgetful sometimes… and well, even deceitful if you wanted. This eliminates all the nasty pretenses… I thought you'd be thankful—Daddy going out of his way for you like this. Especially when you proved my worry so readily. Tomorrow you are to attend the senate dinner by my side. Which you'd have known if you bothered to check the schedule I meticulously update for you…”, he went on, every stretch of his vowels through the crisp speaker crackle sending honeyed prickles at Adriana's skin. 

One could erroneously think he was bored at having to explain himself, but she'd come to recognize that slight fraying in his tone—a giveaway that he was worked up because of the whole ordeal. Because she could never lie to him—not for long and that was the closest Coriolanus could come to ‘love’ after Twelve's forest.

“I'm sorry, Daddy—I-it must have slipped my mind…”, she supplied quickly, breath growing heavier from the ongoing game. 

It was such a well-crafted play—shifting the accusations onto her, building himself up as the hero, the guardian force. Who, despite the inconvenience she was—would be the only one to treasure her for it. It was what made their relationship so inevitably pulling. 

“You know how I feel about apologies, little siren—they are empty if you don't get consequences… and since you clearly need reinforcement on where your priorities lie, I've taken the liberty of adjusting your calendar.”, Coriolanus explained, intonation far more clipped and determined now.

When Adriana glanced at the screen she saw the myriad of events created—not something he could do in a single click—unless it had already been planned. He had just waited for her to slip it seemed and use the opportunity to fill her every previously free hour with him. More fittings, private lunches, supervised study sessions… the list went on.

Before she managed to take it all in order to utter a response, Coriolanus let out a self-satisfied chuckle: “Oh, and sweetheart? Wear that choker tonight—I want you to feel it when I decide whether you've earned forgiveness.”

With that, she knew she'd do well to not test him further today—unintentionally or otherwise… Instead of mindless submission, however, something slow and steady rose within her—white-hot tension pressing against her ribs as if her lungs were filling with salt water. She could attend the state dinner… and go to the party afterwards. Defiance called out to her like when she'd take a harder route diving for pearls, just to prove a peer wrong, just for the challenge of it. The frog jumped out of its boiling surroundings if only for a moment. Not to escape, but to start a chase—to test.

A plan was locked in place as she answered sweetly: “Of course, Daddy—I wouldn't dream of disappointing you…” 

The quiet scoff on the other end of the line had definitely been the beginning of a small laugh, suppressed to convey seriousness: “Since you're so eager to prove how good you can be... Dinner's at eight—don't test me further unless you want to spend it with your pretty hands tied behind your back. We both remember how humiliating it was to not have that privilege, little siren.”

The last thing Coriolanus heard—much to his satisfaction—was Adriana's breath hitch as she tried to inhale through the fog. Then, the beep of the line cutting echoed through her skull—leaving her in that sensitive, almost floating state. She did remember, how could she forget…? The issue was how sweet shame always felt when administered by Coriolanus’ hand and sang in his mocking tone: 

‘Poor little siren—can't even feed yourself properly… I have to do everything for you, don't I?’ 

How he'd reach over across the table from his chair to wipe the mess trickling down her chin from the rich meat sauce—a lamb for slaughter on his plate and sitting opposite him. How much it had affected him too—the outline of his cock throbbing against the red silk of his leisure nightclothes slacks as he brought the evidence of ‘her’ mess to his own lips. 

Adriana had almost completely sunk into that vulnerable mental state—blinking awake as she sat across from the manicurist now. It was disarming, almost scary—how Coriolanus could lull her into pliability so swiftly—like toggling a switch she never even knew existed. 

There was some idle chatter going on as per usual, Adriana's responses almost felt automatic as she relaxed into the plush chair. The pampering subtly complementing her docile state… and her schedule had already accommodated that—mandated it actually. Like Coriolanus had gotten it down to a science—when to spur and when to whip. 

“So… any gossip around Senate tables?”, Martha's eyebrows wiggled as she finished off a golden swirl on Adriana's pointer finger nail with a flare of her small brush—emphasizing the theatrical turn of the conversation.

Adriana had to choke back her surprise at the sudden questioning as she took a sip of her coffee: “Hah, Martha… you know I can't talk about this!”, she reprimanded in a hushed tone, rolling her eyes. So much for relaxing—the Capitol would always make sure you were walking on eggshells.

The older woman's voice turned lighter, downplaying the possible consequences of the indulgent crumbs she was asking for: “Oh, come on, miss Tidewell. I just mean the President's got strong opinions on the new dress codes at the opera house—or so I've heard… nothing scandalous!”

In a sense, Coriolanus’ paranoia was contagious and for a good reason. The last thing Adriana needed—given that the full extent of their arrangement was still somewhat hidden—was an offhand comment leading back to her through the Capitol's tempestuous rumor tides. Handling this was yet another way to prove her loyalty—another test. 

She forced a laugh, leaning back to match Martha's conspiratorial smile, ready to feed the vultures just enough: “The only opinion he's ever had about fashion is that it should be flawless. So if the opera house is cutting corners… maybe keep that to yourself.”, she shushed—the cherry on top, making it feel all too-exclusive. The satisfied grin that spread on the other woman's face confirmed her success. Now there would be enough to not think of Adriana as conceited, but also not too much to draw blood for the sharks—a fine balance on the tip of her rod. 

The Peacekeeper keeping watch took a step forward when the allotted time had passed. No words were uttered once again, but Adriana knew to stand straight, smooth her dress and exchange whatever final pleasantries were appropriate. At that, Martha reached into her work apron pocket to hand a bottle of topcoat with exaggerated innocence: “For touch-ups… The President is very particular after all!”, she chimed. 

A strained smile cracked on Adriana's face as she politely thanked the woman. Martha thought she knew Coriolanus—like any other contrived socialite—viewing him as this unreachable high power they got to know all about through his speeches and Flickerman's segments. And, naturally, they saw anyone close to the President as just an extension of him—getting close to them meant basking in the light of ‘The Sun King’. And so, almost no ‘friendship’ Adriana had made after becoming Coriolanus’ sugar baby was genuine… 

Thoughts, reflections—reflections, thoughts in an endless input-output loop.

The car was silent again, clashing with her restless mind—always drifting somewhere until it reached a soothing depth. Adriana fiddled with her phone, looking for that regulation—the external validation that'd set her right. 

Impulsivity won, like it always did, as she snapped a quick photo under the guise of showing her nails… quality assurance and all. She deemed it more than necessary to bite her finger in the picture… durability testing.

Adriana: Status update… thought you might appreciate it, Daddy~

Three blocks away, Coriolanus was sitting at the Head Gamemaker conference table—a vein popping prominently on his forehead from sheer continuous frustration. Doctor Gaul, albeit his former mentor for many years, had begun to grossly overstep—meeting after meeting, proposal after proposal. She never did have tact, or any otherwise inconvenient human sentimentalities for that matter. That was a strength Coriolanus could and did admire for a long time—until its blade was pointed at him. To him, Valumnia now was nothing more than an ugly reminder—of his own past powerlessness. The last person left still breathing that had seen into him far too deeply—a particularly nasty and determined barnacle, latched onto the otherwise victorious ship.

“You'll have to excuse our dear President, doctors. He rarely had an appreciation for things capable of fleeing…”, she sneered, addressing the rest of the conference over his head.

Coriolanus had criticized her mutt design trials—their schematics sprawled across the reflective table in waves of mockery, aimed to engulf him. 

“You proposed shark mutations for an oceanic Games’ theme… Let us—for the sake of losing more time—pretend that this is even remotely imaginative. You would have them situated at the largest open-water region? What, so they may admire the tributes from afar?”, Coriolanus didn't relent, his voice dropping in condescension—frost taking hold: “It's not the fleeing that concerns me—it's that you want funding for a pet project that might not even result in meaningful screen time…”

He was going in circles—swimming for a shore without knowing how to place the final blow. He knew it, Gaul, with her sharp smile—also knew it and was just waiting for him to stutter. 

And then, Adriana’s message arrived—the notification sending ripples across the crystalline table, calling to him. It was his time to smile now, ready to crash the waves: “Let me remind you that the Games didn't survive thanks to lab work… You don't know how to make a show, Valumnia—just scientific perversions.”

That use of her first name was the final seal of her fate. No longer seen as a professional, and so no longer needed—surgically removed as the meeting was dismissed.

Coriolanus had needed his little siren just as much as she needed him—and she had delivered. She—the true north to his compass and he—the pearl she'd always dive deeper for. 

Coriolanus: Appreciate is a word for it… Good girls don't bite. Look at the camera like that again and I'll have you kneel at my feet the moment you walk through my door.

In the car—light shone through the dark depths as Coriolanus responded, owning even those reckless parts of her. Her breath stifled as if he was holding her by the throat through the pixels that had formed his words—making all bad thoughts swim away again. 

Coriolanus:

But since you are so eager to tease… unbutton the top of your blouse before you enter the boutique and lose the foulard. I want my branding to breathe—just enough to remind you who you are dressing for.

The next photo—his initials visibly imprinted on her neck—made him want to reach across the screen and wrap his fingers around her pulse. The ocean always claimed its bounty…

The white marble floors of ‘Velvet & Satin’ only echoed that sentiment. As attendants flocked around Adriana, she couldn’t help but laugh to herself—suddenly reminded of the seagulls’ piercing cries in Four as they’d rain down on the wealthier merchant children… in this case—unfortunate enough to carry the occasional ice-cream. 

The golden chandeliers, twinkling above, made the whole hallway seem like it were swallowed by the sun itself. Boutiques usually carried a warmer light, Adriana had noted—wanting to be as far removed from the sterility of Capitol labs as possible. But even then, it was a forced sense of comfort, for everything was engineered in fashion just as much. Especially when it came to Coriolanus…

That single private fitting room was larger than a whole family’s living quarter in the Pearl Precinct. She'd come to learn it fast—that a District’s scale of comparison was really inadequate. Still, the parallels were hard not to draw when everything around her had been curated to remind subtly of Four. Not its ‘foul brine’ as Coriolanus had so expressively put it—but a mimicry of its best parts. A message in a bottle. Just like their first encounter in the Millennium—it served to show Adriana how tamed she was under his care.  

The large mirrors were draped with turquoise shawls, their shine so transparent that one might think actual shallow waters were caged just for display—flowing but caught in the silver metallic edges of the frames. A force of nature trapped in gleaming luxury. Her reflection stared back—stripped down in just a plush robe.

Just in time, garment racks were rolled in—endless pieces resting upon velvet hangers with no chance of slithering down to touch anything else besides Adriana's skin. She instantly noticed a theme—swimsuits, sun dresses, delicate slides to match. What would she need all of that for? 

Before she could think of opening her mouth to ask, one of the senior seamstresses was already passing her a particularly tight-fitting one-piece. At least it looked like it—dark blue with embroidered iridescent snowflakes that'd only appear if twirled in the perfect angle to catch the light. The swimsuit, however, felt and looked slacked around her waist—not hugging as tightly as originally suspected. 

“Ah, it must be my new training regimen…”, Adriana noted nervously, not wanting to cause trouble for the boutique: “I might have overdone it the past few weeks.”

Food was in excess here in the Capitol and it wasn't even Coriolanus who had suggested she start going to yoga classes or on morning runs. It had been Rosalind who urged her on—emphasizing how important it would be for Adriana's status now—to be in shape at any cost. 

The attendants, buzzing around, suddenly stopped dead in their tracks, exchanging anxious looks—a silent understanding. And then, they scattered like worker bees in pre-determined formation—to pin the fabric back and take notes for corrections. 

A now familiar rose lapel on the main seamstress’ collar caught Adriana's widened eyes as the woman spoke: “President Snow's orders were very specific about each fit, Miss Tidewell. We will have all of the selection adjusted—by-by morning!”

The stutter made Adriana's stomach drop—there were maybe fifty outfits here, from what she could estimate. How and why in Panem's gem would they manage? It wasn't their fault… 

She shielded herself back into the robe, almost tangling her limbs in the tape measure an attendant had been battling with. For a moment the poor girl flinched—like she had come to expect an outburst from such wealthy clientele. Instead, Adriana's voice softened—reaching over to take one of the tulle dresses.

“It's barely visible… especially the airy sundresses—see?”, she assured, layering the outfit over her. 

Her muscles were more rigid now though, arms close to her torso—like she wasn't just comforting them but soothing herself. The boss’ voice came in harsher now, more assured: “That would be unacceptable by our standards, I'm afraid, miss. And the President does so hate it when things aren't… precise.”

Clothes or Adriana—neither were predictably matched now. And uncertainty was the one thing Coriolanus eliminated by any means necessary.

The shrill notifications sound lodged into her temples—momentum rounding between them like a Newton's cradle as the words stared back at her. Yet another consequence of being his…

Coriolanus: Weight loss is unacceptable, my siren. You were already put on a perfectly balanced routine—by the doctors I handpicked no less. Maybe you think me incompetent? That you know better? Tonight, when we dine together, you can be sure—every bite will be accounted for… measured by my hand.

Because his hand was the steadiest—the most discerning. People lived and died by those hands day after day—drops in a vast ocean. But Adriana was chief of all—his creation. His to remake if necessary… when necessary. 

Adriana: Of course, Daddy.

She'd responded with a trembling hand—endless submission. The seamstress stepped back quietly, forcing a smile as she gestured toward the mirror after the pins were put in place: “See? Already better!” 

The dress frills gathered like sea foam at the waist but all Adriana could see was Coriolanus’ invisible hand tightening there—correcting, controlling.

She exited ‘Velvet & Satin’ already dressed for dinner, tightening that choker impossibly more as the car drove off towards the Presidential mansion. The setting sun painted the Capitol skyline in gilded hues—a fitting backdrop as Adriana rested her forehead and palm against the cool window. The hues blurred into streaks, and they in turn—bled in with the golden ornaments on her nails. Not just a show, but a symptom of his all-consuming claim. She didn't know where she ended and he began now but… in these moments—where one should be able to find peace in themselves instead of constant turbulence—she'd be irrationally thankful to him for remolding her. Because it meant she was never alone.

Adriana: Thank you… for making me believe I am worth something.

She confessed—she sent, trembling with the shock of it. The bubbles on the other side appeared, then disappeared in a loop of… was it calculation? Or perhaps self-doubt? No, she had a hard time ascribing the latter to Coriolanus. But then his messages arrived in quick succession. 

One—a vulnerability shared.

Coriolanus: You always have been—and always will be.

The other —a shield for his rusted heart.

Coriolanus: But if I ever hear you question it… I'll bend that doubt out of you, right over my knee.

And just like that, the weight of it all—of the world, but of him too—felt less like a chain and more like an anchor. 

Soft summer rain dribbled down from the gray clouds above as Adriana made her up the large limestone stairs leading up to the mansion doors. The material—bright white and showing little sign of wear despite the many Victor's Tours that culminated here each year since the Eleventh Hunger Games—drank up every drop greedily. 

Snow would always come and wash away the past. 

And she'd come to know this ascent better than her way home. Each step—a countdown to another preordained meeting.

Inside the mansion, it was quiet but never empty—just subdued—hushed in a way only a space under Coriolanus’ control could be. The staff moved efficiently—footsteps swallowed by plush carpets, even the china and trays they'd carry were somehow gracefully soundless due to trained movements. A presence that was acknowledged only when required—a ghost town. 

“There you are, little siren…”, the baritone of his voice sliced through the stillness as he descended the grand staircase. 

Dressed down to his shirtsleeves—cuff links discarded somewhere—he looked almost comfortable, like he had shed his armor for the day to finally find respite. Adriana dragged a slow step forward, as if compelled to close the distance herself—pulled by a tide.

“I've missed you, Daddy.”, she offered sweetly.

Coriolanus’ smile was a slow cut, spreading on his face as he extended his hand—hovering just above Adriana's head but not yet touching, not yet offering her that gratifying physical contact. Not until she showed she'd seek it out like a well-behaved pet. 

And she did… swaying on the tips of her toes, she nestled her head into his touch—like a cat would nudge its master. He hummed long and low, clearly satisfied—tangling his fingers harsher through the threads of her hair and pulling her closer to him.

“You have? I'd wager you missed being corrected more like—with how you insisted on testing my patience… first that boy, then forgetting your schedule. And to top it all off—”, the pause was cold, like the person listening would be left to stare at the edge of an abyss: “—you once again found a way to defile what is mine.” 

The vexation he felt at Adriana's ascertained weight loss was abruptly emphasized by a squeeze at the back of her neck. He wanted to ensure that at least that claim—his choker, his initials—remained unmoved, steadily fastened. 

“I thought you'd be pleased—”, she tried to explain, voice edged: “—Rosa said the latest trends—”

A visage of a bright orange shawl sprawled onto foliage flickered in his mind’s eye, followed by sharp pain on the back of his hand. It seemed so real even in that moment—even miles away from Twelve, years away from its forest—that he physically flinched away. 

“After everything I've done for you…”, he whispered low before he snapped out of it—addressing Adriana, interrupting her meek excuses: “Trends?! You'd sooner be like every brainless socialite than follow my lead and excel?”, he challenged—plunging her into the abyss now: “You are perfect, because I chose you and choose you every day. That means I choose for you, think for you—a simple instruction when you boil it down, don't you think?” 

No, if she started forming decisions, preferences of her own—she could just as easily run, abandon, betray. To his relief… his little siren nodded, lowering her head—a rose snipped of its thorns. Because unlike Lucy Gray, Adriana needed this as much as he did—she dreaded being alone too.

“Y-you're right… I'm sorry, Daddy, I—”, she was so docile now: “—I will make it up to you…”, she promised.

Sometimes she'd lash out, rarely, but it was always there—that split in her when she'd start seeing people as just black or white, all bad or all good—no nuance, just survival. But Coriolanus had learned how to tame that too. Her instincts were right—he wholeheartedly believed—just unstable in their targets. She lacked that center, that dependable perception of herself. So, Coriolanus happily settled into the role of being her pulling force, her aim—and Adriana had latched so readily onto that.

“Oh, I’m certain you will, little siren…”, his voice was deliberately soft, a small reward so she didn’t spiral. His fingers brushed featherlight across her jawline, palm settling to cradle her face—caressing, but also holding—calming himself in the process after the unsavory and involuntary memory.

“So then, dinner first…”, he hummed, ordering slowly—the bow’s string being pulled, then—: “And if you dare leave so much as a crumb on your plate, I’ll have you lick it off my fingers like the good girl you pretend to be.”—the shot taken. 

With that, Coriolanus’ fingers coiled around her waist, entrapping and digging like a fisherman's net as he led her to the expansive dining chamber. The oblong black table was already set, waiting for tonight’s session. Bright floral china served as a sharp contrast against its obsidian-like shine—a testament that everything here not only endured, but was shaped into something more by his mutable, contrived conditions. As he pulled out a chair for her next to his like a refined Capitol aristocrat—Adriana came to realize that tonight wouldn’t be just about displaying obedience. This feast and any punishment after would be lessons that it wasn’t just her body that belonged to him—all her hungers did too. 

The pasta portion appeared bigger than usual, but it wasn't like she didn't expect Coriolanus to already have ordered it as such to the chef. Frutti di Mare—it had been a while since he'd indulged them in something from Adriana's home district. Not since their first ‘date’ to be precise… first the outfits in the boutique, then this? With the President, nothing was pure coincidence. But she had more tact than to ask straight away—knowing he preferred to be eased into revealing things himself, rather than be pressured. 

Adriana picked up a forkful, making sure she relayed she would eat every bite properly as she looked to him gently—just with the corner of her eyes: “Anything bothersome with the Senate?”, she prompted.

Coriolanus’ fingers paused mid-motion, fork hovering over his plate as his eyes settled on her—assessing. The chandelier candlelight caught in the blue irises, making them appear almost translucent for a moment—just at the corneas—like icy mountaintops. 

“Only predictably so…”, he half-admitted, finally committing to chewing only to wash down the ocean’s taste with a deliberate sip of his bright red wine: “Rebellious muttering in District Eleven—all crushed, naturally. Heavensbee was foolish enough to question my land decree policies—swiftly silenced.” 

Physically or metaphorically…. that was up to an interlocutor's interpretation. Coriolanus’ lips curved barely at that—a tremble almost, like he was reliving the exact moment control had been reinstalled. A few more quick bites passed when he suddenly lifted his hand—fingers lingering against Adriana's choker—making her breath hitch. 

“Isn't it unsettling though…?", she assessed: “Eleven is Panem's granary, yet they have the highest rate of rebel approbation. At least based on the recent studies, that could mean—” 

He abruptly pressed in—hard enough to make her feel the weight of his initials against her pulse, this time stealing her breath fully, not bothering to entertain reality: “Truthfully though—”, an echo of her sentence: “—Gaul was the thorn in my sight today…”

He let go, focused on swirling his glass—like he could imagine it were Valumnia's blood churning about. “She was supposed to showcase her mutts at the new ‘Santiago and Manolin’ resort. But the designs are just plain disappointing—a mere fortnight before the Reaping no less…”, he sighed, feigning disappointment now. 

He'd managed to overcome the slight his former mentor had inflicted hours ago. So now—his eyes glinted, voice clearer—hopeful that Adriana would catch on his hook. And she did—oh, she sure did—her own eyes reflecting his brightness.

“As in ‘The Old Man and the Sea’?”, she discarded her fork with a clink: “What's this resort?”, she asked directly now, carefully on the verge of excitement.

“Aw, little siren… you haven't figured it out already? Now why would Daddy indulge your tastes? Why would he, say… order two dozen beach wear outfits for his precious girl, hm?”, he tsked and the play continued.

“Will we… watch the Games from District Four?”, Adriana suggested—voice uneven. She wasn’t sure how she felt about it—seeing her old home but now being so far removed from it. It being used as entertainment, as something exotically matching the Games’ theme—with no real benefit to its residents no doubt… 

“So perceptive…”, Coriolanus encouraged, snapping his fingers: “What better way to reward my favorite distraction and just in time for our anniversary? You help me so after all…” 

His butler brought parchment, so much like the one sailors would write their journals on, but manufactured to look worn—wax-stamped ‘S&M’ at the top. An invitation to “an unforgettably authentic experience”, it stated. Adriana wasn’t deluded to believe this was done especially for her. Surely, Hoffman—the senator overseeing District Four—had seen the return on investment years in advance. But one thing was for certain—Coriolanus wouldn't have greenlit it to be such an integral part of the Games—what was his ‘exact science’—if it didn't constitute yet another way of showing his little siren in whose net exactly she'd been caught. A Bermuda triangle of her past, present and future—all coming together in that resort. 

“Th-thank you, I-I just don't know what to say—”, her voice was more hoarse than she would have wanted: “I'm happy I'll see Four again.”

She wasn’t lying, but Coriolanus would take nothing less than starry-eyed admiration. 

“You will not be seeing Four.”, he cut off sharply, taking a longer sip of his wine: “You will see it remade in a better image—a piece of it, perfectly presented on a platter.”

“And what of Livia?”, she bit back, suddenly wanting to twist the knife on its way into the oyster. 

Would she find a pearl or would it snap off her fingers? 

“Livia will be otherwise occupied.”, he concluded, each sound short and exhaled. 

Adriana wasn't an idealist, she wasn't a fighter—she was selfish. And so, just like that, the pain she'd felt in her heart at her district being reduced to a spectacle—dulled ever so slightly, because Coriolanus kept her again.

“How convenient…”, Adriana twirled the figurative pearl she'd managed to latch off—that trickle of attention. 

“Indeed… but enough dawdling on things yet to come—we will end up ruining the culmination.”, he demanded. Allowing her that win for a moment before he moved her plate closer to her—a reminder of her obligations. “Tell me about your lectures, little siren. Which tedious theory or analysis will they force into that pretty head of yours?” 

Adriana picked up her fork, almost missing why she did it—that it had been prompted by his silent order. Maybe it had been a deflection but a warm feeling settled in her chest that he'd bother to ask.

“Professor Demigloss will have a research group on attachment theory and neural excitability. She… well—”, a pause to take a bite and time to consider how to phrase it to match Coriolanus’ sensibilities: “—always wants us to apply empirical studies to the “current political climate”. So she'll have us correlate how the different attachment styles respond to different mediums of propaganda.” 

A venture he'd wholeheartedly support—probably having funded such studies. Why base your campaign on gut feelings when you can know what is most likely to actually work—targeted messaging? His indulging nods revealed as much.

But Adriana looked at him through the rim of her glass as she added, more meekly: “Personally, I wanted to see its applications in therapy… to help people.”, she confessed. 

“Therapy?”, he echoed, tasting the word like it was an extravagant delicacy—interesting, but ultimately useless and even possibly dangerous. His finger tapped against the table: “A noble pursuit… if one enjoys wasting time. People don't need healing—they need direction.”

When she didn't immediately agree, he became crueler: “You mourn your mother's descent into madness—you think you could somehow retrospectively help her?”, he laughed: “The past is best left alone, little siren.”

—Is what he’s told himself too… lest he remember mockingjay songs.

That was the first time he'd named Adriana's fears outright. It made her look away, the ‘fruits of the sea’ suddenly tasting bitter. 

But he only continued: “‘Propaganda’, sweetheart—well, that's simply guidance in its purest form. Though I must admit—”, he lunged forward, grabbing her jaw and forcing her to face him, holding tightly through his interrogation: “—even weakness has its uses. And… your particular fascination with attachment is deliciously ironic.”

She scowled for a second as he brushed his thumb across her bottom lip, sealing the next words into her, as he uttered them low: “… given how thoroughly you've attached yourself to me…”

“Because there is something to attach to—even if you don't want to see it… Daddy.”, she challenged with a well-placed pause, emphasizing the honorific as she glared at him.

His eyes widened imperceptibly as the forgotten dessert platters were whisked away by unseen hands. He moved slowly, but at soon as his hand raised toward the tiered serving trays—all hands froze, waiting for his next move. Coriolanus didn’t tear his eyes from Adriana’s for a second—embracing the challenge. Maybe his next order was all the confirmation she needed as he picked up just one piece of gumdrop cake and brought it to her lips.

“Open.”, his voice rang. But she looked away—forcing him to reclaim. And so, he did—lodging her mouth open, lingeringly placing that soft and sweet pastry—pressing the bite onto her tongue. A sadistic spark crossed his features as he swiftly sealed her lips and nose with just one hand, holding as long as needed—a silent battle. As she was successfully forced to swallow it down, breathless—his fingers lingered on her throat, harshly pressuring the gulp down. Then, he rose up fully, with an absolute command, licking his thumb: “My office—now. We will discuss your academic priorities…” 

Empty hallways with tall ceilings accompanied her journey into the butcher's den. Coriolanus’ hand—ever-present, alternated between resting on the low of her back and tracing soothing circles along her spine. Portraits of past Head Gamemakers blurred as they neared his office—not many, only those who'd earned their memory be preserved. Though one likeness always stood out to Adriana—an oil painting on the wall just opposite the office doors. If one would have them opened and was sitting at the desk—a man with golden hair and inhumanly cold gaze would stare back, just above eye-level—a twisted warden in an endlessly haunting tunnel vision. 

This time, Coriolanus closed the door behind her, stalking past to take his seat in the grand leather chair—legs spread invitingly. No order to kneel this time—no need for inspections—because he had all of the information needed to administer his corrections. She took the unspoken summons as natural as taking her next breath—perching up on his lap. 

“You know how this goes by now, little siren—”, he began, voice thick like heavy smoke as his hand glided to open the notoriously deep desk drawer: “—pick your poison.”, he instructed.

He liked to keep his assortment close at hand for his office was where he felt most at home. The well-guarded tools taunted Adriana—the wooden paddles’ shine catching in the soft glow of the adjacent fireplace as a promising crackle carried through the air. She brushed past the riding crop with a subconscious wince—fingers circling instead around the slender silver ruler. The very same he'd use to tear reports with…

“Ah, predictable…”, Coriolanus concluded, squeezing her hand over the sealed choice: “Just like your attachment style, hm?” 

Her breath caught as he guided her to bend over the desk, free hand squeezing the back of her neck—not an unfamiliar position by any means—but thrilling each time nonetheless. He let go for a moment, not to deny touch, but to magnify it as his fingers trailed down in a hypnotizing ritual—first the swell of her breasts, just ghosting over her nipples, then her ribs—making her shiver, almost whimper. 

Coriolanus shushed her when he reached her hips—fingers digging into the supple softness at the joint: “No squirming now, little siren. This is for me to enjoy and you to learn, no? Straighten your back…”, he pressed into the tail of her spine, making her perk up. 

Adriana nodded—too lost in the feeling when he rolled up her dress skirts, teasing as he placed the ruler against her ass. The feeling of the cold metal against warm skin made her suppress a whine.

“What was that?”, he prompted, unhappy with her nonverbal state.

“Y-yes, Daddy—I'm… for you to enjoy. And I deserve to learn my lesson.”, she echoed, embarrassed at the words leaving her lips. But the humiliation of them, the anticipation that the redness of her cheeks will soon be matched… left her floating, dripping—subconsciously and barely pushing backwards into his hand and the ruler that rested against her. 

“Good… so, I'm thinking five?”, not really a question to her, more so a voiced contemplation: “You lost exactly two centimeters off your waist measurements… and it's been thrice now that you've entertained that boy despite my guidance.”, he explained as started to knead into where the spanks would land, preparing her. 

Then everything disappeared, every sensation as she was left exposed. Before any real warning, the first hit landed sharply—the thin but cutting ruler sending a whistle through the air at its recoil as Adriana was sent gripping the edges of the polished mahogany for purchase. A loud gasp escaped her, but nothing more and that didn't sit right with Coriolanus.

“Good girls count… and are grateful for being corrected, little siren.”, he whispered into her ear.

She almost wanted to bite back… almost.

“O-one… thank you, Daddy.”, she whimpered, bracing for the next to land.

Instead, Coriolanus did something even crueler, more revealing—the ruler rested, but his fingers slid between her thighs. Testing, checking as a finger teased through her folds, gliding up and down effortlessly through her slick.

“Mm. Already soaked—this is supposed to be a punishment, you know? What a perfect little masochist I have sprawled out in front of me.”, the low growl in his voice betrayed his own hunger though. 

And then, the ruler descended a second time—in tandem with his finger pressing deeper into her. He could always find that spot that made her see stars instantly—like a button being pushed. 

“Hah…”, Adriana moaned this time—pushing back into the confusing sensations, chasing all of them: “Two… th-thank you, Daddy.”

“Good girl—”, he emphasized each word with a rumble: “Now, arch like you mean it.” 

She obeyed instinctively and the satisfied groan that left him vibrated through her as his strained cock pressed tightly against her hip. A third strike landed, somehow harder than the last or maybe she was just more pliant now when his fingers twisted—rewarding the obedience with the same intensity as he punished defiance. 

She counted and thanked—already voiceless if she ever had it in the first place. Coriolanus’ voice was ragged too as he bent down to untie the choker, breath hot against the back of her neck. The sight of his little siren finally learning her place again was far too delicious, far too much. Each sound she made sent jolts across him which quickly translated into throbs down his length. 

The fourth was the point at which he started rubbing taunting circles against her clit. She almost thrashed at the feeling, but once he'd felt her tighten around his fingers, he yanked back, leaving only the ruler close.

“Work and pleasure aren't to be mixed, naughty girl”, he reprimanded.

But by the fifth, she couldn’t breathe—brought to the edge already, yet being denied release. As soon as the final gratitude left Adrian's mouth, Coriolanus tossed the ruler to the side—the clank far too brutal. But he couldn't wait any longer… Once he flipped her over, truly spread her across his desk, he traced his initials on her delicate neck as he teased her entrance with the head of his cock—gliding up to that sensitive bundle of nerves and back down, barely entering before pulling out. He was leaking too by now, but he wouldn't be seen losing control first.

“Such a perfect mess for me—”, he inhaled sharply as he teased again, dragging agonizingly slow. The wet sound was deafeningly obscene: “Tell me—do you need more lessons, or… ah-are you ready to beg for what you really want?”

Adriana tried to roll her hips into him but he pushed down—the leather desk mat digging into her back as she let out a shaky whine when denied. Coriolanus tsked, pressing the fresh wound of his initials as his other hand removed the straps of her dress, then bra: “Shame… and here I was ready to fuck the lesson into you—to leave it more permanent. But I guess you need more of this before that—”, his lips closed around one nipple… then the other, biting and then soothing with his tongue. Filthy stripes that matched the slaps of his cock against her cunt. 

That made Adriana swallow any pride, forgo any game she deluded herself into believing she could win. Small whimpers grew louder and then…

“P-please, Daddy—I need you, please. Make me take it…”, she begged prettily—finally.

As soon as Coriolanus heard that, he slammed into her—bottoming out so fast that she thought his cock reached her ribs. His pace wasn't subtle or gentle—he waited far too long—and the desk shook with the evidence of it. He wanted to imprint himself inside her, carving his claim into flesh and soul. One hand dug into her waist, while the other held at her throat: “Nghh—fuuuck!”, he threw his head back, thrusting fast: “Always so fucking tight for me—”

When one hand slithered down to her clit again, Adriana arched off the desk: “Mmmplease—I can't…”, she begged high-pitched. She had to unravel but she also knew she couldn't do it without his permission. Every muscle in her body was so taut now, trembling with effort to hold back: “I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry I spoke to him, msorry I—that I went against you!”

Her eyes rolled back as he continued to hit that spot just right. The fullness of him and the rightness at the welts his ruler had left made her feel like she was drowning in the most delicious way—lost but found. 

Sweat dripped down from his golden curls, as he forced a labored breath: “You've earned forgiveness...”, his voice was deceptively soft for what his next words would relay, but it still sent relief through Adriana, knowing she did well, that she did it for him.

His voice became louder, matching the trembling snaps of his hips: “Daddy's almost there, little siren… are you ready for his gift?”, he chuckled as he felt her clench around him: “Oh, I know you are, I can feel you milking for it. You need it to fill up everything in you, don't you? Every empty space—you can fill it with me, sweetheart… always—f-fuck—”, he snarled, burying himself to the hilt. His release was almost torn from him—hot and claiming as she fluttered around him in tandem, taking it all in waves of pleasure. 

For a moment he just held himself there, humming in satisfaction as he traced idle circles over the curve of her hip while her breathing calmed. He sighed after, once he pulled out, licking his initials at her neck and taking in the sight of her: “Look at that—all that begging and you still come like a whore. Makes me want to keep you like this all night—dripping with me.”

As if to prove that point, he brought his fingers through her fluttering entrance—gathering anything that might have escaped… and pushing it all back in as she gasped at the sore feeling. His hips rolled against her thigh in the process, cock spent but twitching—basking in the sight of his claim remaining sealed—kept safe in her warmth.

They took turns in the shower—an intimacy they hadn't yet shared and maybe never would. Not in the near future anyways. The rain—or anything trickling down his body—always reminded Coriolanus of the forest. Of the lost boy, clutching the legacy of his father as a last guide back to civilization. He couldn't believe he'd been so close to abandoning it all… for a girl who lived by her charms, who'd go where the wind blew. To Lucy Gray, he'd surely been a fleeting fancy. At least that was what his bruised ego could muster—easily forgetting that he was the one who readily chose to return to his ‘rightful’ place. But Adriana needed him—saw what he did for her… admired and admiring, kept.

He shut off the shower, finally hearing how loud his heartbeat had gotten as he quickly dried off. He didn't bother wrapping himself in a towel in front of her—that was an intimacy he had no issue sharing. 

He found Adriana sitting on the soft mattress, black ironed sheets crumpling below her as she attempted to apply some rose water cream onto the marks blooming from his earlier punishment. Five distinct red welts bloomed there—making Coriolanus bite back a groan, reliving her pathetic whimpers anew.

He chuckled low, making her jolt at his sudden reappearance: “Here, let me…”, he offered: “Lie down.”

She obeyed, laying on her stomach—gripping the crisp sheets as if needing to brace herself for this gentle offering. He scooped some of the cream—carefully rubbing it into the angry marks. The sensation made Adriana close her eyes and melt into the bed—soft nightgown pooling at her sides like milk blooming into earl gray tea. When he was done, he set the balm on her nightstand and pressed a deceptively tender kiss between her shoulder blades.

“Thank you…”, she sighed sleepily—not ‘Daddy’, just him. She was already somewhere far away. Yet still here…

He hummed, lying beneath the covers on his side of the bed—arms reaching out to hold her. She was tired, but eagerly reciprocated, nestling closer. That was the greatest intimacy he'd allowed himself to have with her. On some days he'd convince himself it was just out of pure convenience—when Adriana was next to him, he could actually sleep, not wake from coal-smelling nightmares. And when he slept, he was productive—really, a simple calculation. 

But a part of him questioned why he'd allow himself to feel that vulnerable with her in the first place… it was that part that now moved his lips for him: “Could you sing for me? Of the sea?”, he prompted.

Not an order—not this time. This time it was his turn to let the tide take him. And so, she began, and carried him from his bed of roses… a melancholic feel to the melody she loved.

“On a stormy sea of moving emotion Tossed about, I'm like a ship on the ocean I set a course for winds of fortune But I hear the voices say: Carry on, my wayward son There'll be peace when you are done Lay your weary head to rest Don't you cry no more”

At least with Adriana in his grasp... he got to own her voice.

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At the end of each day, he searched the penthouse for any spot she neglected to shine properly. Made a big show of it, lingering over things just to see her tense under his scrutiny. Occasionally, he had her do it all over again, to keep her busy when he had no real work for her to do. Nothing peeved him more than a lazy woman, and he intended to get his money’s worth.

Speaking of his money’s worth.

“A little faster,” Coriolanus commanded before leaning back in his chair, sighing when her cheeks hollowed. It was a bit of a struggle for her to take all of him; past a certain point she started to resist and gag but he pushed her head down, holding her there for a moment. That, he called it training. She wouldn’t improve unless she tested her limits. A look of displeasure formed on her face, which he chose to ignore. “Breathe,” he reminded her, and she tried.

He’d thought having a pretty thing like her at his beck and call would’ve been a distraction, but that’d proven to be contrary. Lately, he was more productive than ever with her here to provide him with relief when his work nights were stressful. And on those nights when sleep was no friend, and he could not get away from that sound. The ruckus of gunshots, of those Mockingjays twittering in the treetops. Her. That girl, who'd disappeared into the woods like her namesake. Forever a mystery in the lonesome wild.

Sometimes, it wasn’t the warmth of her company he sought.

It was her presence. Just her presence. Sometimes he had her sit there for hours, holed up in the corner of his study with her books and gadgets. Something she didn’t enjoy. But at least it was a moment to rest her aching feet, from all that running around she normally did in the heels he had her wear.

All the hours sitting in silence seemed to bore her to no end, so much that she’d started to come out of her shell, asking him questions to pass time by.

“What are you working on?”

Confidential work, he said.

“Can I touch this thing on your shelf?”

Annoying. She could be quite annoying when given nothing to do, he observed. Sometimes when she acted like this, he sent her off to clean some far corner of the penthouse or a guest room he hardly frequented. On the rare occasion, however, he humored her distractions.

Sometimes he asked questions.

“Tell me more about yourself, Phoebe,” he’d said. “What do you do when you’re not working?” He already knew the answer, of course, since he gave her so much work to do that she had little time to go out. Which meant whatever she did involved being here. In his penthouse, in this gilded cage. But she was not aware it was a cage, not when she was so distracted. And that was by design.

“I like to read and write. Bake. Not very good at it though.”

Quite contrary; her sweets were delicious but he didn’t praise her so it didn’t get to her head. “I know.” Coriolanus gave her a pointed look and she shrank back in her seat. He already had a cook so he didn’t need her cooking, but it was busy work.

Usually she’d be fidgeting with something she found in his study, like an hourglass or a few marbles. He bought a few things he thought might help soothe her fidgeting problem. Because it was either that or her nails, which she bit whenever she was nervous or bored. He’d also given her gloves to deter that nasty habit of hers, but he always caught her when he found red staining the fingertips of the cloth.

“What do you like to read and write about?” he’d inquired.

“Fairytales and romance.”

He shook his head at that. “Nothing educational? Like history or science?” All the books on his shelf were practical. No nonsense meant to entertain frivolous imaginations.

“Science is fine. But the whole point of reading, for me, is to escape the mundane.”

That explained why she ranked so low in her class at the time of her graduation.

“So you imagine yourself in these books?” He set his pen down, and then, beckoned her over with a tilt of his head.

Ever obedient, she rose and found her place on his lap.

“All the time.” She sighed, a girl with her head in the clouds.

“Have you ever fallen in love, then? Like the heroines you read about?”

She went quiet for a moment, seriously pondering it. “No... not really. I've liked a few boys before, but I wouldn't call it love.”

Love held as much value as a speck of dust on his shoe. He’d witnessed how it had turned respectable men into buffoons. And he didn't like how vulnerable it made him feel.

“What about you, Mr. Snow? What do you do when you’re not working?” Phoebe had given him a sleepy look and rested her head against his chest. The gesture felt far too intimate and made him uncomfortable but he chose to ignore it.

It occurred to him then that there was little in the way of leisure in his life. Everything he did was purposeful, whether that was attending events to maintain his image or slaving away his work and personal endeavors. The way it had always been, and always would be. He’d graduated from the University at the top of his class, of course, and landed himself a role as a Gamemaker. Now, Head Gamemaker, in light of Dr. Gaul's passing. But his ambitions didn’t end there. Someday he would break into politics.

“I like to grow roses,” he’d confessed, thinking back to when the Grandma’am had taught him the art of cultivating them. When she wasn’t having those delusions of grandeur about days long ago, before the war, she would go on about her precious roses. He entertained her enthusiasm because she didn’t have much longer to live then, battling an illness starvation did no favors for. He took it upon himself to care for her roses after she'd departed this earth. The one thing he had to remember her by after the penthouse had been restored to its former glory.

“That’s it?” Phoebe offered a soft laugh at the notion of someone as imposing as him being into gardening.

He’d tried steering the conversation towards the subject of her father. A sore spot it seemed when she tensed at the mention of him. Or anything related to the high society she no longer participated in. How unfortunate for her, whatever her story was, but lucky for him. Everything that had happened landed her here, right where he wanted her.

Just as Coriolanus was starting to reach his peak, the telephone rang.

He was tempted to ignore the phone, but it was more tedious to leave a voicemail than it was to simply answer. Phoebe tensed, all wide-eyed at him reaching for it, and she attempted to back away, but he held her still with a firm grip in her hair. “Keep going,” he mouthed, and she made a sound of protest. But after all that work he did over these past few weeks training her, she’d become so malleable, and had inevitably caved. She continued like the good girl she was, leaving lipstick stains all over his cock.

“Festus. You couldn’t have chosen a more inconvenient time to call,” Coriolanus greeted his friend flatly. His friend had a knack for calling him at the most random times like they were still in their school days, whenever he wanted to gossip, complain, or arrange meetings. Which of the three would it be this time? He had a feeling what it was. The last time Festus called, he’d gone on quite the rant about Persephone. A recurring pattern. It was so bad that he’d considered charging him for therapy. “What did she do now?”

Coriolanus sighed and set his phone down for a moment, not caring what he had to say.

Phoebe, unsatisfied by the lack of attention on herself, had taken it upon herself to tease him, that minx, languidly swirling her tongue around the tip of his cock. Training her was a double-edged sword; the more she learned, the more she could use against him. He narrowed his eyes and she averted her gaze, pretending to be so innocent, but he caught the mischievous glint in her eyes. She could do all that and still have trouble looking at him properly. It was a mystery, decoding her.

He covered the receiver and gave her ponytail a sharp tug, eliciting a squeak from her. “Do it properly or I’ll make you start over.”

She mouthed an apology and he brought the phone up to his ear.

“Hello? Are you there?” Festus's voice cut in.

“Yes, Festus. Get to the point.”

“Fine, I won't bore you then,” his friend continued. “The boys and I are going golfing this Sunday. Are you coming with?”

Coriolanus grunted and pushed her head down once he felt his peak nearing again. “Depends on the time. I have a date.”

“Let me guess. Julia Cardew?” he teased sarcastically.

“Is it that obvious she likes me?” he returned his humor in good fun.

It was no secret between his circle of friends that the youngest Cardew sister was vying for his attention. So insistent about it too, trying to insert herself into his path at every event, all giddy just to talk to him. Like a schoolgirl in love; she lacked that cunning prowess her eldest sister had. She wasn't the ideal sister to marry, but the better one was already off the table. Still, the girl was still a Cardew and that shiny pedigree that would look good on him. And think of the connections, the doors that would open.

His friends had teased him about it and asked if he planned on pursuing her. If he intended to court her, or fool around with her. It was a game among some Capitolite men to see who they could seduce. Even better if they succeeded in stealing her virtue. Was the younger Cardew a virgin? he wondered.

The blood left Phoebe’s face unceremoniously, and her lips pulled off him with a pop. What? Had she heard Festus?

“What are you doing?” He whispered tersely. “Continue.”

Except she didn’t. She thought about it, and didn’t. Then weaseled out from under the desk, the mischief from before nowhere to be found.

She just left.

Left him high and dry.

✦ ✦ ✦

“I love what you’ve done with the place!”

It was so easy to impress Julia Cardew.

Unlike her older sister who sneered at the mention of him, she laughed at everything he said, even when he had not made a joke. Batted her lashes and agreed with every opinion he had to try and appeal to him, although she was too distracted by his handsome face to properly follow along. He had that effect on people. His father had, too, he’d heard, and he’d grown to be his spitting image. That was all he heard lately from the older Capitolites who had nothing but praises to say about the upstanding man. Even his cousin Tigris agreed.

I think you look just like your father, Coriolanus.

Julia ooh’d and aah’d at every passing fixture. None that he’d polished and shined, but he took her praise in humble stride. “Do you have a preference for your tea?” he inquired. “My maid will prepare us some.”

Speaking of the maid—she was nowhere to be found.

Eventually, he found her hiding in the pantry. Perhaps not hiding, but she’d been in there for a suspiciously long time, almost as if she were dreading Julia’s arrival.

It seemed there was a problem here.

No, there definitely was a problem. Ever since the incident in his study when Festus called, she’d been acting so off. He assumed it was because of the mention of his date. Still, it didn’t warrant her avoiding him like the plague and lying about feeling under the weather. It didn’t warrant the silent treatment. Her behavior was petulant and frankly uncalled for, because they were not in a relationship. She was his maid, and just that.

“Get out of here and greet our guest, Phoebe.” A stern edge laced his tone and she turned to face him, visibly pale and nauseous.

“I’m tidying the pantry. It’s a mess.” She scrambled for a broom and brushed a random cobweb on the ceiling.

“You can clean it later. Now, get out there and make us some tea.”

She walked—no, dragged—herself out.

Only to find the lady of the hour examining the kitchen, her fingers skimming the marbled countertops.

“I see you’ve found the kitchen.” He returned to Julia’s side and pressed a hand to the small of her back. At that, she preened. Then made her way around, inspecting what she could of the surface. Until her attention drifted to the source of a scuffing sound making its way into the kitchen.

For a moment, her face widened in surprise when his maid stepped into the kitchen. And that surprise slowly shifted into confusion as her gaze narrowed in on her. “Phoebe Blackwood? What are you doing here?”

Right now, he had her wearing a version of her uniform that was, by all means, standard-issued. Plain and drab, and her shoes were not heels. “I could say the same to you,” she muttered under her breath, not so thrilled to see this girl she was apparently familiar with.

“I was wondering where you’ve been, Phoebe.” Julia rounded the kitchen island and Phoebe forced a terse smile on her face. “You stopped attending my parties,” she continued, undeterred by her tepid behavior. “I thought I’d done something to offend you, but, it appears you have been...” She looked her up and down, a hint of sarcastic amusement bleeding into her expression. “Busy.”

“I have been.” Phoebe gripped the countertop so tightly that her knuckles whitened. “Anyway, how do you like your tea?”

“You stopped attending all of our parties, actually. We’d thought you’d eloped to the districts or something,” Julia blabbed on, leaving his side, and he was left a bystander in their two-person conversation. “With Marcellus—”

“Black? Earl Grey? Green—”

“And now you’re…” Julia gestured at all of her. “We must catch up.”

“You seem like an Earl Grey person.”

Eloped? Marcellus?

A strange picture was being painted. One where they were acquainted at the very least. Peers at the Academy perhaps, which explained her stiff posture. It must’ve been embarrassing to be seen like this by an old school friend who would no doubt be gossiping about this to all of her friends. Is that why she never went out? For the fear of being scrutinized? And who was this Marcellus? A boy she liked? Eloped was a strong word; that implied some closeness between them.

“I’ll take hibiscus if you have any. With three cubes of sugar.”

He hated hibiscus. And the smell of Julia’s perfume: cloying, demanding to be the center of attention. That described her perfectly.

Coriolanus led Julia to the living room, providing Phoebe with a brief moment of respite.

For a while, he tuned out Julia’s chatter as she went on and on about her interest in frivolous things like fashion and jewelry design. And oh, she could play the pianoforte quite well. He must come over sometime, so she could play for him. He was admittedly still undecided, whether he wanted to make this ditsy girl his wife. But she was practically throwing herself at him, so, he would see how this goes. How their future meetings go.

Tea had taken quite a while to be prepared and he suspected that was because his little maid was stalling for time. Eventually she appeared with a tray of tea and biscuits. She served them and they both watched as Julia took her first sip... Only to scrunch her nose at it and wave her over.

“This is far too sweet. How many cubes did you put in here?”

“Three, Julia—Miss Cardew,” Phoebe corrected herself, wincing a bit. “Like you asked.” How awkward. As a maid, she was expected to address his guests formally.

“Would you be a dear and fetch me another cup? I meant two cubes. My apologies.” Her words came out saccharine sweet, and she gave her a funny smile, crinkling her nose.

Phoebe accepted the piping hot tea, only for it to go plummeting to the ground when the handle slipped. It missed the carpet, to his relief, but had gotten all over her hand instead. She hissed and grasped her hand that’d been nearly scalded by the beverage.

He noticed it was Julia who’d let the cup slip, so deftly, like she thought he wouldn’t notice.

“Oh, goodness! You should be more careful.” Julia gasped, feigning concern for her as she placed a hand over her chest. That had been diminished by what she said next: “You could’ve stained the carpet.”

His eye twitched at what was, without a doubt, a petty power trip. It seemed there was a history between the two that could explain the animosity lingering between them. Initially he’d assumed the Cardew sisters were like night and day, but it seemed the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. They both had a mean streak after all.

“I’m. I’m so sorry, Mr. Snow.” Phoebe blinked back tears. “I’ll clean it right away.”

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the two of them behind.

It was so quiet after she left. You could hear a pin drop.

“I didn’t appreciate what you did,” he admitted, crisply, stirring his tea.

“Pardon?” She gave him an innocent look.

“Luckily it didn’t end up on the rug. If it had, I would’ve had to ask you to replace it. And I am afraid it is one of a kind.” She looked offended, and he for some reason, couldn’t bring himself to care. “I do not know what is going on between you two, but do try not to make a mess in my house.”

That offended expression shifted into fear as she shrunk back in her seat, and then offered a humorless laugh to diffuse the situation. All humbled now. She was in the presence of a man, not a schoolboy who would entertain her schoolyard behavior.

“Anyway.” He sighed and took her hand in his, reminding himself that the purpose of this rendezvous was not to scare her off. It was to test the waters and get to know her better. See if she possessed the qualities he needed in a first lady. So far, it was not promising. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

After a minute, he excused himself for a restroom break.

He headed upstairs to find Phoebe struggling to reach the top shelf of the medicine cabinet. Jumping and jumping, all frazzled at it too. “Looking for the first aid kit?” he asked, causing her to exhale sharply in surprise at his unceremonious appearance.

She nodded and looked off to the side, still blinking back tears. Without much effort at all, he reached over her and grabbed the first aid kit. Then he led her to the loft, where he sat her down on the settee.

“Give me your hand,” he commanded, and she gingerly outstretched it—only to grit her teeth and recoil when he barely touched it. “I can’t help you if you won’t let me see it.”

She held it out again and tried not to move as he assessed the damage. There was an ugly pink splotch on it that was sure to darken soon. “Have you applied ice yet?” he inquired, and she shook her head. “Go do that after I patch you up.” He carefully wiped down the wound and applied the ointment.

Then came an apology, which she murmured so softly under her breath.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he replied plainly. “I know you didn’t drop it.” He wrapped the bandage around her hand with practiced care, after having wounded himself numerous times playing sports. “I am curious,” he continued, “what history the two of you have. You and Miss Cardew.”

Phoebe watched his hands moved, but he noticed her gaze wasn’t focused. It was a distant one, like she’d retreated into her mind to retrieve a buried memory. From days long behind her.

“We were classmates at the Academy,” she confessed, and he did not tell her that he deduced that already. It was more so the mention of that Marcellus, and ‘eloping’ that piqued his interest.

“I see. Were the two of you friends?”

“We were.” She smiled almost wistfully. “Long ago. But things changed when we were in High School. We just grew apart. I suppose I wasn't as interesting as her other friends.”

“Is that the whole story? I feel like I'm missing a chapter,” he replied, pointedly.

“Well.” She swallowed. “There was this boy she liked back in Middle School. They had a thing going on for a while in secret.” He nodded, following along. “He asked me to go to the Yule Ball with him. Years after they broke it off.”

“Did you go with him?” he queried, and she shook her head.

“No, of course not. He was rather pushy. Didn’t get a good vibe from him either. He glanced at every passing skirt so I knew I wasn’t special.” Phoebe shrugged. “Ever since, she treated me differently. Poked at me with her new friends. I had a feeling it was because of that boy.”

“What was his name?” he could not help but ask.

“Marcellus.”

“The one she assumed you eloped with?” His brow arched.

“It was just a joke. His family owns a business in the districts so he takes off every now and then to go see it. We ‘disappeared’ around the same time.”

“That is quite the history you two have.” He considered it, a friendship between the two. Most advantageous for a Blackwood, who did not come from old money like a Cardew. “Anyway. Who did you go to the dance with instead? I’m sure there were many suitors lining up the block for a chance to dance with you.” Many might’ve been an exaggeration, but a bit of flattery went a long way with unearthing secrets, he found. It got people to open up to you more.

She shook her head and laughed, as if his comment were incredulous. “I went with a friend who didn’t have a date. I wasn’t exactly popular with the boys.”

“I don’t see why. You’re a beautiful woman.” That was not a lie, although his words were a bit glazed.

A blush colored her cheeks. “Thanks for the compliment. But beauty isn’t everything.”

Status meant everything.

“I was a wallflower, so I didn’t get much attention,” she elaborated. “Never attended any events unless I was forced to go.”

“So. Positively average, then,” he decided. Part of her problem could’ve been that people forgot she existed. That sort of happens when you don’t put yourself out there.

She winced. “Exactly.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. At least you know your place. I know a few who let their beauty get to their heads.”

“That was harsh,” she quipped in good humor, but he could see she didn’t appreciate it.

“I’m not interested in dressing up the truth.”

“So it seems.” Phoebe rose from her seat and withdrew her hand. “You should head downstairs before Miss Cardew wonders if you’ve come down with something.”

“You may think me cruel for it, but I believe honesty is important,” he continued.

“Right. That’s why you’re going to go downstairs and pretend you’re enraptured by Miss Cardew.”

“You’re assuming I’m not interested in her?”

“Not for any good reason.” She gave him a skeptical look.

He hummed and did not know what to make of her observation. She was more perceptive than he gave her credit for. Dangerously so.

But she wasn’t wrong. That was exactly what he did. And by the end of the night, the incident with the tea had been long forgotten by Julia. All water under the bridge.

He noticed how their conversations kept circling back to his maid.

“How much do you know about your maid?” she queried, and he told her, as much as one would know any other maid. Whatever was necessary and not much more. “We used to attend the Academy together,” she confessed, then took a sip from the second cup of tea she’d been served. “Rumor has it that her father has been... quite the mess since she ran off.”

“Why is that?” Coriolanus had his ears sharpened the entire time, but pretended not to care whenever his little maid was brought up.

“Well.” She whistled, and sat up, ready to get into it with her theatrics. “He racked up quite the debt, I've heard through the grapevine. And it’s no wonder! All that gambling. That man is a loose cannon.”

That reminded him of a certain someone.

Indeed, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

✦ ✦ ✦

The day after Julia’s appearance, his maid headed upstairs to his office to deliver him his morning tea.

He was not met with a good morning or a warm smile like usual. There was something almost frosty about her countenance when he inquired about the state of her hand.

“It’s fine,” she replied in a clipped tone, and he had other pressing matters to focus on than her shifty mood. Perhaps she could go clean something to cool off from whatever it was that was weighing her pretty little head. And then she made her quick escape, closing the door of his study on her way out. Were he not already focused on his paperwork, he would’ve insisted she come back and greet him properly.

Whatever. He continued his work in earnest, and their paths had not crossed for the rest of the day.

Until late at night, when he found her in the kitchen rolling out some biscuit dough.

“Something smells good,” he began, announcing his presence. She immediately pulled her robe tighter across her chest, trying to make herself decent even though he’d already seen every inch of her exposed. Before she could retreat upstairs, his taller frame caged her against the island. “What are you making?”

“Biscuits, sir.” She flashed him that fake smile he recognized all too well now. “They’ll be ready within the hour.”

“Is something the matter?” he asked, brushing her hair back to expose the smooth corner of her neck. Her blonde waves were damp, as was the rest of her, he felt, through that thin barrier of fabric separating them. She’d just showered. The scent of strawberry shampoo hit him and he inhaled its intoxicatingly sweet scent. “You’ve been acting rigid all day. Am I overworking you, is that it?”

“I’m fine.”

“There it is again. That tone.” Her breath hitched when his lips skimmed across her shoulder. She tried to wiggle out of his hold but he pressed down, leaving her with no room to escape.

“I don’t think we should be doing this anymore, with all due respect.” She tacked on a “sir” at the end to address him the way he preferred.

“Is it not your duty to meet my needs? Right now, I require your company.”

She set the rolling pin down and gave him a frown.

“You’re seeing someone. I don’t think she’d appreciate us doing this.”

“It seems you’re misunderstanding what our arrangement is.” He turned her to face him, then pressed her hips back against the counter again. “My personal matters and what I wish to do with my time are none of your concern. Your job is simple. Shall I remind you what it is or do you remember?”

What was it, in fine print? A plethora of clauses she skimmed over that day when she signed the contract. It did not help that the words on the many pages were minuscule, and she’d given up trying to read it after the first one. “To do… what you say,” she managed, half breathless at him being so close, pinning her down like this. Her small hands wrapped around herself almost protectively, to wedge some distance between them.

“Good girl,” he hummed, satisfied at her simple response. “That wasn’t so hard to figure out.”

Her robe shifted her movement, teasing him with a glimpse of what was underneath it: a thin red slip adorned with lace, the same shade as a strawberry. Her nipples pebbled under the fabric as it slipped down her shoulder, but she made no move to adjust it. It was almost like she was trying to tempt him.

She didn’t move when he pulled the tie of her robe loose, letting it pool at her feet.

“You wanted us to stop this...” His fingers traced her nipples over the thin fabric, and she shivered, trying so hard to stay still for him. “Yet here you are, wearing this.” He picked at her little red slip. “Like you're trying to entice me. Do you think I'm blind?” It wasn’t like she had much else to wear, besides the few pieces he’d curated for her. Tailor-made and one of a kind, because whatever she’d brought was out of fashion. All that, he donated.

“I’m wearing what you gave me,” she murmured, her eyes glued to the floor. “It’s not like that.” The only light present was the warm glow emitting from the oven. Its heat suffused through the kitchen and it all smelled heavenly, like vanilla and shortbread.

“Let me make something clear, Phoebe,” he said, tipping her chin up with his finger to command her undivided attention, because, it was very important she understood what he was about to say. “You are not my lover and I am not your keeper. You are only here because I find you useful. So be useful.”

That was the magic phrase he noted to use again. Be useful. Instantly, he saw something in her shift. Tears prickled her eyes and she responded so quickly. “I. I can be useful.”

“Then prove it,” he commanded, feigning boredom. That, his boredom, she didn't like to see, he observed. And now there was a sort of determination in her, to fix this. To make it better. Almost instinctively, she dropped to her knees, then shivered at the cool draft on the floor. Then she undid his trousers and worked through the motions he'd engraved in her mind. That she had plenty and plenty of practice with. She took him well and with purpose, her small lips closing around him. So soft, like velvet around him.

“I noticed you always bake when something’s bothering you,” he said, stroking her head the way one would soothe a pet. “Does it make you feel more at home?”

She tried to nod with a mouth full of cock.

He wondered if she ever felt homesick. If she ever felt lonely, having no friends, or anything for the matter. He tracked the calls on the landlines and tapped her phone, which, she’d never even used to call anyone anyway, much to his surprise. There were incoming calls from some contact with a feminine name that she never picked up. Upon his further investigations, it was just another young woman like her, a recent graduate from the Academy. A friend, perhaps, that she cut contact with. A few concerned voicemails from her.

And a few nasty ones from her father, who blamed her for ruining everything. It switched between vitriol spewed at the speaker and then, him begging her to come back, and oh, he did love her. They could fix all of this, and make it right. Start over, and she would not have to marry Mr. Grant.

And then there was nothing. For weeks.

Once he’d tired of her languid pace, Coriolanus dragged her to her feet and bent her over the counter, face-first, before she had a chance to adjust.

A yelp escaped her when he pushed her slip up and tore the flimsy excuse for underwear she wore clean off. He pushed her cheek flush against the cold marble and didn’t bother prepping her, since she’d already been wet from who knew what was running around in her mind earlier.

He pushed in, inhaling sharply at how tight she was, even after he’d fucked her more times than he could count. Her body trembled as she adjusted to him, and then, he bottomed out, pressing her back flush against his chest. It was impressive how much she take, when, he'd scared off some women because of his size. “Good girl,” he praised, and she clenched at that. “Do you like it when I call you that?”

She didn't have to think about it. A dumb nod was her only response.

“I like you best like this, when you’re quiet,” he confessed, beginning a slow and languid pace.

“I wish you would—” Coriolanus found her sweet spot, cutting her off before she finished that thought.

“Go on.” He pat her thigh, encouragingly. “Say it.”

“I wish you would treat me with more respect,” she admitted, shakily, as he used her like a toy.

“If I didn’t have any respect for you, would I do this?” His hand slipped between her legs to rub her clit and she gasped, bucking her hips. “Most men don’t care about a woman’s pleasure.”

Well, there some nights when he could not have been asked to care, to bother to make her cum. Particularly when he was in a nasty mood, but, she never complained about it when he left her high and dry. There were other times when he was more than generous, coaxing out one orgasm after another from her until she had to pry him off because it was too much. Which made up for that, in his opinion.

“I pay attention. I notice what you like. You like it very when I touch you here, don’t you?” He angled his hips just so, and she tried to stifle a moan. That in combination with his skillful touch had her knees weakening.

“Oh,” she gasped and bucked her hips, seeking more. More pleasure. So greedy like that, even when she didn’t mean to be. “I do.”

He made sure to bring her right to the edge, so close, but right before she was able to finish, he withdrew his touch. “But I don’t do favors,” he reminded her. “If you want to finish, you’re going to have to ask me to let you cum.” Again, with the vulgarity. It was less of a shock to hear this coming out of his mouth after weeks of this routine they had.

She huffed, giving him a bit of attitude, which he did not appreciate.

“I don’t like your attitude.” He gave her ass a spank and she squeaked. “Fix it before I fix it for you.”

“Please,” she sobbed. “Let me cum, sir.”

“I don't know. Do you deserve it?” he teased, flexing his thighs to pace himself, when she was squeezing like a vise and it was so tempting to finish already. But not yet.

“Yes,” she nodded eagerly, and he exhaled in amusement, because she in fact didn’t deserve it. He was under no obligation to please her. But, he thought, it was like another form of power to get her all worked up and begging for it. And he did enjoy the feeling of her cunt squeezing him as she came undone.

“Very well. I suppose I could let you cum once tonight.” He yanked her up with a firm grip in her hair and she hissed at that, but was too distracted by the pleasure she felt then to pay any heed to it. Not when he was rubbing her clit just the way she liked. Until she bit down on her arm, coming undone with a squeal.

“Th-thank you,” she managed afterwards, a bit dazed trying to focus on him. For a moment they froze like that, as she waited for him to relinquish her, but he didn’t.

“I think a change of scenery would do us some good.” He flipped her around so she was straddling him, and then hoisted her up, carrying her out of the kitchen. She attempted to grab onto the island to stop him, but that was about as good as useless.

“The biscuits!” She wiggled in protest, and gasped once she spotted the time on the oven. “They’re going to burn!”

“Well then. You better hurry and finish me off fast.” He squeezed her thighs.

Ten minutes to go.

That was something he made sure to instill in her just days into her time here, when he scolded her for being a minute late.

She glimpsed the clock on the wall behind him before inhaling sharply, bracing for his scrutiny. Then, she crossed the threshold of his study, each step measured. They wouldn't want a repeat of what had occurred a few days ago.

A few days ago, his clumsy maid had tripped, spilling coffee all over his expensive rug—something worth enough to feed a district for months. It should've upset him, yet it hadn't. Perhaps it was because he was too distracted watching her drop onto her hands and knees to scrub off the stubborn stain. That dangerously short dress of hers rode up but she didn't bother fixing it, too absorbed in her effort. Oh well, he'd thought, catching a glimpse of something lacy and pink. It was about time he switched the rug out anyway, with the season changing.

Instead of scolding her for arriving late, Coriolanus admired the handiwork of her new uniform. He’d taken the liberty of altering it into something flattering for physique, with the excuse of it being big on her. Which it was—she was smaller than he remembered. He sized it down and had it shortened to hit about mid-thigh: shorter than a traditional maid’s uniform but long enough to be tasteful if she was mindful of how she moved. Some frill and lace brought the ensemble together.

It was more pretty than practical, like her.

“Your tea, Mr. Snow,” she murmured, setting the tray down on his desk. “I added two sugar cubes this time,” she fidgeted with her hands, not quite sure what to do with them now that there was nothing to hold, “and I steeped it for five minutes like you asked.”

He didn’t answer at first, simply watching as she bowed, her sandy waves spilling over her shoulder. Her ponytail was sleek, each strand smoothed into place except for one cowlick that refused to behave.

Hiring a new maid might’ve been the best decision he'd made in weeks. The previous one had a habit of pocketing trinkets—little things she thought he wouldn't notice if they went missing. But he always noticed; he noticed if his things were even slightly off-place. One call to management and that'd been dealt with. Out with the old, in with the new.

Coriolanus took his time skimming the catalog for someone young and attractive; anything else would've ruined the ambiance. A few candidates caught his eye, though not quite like the woman on the last page. Something about her seemed familiar; he couldn’t quite place what.

So he had his assistant run a background check, then it all made sense.

Phoebe Blackwood.

Nineteen years old.

Capitol-born.

Never married.

A pretty thing, and her beauty was perhaps the only thing she had going for her. The reason she was fortunate enough to be standing here now. A graduate from the Academy, yes, a school only the wealthy could afford to attend, but that accomplishment was somewhat diminished by her low ranking in her class. Proof that she wasn't the ambitious type, and her position here as his maid reflected that. No further prospects or family support to speak of either. She lived alone on the outskirts of the Capitol, in a block of pre-war housing that was largely untouched in the reconstruction effort. A place like that was where the bottom feeders, the lowest of low resided.

A picture began to form in his mind once he picked up the next file, coming face to face with a photo of a familiar man: Silas Blackwood. They’d briefly conversed at events, only because he’d been approached first. He merely recalled the man because of the secondhand embarrassment he endured watching him kiss up to others, so desperate to climb the social ladder. In a place like the Capitol, it was all about connections. Painted smiles. Pretending to like people you didn’t.

Last year, at the debutante ball, Coriolanus had the pleasure of meeting his daughter, Phoebe, who’d recently turned eighteen then. At a first glance, she was rather unassuming. Beautiful, yes, but there was no shortage of beauty in the Capitol, which meant she was among many jewels. But there was something refreshing about how unchiseled she was, when the trend nowadays was to go under the knife. Pillowy lips and angular cheeks were more in style, and well, the Capitol so loved to follow trends. It transformed most Capitolites into carbon copies of each other in their endeavor to conform. But she, she was soft all over. Round cheeks and small lips. The muted color of her pink dress and the modest cut of it seemed strategic, like a deliberate choice for one who wanted to hide in plain sight. She came up to his chin in her heels.

Their first meeting had been a disaster, to say the least. They were both making a beeline for the Posca to get refills when she tripped on her gown, spilling her drink all over his expensive blazer. Having years of practice with it, Coriolanus masked his irritation behind a pleasant smile and allowed her to try and blot out the stain. Even though she was only making it worse.

Coriolanus was no stranger to the endless galas and functions he was to attend, and at the age of twenty-five, there was an expectation for him to choose a partner. He was among the few in his inner circle still unwed, and was frankly tired of being asked if a special someone caught his eye.

He’d considered courting Livia Cardew many years ago, but she turned him down for Felix Ravinstill, who was only the President’s grandnephew. A fine choice for a woman so shrewd and keen on climbing the social ladder. It was no secret that Ravinstill wanted to fill his uncle’s shoes and someday become President. Quite the wrench in his plans, as he too was vying for that title. But, no matter. He would deal with him, in due time.

There were other fine choices he had for a potential wife than Cardew. It was just a shame to lose her, since she was the heiress of a large fortune as the daughter of a bank owner. It was a shame Clemensia Dovecote had burned bridges with him after that accident in the lab with Dr. Gaul—may she rest in peace. There was Lysistrata Vickers, but, she was not an ideal choice. Not because she wasn’t of suitable status. It was just that she was too agreeable, and to him, a level of detachment was necessary. His wife was not meant to be his friend or someone he liked, even. She was meant to be one thing: a vessel to carry his heir.

The perfect match, in his mind, was someone incapable of swaying his heart.

Finding a wife should’ve been easy, he’d thought, since he was only a Snow. The adopted Plinth scion, and one of the most eligible bachelors in all of Panem. There were no shortage of ambitious Capitol mama's trying to entice him to have a second look at their daughters. The women he courted all lacked a certain something he couldn’t place. They were all beautiful, of course. But what most of them had in common, he’d discovered, were their headstrong personalities. Too comfortable after a few dates, challenging him in discussion. This generation was raising women who were a bit too opinionated.

What he sought was someone impressionable. Easy to mold. A blank canvas to craft in his will.

Schooling his expression into a cool indifference, Coriolanus lifted the teacup off the tray and took a sip. Phoebe watched, all bright-eyed, and he liked that, her eagerness to please. To go above and beyond, but, was it enough? He couldn't help but push her sometimes, testing the extent of her determination. Searching for any sign of vexation, any crack in her demeanor. Yet she never broke, even when she had to scrub a spot on the floor that wasn’t dirty because he said it was. His penthouse wasn’t clean until he could see his reflection on the tiles. Everything must gleam and glisten.

The moment she first stepped into his office, it was clear she had little experience for the job.

It was one thing to be bad at cleaning, but another to be wholly unprepared. The kind of woman who’d never lifted a finger in her life. This must’ve been her first time stooping this low, scrubbing floors for a living. Back home, her father could afford a servant, but here on her own, she had to get her hands dirty herself. He noted the little things when she thought he wasn’t looking. How she wrinkled her nose whenever she had to toss out the trash, and how she fumbled with the washing machine, refusing to ask for help when she clearly needed it. It was so pitiful he had to guide her through the basics himself. Something he wouldn’t have done for anyone, ordinarily. It was ludicrous, him having to teach his own maid how to clean.

There was nothing wrong with the tea. It was steeped just right and it wasn’t too sweet. Perfect, in fact. But that wasn’t what she’d be hearing. “This is the wrong kind.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Did I not tell you to bring me Earl Grey?”

“You didn't, sir,” Phoebe insisted, brows furrowing as she wracked her mind for any recollection of him saying that. But she found nothing of course. So forgetful like that. “You said black tea.”

“I know what I said,” he replied tersely, before looking off to the side as if pondering something troublesome. Whatever will he do with her? “I’m starting to question whether you're capable for this job.”

“My apologies, Mr. Snow,” she mumbled, her shoulders tensing at his disappointment. “I’ll brew you a cup, right away.” With that she turned, attempting to leave as if he permitted her to.

“Have a seat.” Coriolanus beckoned her to the chair across from his, the sternness in his tone leaving no room for argument. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you first.”

Those words had her paling as she padded up to his desk, and with a shaky breath, settled into the leather chair. For a moment they sat in silence as he watched her squirm, and he pieced together what he wanted to say. Let his fingers drag along the steaming rim of the teacup. It was a moment of reflection to him, but to her, it must’ve seemed like a deliberate tactic to unnerve her. Because she was always so terrified of him, even though he'd been nothing but polite. Reasonable. Generous, even.

“You seem distracted lately, Miss Blackwood.” He straightened the fountain pen on his desk. “If there's anything preventing you from putting forth your best effort, I'd like to know.”

“I’m fine, sir,” Phoebe insisted not a second later in her defense. “Just a bit under the weather today.”

“You’ve used that excuse before. That can’t be the case everyday,” he challenged, and she wet her glossy pink lips, at a loss for words. “This week alone, you broke one of my teacups. Stained my rug. Do you have any idea how much it cost?”

“More than my paycheck?” She offered a half-hearted laugh but he could tell she wanted nothing more than for the ground to swallow her.

“It’s worth more than I’d pay you in a year.” He let that sink in.

“I’ll pay to replace them. It might take some time… but I will.”

Coriolanus stirred his tea and took another sip, its warmth soothing him. The brew wasn't as bitter as yesterday’s. In fact, it was perfect. Miss Blackwood could be a quick learner if she put her mind into it. “With what money, pray tell? Certainly not mine, if you think I’m keeping you around after all that.”

“Allow me to make it up to you.” Panic contorted her features. “I could, I could work extra hours. Or for less. I can sew, cook—”

“I’ve already been quite generous with you. You wouldn’t have lasted a week anywhere else, with the way you clean.” She was trying not to take his statement to heart but he caught the way she winced because it was true; she was simply that lacking in her ability. “I suppose I could give you one last chance. But why should I, if I could easily find someone better?”

Maids and Avoxes were a dime a dozen, with the wealth he had surmounted. At least he wouldn’t have to pay an Avox a wage. But they weren’t so pleasant to look at.

“I know it might not seem that way to you, but this job means so much to me.” She traced the frills of her apron almost compulsively, blinking back tears. “It is how I get by. Afford anything. I may not be the best at my job, but I am... dedicated. I’ll do anything to keep it. So if you could...” she was struggling to come up with more words to say, but her message had gotten across.

“Anything?” He barely managed to conceal the smirk in his tone at what that implied, though he was uncertain she understood the weight of her words. What they implied. “That’s a dangerous offer, Miss Blackwood. Are you sure you’re up to it?” There was a flicker of hesitance in her eyes, which was swiftly replaced by a determined glow as she straightened up in her seat.

“I have a proposal for you,” Coriolanus continued, leaning forward in his seat. “Housekeeping isn’t your forte, that is fine. Thus I can offer you a position more geared to your… skill set.”

Phoebe blinked, not quite registering the insinuation.

“It’s not all about sweeping floors, Miss Blackwood. There are other ways to be of service,” he elaborated. “I could explain, but a demonstration would be more efficient.”

She nodded, though not before hesitating for a moment. “I’m listening.”

“Come,” he beckoned with a tilt of his head.

Rising, she rounded the corner of his desk, coming close, though not as close as he wanted her to be. “A little closer,” he requested, and gingerly she closed the distance between them, their knees almost touching. Her breath caught in anticipation of her next instruction. Good. “I can see how eager you are to please. That dedication can bring you far here.”

She brightened. “Of course. This is my first job, but I believe I’m a quick learner.”

“Kneel, then. Prove that you can keep up.” His own words surprised him. Where was he going with this? What did he want from her? Coriolanus leaned back in his chair, commanding her with such casualness, as if he were requesting a glass of water. He was well aware he was crossing some boundaries here, but his home was his domain. A place where he made the rules.

“Mr. Snow?” His little maid gave him a funny look, as if he’d asked something absurd.

“I’d like to speak with you properly, Miss Blackwood. Eye to eye.” His voice sliced through the quiet like a blade, leaving no room for argument. And he thought, well, she was a bit too high up, standing before him in her heels. She’d look better down on the floor. She dropped to her knees a bit awkwardly, and his gaze swept over the swell of her humble breasts. That tight dress accentuated her assets just right.

“There we go,” he hummed, tipping her chin up. “If I’m to make an exception for you, I’d like to get to know you better first.” She flinched at the slightest touch, at his thumb swiping across her bottom lip, smudging her pink lip gloss. “Before I hire a servant, I do a background check. To ensure I am accepting someone fit.” She nodded dumbly and he carried on. “Your background, it intrigues me. You are from a well-off family, are you not? Someone of your age and status would’ve been spoken for already. Yet here you are, scrubbing floors for a living. Curious, isn’t it?”

Phoebe's eyes darkened. “It’s… complicated.”

“Go on,” said Coriolanus, tucking her sandy waves behind her ear. The black satin ribbon in her ponytail was a nice touch, though a red one would suit her better, he thought. Maybe he’d commission another uniform for her, in a different style. A privilege no ordinary maid would have, but, it was normal for maids to keep spares of uniforms anyway. Why not vary them a bit? This was his domain, and he was her employer.

“There was an arrangement that fell through,” she explained. “My father and I had some disagreements.”

What a funny way to say she refused. That was the only explanation he could conjure for her situation.

“And now you’re on your own. How unfortunate. Still, you’ve landed on your feet.” A gourmand scent lingered in the air, syrupy sweet and delicious. Her strawberry perfume. It piqued his appetite. “I won’t pry, but I can see you’re in a tough position. Thus, I’d like to extend you an olive branch.”

“Thank you for your consideration, sir,” she murmured, fidgeting with the hem of her dangerously short dress. “About the job. What would my new duties be, exactly?”

What indeed? He thought about it long and hard, how he could make someone like her useful. And it hit him all at once, this feeling he could not name, seeing this girl down at his feet, looking up at him, her hazel eyes so full of hope. Please don’t turn me away. Please, give me a chance to prove I can please you. What was it?

Power, he decided.

“You’ll still be doing some housework, but there are other needs of mine that I’ll require tending to,” he said, and his gaze drifted down to her small pink lips as she bit the skin on them. Coriolanus was briefly bombarded by the image of them wrapped around something else, and oh, how soft they would feel. He would give her purpose, he decided, because he was generous like that. A chance at a better life, and in the process, maybe indulge in some rakish joys before he would inevitably be tied down someday, with a ring on his finger.

His tea was now lukewarm yet he sipped it anyway, savoring the sweetness on his tongue. Would she taste this sweet? Coriolanus offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes as he set his teacup down on the coaster, pushing the intrusive thought aside. “You’ll need to do some training first. I’d like to check one thing if that’s alright with you.”

Phoebe gave a slow albeit hesitant nod. All the confirmation he needed.

His thumb skimmed across her bottom lip and pressed down, testing its yield. “Open your mouth.” She furrowed her brows, still confused but cooperative nonetheless. Her eye contact was lacking, something he noted for them to work on later.

“You’ll need to learn how to follow directions if you’re to succeed, Miss Blackwood. This is all part of the process.” She peeked up at him through the curtain of her long lashes and tried to nod. His thumb then slipped past her lips and pressed down on her tongue. “Close your lips around it, just like that.”

A flush crept up her cheeks at the direction this was going and he caught a spark in her eyes, something he had no trouble snuffing out. All it took was a cold stare to humble her again and remind her of her position. How precarious it was.

She didn’t hesitate anymore.

“Let’s see how much you can take now.” He carried on, pushing his thumb further down until he found it—her gag reflex. Coughing, she pulled back, and he gave a pleased nod. “Your gag reflex is strong but that is fine. That can be improved with time. I trust you will be diligent.” And lucky for her, he was a patient man when he wanted to be. “Are you ready for the next step?”

Coriolanus didn’t wait for her to decide; he simply seized her hand and registered her lack of resistance as an agreement. In that moment, he appreciated how small her hand was in his, her thumb all but the size of his pinky. Delicate, so easy to crush if he wasn’t careful. Her nails, they were not perfectly manicured like a lady of her former status. They were bitten down to the nailbed, cuticles chewed, a nasty habit he noted to have her break.

He guided her hand down to his belt and held it still, always slow when he moved, as if any sudden movement would frighten her. Surely this was a lot to process, being allowed to touch him like this, when before, she'd been spooked by his mere presence in the same room as her. Such sensitive things, like her, took time to coax. He would hate for her to run off after all of this work, trying to coax her close, like he would a frightened fawn.

And then it hit, a moment delayed as she jerked her hand away, the insinuation finally registering.

“This—this is highly unprofessional, sir.” There she was, fawning away from him, but there was something else in her expression. Disgust. For once, he spotted something on her face that wasn't pure anxiety. “I’m uncomfortable with this. I’m a maid, not a—” she hesitated over the last word.

“Very well, I understand.” Sighing, he feigned boredom. “I hoped we could come to an agreement but it appears not. Before you leave—I’m missing my watch. Have you seen it?”

Phoebe rose to her feet, a tad clumsily. “Watch? Which one?”

There were at least three of them.

“The one you’ve misplaced.” A ruthless smile curled his lips. “Things don’t vanish into thin air, Miss Blackwood.”

“Maybe you forgot it somewhere,” she fired back, and he’d never seen her so red before. This time it wasn’t from embarrassment. “If you’re implying I’ve taken it, I haven’t. Check the cameras, you’ll see.”

That was an option, yes. He’d taken measures to secure the place before hiring help. One could never be too careful.

“You’re sweating a bit,” he observed, and the amusement faded from his expression as it shifted into something cold. The kind he would give a thief. “There’s no point lying about it.”

“Like I said, you should check the cameras. There’s proof.” Her pretty face was suddenly much uglier with that scowl contorting it. It didn’t suit her.

“I’ll file a report with your company.” He waved in dismissal.

Phoebe scoffed. “But there’s proof!”

“And who would they believe?” he challenged her, raising his brow. “Some girl whose name means nothing? You ought to remember your place. I am telling you this for your own sake.”

“You are despicable,” she spat, “do you think you can just—” She raised her hand and he caught it in an iron-like grip. Did she intend to slap him? That would be one way to ensure she was not only fired, but blacklisted from every cleaning service.

He did not relinquish her despite her struggling. Not until he said, “I do hope you’ll reconsider, Miss Blackwood. Don’t let your pride get in the way of a good opportunity.”

With that, she recoiled at once and took a deep breath, trying to pull herself together, and he couldn’t tell whether she was about to strangle him or burst into tears. Probably both.

“Now I’ll ask one last time. Are you or are you not interested in this position?”

It took a moment for her to decide, and it seemed she came to her senses once she nodded. “I. I am,” she muttered under her breath, and spitting those words out may as well have been pulling teeth. Her temper came as a surprise to him because, he’d never seen this side of her before. Only that meek little maid. Yes sir, no sir. And now she’d come at him like that. It appeared that, after all, she did have a spine. Refreshing indeed.

“Good. Now, where were we?” His attention drifted to her pink lips which were now bitten raw. “Kneel.”

Phoebe exhaled before dropping to her knees in defeat. This time she didn’t resist when he guided her hand down to his crotch so she could properly tend to his needs. “Do you feel that?” he crooned. “It appears we have a problem here. Take care of it for me, will you?”

“I’ve never done this before,” she admitted, shakily. “I’m not sure… what to do.”

“I’ll guide you through it,” Coriolanus replied. “Unbuckle my belt,” he tipped her chin up, “and keep those pretty eyes on me.”

It took a bit of fumbling but she managed to do so. Then came his briefs. She pulled the waistband down and his cock sprang out, half hard and demanding attention, which she gave it for all of one second before averting her gaze as if she didn’t have permission to look. Her shyness would’ve been endearing were it not for the fact he suspected it was an act.

Capitol women were taught to be demure but that wasn’t necessarily how they were deep down. He’d seen glimpses of it in coquettish stares he’d received from women fanning themselves. Staring at him from across the ballroom, like, come and get me. But always so quick to put on that mask and feign innocence when approached.

“What did I just say?” He gave her head a shake, forcing her gaze to fix on him. On it. On his cock, which was now twitching with excitement at the tentative squeeze she gave. So gentle with it, like she was afraid of hurting him.

“Squeeze tighter,” he instructed. “Lick it. Get it nice and wet for me.”

She licked an experimental strip from the base to the sensitive head of his cock, lingering there long enough for him to think she was teasing him for a second. But her clammy palms and the uncertainty of her touch were enough to refute that. It all screamed of a girl who had no idea what she was doing.

“Good girl,” he praised, stroking her cheek with his thumb, and he didn’t miss the way she leaned into his touch. Still seeking his approval, even now. Those soft lips wrapped around him like a warm embrace and he sighed, eyes fluttering shut. Her mouth was rather small so it was a bit challenging to fit it all. But that didn’t deter her.

Coriolanus guided her along and she tried to be good for him, she did; still he felt her inexperience when her teeth grazed his sensitive flesh. “No teeth,” he hissed out, eyes snapping open as he yanked her ponytail. A startled squeak escaped her, then she offered an apologetic look, which he accepted. Naturally, it would take time to train her, but he was confident she’d adapt. Her life only depended on it. No pressure.

She took extra care not to graze him, every touch meticulous as she allowed him to guide her along, to show her how to please him. For a while, that was enough. But soon his patience was a fraying thread and couldn’t help but push her head down, just to see how much she could take. Not much it turned out, once she gagged almost immediately and pulled back.

By then he was fully erect and more than ready to move along.

“Bend over the desk for me,” Coriolanus commanded, shoving things aside to make room for her. She awkwardly wobbled onto her feet, then leaned forward, elbows bracing against the cool surface. Stiff as a board, her muscles tensed beneath his touch; he had to press down on her back just to get her flush against it.

“Mr. Snow?” Phoebe’s breath caught once he hiked her skirt up over her hips, revealing the thin fabric protecting her intimate parts.

“Did you wear this flimsy thing for me?” he teased, playing with the lace trim of her pink undergarment. “You might as well have worn nothing.” He pictured her in that tight uniform, cleaning whilst trying desperately not to flash him. She certainly wouldn’t appreciate it if he forbid her from wearing any panties, though it would bring him great pleasure to watch her squirm.

“They’re my regular ones.” I know, he thought, but he refrained from telling her that. She shook her head, utterly mortified by his assumption. He attempted to peel them down her slim thighs but she squeezed them shut, denying him entry. “I’d like to keep them on,” she boldly requested, as if him agreeing to that was a possibility.

“They’ll get in the way. Off.” Coriolanus gave her thigh a slap, eliciting a sharp gasp from her. Inevitably she yielded, parting her legs for him like the good girl she was. Oh, how she trembled, and how he liked it, her fear. A bit of fear was necessary to keep them pliant. He wasted no time ripping her panties down her legs because he’d waited long enough. Had been patient this entire time, looking but never daring to touch. Typically he didn’t mix business with pleasure, but there was a first time for everything. Call it getting his money’s worth. He nudged her thighs apart, revealing what she’d been hiding this whole time, and fuck—her cunt was prettier than he imagined, neatly trimmed with blonde wisps sparsely covering it.

“Please don’t stare.” Phoebe’s nails dug into the desk as she sought for something to ground her, but there was nothing there—no way to distract herself from the sensation of his fingers gliding along her silken folds. There was a bit of wetness there, which was natural; it didn’t necessarily mean she was aroused though he thought it’d be fun to tease her about it anyway.

“Eager, are we? You’re dripping and I’ve hardly touched you,” Coriolanus hummed, fingers catching a certain nub he found. “Just what filth do you have running around in your mind?”

“Nothing—” she jerked her hips, a startled gasp escaping her at him having found her weak spot.

“If you’re going to lie, at least make it convincing.” He rubbed her clit in slow, deliberate circles, and it was almost embarrassing how quickly a bit of wetness turned into her becoming sopping wet. All it took was some petting for her legs to part wider, of their own accord. “Your body’s quite sensitive. How often do you touch yourself?”

“I…” She hesitated long enough for him to doubt her. “Don’t.”

Without warning, he brought a heavy hand down, striking her perky ass and she flinched, a squeak catching in her throat. “Lying to me again, I see. I can always tell when.” It didn’t help that she made it so easy for him to read her, like an open book. There were little tells, like how her voice went up a pitch the way it did just now. Sometimes she’d shrink in on herself, trying to hide in plain sight. But there was nowhere to hide anymore.

“A few times a week,” she confessed, caving under the weight of his authoritative stare.

“And who do you think about when you do it?” He rewarded her with a lazy stroke, savoring the way she shuddered.

“No one, really.”

That earned her a slap between her legs.

Just to punish her for lying again, Coriolanus made sure to get her all worked up, stroking her sensitive bud, only to pull back and deny her pleasure the needier she became. Of course she never admitted how much she wanted it, but he didn’t need words to tell she was getting closer. A frustrated whine escaped her at his fingers tracing so close to where she desired them, but never quite there. He elected to ignore her until she gave an honest answer for once.

“You!” Phoebe huffed. “I think about you.”

“Do you imagine me touching you like this?” He returned his touch and she rolled her hips, so shameless about it. Funny considering how shy she’d been just to be seen mere minutes ago. She bit back a whimper and nodded. “Show me how I do it.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder, the wide look in her eyes seeming to ask, do I have to?

“Go on,” he nodded before pulling back and settling into his seat. “I’m waiting.”

Phoebe sat up on his desk, facing him. Once she worked up the courage, she slipped a hand between her slim thighs but still couldn’t look him in the eye. And she could bite her lip all she wanted to stifle her whimpers, but there was no concealing the sound of her wet cunt. Her cheeks burned and he smirked, watching her fingers mimic the movement of his but moments ago. The vision before him sent a jolt of excitement straight to his loins and he swore under his breath, fist encircling his rock hard cock.

He stroked himself as she slipped a finger inside her entrance with little resistance thanks to how soaked she was. One, then another, she tested herself, but that wasn’t enough. “Look at me when you do it,” he demanded and she had no choice but to yield, gingerly fixing her attention on him. “How many can you fit?” he inquired, and well, her answer came soon enough when she tried to ease more fingers in. Three, just three. Nowhere near the size of him. But she had time to adapt, to mold to him. This was a start.

“Come for me,” Coriolanus ordered, and she tried. It was adorable how worked up she’d gotten, all teary-eyed at not being able to please herself the way he could. Her slow movements shifted into something sporadic and soon she couldn’t hold back her frustrated whines, each one exciting him more.

“I can’t,” she sobbed.

“But you’re close.”

Her hips arched off the desk and he would’ve been content watching her struggle, were he not already painfully hard. It was becoming increasingly difficult to restrain himself. “Take your hand away,” he commanded.

“Lick them clean,” he instructed once she withdrew her fingers which were slick with arousal, and she did so without hesitance. Already learning so quickly. “Good girl,” he praised. “Come here.”

She slid off the desk and padded over to him. Then waited, waited like a pet for her next command.

“Have you ever come before, Phoebe?”

She shook her head, a bit dazed from all that had happened.

“Maybe we can change that.” He pulled her onto his lap and she tensed at his erection pressing against her.

“Please, sir.” She buried her head against his chest, inhaling the scent of roses and cologne lingering there.

“All you have to do is ask me to fuck you.”

That had her looking up, eyes widening at how vulgar his words were. And he, too, was surprised by them. Never had he been so uncouth before. There were only a handful of times that he slept with women, but always, he made sure to treat them with respect. But now he'd found himself in a different situation, with a woman so beneath him in status, position—everything. And nothing at stake, this time. He could say whatever he wanted. “Just a few words, lamb. It’s not that hard,” said Coriolanus, stroking her thigh in an attempt to soothe her.

“I can’t.” She swallowed. “I’m saving myself for marriage.”

Saving it for her future husband, how typical.

Her strawberry perfume wafted over him like an intoxicating cloud, and the warmth of her body reminded him that all this was real. Not a fantasy his mind conjured while he was trying to remain professional. Everything had conveniently fallen into place, as if inevitable. No, he wasn’t taking advantage of the situation the way a worse man would. Of course, the girl would be paid well. More than what a maid typically earned. Generous considering she was barely qualified for the job as is. “It’s quite funny you said that, considering you just fingered yourself on my desk,” he pointed out, dryly. “There’s no point in being coy now.”

“That’s different,” she protested.

“Different.” He raised a brow, fingers slipping between her legs to pet her. “Need I remind you, you’ve racked up quite the debt? If you’re looking to repay me for that teacup you broke, this is a start. Or I could simply let you go now and you’ll be pressed to find another job.” His tone carried no hint of malice as he delivered the cold hard truth. “Thievery… That’s a crime that could get you blacklisted. Or worse.”

“Wait.” She stiffened in alarm.

“Going once, twice—”

“Please.”

She mumbled something indecipherable so he asked her to speak up, to be clear.

“Please. Fuck me… sir.”

“There we go.” Coriolanus patted her head. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He didn’t wait for a response, simply planting a firm hand on her waist and guiding her to straddle him. “Lift yourself up a little,” he instructed and once she did, he positioned himself at her entrance. “Ease down on it, slowly.”

“Will... Will it hurt?” Phoebe hovered there, shaking so much he had to steady her. She was afraid; that was only natural with it being her first time. It didn’t help that he was twice her size and he could easily split her in half.

“Just a pinch,” he assured her, brushing her bangs back. “Then it’ll feel good.”

With that she pushed down, and he groaned at her velvety warmth swallowing him. Her walls tensed as she struggled to adjust, and that alone was enough to have him flexing his thighs as he reminded himself to pace this. Reasonably. Nothing prolonged enough to be tender, but certainly not a quick fuck. He wasn’t an animal; he wanted her to enjoy this too. “You’re doing well,” he praised. “Just a bit more.”

Gingerly she nodded, sinking down as he stretched her impossibly. Inch by agonizing inch. He was nothing if not patient with her taking her sweet time with this, but even he had his limits. Thus, he gripped her hips and pulled her down all the way, sighing at how tight she was.

She yelped at the suddenness of it all, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care when he was too distracted by her squeezing him like a vise. Once she recovered from the momentary shock, she lifted her hips—just like he told her to—then eased down, brows furrowing at the foreign sensation of being filled so deeply. Up and down, she repeated the simple motion, searching for the pleasure she was promised, though not finding it yet. Meanwhile he sighed, tuning her out like background noise.

“Finally, something you’re useful for.” His fingers dug into her narrow hips like talons. “I think I’ll keep you around a bit longer.” It was a bit mean of him to reduce her to a living cock sleeve, but it wasn’t his fault she couldn’t clean well. What use did he have for a maid who couldn’t do her job right?

“I can be useful.” Phoebe blinked back tears. “Let me prove it to you.”

“Just keep doing this,” came his response.

After a few minutes of enduring a slower pace for her sake, he took matters into his own hands, using her for all she was worth. It had been his intention to take it slow, but, this whole process was truly testing his patience. He was so tempted to indulge. Had been, ever since she first set foot inside his penthouse. She wasn’t the least bit prepared for it, confusion contorting her face at the sudden switch up. “It hurts,” she cried, gripping his shoulders for dear life.

“I know it hurts,” he crooned, grabbing her ponytail and tilting her head up to gaze into her misty eyes. They were the warmest shade of hazel, even prettier when she was tearing up. “But you’ll take it like you should.” He held her gaze before pulling out and thrusting in again, not missing the small bulge in her stomach. Something about the image filled him a satisfaction he couldn’t quite place. “Just like that. You’re a perfect fit, see? Taking me so well.”

There was a certain decorum he exercised around the women he courted. They had to be handled with care and respect, unlike common whores. Not that he entertained the company of those sorts. Not those girls dancing on the stage at Pluribus Bell’s nightclub. This one here had fallen right onto his lap, so it was different. A win-win situation for them both. Her with a roof over her head and him with his needs sated. Perhaps he was the best thing to happen to her at this point in her life.

He had her like this, on his lap, and then on his desk, face down as he pounded into her. A particularly rough thrust tipped over the cup holding his pens but he ignored it; it wasn’t his job to clean messes.

“From this day onward, you’ll belong to me,” Coriolanus decided. “Me. Not your company.”

He looked down to find her eyes had gone vacant, like she’d retreated into some far corner of her mind, which wouldn’t do. He needed her present, in body and mind. So he brought her back with a firm slap on her ass and she flinched, looking back at him with that startled expression. As if he’d done it unprovoked.

“Who do you belong to, Phoebe? Say it,” he hissed out, giving her head a shake.

“You, sir,” she stuttered, half breathless. He liked that she didn’t need to think about it. As if she already knew the answer long before he asked.

“That’s right. You exist to serve my needs. So long as you remember this, you’ll be rewarded.”

“Thank you, sir—” she gasped when he grazed a certain spot inside her. “I won’t let you down again.” He aimed for it again and again, drawing out her soft moans which were like music to his ears. Her walls flexed, a good sign; he knew just what would push her over the edge.

His thumb returned to her clit and she jerked her hips in response. “Oh!”

“What do you feel, pet? Describe it to me.”

“Strange,” Phoebe fumbled over the words to use, and whatever she was going to say next had been lost thanks to the distraction.

“Another rule.” He halted, pinning her hips down so she couldn’t control the pace. “You may not come without my permission.” All pretense of modesty was long forgotten now as she whined, pushing back against him.

“Please!”

“Please, what?” He couldn’t help but tease her, as she was so close to falling apart.

“Please let me cum, sir. I’ll, I’ll be good.”

That was enough for him. He rubbed her clit until her walls pulsed and her knees buckled at the unfamiliar sensation. Her breathy cries turned somewhat confused at what she was experiencing for the first time, and he grunted as he felt it, her coming undone. Her cunt choked him as he fucked her through her first orgasm, little waves of pleasure cresting through her.

By the time she came down from her high, he was still going, her soft whines of protest falling on deaf ears. It may as well have been background noise. Only once he was satisfied did he still, painting her walls with his seed.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then he pulled out, a ravenous glint in his eyes as he watched the evidence of his claim drip down her sticky thighs. Red. It mixed with his seed and she squeezed her legs shut, trying to keep it all in. The last thing she needed was to make a mess on his floor again.

“Clean yourself up.” Coriolanus settled down in his seat and slid a box of tissues to her. He grabbed a tissue for himself, cleaning up before tucking himself away and she followed suit, trying to make herself presentable. Though they both knew she was beyond that point now, with her makeup smudged and her hair all messy. All that effort putting herself together to look her best, wasted. Yet he didn’t mind it, this look on her.

“I’d like to discuss our arrangement now,” Coriolanus announced, mild amusement painting his expression as he watched her cringe at the feeling of her soaked panties clinging to her.

He patted his lap and she sat down on it, a bit awkwardly.

“Do you remember what I told you earlier?” he asked and she nodded, but he figured he’d remind her again just in case.

“You may continue working here under one condition.” He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “You will no longer work for your company. I will employ you directly and your duty is to tend to my needs. Whatever they may be.”

“Thank you, sir.” There was something in between resignation and relief in her tone.

“Since I’ll need you to be available whenever, it would be more convenient if you live here. I’ll have a room prepared soon.” For any maid, that would’ve been too much to ask. But she was no regular maid, that much was apparent.

“How, how much would that cost?” She eyed him warily as if searching for some hidden catch.

“Your hard work. Nothing here is free,” he reminded her, coldly. She bit her lip. “Come see me tomorrow. I’ll have a contract ready for you to sign, and we can discuss the legalities then.”

“Alright.” She played with the frills on her skirt, forcing a smile on her face to keep this as professional as possible. Though her being on his lap made that just about pointless. “I accept.”

“Perfect.” Coriolanus squeezed her thigh. “My chauffeur will give you a ride home. You may have the rest of the day off to pack your things.”

He was getting ahead of himself. She still had to review the contract and there was still a slight chance she would deny to sign, but she was in no position to turn down such a generous offer from him. After finishing the rest of his tea, he sent her on her way, to take it to the kitchen. Her last task of the day. His attention followed the sway of her hips as she moved, a smug satisfaction crossing his face. What a pleasant turn of events. It’d only taken two weeks and some days to come to fruition.

He turned his attention back to his desk and the disarray it was now in, papers to his left and right. Many of them still unaddressed. First he would phone his assistant and have her draft the contract. It was alright, letting her in on this. She’d signed an NDA and she knew better than to breach it, if she valued her cushy job.

The day was young and there was still much to do, but knowing he’d have a little something to look forward to tomorrow made it all the more bearable.

a/n: Spanish is my third language so I tried! I actually started writing this partially to find the will to study it again. If you need help with the nicknames/some sayings, pls refer to this “dictionary” I compiled. I'm by no means an expert, especially not at Mexican Spanish, but I find it beautiful and I did my research, so any feedback is appreciated as always.

Hope you enjoy! 

⏭ Link to my full Billy the Kid playlist

The ranch sat low against the land—more dust than wood or brick. Not shabby by any means—just worn down to its purpose, emerging from the ground as if it would always serve it. 

This is the place Billy had found refuge after a particularly nasty shootout between the Seven Rivers gang (though they fancied themselves “proper guard dogs” of The House now) and Tunstall's Regulators. It had been the Englishman himself who rode out here, together with McSween, dragging a bleeding Billy and Charlie to Don Ignacio Alvarez's whitewashed hacienda in the dead of night. 

“The new iron on them deputies sure has a bite—” Charlie had winced, clutching his shoulder. 

Both men had been promptly settled in the tack room so as to not sully the doorway. That had been when Billy first met her—Mary Delphine Alvarez—the Don’s youngest daughter. She was a stubborn thing, he could immediately tell, but also… a soft voice in a hard place if you showed her there was no reason to be spooked. Trouble, but in a quiet way—the one that’d sneak up on you.

“¡Del, ayúdenlos muchachos! Ay, hazte útil!”, Billy still remembered how Don Alvarez’s voice had rang out in the cold air back on that night, as he had ushered all four wanderers out of prying eyes. The girl had already made herself more than useful—carrying gauze and what looked to be strong distilled tequila in her skirts, even before her father felt the need to prompt. Still, it was apparent that in his rancho, the Don's word reigned supreme. 

Mary Delphine… or “Del” as all of her close family and friends called her, muttered something in Spanish about how her father needed to watch his heart. While Billy was somewhat well-versed in the language, the night had been long and far from forgiving and the constant ringing in his ears didn’t help. He could barely make out what Tunstall and McSween were discussing with Don Alvarez — the two gentlemen having stayed far enough from the bullets that they didn’t sport proof of the confrontation. At least, not the kind that needed tending to. The lawyer had been shaking all throughout their journey here—having seen just how futile his fancy paperwork had been. This war wouldn’t be won based on justice, but rather, who had the quickest draw, the most guns — in short, who could play their hand better. 

Billy yawned, trying to pop the tension in his ears and jerk close enough to discern the words “new Governor” and “pardon” coming from the thick oak table. This had only earned him a well-placed nudge from Del, rooting him in place back onto his chair. 

“Ay, Dios, stay still, vaquero — those wounds won’t patch themselves up and all that wriggling sure ain’t helping. Are you that eager to ride off and have another hole in you already?”, her voice had been softly teasing, like honey, yet somehow still quietly commanding.  

A smirk tugged on Billy’s face despite the sharp pain in his knee. But before he could retort, he bit down on the cloth offered up to his lips to suppress a groan as she poured that distilled alcohol over the gaping wound: “Nghh—...”, a snarl escaped him. His pain didn’t seem to affect her — not for a lack of care, but because she had been focused on getting them well as fast as she could. 

“Here, better take a swig of it before I start my needlework.”, Del advised, bringing the bottle up to Billy’s lips from where she had been kneeling in front of him.

The alcohol burned down his throat, its sharpness like a soothing balm, as a coyote howled into the darkness somewhere far away and her needle drew fresh beads of blood.

That was a few months back, just as springtime was turning over… Just like that, Billy had started his “proper” employment as a ranch hand for Don Alvarez. As it turned out, those hushed words weren’t just wishful thinking. The new Governor was working to pass a law of pardon to all outlaws whose major crimes had spanned before their coming of age. Something about needing to build the country up, instead of filling jail houses and wasting good rope. 

More so, the plan was for him to lay low now — until Tunstall prepared their next attack. Better weapons… better law. Billy had a feeling that this talk of pardoning had been orchestrated by Thomas Catron somehow. The man was the Seven Rings and if there was one thing those posh American businessmen hated more than anything — it was to be made fools of. No, this had to be them throwing dust in Tunstall's eyes and any other opponents to Catron's interests. Thankfully, McSween listened to sense and didn't put his hopes up too much into that. This war would be won ugly— and that was that.

Billy had almost given up on his hope to settle down one day — seeing as how quickly the war in Lincoln County had escalated. Tunstall did promise him back when Billy was joining his cause, that he'd walk out of it a free man. But the cowboy just didn't imagine it would come soon. A part of him worried every passing day — that if the House won their day in court, nothing would change and that if that corrupt banker, now fancying himself a Presidential candidate — actually won… the Seven Rings would just thrive more and more. He couldn't rest, not until he proved to himself and all who he lost along the way that there is such a thing as “justice” in the New World. 

Until then, he settled for hauling hay in the burning sun—a pair of curious, warm hazel eyes following his every move far back from the thick shade of the cottonwood. Del pretended to read, that much he could tell—as she chewed on the plumes she had gathered. She'd avert her gaze if he even glanced in her direction… like a spooked mare. Now, that was just his kind of work—not taming, not truly, he never saw it like that. Billy would move with a mare like they’re sharing the same heartbeat—his thighs pressing firm but never forcing, his hands steady on the reins but never yanking. 

‘Easy, chiquita…’, he'd murmur, voice unhurried: ‘Ain’t nobody here to break you. Just to ride you right.’  

Del was just like that—fire in her belly, but measured in the way she carried herself. She was bashful in her advances, not for a lack of confidence but more so — they both knew it'd be an inappropriate show of interest. He was an outlaw, a working hand on her father's ranch — not someone a proper señorita like herself should be pining over. 

Yet, in the days after their first encounter, they had only grown closer, sharing similar values. He hadn't presumed her to be a spoiled heiress, seeing as how capable she was when she'd handled Charlie and him. Even still, what he definitely didn't expect was someone so selfless and understanding of the “common folk”. 

Her father had built his fortune long before Del was born — in fact none of her two older sisters had wanted for anything either. Alvarez had it all. Even then, Del spent most of her time teaching at the mission — just west of the ranch, helping Father Diego like a good, devoted catholic woman. The padre had been a guiding light to her and probably the only man in her life who urged her on in her ambitions, instead of suffocating her. Until Billy’s free spirit whirled through the land that is.

Del had told Billy that much of her past and her goals—that she wanted to give back to her community and ensure that all of the farmer's children knew their letters and their rights. The young girls especially were often neglected in their education… all because of greedy bastards like Murphy, Riley and Catron running the show. 

One afternoon, when the sun wasn’t yet in its copper cast that would settle over the land, bringing promise of a cold night’s respite, Del had taken it upon herself to change Billy’s bandages. He could do it himself now but he figured having someone fuss over him wasn’t so bad after all… not when that someone had the gentlest of hands.

“I gotta say, maestra… you sure ain’t what desperados like me would expect.” Billy grunted then, looking beyond the stables, waiting for the small hours to welcome him like an old friend.

‘Maestra’… that was what he had started teasingly calling her after he had seen her surrounded by the little kids she taught at the mission. Like ducklings following their ma, eyes brimming with endless curiosity—even after reading time had been long done. Back then Billy had just been riding back to the small cabin he made his home—far off Alvarez property in case Sheriff Brady’s posse came sniffing around. Despite himself, he did stop to look at her—really see her… and how the whole scenery just sat right with her. If only the world were truly so gentle and patient—then again, maybe her students would make it so one day…

“¿A poco?...” Del smirked then while tightening the dressing: “What use is privilege if one just hoards it for themselves?", a soft challenge beneath the playfulness—like she yearned to defy the world for telling her who she was supposed to be.

“My father owns a grand ranch, sure enough—but I don't like just staying pretty, waiting to pop out heirs for some thankless sinvergüenza... I want to help the people of Lincoln here— especially my people. So many kids end up unlettered because their parents need helping hands to get food on the table. Especially with the House bleeding them dry.” As Del's hands dropped from Billy’s knee, work finished—her voice had turned hopeful, meeting his blue eyes: "I'm not naive or sheltered enough to not know what's really going on around me, vaquero.” The raw honesty in her voice carried over like a knife slicing: “You—you are doing Lincoln a fine service... I hope the Englishman can bring just pay for the farmers..."

Billy had listened to her with growing admiration, his usual playfulness softening into something more earnest: "Well now—” he murmured, propping himself up slightly on the chair despite the lingering pain—like he wanted to give her words the respect of his full attention. "—ain't often you meet someone who talks 'bout privilege like it's a rope meant to pull others up instead of strangle 'em."

Billy’s fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the arm of the rocking chair they had on the veranda: "Tunstall’s got the right of it—fair wages, fair fights—" he agreed quietly: "Though I reckon you’re doing more for Lincoln than any outlaw with fast fingers." 

The teasing glint in his eyes returned as he added: "Teachin’, helping ‘round the rancho and nursin’ lost causes? Darlin’, you sure your Pa ain’t raising a one-woman army instead of a proper lady?" His laugh was warm, unguarded—the kind that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. But there was no mockery in it—just bright fascination, like he'd stumbled onto something rare and wonderful.  

Del chuckled earnestly at that, raising to her feet so she could bring tequila for them to share and indulge in this time… enough of that distilled acid: “I think he may be asking himself that very same question more often than either of us would like to admit.” 

She passed Billy a filled cup and he raised it in thanks.

After a pause of comfortable silence, Billy confessed: “...You ever get tired of it? Fighting for folks who might never thank you?"

The question hung between them—less flippant curiosity, or judgement… more the ache of someone who knew what it cost to stand alone against tides. His thumb brushed absently over where his holster would have sat on his hip, if Don Ignacio didn't forbid weapons around his horses. The movement was so purposeful, like he was tracing old battles fought on uneven ground.

"No. Do you?" She took a long sip, wincing at the harsh taste: "It's not about the thanking, I'm sure you believe as much... When you see something that's just not right... not fair, there's that itch to put it back together in any way you can. The new country here is supposed to be equal for all, ¿no? La tierra recuerda... so must its people—that we are all one at the end of the day… we come from dust and to dust we return.” 

Del poured some of her glass onto the ground then… mourning someone, honoring them.

Billy’s breath caught when she spoke. He was quick to feel things usually, even if he didn't let his state show. His features slipped like a dropped saddle, leaving something raw and quiet in its place: "The land remembers...”, he echoed softly, testing the weight of the words on his tongue: "Ain’t heard it put like that before." 

It was beautiful and scary at the same time. 

He followed suit, trickling some liquor from his own chipped cup, watching the dry desert soil drink it up—remembering all his fallen brothers—gone too soon in this unforgiving world. If he had to think back, it had all started with Carlito… the small Mexican boy—his amigo who’d help in the inn where Billy’s own Ma earned their keep. Back then, Billy’s brother was too young to be of much help in the kitchen—so he only hauled dirty laundry for the patrons. Maybe, selfishly, Billy thought—it had been for the better… that Joe didn’t have to see how that crazy gambler shot Carlos and then took his seat back at the table like nothing had happened, like his bullet didn’t drain the life from another human being. All because the drunk, racist son of a gun couldn’t win one round of faro to save his life. Joe lived a very short life in hindsight… but at least he was spared some of its most unsavory, violent parts. Really thinking on it, though, Carlito was just one of the unfortunate many… Billy had seen cruelty long before that, just maybe not as cold-blooded. He was tracing the bandage Del had carefully wrapped now, remembering how Kathleen would patch him up with the same warmth when he’d get into a fight. 

His voice came out a bit too low, a bit too honest, but it didn’t bother him. Billy would get like that with the maestra more and more these days. "Reckon that ‘itch’ you mention is what keeps me riding with Tunstall too. Even when some folks act like we’re just stirring trouble… even when every selfish bastard I've met tells me I shouldn't risk it all for things that don't matter. Well to that I say—it matters to me, hells be damned! It should matter to someone in this forsaken world… But you, chula—you stitch up wounds neater than I make ‘em—I'll drink to that!"  

That he was sure of… be it physical ailments or those of the soul—Del had her ways with both hands and words. And in a land where most people would sooner use the former—the latter was a rare comfort. 

That was how Del knew why he'd asked that question earlier—because even he'd get tired when he had been thrown to such a life. Billy thought those moments of weakness made him selfish, but she knew better—no one absorbed in themselves would ever bother asking.

The burning heat had forced Billy to ditch his shirt for quite some time now, his toned arms flexing unrestrained around the stacks of hay, as sweat ran down his torso. When their eyes met again, he had the audacity to smirk at her—acknowledging, even indulging her interest. This prompted Del to snap her head, quickly returning to her studies. Sure, there had been the lingering looks, the dallying around each other, the infuriatingly tender little names they'd call one another when no one was around… and the passing touches—a hand on the small of her back, her hand dancing on his forearms as she'd pass him meals or water from the kitchen, or when they tended the horses together. Hell, she even gifted him her own copy of  ‘Romeo and Juliet’, with carefully scribbled annotations in its yellowed margins. 

There was nothing subtle about what they had now, even if the ethos around them wouldn't approve. Especially with how Del already had an arranged marriage to ‘look forward to’. Edward Cardew wasn't a delight—his kindness was exclusively performative—like a viper plying up its prey, a dagger wrapped in velvet. His fangs and sharpness were clear whenever he'd speak over Del with condescension (‘What would a pretty thing like you know about it?’)—like she was something to be looked at, not listened to. And thus, he'd carry himself as if the world owed him everything. Mary Delphine was anything but prey though, and she paid little mind to her fiancé's scheming—often ensuring he ended up being seen as the fool for overplaying his hand.

Maybe that's why her and Billy had fallen for one another so quickly, so inevitably—like fire catching on parched grass. And she was parched… for affection, for someone to see her. Much like he thirsted for proof that there was still good on this earth, to have somewhere to lay his weary head and feel at home.

So lost in thought was Del by that point that she had neglected to notice how the distant chatter of the working men had died down, how the patterned rhythm of footsteps carrying hay into the stables had now turned nearing, more purposeful… until Billy’s voice came out hovering right above her little picnic.

“Staring again, chula? Makes me feel like I'm something for sale, y’know—one of your Pa's prized stallions. Though I sure don't mind it when it's you…” He teased, nestling his head on her lap, blue eyes peeking up at her just below the book, bright like the fresh creek water.

“I-I was just trying to switch spots—the sun really is in the way today…”, she defended: “The book is far too engaging for me to entertain you, vaquero.”

Billy just scoffed, tongue darting to wet his chapped lips, feigning contemplation of Del’s hasty excuse: “Hmm… the sun, I see—funny how it’s only botherin’ you when I’m out there liftin’ hay bales…” 

It was rare that Del could be rendered speechless, opting to instead roll her eyes at him. Oh, he was playing the game better than her and he knew it—a self-satisfied smirk dancing on his sun-kissed features now. Billy hummed, calloused hand ghosting over hers, where it held the book, prompting the heavy tome softly out of her grip. He turned it over to examine the cover, dirt-smudged fingers leaving a trail in their wake—making a show of assessing what ‘engaging content’ apparently deserved to hold her attention. He had seen it earlier, of course, as he’d approached the cottonwood undetected—but he basked in putting her on the spot like this, seeing whether she’d squirm or bite. 

“‘A Practical Guide on Equine Care’”, he read out pointedly: “—a real page-turner, reina… considering how you probably learned ridin’ before you could even think of reading.”, Billy chuckled, setting the book back on the quilt beneath them, his fingers drawing small circles on her exposed knee, where her skirt had ridden up higher. 

Del’s breath hitched, caught in her folly: “Well, I am a proper ranch heiress, no? I need to make sure all ground is covered…”

The moment those words left her mouth, her face sank. Neither of them mentioned how if she were to really marry Edward, he'd whisk her away to Philadelphia and make her a little more than an ornament in his fancy empty house. Neither of them would voice it because the sweet illusion of them together against all odds, was far too tempting.

It was Billy who broke the tension: “Well now, if you're still fixin’ to stare at me… least you could do is share them jocotes proper?” 

He opened his mouth expectantly as he  adjusted his head on Del's lap, his stubble pressing into her inner thigh sending goosebumps along her whole body. The dare was intentional—sure they were just off the stables but anyone could spot them if they knew where to look.

Still, that didn't deter Del, her voice smooth as silk as he picked up a pre-sliced plume: “Ay, what am I going to do with you, corazon? But I guess such a hard worker needs to be taken care of…” 

She dropped the slice into his mouth, fingertips grazing his lips, lingering a little too long as he chewed. Billy couldn't resist the closeness then, as he sprung up his head suddenly to bite at her finger—gentle but daring. Oh, how Del wanted to bend over and kiss him on the spot… but she thought better of it. 

The only evidence of how worked up she had gotten was the dreamy sigh that escaped her: “It's a fine day to enjoy some sonnets though… not so much the practical guides…” she looked down at Billy, then at the clouds dancing in the sky just through the cottonwood crowns—the bright blue so much like his irises.

Billy chuckled, his bare shoulders shaking in the process—making the warm sound reverberate where their bodies were joint: “Of course you'd say that. Them sonnets with all that pining… Still, I enjoyed the homework you gave me, maestra. ‘Under love's heavy burden do I sink’—for a fancy chico, Romeo sure knew a thing or two about how hard it can get... To long for something that isn't yours to have…” 

Del blinked rapidly, taken aback by how his heartfelt wording struck her right in the chest. Yet, before she could shush him, a shout from the corral woke both of them from their fairytale. Jose—one of the wranglers—was waving urgently, gesturing at a spooked mare. It must have been the harsh winds sending those loose boards rattling about. Any sudden sound could be the culprit when the horses were cooped up in such a small space, and worse yet, they’d start unsettling each other… 

Billy was supposed to fix the fencing last week… but his ‘reina’ had been especially distracting—bringing him pie and making sure any ride of hers ended right where her vaquero could see her—all sweating and breathless. A lesser man would have had no self control whatsoever—Billy just elected to steal her away for a quick kiss or two on such days. 

Point was, that is how the corral fence remained… day after day… unattended. It was only natural that his negligence would catch up to his albeit small indulgences sooner or later. 

Yet, Billy made no haste for now, still tracing Del's knee with his fingertips—the same hands that could draw a colt the fastest, now so very patiently mapping her skin as if committing it to memory: “I guess we'll have to take up that poetry lesson later, maestra… unless you want watch me up close while I gentle that mare? Heard you are… partial to my way with stubborn creatures.” The other part: ‘like yourself’, remained unspoken but very much understood.

He huffed through the teasing words, getting up slowly—like putting distance between them physically pained him after the stolen moment of intimacy: “Maybe… if you don't stir up trouble, I could recite you something better’n some dead Englishman softness…?”. Billy leaned in closer, lips brushing against Del’s ear as took her wrist, calloused thumb pressing into her rabbiting pulse below the soft thin skin there. He needed to feel how it would jump, betraying her at his next whispered words: “‘Course, I'd have to whisper them verses real low, just like so… ain't proper for an heiress to hear such things in broad daylight…” 

As he attempted to pull back, he swiftly picked another plume, purposefully brushing the back of his hand against Del's thigh in the process—he couldn’t let go.

“Corazon…”, she grabbed his hand, holding it close to where her skirts pooled at her hip: “I am weighing whether I should even bother giving you the gift I’d prepared…”, Del provoked, looking up at the outlaw through her eyelashes. Every vowel dripped with passion, breaking through the dry heat of the summer day—Billy felt it seep through his skin, all the way down, mending his tired bones. 

Jose had probably dealt with the unruly horses ages ago…

As she rummaged through her well-kept, though slightly sun-faded satchel, his eyes danced with curious shadows—his free hand reaching over to tuck an unruly dark curl behind her ear. Del bit her lip, wanting to snake her hand up to cradle his against her temple—she often did just that, keeping him close—showing him it was okay to want that closeness with her, proving that she yearned for the same…

But now, she wanted to touch his soul more than anything. It was Billy’s bandana that she produced, still carrying his scent and the memory of many-a-crimes. Still, she treated it like something holy, as she'd readily do with any part that was Billy—unwrapping it carefully as it rested on her palm—like sacrament. The glint of the rosary caught in his widened eyes, greeting the shadows of his old life.

“I know you aren't exactly a man of faith, Billy—when you've seen all the ugliness running amok… but I just wanted you to have this. Not as a token of belief, rather… so you can feel me near your heart. It's remade from one of my rings.” Del admitted, looking down at the delicate golden cross.

Billy took it gently as if he feared it may crumble in his hands, feeling the delicate chain as he unclasped it. "Let me…”, Del stopped him. He could feel tears brim in the corner of his eyes—he had been baptized, but his cross necklace was one of the first things to go when his mother and father ran out of money. It was like he had lost a piece of his own innocence when it was pawned… at least that was how it had felt—not because of the blasphemy but because it was the last tether he had of a life when things were simpler. 

As Del circled around Billy to adorn him with her gift, he let out a shaky breath—holding the rosary tightly with his hand to his chest. Her hand joined his as she met his eyes again, a soft smile dancing on her lips.

“Thank you…”, he let out roughly: “—for letting me feel something other than anger.” 

Anger at the world, anger at himself, anger at whatever God allowed all of the injustice to persist in a never-ending cycle of grief and loss. But she was his religion now… and this ranch—his place of worship, giving him strength. Even if the war would continue to rage outside of this mirage, he'd have his rest, his true peace… one day. Still, he felt a little lighter now—knowing his reina would be with him for every step of the long road ahead. 

“You already have it in you, vaquero…” she teased, planting a kiss to the rosary over his bare chest—his work shirt still discarded somewhere over forgotten hay stacks: “I just help it come out… same way as I bloom thanks to you.” 

Del's smile was brighter now as she looked over his shoulder, noting a very exacerbated Jose running after a horse: “I think he might just come over and drag you by the ear if you don't giddy up, partner.” 

Billy was rendered defenseless by Del's sudden cowboy turn of phrase, a breathless chuckle shaking his whole torso: “And what am I supposed to answer when folks start askin’ how a desperado like me got to wear such fancy insignia?”

“Ay, you are smart—you’ll think of something. Maybe you won it at poker—that sure sounds like your lucky self… or maybe you’ll finally start telling truths and make us real?”, she shrugged, but her heart fluttered at the idea of dancing with Billy during a fiesta. Not hiding…

And Billy—he wished the long summer days could be even longer…

It was Del’s second oldest sister, Elena, who found her like this—all hot and bothered—trying to cool down by the creek that ran along the ranch land. She sighed in relief that it hadn’t been Beatriz sneaking up on her or she would have gotten an earful about loitering—the oldest were always the most stuck up and Bea was no exception. Even still, Del loved them both…Now that they were visiting for the summer with their husbands, she could almost pretend that nothing had changed—that they were still three storms riding through the desert air, instead of having a burden of expectations thrust upon them. But it wasn't all awful—Bea loved the extravagance of city life, while Elena wasn't sentenced to a loveless marriage. Mateo was a gentle man with a heart of gold, yet he weighted where it mattered. They owned their own saloon and Elena was a storm there—tending to patrons, cleaning tables all the while she never once complained. ‘It keeps me busy, gives me meaning when I grow restless.’, she'd say… 

Still, the open country air really sat well with her and especially with Bea’s son—Antony, who couldn’t get enough of the freedom now awarded to him, fascinated by all of the animals prattling about the dry land. And it was exactly that which called to Del always—here, she had Billy, her students at the mission and her father's horses… that was her calling, that was where she could be the storm that both nurtured and lived fully.

“Ay, hermanita…”, Elena said in a voice so hushed that the wind almost stole it: “Either you are running a feaver… or someone has been reading too much indecent poetry.” 

The older girl smirked with all the confidence of a bigger sister catching a smaller rascal dirty-handed, crossing her arms over her chest—just like she'd get when she'd catch Del sneaking treats for her horse, Lucha, when they were younger. But even back then Elene never told on her little sister…

Del defended, unafraid: “I don't need poetry for that, hermana…” 

Elena scoffed, taking a plume from the basket and tossing it between her hands: “Oh, please you, Mary Delphine… I know exactly what—or rather, who makes you look like you've been galloping bareback in July…” she nodded her head backwards in the general direction of the corral where Billy was now skillfully settling down the spooked horses.

The moment Del's eyes darted there, fixing the boy in her sight—that had been all the confirmation all-knowing Elena needed: “Seems I know you best. Papá thinks you are still out here reading or sketching wildflowers in your journal… and Bea, well, she is convinced you are mooning over Edward Cardew's latest letter.”, a scoff accompanied that last part. The older sister knew how absurd it was for Beatriz to be putting her own beliefs onto Del like that.

At the mention of letters, however, the younger girl stilled—like she had heard a ghost tale. Edward's letters had become… far too claiming for Del to stomach. He was already making decisions for her, explaining how she should be grateful because he was working so hard to get her ‘away from those mission scoundrels and onto a more refined life’ and that her only duty henceforth would be to ‘please him as is expected of a wife’. 

Needless to say, she hadn't honored those words with a response. And she wasn't about to do so now—she simply looked away, picking up her basket as she quoted into the air, hoping it would carry it and make it true: “‘Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind, and therefore is winged cupid… painted blind.’… I am being careful, hermana… I just—I wish for my life to be my own.” 

Elena held her breath at Del's confession, only releasing it in a sharp exhale like she was bracing for something, her voice far more lighter now—deciding to spare her sister, albeit momentarily: “Bea wanted you to help plan a luncheon for tomorrow. Something about civilizing Antonio Rafael before the happy family returns to town…” 

Del chuckled wholeheartedly at that: “Luncheon?”, she echoed: “Ay, Beatriz really is turning gringa…” 

Elena joined the shared teasing over their absent sister: “Dios mío, if she heard you say that!” Her voice was shrill, mimicking Bea far too well, even fanning herself like she might fall victim to a spell. Then, suddenly—her eyes darted over to the road leading up to the ranch gates with urgency, sobering up: “Listen… I wasn't supposed to say—those tontos thought you'd care for a surprise but… Edward is due back from Philadelphia by supper. With Billy sticking to you like a shadow at high noon… he won't stop at just reprimanding you, Mary Delphine…”

Something stirred in Del then, burning in her throat—her “duty” was about to catch up to her and worse yet, Elena's warning was, unfortunately, well-placed. By the hand of his clerkship, Edward could make Billy's ‘old’ warrants very much current, and his current once—very close to being carried out. But… he wouldn't dare… would he? He knew her father was behind Tunstall's cause and so kept Billy ahead of the law while things were sorted out… but when had such sentiments stopped men like Cardew from forcefully taking what they believed was theirs?

The thought lodged in Del's head—like a debt that wouldn't settle—so lost in thought that she barely realized they had made it back to the hacienda.

Beatriz was already impatiently tapping her foot on the porch: “Niñas, your sobrino is asking for you!”

Elena squeezed Del's hand as she took over the excuses: “We were just discussing ‘A Midsummer night's dream’—our hermanita believes Puck should've dropped the love potion over Oberon's head instead!” 

Well, that was definitely an interpretation Del would be partial to, especially to scandalize Beatriz. And indeed, the oldest Alvarez huffed—somehow deeply offended by the statement, tone patronizing like she were reprimanding Anthony: “Foolishness. That play is about obedience prevailing over childish fairytales. Yet here you are—having a jest, are you?”

Del found it in herself to defy, her words coming out confidently: “It is also about wonder, dreams and art. Funny how all those things go hand in hand, instead of having to be at odds…” 

She could almost feel Billy’s approval from where his full back was rocking against the fence—hat low as if he was protecting his eyes from the sun, instead of keeping himself scarce. Had he heard about Edward's arrival from someone…? 

Del, having found her balance again after setting her sister right—turned on her feet towards him: “I saved you some plumes…”, she whispered, passing him the basket, willing her heartbeat to quieten. The rest came out louder for the sake of any eavesdroppers: “It was a hard day's work after all—feel free to share them around with the men.” 

“Much obliged, señorita… I will make sure to return it proper later.”, Billy tipped his hat—words and demeanor far too politely unfamiliar. The forced charade tugged at both of their heartstrings, rendering a discordant, sad melody. But the promise of there being a “later” mended its wounds even if only somewhat.

Elena was quick at Del's side, trying to pry her away for all their sakes: “Antonio is already kicking up a fuss over not having horchata to drink—the rice's been soaking all night, mija.”

Del smiled, though not the easy kind: “Ay, I have spoiled him rotten—a banker’s successor whining about sweet drinks. Bea will have my head for it…”, a lighthearted remark, even when her heart was heavy. 

Swallowing hard, she spared Billy a final longing look over her shoulder as she took her leave towards the kitchen—where she ruffled Antonio’s hair and promptly led him to help grind the rice.

“What you put out, finds its way back, chico…”, Del advised, encouraging his small hands. But it wasn't lost on her… how cautionary it came out to her current predicament.

Del could almost forget her worries—now drowned out in the busy chatter around supper preparations. The main cook, Manuela—had insisted they didn’t need helping, but the three storms that were the Alvarez sisters couldn't stay idle for long. 

Elena had been rolling the dough for the tortillas—flour coating every inch of her—as Del brought in the jerky from the drying shed, catching the last of Beatriz's restless ramblings: “I told you, mijo—to stay back today… the horses were really acting up...” Her son clearly wanted to be more involved in the ranch life than she’d ever permit. 

As soon as Bea saw that her youngest sister had made a reappearance, she turned pointedly, stirring the chilies in the pot so they wouldn’t stick to the bottom—so vigorously as if she was ready to whack someone on the head with the wooden spoon: “Well, your cowboy has been really neglectful of his work lately, Del—he should know what’s good for him! With Papá basically risking it all sheltering him, he should be more grateful!”

Her cowboy… the phrasing would have made Del blush if it weren't delivered with such a heavy backhand. She dropped the cloth sack sharply onto the table. Sure, she had been distracting Billy every now and again—but he didn’t owe them every second of his time just because he was in hiding. He was an honest man who had a way with anything thrown at him on the ranch—cutting wood, tending to the horses, mending the fences and barracks —you named it, Billy did it. 

“Beatriz, William is reliable and honorable—that is why Papá aids his cause—our cause! This isn't some thankless servitude that we are owed. If anything, having him here is just the natural way of things. Does he not fight for the farmers here—¿nuestra gente?”, Del challenged. ‘Our people’—he had been risking his life for a town that nailed his 'wanted’ posters on every post.

“¿Oye, lo que dice? I never—in my life—thought I'd hear the name of a desperado and the word ‘honorable’ uttered in the same breath!”, Bea refuted, clearly angered.

The commotion was now definitely audible through the cracked kitchen window overlooking the barracks… and Billy chose that exact moment to pass by, bringing water for the horses, as he hummed—voice thick as tree sap:

Oh bury me not on the lone prairie

Where the rattlesnakes hiss and the wind blows free

His way of making sure Del knew he had heard her—that he knew what he was, where this road may lead him… but that Billy refused to be alone on it when he had her by his side. Even if vipers hid in the tall grass, wanting to strike him for his crooked ways—they would be free, riding together as one. The rosary caught in the last rays of sunshine, now on top of his work shirt… and her heart rested a little lighter—meeting the spark in his eyes.

Elena had just been about to get in-between her sisters—one flour-dusted hand-print already on Del's wrist—ever the mediator. But the tension had died down naturally and it would have remained so if Manuela didn't decide to chirp in with her idle talk: “I have to agree with Señora Beatriz, mijas… bringing in this desperado is a bad omen… But it wasn't my place to comment, so I kept my lips sealed for Don Ignacio's sake!” She raised her hands in the air—trailing off on purpose like any vieja with too much time on her hands who wanted to be asked about it all.

Manuela picked up her tall tale again when she felt that all eyes were on her sufficiently: “—just know—it wasn't no neglected board that spooked them caballos…” 

Del scoffed: “Pray tell then, Doña Manuela—what story has the townsfolk span?” She reached for some of the chillies tortilla stuffing before Elena swatted her hand, playfully reprimanding.

“It's not loose talk… I saw it—el caminante nocturno…”, she whispered and the ruckus died down as if she invoked it—so much so that one could hear a pin drop in the previously lively kitchen: “Sí, I saw his tall shadow, lurking just outside the gates, atop the hills in the west—where the sun sets. Just like legend has it!”, she muttered a prayer, making the sign of the cross hastily—three times over her torso. All of this screamed superstition, but the ranch had indeed felt… heavier these days, like something was looming over it, wanting to collect what was due.

Del laughed with a full chest at that, even making a show of falling over the chair near her: “The night walker, Doña, really? Are we children trying to best one another in a scare? Don't we have enough troubles that we need to start looking for ghosts? And anyhow—isn't the creature supposed to be a nightfall dweller?”, she slapped her knee, so unbelieving of the whole ordeal. 

That was just a cautionary tale that parents would tell their children so they wouldn’t stray too far onto roads that spelled danger… or an easy way to explain unusual animal behavior and crops going bad. People needed someone—or something to blame for their issues. The more windy thinking—the better in the case of folk who didn't feel in charge of their own fates. When you didn't have a say in how things in the lived world went—you start conjuring up spirits to explain injustices. 

“Right you are, mija, pero… wise women say he may walk among us once he’s had his fill... All those reports of the livestock near Bowdre’s farm—whispers of the sheep looking emptied out… that's no good sign, I tell you!”, Manuela pointed up in the air, as if calling upon a higher power already.

Elena went pale, halfway dragging Anthony by the shoulder out past the back door, pacifying in a hushed tone: “Come now, chico, let's see about them horses after all…”. Even Bea gave a nod to that, deeming it appropriate for her young boy to be as far away from such tales as possible. 

“Tío Billy promised he'll teach me how to shoot proper soon! So you needn't worry if any pendejos come lurking—I'll protect you!”, Anthony broke free of his aunt's grasp and stood up on a chair, proclaiming it thus. Now it was time for Bea to turn a sickly color when she heard such words spouted from the mouth of her own—supposedly refined—flesh and blood. 

“‘Properly’!”, his mother corrected, having to step aside and fan herself at the inevitable harsher reprimand that was to follow. The anger in her voice was a living thing—bubbling up alongside the pot of chillies: “Antonio Rafael—I will hear no such foul language from you! Not only that… but weapons—a banker’s son doesn't have use for such… such barbarisms! That vaquero really has been such a bad influence on this whole family…”, she sighed like she might just faint.

Del just chuckled, quickly hiding her amusement behind her palm, even Elena followed suit, snorting into her cup of horchata: “Barbarisms? You should tell on your mama to your abuelo, mijo…”, she took Anthony off the chair, smirking conspiratorially at him: “Because she forgets—our Papá could shoot a coin out of the air at fifty paces and quote Cervantes while doing it! No need to choose one over the other.” 

“Really?!” Antonio beamed, already excited by the grand tales of his grandfather's former glory. The fear of lurking bloodsuckers seemed to have been all too quickly buried.

“Come now, Bea—let him be a boy for once!”, Del aided in the teasing, ruffling Antonio's curls: “Besides even bankers need to know how to defend their vaults, no?”

“Defend?!” Beatriz echoed, her wrist flicks with the fan growing increasingly stiff but rapid: “Dios mio, Delphine, must you encourage this? Real gentlemen prefer women who don't romanticize pistoleros…” 

Her pointed look towards the road leading to the hacienda made Del's stomach sink—Edward, that was who her oldest sister was referring to… and how suddenly she should be catering to his preferences, instead of listening to the song of her soul.

Even still, she could always count on her twin flame to reprise their shared melody—Billy’s silhouette now coloring the doorway—far too early for their night's reprieve, but just in time to steady each other. His hat dangled from his restless fingers—a show of genuine respect, like his Ma had taught him: “Beg pardon, señora—”, he drawled, tipping his head towards Beatriz: “—but shootin’ ain't barbaric when it puts meat on the table… or scares of coyotes and whatever aberrations the good Doña saw from eyein’ the hens.” 

He shot Anthony a secret look that only enticed the young boy further: “You can shoot el caminante? Doesn't he become a shadow?!”

Beatriz exhaled, long-suffering and swiftly fell back to what she did best—ordering everyone around—clearly unsuccessful in her attempts to steer the conversation towards more palatable topics: “Delphine, set the table, Elena—watch the stove!” 

Billy chuckled, low and indulging as he leaned at the door, arms crossed—now the world revolved around him, his young apprentice and Del's stolen looks, filled with fire: “There ain't no such things as devils that can hide forever… iron catches up to flesh sooner or later…”

He looked down, clearing his throat after, catching himself—that maybe his words were a bit too heavy for an eight-year-old, coddled boy to face. That didn't mean he wasn't speaking truth though…

He took a few steps closer, apologetically brightening up for Antonio's sake: “Tell you what, chamaco—you finish supper without fussing—I'll show you how to whittle a slingshot after. Your tía Del can vouch for my skills…”, he raised his head—meeting her gaze head-on. He could watch her breath stutter and her cheeks flush under his words all day.

Del could indeed attest to Billy’s careful but determined hands—that small wooden horse he had made for her one quiet summer night, under this very same kitchen light as she read to him was proof enough. It now adorned her nightstand— front hooves raised in an endless gallop. Each small shaving that dropped with his scraping that evening counted the minutes of time stolen… of time shared. 

The sound of a carriage nearing, followed by muffled orders and a knock at the door flashed in a spell, breaking the idyllic atmosphere. Edward’s polished boots tapped against the creaking floorboards and all heads turned to meet him—a man out of place with his ostentatiousness. 

“Mary Delphine—”, he exhaled her name, not waiting to be invited in, even though he wasn't part of the family yet— immediately closing the distance to Del. His features contorted in disapproval as he took in her still ruffled hair and dress, face flushed from riding and other distractions: “—you look… windblown.” 

Always a master of words, especially if they hid his deep distaste for anything unruly. 

“I was simply enjoying the fine weather, Edward.”, Del muttered defensively. 

Bea, always so easily impressed by shallow gestures… or more so, knowledgeable on how to scratch a man's ego to avoid an all-out argument, had instantly noticed Edward had been clutching a bouquet of hothouse roses in hand—no doubt imported at ridiculous expense. A real token of the only brand of love he could give—foreign and suffocating.

“Oh my—such lovely flowers. Aren't they just, Del?”, the oldest Alvarez's tone was forcibly pleasant.

Edward didn't swoon over the praise, however—uncharacteristically so—instead, his shallow eyes settled eerily on Billy—a silent battle unfolding. And so, before the ‘gentleman’ could inquire about the unseemly presence of a ranch hand in the kitchen—work still clinging to him and him to Del—the cowboy took the opportunity instead: “Hope I ain't interruptin’ anything important. I just wanted to return señorita Del's basket proper…” 

A swift excuse, as Billy reached for it—resting on the porch just out of sight and devoid of plumes now. When he handed it over to Del, their hands met over the rough hardwood handle, his fingers lingering comfortably there against hers a moment too long, making her breath hitch as she whispered a soft thanks. Yet another little moment they shared—even if they shouldn't, even if the corner of Edward's eye was twitching in barely suppressed anger.

Elena swiftly interjected: “Interrupting indeed—dinner that is.”, she somehow walked the fine line of playing devil's advocate and still smoothing things over: “The men eat in the bunkhouse… you know this.”

A gentle prompt, yet one that set a clear distinction on where Billy stood in the hierarchy—an injustice that made Del's blood boil. But he, being used to it, and knowing his fight wasn't with the Alvarez, simply tipped his head politely and turned… but not before sparing Del one last longing look that was returned twice over.

At that, worst of all, Edward decided to chime in, feeling more confident and entitled to it now, even at Billy’s retreating back: “Indeed, Mary Delphine doesn't need some outlaw playing fetch—”

Billy’s hand had twitched, slowly inching up towards the empty holster that sagged from his hip—a nervous habit Del had come to recognize. It didn't mean he'd actually draw his weapon, even if it were there… he adhered to the notion of only pointing guns at people if you are prepared to bury bodies. Even still, Billy wore that cartridge belt—like a mark he didn't want to fade; a part of him, each empty bullet slip—a story lived and tried.

“Edward—”, Del's interruption wasn't loud, but it was determined—leaving no room for rebuttal, especially when she finally acknowledged the roses, taking them gently: “You really shouldn't have…”, quite the literal statement when she didn't want his pleasantries at all: “Let's take a walk before supper—you can tell me all about Philadelphia…” she suggested sweetly, the mere forceful act of it making her skin crawl. The whole charade was for Billy’s sake—she had to remember—because powerful men were not in the habit of being denied and so were the quickest to yearn for revenge. 

“A capital idea…” Edward announced dryly, taking it all piece by piece—Billy’s stiff jaw, how he seemed to have a pull on Del, and she on him. And so, like any entitled arranged suitor, the lawyer simply concluded: “We shall discuss your… associations later.” 

The word dripped with poison, equally as unsettling as the harsh grip he had on Del’s wrist now—the gifted flowers feeling more like the gilded chain they were. The contrast was palpable… Billy’s fingers, calloused from a life worn thin, yet so reverent when it came to her— and then Edward’s hands that hadn’t earned their wear, yet readily inflicted harsh ownership.

As they went out into the low summer sun, the wind continued to echo promises of freedom. Even as Cardew's thumb stroked her spine though the dress—far too proprietary for her liking—Del could still hear Billy’s careful footsteps… mending the corral fence as he listened in. And that is what gave her peace even in this moment—that her spark was right there with her, always riding in the same direction.

She wasn’t the first to speak—a big ego, given the space would always take up the whole room—and Edward only proved that right. His cadence was measured, chest puffed up like peacock: “Philadelphia was dull without you there, Mary Delphine…”, he said—far too unemotional, like he had rehearsed it in front of a mirror: “Though I did secure a clerkship with Judge Holloway. By spring, I'll have enough saved up for a house near the courthouse.”

Of course he'd stir the conversation there—to his plans, to what he was promised… Del swallowed dryly as Edward continued his narration: “You'll like it there, I am sure of it—proper society, no more… ranch odors.”

At that, she could no longer stay quiet, stopping in her tracks: “What gave you the idea that I'd want for that? I've always spoken of my home with nothing but love—my devotion is with this ground here… that you so frivolously belittle.” 

Edward just tutted, as if preparing to scold a particularly unruly child, gripping her shoulders—forcing her full attention: “Your father and I have an understanding, Mary Delphine. By summer's end—you will be my wife.”

The ambient hammering near the fence stopped abruptly—no doubt Billy denoting his distaste. 

Del looked away, wanting to be anywhere but here, feeling a lump settle in her throat: “How very traditional of you both…”, the disdain in her voice was so sharp, she hoped it could cut him deep.

But men like Edward wouldn't be caught bleeding: “You will thank me someday…”, his grasp on her shoulders loosened, hands moving to instead smooth out the material of her sleeves, crumpled by his rougher handling: “—a woman like you needs a firm hand.”

She flinched away instantly at his assessment: “Ah, so you are judge, jury and executioner now—you do not know me, Edward, so don't presume to know what I need.”

A twig snapped closer to them now—Billy, ‘coincidentally’ needing to move more planks to their side of the fence. He made a show of dropping the wood harshly—fury given shape. The cowboy couldn't help but be reminded of his long-dead step-father—Henry Antrim, who had swooped Billy’s mother in her desperation for a better life with a man who appeared to have it all figured out. Reality had been quite different though and the only thing separating that rotting sorry excuse of a man and Cardew was that the latter had coin and luck… for now. Money and good fortune could dry out in a spell and then, in trying times—the real substance of a man is revealed. Hadn't Antrim promised a comfortable life as well? Only to turn to gambling, cheating and a heavy hand. No, Edward was far more dangerous than that even, because he already spoke like he was entitled to those vices, to treating Del like property. He didn't even try to lure her, just demanded.

Edward scoffed, not closing the distance this time—acting offended that she hadn't begged enough, that she didn't pay him the respect he believed he was owed: “You indulge in too many distractions—that is what has been clouding your judgment… emotions are a woman's curse after all.”, a pointed look towards Billy as Cardew continued: “That man—Bonney is familiar… to familiar. Hasn't the good Father Diego taught you who you should be submitting yourself to… as you do to the Lord?” 

That lump that had been settled in Del's throat now slithered down her ribs, prickling—making her uneasy at his quick assessment. Elena was right… Billy and her had been too obvious. And Del could tell Edward was already drafting a letter to Brady in his head.

“We are not married in the eyes of God, Edward—”, Del began, throat dry but fury riding in her eyes.

“That matters little…”, naturally he spoke over her: “You'll have better ways to occupy your time soon enough—hosting, corresponding… raising our children.”

The thought made her sick—bringung a sharp ringing in her ears. The only measure of time passing was Billy loudly hammering a nail just as Edward had delivered his sentence. But before she could respond, all heads turned to the sound of hoofbeats thundering down the drive—Jose, hat askew and hands trembling: “Señorita Mary—el jefe says come quick! The palomino's foaling gone bad—el medico is two hours out!”

Edward scoffed: “Surely you are not suggesting an Alvarez lady aid in such… filthy work?” 

Del pushed past him, already hiking her skirts up to hoist on the wrangler's horse: “I am an Alvarez and that is precisely why Jose is asking for me. My father built his fortune on this ‘filth’… I will not have you diminishing honest work.” Edward continued to spout angry remarks that went unacknowledged as she turned to the more pressing matters with an urgent voice: “Is it Fresa?”

They had two mares that were due soon… but Fresa had more of a temper. If the ranch foreman couldn't handle her and there was no medic in sight—it all spelled bad news. Jose simply nodded, kicking the horse on.

By the time Del looked ahead—Billy was already mounted on his horse, pressing forward to the barns further off where the more vulnerable horses were kept. They could hear Fresa's heaving growing louder and louder as they neared the wooden doors. 

Then it all moved fast—Billy rolling up his sleeves, Del pulling her skirts out of the way—both kneeling in synchrony in the stall besides the mare, his shoulders warm and steady against hers.  

“Easy, reina…”, Billy murmured—more to Del than to Fresa. His hands were sure, unflinching as he gripped the foal's slippery legs, fingers lacing with Del's for a heartbeat before he leaned it, bracing: “Pull with me—now!” 

The mare screamed, thrashing but the cowboy braced a knee against her flank, steadfast. Blood streaked across Del's forearms, but she too was determined—having seen the process many times up close and having aided in it when she'd been needed. Somewhere outside, Edward was offendedly trudging along the dusty road, but here and now—the only thing either Del or Billy cared for was saving Fresa and her foal. 

Its nose had just emerged and then the wet crown of its head when a helpless shrill left the mare—

“She's tiring, señorita!”, Jose hovered restless, holding a lantern above the scene unfolding. The sun was low enough by this point that only spots of its dying light made it into the barn.

Del braced a knee through the straw, ignoring the dampness that seeped through her skirts—the dress was ruined, but she couldn't care less when their hand in this could mean life or death: “Fresa, mi vida, listen—”, she spoke to the animal now, head pressed on the mare's shoulder as her and Billy’s hands worked in tandem through the nect contractions: “—now!”

They could hear Jose mutter a prayer, hands shaking the warm glow of the lantern. 

“Almost there—”, Billy gritted out, biceps straining as he guided the foal's shoulders free: “—you've got this, corazon…” 

Just like that, a final wet gasping cry settled it all… and with the sun setting, a new life emerged—the foal tumbled into Del's waiting hands, coat slick and gleaming like new copper: “Dios!”, she exhaled with a smile as she froze into the moment.

Fesa whickered weakly, turning to nose at her baby as Billy’s laughter curled warm and relieved against Del's ear. She hadn't realized she'd been crying—desparate tears, turned happy…

“Damn fine work, vaquera…”, Billy murmured, brushing a streak of blood diluted by her tears from her cheekbone as she let out a stuttering breath—laughter, free and delighted. Oh, how he wanted to kiss her senseless at that moment, despite the filth on them both, despite the looming presences around them. As the foal took its first wobbling steps—his heart was filled with love that it had been the two of them who'd aided in bringing that small life into the world. 

Del felt very much the same—her breathing never calmed as they looked into each other's eyes: “Not so bad yourself, vaquero…”, she smiled at the shadows dancing across his face.

Then, the barn slammed open with a roar as Edward’s silhouette colored the doorway—his cravat wilted and his face dawning a mask of horror: “Mary Delphine! Y-you are covered in filth!”, a strangled noise left his delicate lungs.

“Her name is Amancer…”, Del announced, not looking up, too busy rubbing life into the foal's trembling legs: “Sunrise…”, she echoed in English: “Might have been born at nightfall, but she brought in light with her.”

Billy smiled wider, head dropping slightly like he wanted to keep this moment private still: “Suits her…”, he praised. Then he was moving to scoop water from the nearby bucket—rinsing his blood-streaked hands, then passing Del the ladle with a soft chuckle: “City boys, eh?”, the drawl—his voice sent a shiver across her: “All that talk ‘bout legacies but faint at the sight of makin’ one…” 

Billy’s eyes met Edward's in a silent challenge, one that said the cowboy had heard everything the lawyer had spun earlier and that all the coin in the world couldn't make him worthy of Del. Cardew's features contorted in rigid disapproval, a viper ready to strike: “Funny, an outlaw lecturing me on legacy—when the only one you'd ever have awaits at the end of a rope.” 

Billy scowled, hand twitching: “You are overplaying your hand, abogadito…”

But the threat had been clear and Edward could make it happen. The bastard was so self-assured that he continued spouting threats: “Your father will hear of this, Mary Delphine.”

Del just continued to scrub her hands, watching the pink swirl into the dirt: “How heroic I was?”, she challenged, eyebrow raised: “Do tell him I saved his favorite mare and her foal…”

Amancer stumbled, her legs still shaking as Fresa nickered softly, nudging her baby upright.

Edward scoffed, like he was the one entertaining a vain request, like he had any right: “You can't possibly mean to keep that defective creature—”

Del snapped her head at him: “Oh, so you fancy playing God now? Watch your tongue…”, she snapped, stepping between him and the stall protectively: “Or I'll tell Papâ you called his prized mare's bloodline flawed in her face.” 

Let's see how he fancied threats sent his way, Del thought. After all he didn't want her—just the idea of her—the ranch fortune and good standing that came with Alvarez influence. 

She could feel Billy’s presence behind her, his boot nudging her heel beneath the straw—a secret touch in their shared victory—as he pushed off the stall: “Best check the back hoof, señorita. Fresa's favoring it…” His tone was so casual no one would hear the lie it hid.

Conveniently and quite predictably, Edward stomped off, unable to stomach much more of being bested or the stench of manure. As he turned, he barked an order about suppertime—but his words got swallowed up in the night. Jose was already far off on the other side of the barn, making preparations for the foal's first night. That allowed Del to follow Billy back into the stall, her hands searched for his to anchor to in the dim light. 

“He's gonna make trouble for you…”, he exhaled, brushing the tips of her fingers with his and then intertwining their hands.

Del brought her free hand up to cradle his face: “Billy… he'll make trouble for you—that's what worries me. Papa wouldn't let them touch you but… that doesn't mean Edward can't be sneaky about it—calling on Holloway or worse yet—go directly to Brady!”, her voice was urgent, breath shallow and clipped, like she was already imagining Billy being dragged away.

He chuckled dismissively, his hand coming up to meet hers on his cheek, holding it there like he was searing the feeling into his skin: “And risk his perfect wedding? No, reina—men like him are all talk—he prefers his things orderly. And I can tell you—ain’t nothing orderly about Lincoln right now. Sure, Brady has Jesse, but half of his other men can’t shoot to save their lives—they wouldn’t risk the embarrassment.”

Del tried to believe him, and a part of her truly did—after all, she knew what Edward was here for. Billy could see the care in her eyes and how lost she felt in this arranged engagement. A sigh escaped her, more hopeful now: “I-I will try to speak to Papa again come the morrow—I don’t want us to live like this, corazon…”, she confessed.

Don Ignacio was overbearing, true enough, but it always came for a place of love—he’d want her to be happy, she assured herself. And Edward couldn’t give her that in a million years. Even though her father sheltered Billy, he still saw the cowboy as an outlaw—someone who’d bring his daughter only sorrow and hardship.

Billy’s shadow swallowed Del whole, his mere presence like a warm blanket warding off all worries: “You think I don’t notice—that your Pa won’t either? How Cardew thinks he owns you—”, he muttered, breath hot against her temple as he closed any remaining painful distance between them: “—like-like a horse he can breed and trade for profit…” 

The disdain in his voice was palpable, but then his voice turned brighter as he nodded towards Amancer who was wobbling closer: “But look at her, reina—that filly’s got your spirit.”, his smile spread warmly to his bright blue eyes, thumb brushing Del’s forehead, then her hair: “All fight, even when the world says she oughtta fold—you and her—you thrive on being wild. And a man like Edward… he can never own what burns too bright to hold.”

Del’s breath caught in her throat as she gently came up—standing on the tips of her toes, her lips brushing against his: “I want us to fight together, mi vida…”, she moved to take off his hat, as if preparing him for a prayer: “Take me riding… please.”

The space between their lips was nothing now, yet everything precious at the same time—a frontier they had already crossed numerous times. Still, it always felt like the first—trembling limbs, turning hungry and free in their joint reverence for one another. And so, far too impatient for their usual dance, Billy crashed his mouth into hers—desperation dripping like a man starved. Del’s fingers dropped, twisting in his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer until there was no air between them or in their lungs, save for the one shared—the thrum of his beating heart as if coming from between her own ribs. Billy had always kissed her the same way as he would ride—reckless but sure—never leaving room for doubt on where he was going. 

He pulled back reluctantly, breath heavy, only to sigh a promise into her ear: “After the night watch rotates… same as always.” 

The night swallowed them both whole with the promise of a wild chase. Billy had already kicked off ahead in a gallop, like always—daring Del to follow and catch up. Hooves pounded the earth with the sound of their beating hearts, in sync with them, while the wind whipped through her braid—unraveling it strand by strand—as if every wallop away from the hacienda meant breaking apart from the stifling restraints of the ‘high society’. 

Somewhere far off ahead she heard Billy whooping, wild and free, as she realized she'd been laughing too—letting her lungs be filled with the cold night air and her vision, with the stars blurred above. This was theirs—their whole world in the thrill of the night and soon enough—their hands would seal it on each other.

Billy was already dismounted next to the riverbank, waiting for Del. She tried to catch her breath: “One of these days I'd be able to catch you, vaquero…”

The corner of his lips went up in a smirk, eyes dark when he saw her heaving from the overexertion: “Sure you will, reina—maybe I'll let you next time.” He pulled her down by the waist before she could protest further: “Come look…” 

Billy led her to the ridge overlooking the valley, where the arroyo danced silver under the moonlight: “This yours, reina…”, he murmured, his chest pressed to her back in an embrace: “All of it—ain't no dowry or husband gonna change that.”

Del squeezed his hands where they rested hugging her, taking it all in: “It's ours.”, she determined, turning to face him in the dark: “The land belongs to anyone brave enough to be free…”

His thumb came up to brush the corner of Del’s mouth, planting a peck there soon after, then another, and another alongside her lips… until she was dizzy enough to chase a full kiss herself, melting into him: “Been waiting to get you away proper all day, reina…”

“Oh, you waited? Since when did Billy el Niño learn patience?”, she teased, nipping on his bottom lip.

“Since your ‘intended’ decided to show his sorry face and spout nonsense about what you ought to be…”, he hissed, part pleasure from the delicious pain Del inflicted, part contempt.

“Billy Bonney… you listen to me—and listen good. I will not be his wife—they'd have to drag me to that courthouse, and even then—I will spit on their papers.”

The determination in her voice sent a shiver through Billy as he rested his forehead against hers. He had known she was his, and he—hers for a while now, but… hearing Del say it like that, the fight in her voice and fire in her eyes made his cock stir. 

Suddenly, he was rolling both of them on the ground, the specs of dried grass softening the thud. His voice was gruff already as he caged her in, one arm below her head, the other already kneading at her hips—rolling her closer against his ache: “Say that again, corazon… por favor, I need to hear you.”

She tilted her chin up—defiant and teasing but her pulse, wild below his touch showed in her trembling voice: “I'd sooner burn those papers, Billy. We belong together, no?”

“Sí, sí…”, is all he could chant as his hand roamed her torso—reverent, planting kisses down her neck as she threaded her fingers through his hair. Her hips arched off the ground, desperate to meet his hardness more.

A coyote howled somewhere far off and the horses stomped, stirring. Lucha—Del's horse, especially worried all of a sudden, like she smelled the danger of the open land.

“Fuck, reina… we gotta stop. Ain't right—not here, not like this.”, he gritted through his teeth like it had physically pained him to halt. 

“Then take me somewhere better… I haven't been to your cabin in days already—”, she enticed, chuckling as the memory of Manuela's supposed signs and such came to mind: “Or what? The brave vaquero is suddenly scared that el caminante may steal me away if we stay here?”

He rolled off her, offering his hand, but something in his eyes still dimmed with worry: “You said it yourself—I ain't a man of faith. But that don't mean we oughtta pull the devil by its tail. Tall tales or wild animals—you are safer in my cabin, where I can take care of you proper…”

With that teasing edge back, Del couldn't wait to indulge.

As Billy lit a match, bringing it to the candle just close enough to his nightstand, warm light colored the dark wooded walls of the cabin. Del had been here only twice before—on nights such as this but every time she came, she could see he put more and more effort into making it feel like a home. 

The cabin had been a groundskeeper lodge way back when the Alvarez needed a lookout so far back from the main ranch property. Del's father hadn't always been on exactly the best of terms with appointed sheriffs—not that it was any different with him aiding Tunstall now, but at least he learned to not be as hot-headed, playing the long game instead. ‘There are young diablos out there better suited to fight—an old man has to enjoy what little time he has left…’, he'd say and that had been why Del was convinced her father would see her love for Billy not as something he should fear, but as her only future.

She noticed Billy had fixed the window stills: “Ay, those really used to annoy you…”, she noted as her eyes landed on a small bookshelf he seemed to have fashioned from the same whitewashed wood. On it, proudly displayed, stood the copy of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ she had gifted him.

“True enough but… I started them renovations so I had somewhere special to put this.”, he confessed, stepping closer. 

Del took the book, opening it to a particular dog-eared page where she had underlined a quote, knowingly. Her eyes gleamed as she read: “‘My bounty is as boundless as the sea—my love, as deep…’”, she lifted her eyes, a smirk on her lips as Billy hummed. She slowly left the book on the table as she continued to cite by heart, hand on his chest pushing him back closer and closer to the bed: “‘—the more I give thee, the more I have—”

He was looking at her like she was the only thing he could ever hear, see or feel. In two steps, the back of his legs met the mattress and Del straddled him, wasting no time: “‘—for both are infinite.’ I meant that, you know…”, she concluded, nipping at his exposed throat, eliciting a gasp from him, his hips rolling up into her: “From the moment I saw you, Billy—really saw you… why you fight, what you want to stand for. And then, when we first rode together, I knew—my love for you'd be infinite.”

“Del… You knew that play would wreck me, but truth is—”, he flipped her in one swift motion, pressing her back into the mattress: “—it's you who wrecks me, reina. Not some fancy words or promises, but you—with your fire and kindness. You are free but caring… that will always make me want to be the man you see in me.”

And then he was kissing her—deep and claiming as his practiced fingers worked the corset of her riding dress. Each button off punctuated by a nip down her stomach, his tongue soothing the love bites. He pulled aside her panties to find her soaked already, dragging a finger through the evidence: “I ain't the only one who lacks patience it seems…”, he teased. But he didn’t plan on allowing her to come up with a witty response. Instead, he fully settled his face between her thighs, tongue lapping at her clit in filthy circles. Del's back arched off the bed as one had found purchase into the finicky headboard, while the other threaded through Billy’s hair, urging him on: “Dios, Billy—ah…”, she whined.

At that, he pressed her back down, caging her in with the weight of his shoulders: “Shh, be good now for me, reina and let me make you feel good…”, the growl sent ripples of pleasure from her cunt through her whole body as he took his time—alternating between teasing licks and deep wet strokes—his tongue curving between her fluttering lips. Any time she'd get close, however, he'd pull back—just to watch her whine, satisfied chuckle coursing from him and ghosting over her skin. 

“I ain't rushin’ this—I'm teaching you patience after all, reina…”, he murmured, nipping at her inner thigh. He rested his head there now—the tip of his middle finger teasing her wet hole, shallow in-and-outs as he waited for her inevitable protests.

“B-billy—Billy, please…”, Del's hips stuttered back into his hand, chasing any feeling of fullness as she looked down to meet his eyes. He looked so happy with himself that he had gotten her so needy, but she could tell—behind the smirk on his glistening lips, he too was fraying—hips grinding into the mattress in slow rolls, chasing friction. 

“I cannot say ‘no’ to you, reina. Not when you beg so pretty—”, he snarled, mouth sealing back over her as his two fingers worked her in, knuckle-deep, hitting the right spot with each curl. Pleasure coiled in her and spilled over the moment Billy hummed encouragingly against her—she rolled her hips shamelessly riding out her high. And the cowboy—he never let up, working her through it until pleasure mixed with the pain of overstimulation. Del pushed weakly at his shoulders as he reluctantly came up.

Naively, he thought she'd be exhausted by his worship. But instead of calmness, her eyes were filled with mischief as she wasted no time getting on her knees, settling between his thighs: “Your turn now, vaquero…” 

Del's lips brushed that rough trail of hair below his navel, taking her time too. That teasing made his hands immediately fly up to tangle in her hair: “Christ, Del—”, his hips snapped up, his entire body tense from restraint. He was so achingly hard now that even the cool air was stimulating as Del nuzzled closer, breathing him in, smirking against his skin as she dragged her tongue up his length agonizingly slow before she swirled at his tip. 

Billy tightened the grip on her head as he groaned: “If-if you keep—hah—keep doin’ that, reina, I ain't gonna last…”, he warned. She sighed, wrapping a hand around him in slow strokes: “Come now, vaquero… I know how you ride and how you fuck. You can do better than that…” she assured, taking him deep into her mouth, hollowing out her cheeks. 

His thighs started to shake as she took him in faster. One of his hands gripping the sheet, the other cradled the back of her neck as his hips snapped up again and again, rough groans spilling with each wet sound. Just when he was about to go over the edge, wanting so badly to spill down her throat, he instead pulled her up: “Need to be inside you, Del, right now. Need to feel you wrapped around me—”, he managed through ragged breaths.

She wiped her lips, feeling so empty all of a sudden: “Want you too, mi vida… need you…”

That was all the confirmation he needed—his lips captured hers in a kiss so deep it stole her breath as he eased her back into the bed. No preparation or teasing this time, just the raw desperation that flooded through them both as he sank his cock into her—bottoming out, waiting for her to adjust to the stretch. It burned so deliciously that she was fast to beg: “P-please, you know I can take it…”, she whimpered, moving on her own even though it was shallow from this position, definitely not enough to satisfy. 

Billy held her thighs apart at that, driving into her deeper with a rhythm that made her choke on her breath: “Oh, I know you can, reina—show me… ngghh—fuck—just how much you’ve missed this too.” He moaned, voice low and lost in her as his movements turned relentless—her small whimpers climbing higher and higher in octaves only serving to drive him crazy. 

His name was a prayer on her lips as she closed her eyes for a moment—too overwhelmed by the heat of the moment. Billy’s fingers tightened against her thigh as he hitched her leg higher, getting an even deeper angle—driving into that sweet spot that made her see stars with every thrust: “Look at me, Del…”, his free hand roamed, cupping her breasts, pinching a nipple to reprimand. That quickly made her squeal, eyes shot open as she whined, but he quickly soothed the perky bud with his tongue: “That’s it, reina—look at me when I fuck you—I want to see those pretty eyes roll back…”, he cooed.

She gasped at that, nails raking down his back—leaving angry red lines in their wake that only served to increase his pleasure. Each thrust sparked white-hot ecstasy up her spine, the whole bed, small as it was, rattling with the weight of them: “Billy—hah… te amo!”, she almost screamed as her back arched higher, so close to the edge again already. Her name fell off his lips too like a prayer as he slid his hand between them—rubbing tight circles over her clit through each ripple of pleasure.

“Díos—takin’ me so fucking good, mi amor. I could watch you all night, all day, just being mine like this… ”, his head fell back as he shook, trying to make it all last: “Gonna make sure you feel this the whole day—make sure you remember… how good I love you.” With that warning, he gripped her hair, exposing her neck to bite at the sensitive skin there. The pain made her walls tighten around him, so close now to unraveling as she brought her hand up into his scalp—to keep him there, licking and groaning against her neck. 

He trailed kisses up her jaw, kissing her deep—content with pulling back only to watch her break with him: “Come on, reina—I've got you…”, he coaxed: “Let go f’me…”, his words slurred as she fell apart with a cry, clenching around him as he fucked her through each wave. His own release slammed into him seconds later, dizzying in its intensity—unable to utter anything but her name. 

Billy collapsed on top of her, his weight like another surge of security after such a shared vulnerable moment. Their limbs stood entangled like the vines that would crawl up the Alvarez gates at spring and for a while it was just this—slow tremble of aftershocks, sweat and slick and hot breaths still seared into each other's skin. 

Neither of them had noticed how eerily quiet the first morning light had gotten—as if something were drinking its soul, as if all things, living or dead, had bowed in fear. Neither of them noticed a long shadow painting the new window stills, taking cover and waiting to strike. 

“I want to stay here forever… No need for a big ranch—just us, Billy.”, she sighed—his smell, voice and essence so deeply ingrained in her every fiber.

“I know, reina, I know—this here is our little heaven, ain’t no one gonna take it from us. And I don't mean this shabby ol’ cabin—a storm could take it for all I care… It’s our shared breaths that’ll build something new then.”, the gruffness in his voice from what little sleep they managed sent a beautiful rumble along Del’s spine.

Billy’s hand moved to rest on her heart as if to emphasize that it wasn’t about where they were—they’d always have that piece of the other, that piece of heaven within them. His arm then settled protectively around her waist, keeping her close still as she continued her ramblings. Del would always get bubbly in the mornings with him, like he managed to unscrew all pretense, all of the restraints others had put onto her. And so, with his face buried in her neck, he listened…“I will probably have to take the chapel road again—if anyone asks where I’ve been. I guess in a sense… I’m always praying in here—just not always to God…”, she teased. She'd prayed plenty for Billy, but their love was another religion entirely.

Now… that ensured he was very much awake—breath catching as his fingers traced idle patterns across her bare back: “Careful, reina… If you keep talkin’ like that, I might just tie you to this bed—kindappin’ you like a proper desperado should…”

A sharp knock at the worn door shattered the moment—making them both freeze, breaths still as if already taking aim. Billy reached for his pistol on the bedside stand and murmured, voice low and serious: “Stay here…”

But she was already moving, scrambling to find her dress—her thoughts running wild. Who’d come looking in this early hour? The Don’s men usually kept their distance in case trouble found its way back to Billy… unless it was something urgent.

He stalked to the door, gun half-hidden behind his back as he creaked it open. On the other side, bright and tall, stood Mateo—Elena's husband: “Morning, hermano…”, he greeted, arms crossed: “Just thought you might wanna know—Cardew's been asking after Del all morning. Says he couldn't find her in her room at first light…”

Elena must have sent him while she held off things at the ranch. She had been the only one who knew of Billy and Del's relationship or rather saw their connection—nothing was truly admitted out loud.

Billy's grip on the pistol tightened: “And?”, like he knew that small piece of ‘evidence’ wasn't enough to send a posse.

Mateo's gaze settled past him and onto Del—a knowing smirk dancing on his lips: “And the night guard rotatin’ saw her riding toward the arroyo last night—awful close to here…”

Del straightened her dress, taking a step in front of Billy: “Well, tell them it was a lie—that I went for an early prayer to the chapel.”

Mateo raised an eyebrow: “And who's gonna believe that, hermana?”, he challenged.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. She wanted to speak to her father in private, when things were slower so that the arrangement with Cardew could end amicably—as amicably as it was possible with such a man. But she had been too lost in her passion, Billy too… and now it would look so much worse—now, it would be harder to convince Don Ignacio to break off the engagement without Edward demanding retribution. A bride-to-be who'd already surrendered her virtue—it would be a scandal... Del didn't care for it, but Edward would claim he'd been ‘played’—what tales would they then spin to pin it all on Billy?

“Take the back trail, turn up from the chapel like you said. I will come later—say I had to see Tunstall…”, Billy thought quickly on his feet. 

“Billy, something ain't right here…”, Del's voice trembled, feeling uneasy.

Not only because they were close to being caught red-handed, but also… with how things felt, with how she knew them to be. If they were really so sure she was here, why wasn't Edward leading the grand rescue? To then get all of the praise—saving his fiance from the claws of the ‘low-life’? A man so full of himself wouldn't pass up on this opportunity surely…

“Del—I ain't runnin’, not from this, not from you.”, he assured, thinking she was worried for that alone.

“It's not that, corazon, I know you, I—it's just—don't you think we would've already been hauled out of here if Edward was so ‘concerned’, so convinced? I don't know, Billy—just… just be careful, por favor…”, she spoke too fast, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Then one palm slithered down, fluttering over the rosary: “‘¿Qué es poesia… y tú me los preguntas?’” 

Billy’s hand covered hers there, breath heavy when she continued the quote: “Poesia… eres tú.”, her bright smile, opposed to the worry in her eyes. Like she tried to be strong for him too: “You told me it's not about the fancy words, but it's you—you are my poetry, mi vida…”

His eyes bore into hers as he bit his lip: “Don't you dare quote Becquer at me like this is a goodbye, Del… I will be safe, I know it—I have to come back to my little heaven after all.”

Billy had more things to fight for now after all… a home in her. He reached for her face, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear then cupping her jaw for a deep kiss—one that sealed his promise: “I love you, reina…” 

Mateo was already saddled, going in circles with worry on whether he had been followed: “Ahora, Del! We need to make haste!” 

She forced herself to step back while Billy’s hand stood extended, but curled—always reaching but having to stop just short of it. 

Billy focused on scouring the parameter, riding through the dusty roads surrounding the cabin. He wasn't sure which option would bring him more solace—no posse in sight, or someone trailing him. So, when he found no evidence of the latter, he was still left uneasy… 

Why send accusations his way if you will not follow up on them? Billy wasn't even sure if it was safe to ride out to Tunstall—so he stood in the cabin, feeling cornered by an invisible foe. He took to strumming his guitar to pass the time before he'd return to the ranch—he was no coward after all, if no one would come to him, he'd face whatever he had coming his way.

But then, just like that, he heard hooves and rustling outside—no name shouted, no indication of who'd approached—clearly the visitors didn't want to make themselves known… Billy set down his guitar slowly, grabbing onto his pistol instead as he merged with the wall next to the window overlooking the meadow. Now, spent and dusty from the summer sun—it was too open for anyone to dare cross from that direction. 

He expected an angered Cardew, prattling about with bodyguards. Maybe he’d order Billy restrained so he could land a couple of cheap punches to feel better about his miserable self…

But then—when a voice finally shouted, it wasn't one that Billy expected or was really too fond to be hearing: “Come out now, Billy—you are surrounded!”, Pat Garrett—who'd wager that the former outlaw would be the one hunting him down now. Of course, Pat owed his freedom to the House… so it was of little surprise that they'd find themselves on opposite sides now.

Billy peeked just to confirm that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him. And there he was—big goofy mustache and all, sporting a deputy's badge from what he could see. And Jesse… right next to him, hair poking out from the dry bushes—amber like burning grass. A third horse was hitched further off—Billy knew its owner to be Olinger.

From what he saw, there was no one on the back trail—all horses he counted had a rider he could see from here. With all heads being accounted for, he moved to the back door—he could outride them, knowing the land better and bring the battle to Tunstall land—Bowdre’s farm where Brewer was also laying low for a while. Then, they'd be forced to back off… or risk a full-out war with a posse of three. This had just turned very much south… and all previous plans and superficial worries of star-crossed lover rendezvous suddenly felt too trivial—like a set up. Del had warned him—she had seen it for the puppet show it was even if she hadn’t fully realized what would follow. Billy cursed at himself for taking more than he could hold once again—he was skilled, but he had neglected to remember that there were still things out there that could touch him. Shooting fastest didn’t mean you could always dodge… 

Just as he reached for the handle, however, a sudden roaring force pinned him to the far wall of the cabin—the sheer force of it sending the whole structure rattling. Looking around, dazed and confused, the cowboy patted rapidly along his torso. That blow had felt like a shotgun—but no holes gaped or bled to prove it. That meant he could still fight— twitching, Billy reached for his pistol, standing up… trying to stand up… What in God’s name was happening?!

Billy thrashed his arm, flailing with the weapon, no longer in control of any of his limbs as an excruciating heaviness settled atop his chest—its origin—unseen. It was like someone had put a boulder there, yet there was just empty air… Then—his whole world tilted, vision fraying at the edges, his eyes forcefully settling onto the floor as the room plummeted into darkness, like someone had drunk up all of the sunlight. All he could do is look down to the ground—try to make sense of what little his senses could tell him when two polished shoes settled in his vision with a clink. Even when he’d been cornered in the past—he had never felt like the prey, like he was hunted—not in the same way like he did now, unable to move or see his opponent. 

He tried to think as it seemed that was the only function he had some control over. The shoes were too well kept to belong to a man who had been on the road—it was like he had materialized here. But how? Why couldn’t Billy move? What witchcraft—

“So this is big bad Billy the Kid, hmm?”, the voice was elegant somehow, yet quiet and haunting—like it didn’t belong to one person. Or maybe it did… but any time a word came out, it was as if a chorus of tortured souls chimed in, sending a chill through Billy: “All I see is a scared mouse…”, the shadowed figure chuckled and somehow that was even more chilling than any sound uttered so far: “Catron said you were the devil incarnate—that no bullet could catch you for yours strike faster…”

A finger—cold and pale—hooked under Billy’s chin, forcing it up to finally meet the eyes of the cursed apparition. It was a man, after all, just one—his hair golden, far too bright for the carnage his eyes promised. Billy could swear that they had been blue—so like his until they'd landed on the rosary adorning his chest—then they turned scarlet as the man hissed. The cross was suddenly covered, not by the man's own gloved hand, but by a shadow creeping up to Billy’s shirt—seemingly commanded by the ghoul in front of him. So this was what Catron conjured in his cowardice and desperation…

“And… who… are you, then… partner? It's… awfully rude… to not make… yourself known… in a man's house…”, even as his throat grated through every word, Billy was cheeky. Even as he started to believe the intruder could be… was the Walker, el caminante nocturno, he still had his wits about him. Fairytales sure… but his intact thought process could only lead him here—a mouse knowing it'd be devoured. The only thing missing was how did the bloodsucker even gain the right to cross Billy’s doorstep? From what he could remember of the tales folks from back East used to tell—a ‘strigoi’, as they called it, needed to be invited in… knowingly or unknowingly welcomed.

The smile that spread across the man's face—sharp canines glistening, only confirmed Billy’s fears. His nails dug into the cowboy's jaw, prying it open—shallow breaths curling out in cloudy vapors in the suddenly freezing air. Then, the chilling voices returned: “You needn't strain that fleshy throat—my shadows can hear your grating thoughts—riding and riding in circles…”. The undead's finger danced around the air, almost mesmerizing as a black shade coiled around it: “You've seen a lot, cowboy—but you are just as blind as any mortal. It's your ‘queen’ who called to me… insisting on her prayers over you like a good little believer. But she didn't know—anyone could answer on the other side… as above—so below.”, each syllable was like an icy dagger sinking into Billy’s last strains of consciousness as the night crawler pointed two fingers toward the heavens and then the hells—almost ritualistic: “And the name's Coriolanus Snow… partner…”

A rasp came out of the Walker, followed by a sharp pain in Billy’s wrist as the whole world faded fully to black.

“children. what i would give to be that carefree again!” mothers’ friend laughs, smiling down at you.

you skillfully ignored her, looking down at the ground with an adorable pout on your face. being coddled by adults was fun, but playing with coryo was even better.

he must’ve read your mind, because he slipped away from his parents and ran through the french doors of his ballroom, leading to the gardens. your favourite place!

smiling brightly, you followed, yet was shortly greeted face-to-face with perfectly mowed grass.

looking up, you were met with a hand and a distinct face.

but this wasn’t coriolanus’ hand, no. nor his face.

it was felix ravinstills.

eyes shooting open, your heart beat precariously from the aftermath of your nostalgic dream.

“good morning, sleepyhead.” your dear husband chuckled, with that shit-eating grin on his face. clearly, you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, because even looking at the shining band of silver on your finger was torturous.

“morning.” you mumbled, wanting to fall back asleep. at least your dreams kept you sane.

it was relaxing there.

being a kid again.

it was fun. thrilling.

mothers friend was right, what you would give to be that carefree again.

what you would give to be waking up next to coriolanus snow this morning, instead of felix ravinstill.

don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t a bad husband per say. just… boring. unattractive. predictable. too… nice.

now you were being mean.

you couldn’t help it, not when your first love’s fiancée was being shoved in your face every day by your friends. and the capitol newspaper. at least soarynn nightingale’s column distracted you from the soaring jealousy looking at livia’s hand on his.

“c’mon, get up, we have brunch.” felix ruffled your hair, leaving you to use all your might to not punch him.

“brunch? with who?” you rolled over, sitting up and stretching.

you weren’t paying much attention until his words settled in.

“oh, just a few old academy friends. this time last year we left university, so we figured a little reunion would be nice.”

your eyes widened, unbeknownst to him who was fixing that goddamn hair like always. the ‘curls’ he claimed to have weren’t the ones you wished to see every morning.

but now you were. in an hour.

you swallowed, “who’s going to be there?”

“you know, just our group. dovecote, creed, cardew…”

you rolled your eyes at that last name.

he continued, “oh, and snow. i think his and livia’s wedding is soon, did you know?”

‘did you know’, you nearly scoffed. who didn’t know?

“mhm, yep, i know.” you mumbled, swinging your legs off the bed and trudging to the bathroom.

leaning over the sink, you inhaled slowly.

“you okay?” felix’s voice emerged from the bedroom.

yes, you were just wonderful. ecstatic, even. having less than an hour to see your childhood love with the worst match ever was the best way to start your morning.

“i’m fine!” you called out, a silent plea to leave you alone.

sighing, you got on with it, trying to see it as another meet up with friends. friends.

even after all these years it felt strange to include him in that category.

ᥫ᭡

the car ride to the sacred place you would visit during your teenage years allowed you to ponder about many things.

number one being: is coriolanus thinking about you this morning? if so, is he also imagining what you two could’ve been, if it weren’t for your fate sealed already?

number two being: what was livia cardew wearing, and did you manage to one up her?

number two was now the main focus as your eyes landed on the destination, bringing back many memories of your mother picking you up from one of your many night outs with coriolanus.

he would bring you here during your late academy days: a one-on-one meal as best friends. friends. that’s what you were, and that’s what you were always destined to be.

felix’s hand on your knee made you turn to look at him. he grinned. the car slowed to a stop, bringing your heavy thoughts with it.

taking a deep breath, you emerged from the sleek car. the one coriolanus had looked slightly more luxurious, however the woman sitting inside didn’t compliment the outside.

all envious thoughts came to a halt when you locked eyes with the very man who had intruded your thoughts all morning.

he looked occupied with memories too, it seemed, what with the way his face softened for a moment when you entered his line of vision. he cleared his throat immediately after, getting back in order, but you noticed. you always noticed each other.

“snow!” felix chuckled, oblivious to his friend’s lingering look on his wife.

snow smiled — not his genuine one, of course — and began walking up to ravinstill. livia trailed behind him, like always.

okay. appearances. be happy for livia and her stupid ring.

“felix, what a pleasure. it’s been a while.” the two shook hands and gave a pat on the shoulder.

“livia, hello!” you greeted, earning a squeaky chirp back from her when she said your name. she leaned in for a hug, which you reluctantly accepted. the whiff of sickly perfume that invaded your nostrils should be considered a hate crime.

clemensia and festus appeared. thank goodness — if you spent one more minute with coriolanus’ cologne in such proximity, you might’ve fainted.

“girls!” clemmie squealed, walking quickly to you and livia, squeezing you both tightly. you smiled. although clemensia could be the biggest bitch you’ve ever met, she was quite good-natured to her friends.

festus joined the welcoming with the men, whilst you and dovecote said greetings. she turned to livia.

“livia, oh how i’ve missed you!” she smiled, “or should i call you mrs snow?”

you saw the way livia’s smug smile curled. you felt the way your stomach twisted into a mix of jealousy and disgust. oh, here we go.

she lifted up her glamorous ring. surely, coriolanus didn’t pick that out — it was so… loud.

no wonder old money was unheard of in the cardew family. it seemed she lacked all elegance a soon-to-be first lady should have.

“beautiful! coriolanus, surely you didn’t pick this diamond out?” clemmie caught the men’s attention.

they all walked over, felix’s hand resting on your back and festus’ hand on clemensia’s waist. you didn’t miss the way coriolanus’ hand stayed put.

it was as if livia read your mind, because she quickly grabbed his hand and squeezed it. pathetic.

“i didn’t, in fact. livia picked out this ring; i plan to use my grandmothers for the actual wedding.” coriolanus explained, his pearly white teeth on display.

what a shock, you wanted to say. of course she managed to pick the most outdated ring on the planet. you and clemensia would be sure to share a comment or two about it later on.

everyone nodded along, the men agreeing with his traditional approach. you tried to pretend it was sweet, but you just gave a small smile to clemmie when she looked for your reaction.

no one knew about your… well, distaste for their upcoming marriage. everyone in the academy knew you and coriolanus had been close since you could walk, but no one paid any mind when you went your separate ways after university. this was fairly common in capitol elites — you’re betrothed to a family from the moment you’re born. no matter if you’re ‘madly in love’ — it was better for business this way.

“alright, let’s go and eat!” festus cheered, beginning to walk into the day restaurant.

ᥫ᭡ a couple hours later

the reunion had gone well. you only had to endure around thirty minutes in total of livia’s boasting about her wedding, which was great compared to last time after coriolanus proposed.

it was edging 1pm now, and the men were already a little tipsy from the couple glasses of whatever was sipped. festus couldn’t handle his alcohol, everyone knew that. felix was alright, yet his hand wouldn’t leave your thigh and his lips stayed in a lopsided smile.

coriolanus seemed just fine. he always knew exactly how much to drink; you had never seen him too wasted over the age of sixteen.

whilst the group continued to laugh and converse, coriolanus stood up. his eyes fell onto yours, “i’m going to get some fresh air.”

this sudden act didn’t waver the group, who usually would question why he was leaving for a moment. you saw livia mumble something to him, but coriolanus just shook his head.

he met your gaze once more before you left, which concluded your curiosity.

a couple moments after he left, you murmured something to felix about the bathroom before exiting the group atmosphere.

why coriolanus insisted on going outside was lost on you. the chilling wind was freezing your ears — thanks, felix, for telling you to wear your hair up. although, in his defense, it did look more sophisticated along with your outfit.

“coriolanus?”

a pause.

“coryo?”

you sighed. you didn’t have time for these games.

“i’m going back inside.”

a hand over your eyes and a strong chest pressing against your back nearly forced a scream to leave your lips until you inhaled the familiar scent of roses.

his smirk could practically be heard. “guess who?”

you smiled, pulling his hand away and turning around, only to be met with a pink nose and blue eyes. “stalker.”

“you know it.”

the harsh wind and cars driving by was all that could be heard on this november afternoon, and he leaned down, lips right beside your ear.

“it has been quite a while for us, hasn’t it? i might have to reschedule my wedding to make up for our lost time.”

your cheeks burned pink. you blamed it on the wind.

glancing around, you anxiously searched for anyone who might’ve noticed the new president so close to a woman who was not his wife.

through a nearby window, you saw livia holding her hand out to clemensia, parading her obnoxious ring about once more. it took every ounce of you not to strangle yourself whenever she did that.

you looked back at coriolanus, your annoyance on display.

“you always look at me like that whenever she waves that ring around.” he smirks fondly.

“maybe because it should’ve been mine.”

his demeanour changed in a matter of seconds, and before you knew it, he was pulling you into a nearby alleyway and smashing his lips on top of yours.

“trying acting indifferent towards me today, were you?” he spoke into the kiss, “as if you weren’t gagging on my cock last week.”

his sudden use of vulgar words made you whimper into his lips, your hands suddenly not so cold after gripping his shirt collar tightly. one hand went to your neck whilst the other slid down your silk dress, savouring every curve.

“thought i wouldn’t notice you staring at me like a bitch in heat every minute?” he chuckled cruelly, “who knew ravinstills wife needs a good fuck every other day to keep her sane—“

“snow?” festus creed’s voice was like a knife as it cut through your pleasure faster than it began. seems like fate had other plans. “your wife is asking for you.”

coriolanus’ hand stopped, as did your heated kiss. he inwardly groaned, his head falling onto your shoulder.

your heart stopped. what if he came round the corner? the president with his friends wife, in an alleyway? it’d be the scandal of the century.

you and coriolanus had been in some risky positions during this little affair of yours, but this was by far the most scariest.

“wait here,” snow whispered, stepping back. he was calmer than ever, like always, not crumbling under pressure. if this was felix, he’d be having a full-blown panic attack.

“after a minute, come back inside.” he ordered. you nodded, swallowing down your worry. he caught your anxious act, his gaze softening and his finger brushing a hair out of your face.

he took a folded piece of paper from his pocket, with your initials in fancy writing on it. your eyebrows furrowed.

“don’t open it until you’re alone, tonight.”

he didn’t wait for you to nod before walking away, giving a small kiss just for effect.

you were floored for a moment, holding the paper, dumbfounded. his voice trailed away as he spoke to festus.

“she’s not my wife just yet, creed...”

gathering yourself together, coriolanus’ words set off a string of realisations which left you feeling slightly less riled up than before.

livia’s not his wife, yet.

yet.

in a week she will be.

then what? then what happens to this ongoing affair?

“they’re not married yet, it doesn’t count,” you would tell yourself. it was the perfect excuse.

a man cheating was frowned upon during the early stages of marriage in the capitol. a woman cheating, at any point, well, she might aswell banish herself from the capitol as a whole.

it was risky for coriolanus to be having an affair before he’s even married to the woman.

it was even riskier for you, who’s reputation could be destroyed for simply wearing an out-of-fashion dress to an event.

all sexist traditions aside, the reliance you’ve both had on the excuse of his pre-betrothal is now thinning by the day.

you may despise livia’s need for male validation and envy her engagement, but that doesn’t mean you’ll feel good about potentially ruining her marriage. it is a big thing, and if it’s destroyed, so is her place in society.

and you would find it very hard to live with bringing another woman down for your own personal gain.

if this is what fate shall bring, then that’s that. you’ll just have to live with the unfortunate circumstances.

ᥫ᭡ later that night

your eyebrows furrowed at the note before you, torn between options. the night was quiet, silent even, what with your husband fast asleep as you sat in the living room.

usually, you would be laid beside him, on the other side of the bed, swept away in a book. instead, you were swept away in a sudden tough decision.

our spot, 12:30am. i miss you, my darling. let me show you how much. — C.S. p.s, you forgot a certain pair of undergarments.

let’s take back your usual place at this time of night. laid beside felix was a lie, you usually would be intoxicated by coriolanus, drunk on his cock. well, not every night. every friday night, however…

why he decided to give you a letter instead of using the telephone like normal was beyond you. maybe it was because he had stolen your red panties he had gifted you last time, and you never gave too much away on the phone. anyone could trace it back, and boom, image corrupted.

by now you would’ve already had shoes on and ordered your driver to take you. but tonight… your thoughts about his arriving marriage prevented you from moving off this sofa. one last time wouldn’t hurt, right? then you’ll break the news to him. maybe he had already realised this can’t go on forever.

you tip-toed out of your penthouse and sweetly asked the driver to take you to your usual friday night destination, a giddy feeling in your chest despite the inevitable conclusion your affair will come to.

ᥫ᭡

as the car drove away, you stared up at the familiar place before you. a townhouse, sat at the end of a street a couple blocks from the corso. no one would bat an eye to it if they drove past — little did they know, the president and the fatal flaw in his marriage resided there, hidden away like a dirty secret.

because that’s all it was.

and that’s how it would end. nothing more.

coriolanus claimed he had bought this place when he was seventeen to ‘reminisce how it would be to live alone’. sure, you thought, and it just happened to come in handy when you and him spontaneously needed a place to fuck a few months ago, when this whole ordeal started.

whether he did just buy it because he planned to kiss you that night of festus’ birthday ball, you weren’t complaining. it was the perfect distance from both your homes and somewhere where the likelihood of someone finding you was little.

looking both ways before approaching the house, you turned the lock, slipping in and turning the foyer light on. seems you got here before him. nothing new.

you strolled around the cosy halls, wondering how it would feel to come home every night waiting for coriolanus. you’d take his briefcase, greet him good evening, and give him a sweet kiss on the lips. maybe you both would spend the rest of the night cuddled up in the library, or the living room, or the bedroom…

no. you were getting ahead of yourself. there was no point in creating your dreamworld with him. felix. livia. they were your lives now, and it was too late for any change to happen from the moment you met.

small, longing glimpses of what could’ve been your life would have to suffice.

so swept up in your own thoughts, you didn’t even realise you were on the balcony until you felt the gust of wind in your hair and the cold metal of the railing underneath your fingers.

why you were even here was nearly lost until you felt a strong pair of hands grasp your waist and pull you against a strong figure.

you smiled. the smell of roses only followed a certain someone. turning around, you met eyes. then lips. the feeling was heavenly, like it always was when kissing coriolanus snow.

“i had a strange feeling you wouldn’t show up tonight.” he murmured through the kiss. damn him and his brilliant intuition.

“i nearly didn’t.” you breathlessly responded — no need in lying.

this made him pause, until he pulled your head back and sucked kisses on your neck.

but this time, you didn’t feel the warm fuzziness in your stomach. instead the anxious lingering of what was to come persisted, a stubborn warning which persisted on.

the wedding.

the scandal tiptoeing closer and closer. it laid on the edge of your fingertips now. the risk of losing everything you had built — even if it wasn’t what you dreamed for. societies harsh, judging eyes leaving a stain on your name forever.

is it worth chasing temporary happiness for a potential lifetime loss? that very question racked your brain for weeks, but you had yet to find a solid answer.

until now.

determined, you turned around, only to be met with the familiar eyes you had been dreamily gazing into since you were a little girl. that look. soft. warm, even.

as if nothing you’ve done is wrong. as if you hadn’t spent nights lying awake, staring at the ceiling beside a man you barely knows, feeling his touch like something borrowed.

as if you hadn’t begun to dread the sound of your own name.

“i was beginning to think you’d come to your senses,” he muttered lightly.

it came out sharper than you intended. “that’s exactly why i’m here.”

something flickers behind his eyes. interest, perhaps… but it’s gone just as quickly. you force yourself to hold his gaze.

“we can’t keep doing this,” you say, the words rehearsed, repeated, worn thin before they even leave your mouth. “it was a mistake. it is a mistake.”

he doesn’t interrupt. he just watchesyou. that’s always worse.

“you’re getting married,” you slowly continued, your voice tightening despite yourself. “in front of the entire capitol. do you understand what happens if anyone finds out? if she finds out?”

livia.

the name sat between you both without being spoken. a dark cloud, haunting, lingering above you, threatening to rain fire upon your dangerous affair.

“i won’t have my life ruined over… over stolen moments in dark rooms.” your breath catches, but you push through it. “i won’t be that woman.”

silence.

“you already are.”

it’s not cruelly said. that’s what makes it worse.

your composure fractured, just slightly. “don’t—”

“you come when i ask,” he continued, stepping closer now, slow, deliberate. “you stay when you should leave. you let me touch you like he doesn’t exist.”

each word lands precisely.

“you don’t get to pretend this is something it isn’t.”

your chest tightened. “it isn’t anything. that’s the point. it ends here.”

you expected resistance. anger. something. instead, coriolanus tilts his head, studying you as though you’d said something mildly interesting rather than something devastating.

“does he make you happy?” he asked.

you hesitated. his gaze sharpened, not with jealousy — no, something far more dangerous. certainty.

“i didn’t think so.” his raspy voice grated your ears. this wasn’t going well.

“this isn’t about felix,” you snapped, too quickly. “this is about us. about what we’re doing—”

“what we’re doing,” he repeated softly, closing the distance between you now, “is inevitable.”

your breath faltered.

“no,” you say, though it sounds weaker now. “no, it isn’t. i’m ending it. tonight.”

he’s close enough now that you could feel the heat of him, steady, unshaken. his hand lifted, not quite touching you yet — hovering just at your waist, like a memory waiting to happen.

“you’re frightened,” he murmured, “of being caught?”

a faint, almost amused exhale escaped him, “or of wanting this too much?”

your jaw clenched. “you’re engaged, coriolanus.”

finally, something lands. not visibly. but you see it in the slight shift of his expression. not guilt. never guilt. just calculation.

“livia,” he says, as if recalling her distantly, like an afterthought.

“yes, livia,” you press. “your fiancée. the one parading that ring around every event as if she’s already won.”

“and that bothers you.” it’s not a question, and you hate that it doesn’t need to be.

“it should bother you,” you say instead.

another pause. you stared into his eyes, a sly, subtle tug at your gut telling you to leave. almost a warning—

“if she’s the problem…” he says quietly, his voice filled with a dark seriousness, “say the word and she’s gone.”

the world tilts. not dramatically, not even violently. just enough.

just enough for something cold to slip beneath your skin. you stared at him, searching his face for any sign of exaggeration. a joke. but coriolanus was never known for his humour.

“you don’t mean that.” an unbelieving smile appeared on your face, waiting for his amused smirk to be returned. it doesn’t. you tried to sound carefree, yet your voice betrayed you.

because a part of you knew — he means every word. coriolanus stepped closer, finally closing the space between you, his hand settling against your waist like it belonged there. like it always had.

“i mean,” he says softly, a harsh contrast to his tone before, “that nothing stands in my way for long.”

your pulse stuttered. this isn’t charm, nor romance. this is something else entirely.

“you’re not listening to me,” it almost sounded like you were pleading, but now it’s quieter. unsteady. “i’m ending this.”

his thumb brushed lightly against your side. absent, nearly affectionate.

“no,” he stated. such a simple word. so gently said.

“you’re trying to.”

and that’s when it settled in your chest: heavy, suffocating, inescapable. not the danger of being caught. not the guilt. not even livia.

him.

he wasn’t arguing with you. he wouldn’t plead. he was correcting you.

as if the decision was never yours to make.

as if it never would be.

ᥫ᭡ 4:47am

sighing, you trudged into your shared house where only you, your husband and a few housemaids stayed. in your eyes, it always seemed much too large for only two elite members of society. clemensia and all the other materialistic girls you met throughout the years would never be fulfilled with all the luxuries in the country. but every time you walked into this grand room, strolled through the sleek hallways… you couldn’t help but feel as if you were playing house.

it never felt like a show with coriolanus. through the little glimpses of doubt and tension these past few months, coryo always felt like home. didn’t he?

the last few hours were surreal. laid, skin to skin, with a satisfied daze in your eyes. yet you couldn’t shake the disappointment weighing in your chest. you arrived there, set to do one thing. you left with sore legs and a mind reeling with confliction. how did he pull you back in? one moment, you’re filled with determination and guard. the next, you wake up right back in his trap. it is a gruelling cycle; but any form of thrill which removes you from your dear husband’s — frankly, boring — lifestyle is easy to get addicted to. devoted to.

ah, yes. your husband. you had a good guess at where he would be at this time.

beneath the high ceilings in your living room laid a passed out felix, one hand in his messy black curls and the other lazily grasping the empty glass which reeked of alcohol residue. you sighed. this had been occurring more and more these past few months. you knew why. part of you felt empathy for the man. surely he would’ve felt the loss of your homemade morning coffees by now. he must be thinking you’ve been sleeping in one of the spare rooms. the excitement of coriolanus’ antics had made you sloppy.

so, with a single pitiful glance, you put the whiskey bottles away and quietly shut your bedroom door. you ignored the recurring notion of exactly how many more times you were going to do this daunting routine.

ᥫ᭡ one day later

“holy shit!” felix’s deep voice was poisoned with concern as it echoed from the kitchen. eyebrows furrowing, you quickly walked to his call, a twisting slither in your gut like the fangs of a snake pulling back to bite.

“what is it?” you hastily followed his eyes, staring down at the capitol newspaper. your heart sunk, just like the fangs seeping into your skin.

“FROM ENGAGEMENT TO ELEGY: PRIVATE ILLNESS CLAIMS THE LIFE OF LIVIA CARDEW.”

Sources close to the family request discretion during this difficult time.