g.

“Who cares,” you muttered, smoothing down your dress. “Apparently drinking with his friends was more important.”

“His loss, my gain,” Holland replied with an easy grin, flicking his cigarette into the street before pulling away from the curb. “And lucky for you, I know a really cool place.”

That “really cool place” turned out to be one of the trendiest clubs in town. You’d heard about it before, but every time you suggested going, your boyfriend claimed you’d hate it—that it was trashy, loud, disgusting. But the second you walked inside with Holland, you realized he’d been completely wrong.

Music pulsed through the room, impossible not to move to. The bar looked stocked enough to bankrupt a college student, and everywhere you looked there were beautiful women, handsome men, flashing lights, and clouds of cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling.

“C’mon,” March said, resting a hand against the small of your back as he guided you toward a table. “Let me buy you something. Sweet drinks seem like your thing.”

“Are you judging me already?”

“Absolutely,” he said with a grin.

You laughed despite yourself, and a second later he disappeared into the crowd toward the bar.

A few drinks later, you were laughing at Holland’s terrible jokes and letting him drag you onto the dance floor. Somewhere between the music, the alcohol, and his ridiculous confidence, the night had started feeling good. Better than good, actually. Maybe exactly what you’d needed. You were just beginning to think that when someone suddenly dropped into the seat beside you.

“Healy,” you muttered, setting your glass down.

Jackson Healy leaned back in his chair and nodded toward you. “Nice dress.” Then he leaned closer to Holland. “I talked to the guy,” he said quietly. “He says Simpson’s got a place outside the city. We should check it out.”

“Great,” Holland muttered, though his voice had gone strangely tight. His eyes flicked nervously toward you. “Tomorrow, Healy. We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Why tomorrow? We should go now.”

“I—”

Holland hesitated, and suddenly you understood, you were still sitting there.

This hadn’t really been a night out. Definitely not for him. You’d just been convenient—someone to fill the empty seat while he watched the room, worked a lead, played detective. He hadn’t picked this club by accident. And maybe he hadn’t picked your table by accident either.

“Go,” you said quietly, because apparently you were the only one willing to make the decision. “I can get home myself.”

“No.” Holland straightened immediately. “I’ll drive you. You shouldn’t—”

“We should go now,” Healy interrupted, already impatient. Then he glanced at you. “Sorry. Important client.”

You shrugged, suddenly too tired to care. Standing up, you grabbed your purse from the chair—and froze. A few tables away sat a painfully familiar figure.

“Peter?”

Holland turned so fast he nearly knocked over his drink. “Shit,” he hissed under his breath. “Listen, maybe don’t—”

But you were already staring. Your boyfriend—the same man who’d supposedly been out drinking with friends—had a red-haired girl half in his lap, kissing her like he’d forgotten the rest of the world existed. She looked young. Too young.

Anger surged through you so quickly it made your head spin. You took a step forward, then another. Before you could reach the table, a hand wrapped firmly around your arm.

Healy.

“Get her outta here, March,” he said flatly. “We don’t need a scene.”

“Maybe I do,” you snapped, alcohol sharpening every word. “Maybe I wanna tell him exactly what I think—”

“Take her out.”

A second later, Holland’s hands were on you, steering you toward the exit before you could protest. You struggled against him the entire way, but between the alcohol and his grip, it was useless.

Only once the cold night air hit your face did you finally wrench yourself free.

“Leave me alone,” you hissed. “You’re all the same!”

“Hey— hey, hold on.” Holland raised both hands defensively. “What does that even mean? I didn’t do anything to you.”

You spun to face him fully, chest rising hard with every breath. Heat crawled up your neck, humiliation mixing violently with anger.

“You brought me here because you needed cover,” you snapped. “Don’t deny it. Healy practically admitted it. You probably knew Peter would be here too, and—”

“I didn’t plan that!” Holland shot back immediately. “I swear to God, I didn’t.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

Without another word, you turned on your heel, determined to find a cab that would take you home. But before you could get far, March’s hurried footsteps caught up to you again.

“What are you doing?” Holland called after you. “I’m driving you home.” He fell into step beside you. “It’s late. You shouldn’t be walking around the city alone. Somebody could—”

“Could what?!” You spun around so suddenly that Holland nearly walked straight into you. “Someone could use me? Humiliate me?”

“Jesus!” Holland threw his hands up. “I didn’t plan any of this!”

You couldn’t stop yourself. Still clutching your purse, you swung it hard into his shoulder.

“Ow!” Holland stumbled backward, letting out a strangely high-pitched yelp. “What the— ow! Hey! Ow!”

“You’re — exactly — like — him!” you shot back, punctuating every word with another hit of your bag.

Only when Holland finally caught your wrist did the assault stop. A few strands of dark blond hair had fallen over his forehead, and he was breathing almost as hard as you were.

“Calm down,” he muttered, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “People are gonna think—”

“I’ll start screaming.”

Instantly, his other hand clamped gently—but firmly—over your mouth.

“Jesus, woman,” he hissed. “You really shouldn’t drink. And honestly, I probably should’ve tied you up before trying to talk to you.”

You let out a string of muffled, furious sounds against his palm.

“Apology accepted,” Holland announced immediately.

Your glare could’ve killed him.

“Now,” he continued, still trying—and failing—not to sound amused, “you’re getting in the car, and I’m taking you home. Then tomorrow morning, when you’re slightly less terrifying, we can talk.” He pointed at you. “Deal?”

The two of you held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Holland March wasn’t the type to give up easily—you knew that better than anyone.

Eventually, you caved. With visible reluctance, you gave a small nod.

He slowly removed his hand from your mouth, though he immediately took half a step back, clearly expecting another attack from your purse. But you didn’t swing at him this time.

Something about you had changed, and Holland noticed it instantly—he noticed more than people gave him credit for.

Your eyes glistened beneath the streetlights, and your bottom lip trembled just slightly. And suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to pull you into his arms.

The drive home was painfully quiet. Neither of you spoke. The radio played softly in the background, drowned out by the hum of the engine and the occasional noise from the street outside. Holland kept both hands on the wheel, his eyes fixed ahead, though every now and then he glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

At one point, he was almost certain he heard quiet sniffles. But when he looked over, you had already wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, staring stubbornly out the window like nothing had happened at all. Like you refused to let him see you cry, and for some reason, that hurt worse.

Holland liked you. More than he probably should’ve.

You were smart, patient, kind to Holly, and somehow still willing to tolerate him even on his worst days. Seeing you like this—heartbroken, humiliated—made something twist painfully in his chest.

When he finally pulled up in front of your house, neither of you moved right away.

“I didn’t know Peter was gonna be there,” he said, his voice unusually sincere. “I swear. I really didn’t plan that.”

“I know...” you answered quietly. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I just want to take off this dress, shower, and crawl into bed.”

“Way too many details,” Holland said immediately. “Way, way too many.”

You rolled your eyes, but he still caught the tiny twitch at the corner of your mouth.

Success.

“See?” Holland pointed at you like he’d just won an argument. “That’s better. Tiny smile. We’re making progress.”

“You’re annoying,” you muttered, reaching for the door handle.

“Yeah, well. That’s kinda my thing.”

For a second, neither of you moved again. The street outside was quiet, washed in the pale glow of streetlights. Holland tapped his fingers nervously against the steering wheel before finally clearing his throat.

“I’m gonna come by tomorrow,” he said. “Check on you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

You looked at him then, properly this time. His tie hung loose around his neck and his hair was a mess.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked softly. “I was awful to you tonight.”

Holland frowned immediately, like the question itself bothered him. “You had a bad night.”

“I hit you.”

“With a purse. I’ve survived worse.”

“Holland.”

He sighed quietly, glancing away for a second before looking back at you. This time there was no teasing grin, no sarcastic remark waiting behind his eyes. Just honesty.

“Because you’re worth it,” he said simply.

The words hit harder than they should have. And judging by the way Holland immediately looked uncomfortable afterward, like he regretted letting something real slip out, he felt it too.

“So,” he added quickly, pointing at you again to cover the sudden sincerity, “tomorrow. I’m bringing coffee. And maybe donuts if I feel emotionally generous.”

Despite yourself, you laughed softly.

— — — —

The next morning, you ignored every phone call. You were almost certain it was Peter. You already felt humiliated enough.

The apartment still smelled faintly like yesterday’s perfume and cigarette smoke. Your dress lay discarded on the floor exactly where you’d thrown it after stumbling home, and every time you looked at it, you remembered the club and what you saw.

You buried your face deeper into the pillow with a groan. A loud knock echoed through the apartment. You froze. Another knock followed, more impatient this time.

“Okay, either you’re dead in there,” a familiar voice called through the door, “or you’re dramatically avoiding society. Both are concerning.”

Holland.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment before slowly dragging yourself out of bed. You looked awful. Your hair was a mess, your eyes still puffy from crying, and you’d thrown on the first oversized sweater you could find.

Part of you considered pretending you weren’t home. But Holland knocked again.

“Also,” he continued loudly, “I brought coffee, so if you ignore me, I’m gonna be emotionally devastated.”

You snorted despite yourself and finally opened the door.

Holland March stood there holding a cardboard tray with two coffees and a paper bag tucked under his arm. His tie was crooked again, sunglasses sliding down his nose despite the cloudy weather.

The moment he saw you, his expression softened. “You look terrible,” he said.

“Wow. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He held up the bag. “I also brought donuts because apparently emotional support requires sugar.”

You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in. 

Holland walked into the apartment like he’d been there a hundred times before, setting the coffee and bag down on the kitchen counter. You noticed him glance toward the phone ringing again on the table.

Peter.

The ringing stopped after a few seconds. Holland looked back at you carefully. “You gonna answer that?”

“No.”

“Good choice.”

You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “If you came here to tell me I embarrassed myself last night, trust me, I already know.”

Holland blinked at you. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I came here to tell you your ex-boyfriend’s an idiot.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. “You talked to him?”

“Maybe.”

You looked at him suspiciously.

He sighed dramatically, already reaching for one of the coffees. “Okay, technically I went there intending to have a calm, mature conversation.”

“And?”

“And then he opened the door and started talking.”

You stared at him. “What did you do?”

“Nothing illegal.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

Holland pointed at you with his coffee cup. “For the record, I showed incredible restraint.”

Despite everything, you felt your mouth twitch slightly. He noticed immediately.

“There it is,” he muttered proudly. “I knew I could get at least one smile today.”

You looked away, suddenly feeling stupid again.

“Honestly,” you murmured quietly, “I don’t even know why I’m this upset anymore.”

Holland’s expression shifted.

“He cheated on me. He lied to me. And somehow I’m still sitting here feeling miserable over him.” Your laugh came out hollow. “That’s pathetic.”

“No,” Holland said immediately.

You looked up.

“It just means you cared.”

The apartment fell quiet. And annoyingly enough, he sounded completely sincere. Holland leaned against the opposite counter, watching you carefully now.

“You know what Peter said when I went to see him?” he asked.

You frowned slightly. “What?”

“That you were ‘too emotional.’”

Your stomach twisted. Holland scoffed before you could even react.

“Meanwhile, the guy’s out there cheating on his girlfriend with a girl who looked like she still needed permission to stay out past midnight.”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“See?” Holland pointed at you triumphantly. “Now we’re healing.”

You rolled your eyes, but this time the smile stayed. And Holland—God help him—looked absurdly pleased about it.

You wrapped both hands around the warm coffee cup, sitting at the kitchen table while Holland made himself strangely comfortable in your apartment. Not that he seemed to notice.

He was currently digging through the donut bag with the concentration of a detective examining evidence.

The annoying part was that he looked good too. Too good.

His shirt sleeves were rolled up messily to his elbows, his tie hung loose around his neck again, and his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it about twenty times already that morning.

He looked exhausted. And still unfairly charming.

“You flirt with everybody, don’t you?” you muttered before thinking too hard about it.

Holland blinked. Then, unexpectedly, he went quiet. That alone made you look up. He leaned one hip against the counter, slowly turning the coffee cup in his hands.

“That’s not true,” he said after a moment.

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Something in his voice softened. “There are people I can’t flirt with at all.”

You frowned slightly. “Why?”

Holland looked at you then, and for one strange second all the usual humor disappeared completely.

“Because I actually care what they think of me.”

Your breath caught. The apartment suddenly felt very small. Holland seemed to realize what he’d just admitted at the exact same moment you did, because his eyes widened slightly before he immediately straightened up.

You stared at him, but he refused to look back at you. And that was the moment you realized something deeply unsettling: Holland March was nervous.

“Holland.”

“What?”

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Were you just flirting with me?”

He froze, actually froze.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “I feel like that question lacks legal fairness.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Oh my God. You were.”

“No,” Holland said immediately. Then, after a beat: “Maybe a little.”

“Holland March.”

“In my defense, you’re very easy to flirt with.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “I literally hit you with a purse less than twelve hours ago.”

“Yeah.” He nodded thoughtfully. “And somehow that wasn’t a dealbreaker.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile again, but it was impossible.

Holland watched you carefully over the rim of his coffee cup, and for once he wasn’t hiding the fact that he liked looking at you. That realization made warmth creep embarrassingly into your cheeks.

“You know,” you said slowly, “I genuinely thought I was just your neighbor.”

“You are my neighbor.”

“You know what I mean.”

Holland looked down into his coffee for a second before exhaling softly through his nose.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You always seemed kinda immune to me.”

You blinked. “Immune to you?”

“The charm.” He gestured vaguely toward himself. “This whole thing.”

“This whole thing?”

“Yeah, this.” He pointed at his face. “People usually react to it.”

You burst out laughing.

“Oh, wow. That hurt my feelings a little.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“No, seriously,” Holland continued, now fully committed to defending himself. “Women like me.”

“You fell through a glass door last month.”

“That was one time.”

“You screamed.” you said.

“It was a very sudden door.”

Your laughter got louder, and Holland couldn’t stop smiling at the sound of it. God, he’d missed this.

Missed you laughing at his stupid jokes. Missed sitting in your kitchen like this. Missed the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled for real instead of forcing it. The realization hit him harder than expected.

“You know what your problem is?” you asked, still grinning.

“Oh, this should be educational.”

“You think being charming means pretending not to care about anything.”

Holland opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because annoyingly enough, you were right. You watched his expression soften slightly.

“But you do care,” you continued more quietly. “About Holly. About people. About me.”

The last words slipped out before you could stop them. Silence settled between you again. Holland’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. And suddenly you became very aware of how close he was standing now. When had he moved closer?

“You know,” he murmured, voice lower now, “you’re really not helping the whole ‘trying not to flirt with you’ situation.”

Your heart skipped. “Well,” you whispered back, “maybe I’m not trying very hard anymore either.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt unbearably warm all of a sudden. Holland was standing close enough for you to smell cigarettes, coffee, and the faint trace of his cologne. His gaze hadn’t left your face once, which was honestly starting to become a problem.

“This is usually the part where I say something charming,” he said softly.

You tilted your head slightly. “Usually?”

“Yeah.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Unfortunately, you make me forget my material.”

“That sounds serious.”

“It’s horrifying.”

You laughed quietly under your breath, and Holland visibly relaxed at the sound. Like making you smile had become his favorite thing sometime during the last twenty-four hours. Maybe it had been longer than that. Your eyes dropped briefly to his lips before you could stop yourself. Unfortunately, Holland noticed everything. His expression changed immediately.

You should’ve stepped back, but instead you found yourself leaning a little closer. Holland inhaled sharply. And suddenly he looked nervous again. That almost made you smile.

Holland March—the man who flirted with waitresses, receptionists, bartenders, and probably parking meters—looked genuinely nervous around you.

“You know what?” you said quietly. “You keep saying all these ridiculous things instead of just—”

“Instead of just what?”

You hesitated for half a second. Then decided to be brave for once.

“Instead of asking me out.”

Holland blinked at you like his brain had completely stopped working. “You think I haven’t been trying to do that for months?”

Your breath caught slightly. “Months?”

“Oh, God,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I sound insane.”

You smiled despite yourself, and Holland looked at you like the sight physically hurt him.

“You seriously didn’t know?” he asked.

“I thought you were like this with everyone.”

“I am like this with everyone,” he admitted. “That’s the problem. I had no idea how to make you understand you were different.”

Something in your chest tightened painfully at that. “Holland…”

“And every time I thought maybe you liked me back, you’d look at me like I was some stray dog that accidentally learned how to smoke cigarettes.”

You laughed softly. “That’s not true.”

“It absolutely is.”

Another step. You didn’t even realize Holland had moved closer until his hand brushed lightly against yours on the kitchen counter.

Neither of you pulled away. His eyes flicked down to your mouth again. This time, yours did too. The room felt quiet enough that you could hear both of you breathing. And slowly—carefully—Holland lifted a hand toward your face like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to touch you. His fingertips barely brushed your cheek.

“You know,” he said quietly, voice rougher now, “if I kiss you right now, there’s a very real chance I’m never gonna shut up about it.”

Your lips twitched. “You already never shut up.”

“Yeah, but this would make it worse.”

You smiled faintly, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“Then maybe,” you whispered, leaning just a little closer, “you should stop talking for once.”

For the first time in what was possibly his entire life, Holland March actually listened. He stopped talking.

His hand remained against your cheek, warm and careful, like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. For a second he only looked at you, searching your face for any sign that he’d misunderstood.

Then he kissed you. Soft at first, tentative.

Nothing like the smooth, practiced charm Holland usually hid behind. This felt almost unfairly sincere, like he was trying very hard not to ruin something he’d wanted for a long time.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt automatically, pulling him closer before you even realized you were doing it. That tiny movement completely destroyed whatever self-control he had left. 

The second kiss was deeper and warmer. And Holland made a quiet sound against your lips that nearly melted your brain entirely. Then suddenly he pulled back.

“Oh, no,” he muttered immediately, breathing hard. “No, this is bad.”

You blinked at him, still holding onto his shirt. “Bad?”

“I need to stop.” He pointed vaguely between the two of you like he was explaining a crime scene. “Because if I don’t stop now, I’m genuinely never leaving this apartment again.”

Despite the heat rushing through your entire body, you laughed softly. Holland looked wrecked already. His hair was even messier than before, his cheeks slightly flushed, and he was staring at your mouth with the expression of a man actively losing a fight with himself.

“This is your fault, by the way,” he informed you.

“My fault?”

“You told me to stop talking.”

Before you could answer, he stepped forward again and kissed you a one more time. Harder. Like he’d already given up pretending he wasn’t desperate for it. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and for one dizzying moment you forgot every single bad thing that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

When he finally pulled away again, he looked genuinely distressed.

“We should go to dinner,” he blurted out suddenly.

You stared at him. “What?”

“A real date,” Holland clarified quickly, still standing far too close to you. “Like adults. I mean— emotionally unstable adults, but still.”

“You’re asking me out right now?”

“Yes.”

“You’re terrible at timing.”

“I’m overwhelmed.”

That made you laugh again, and Holland kissed you immediately afterward like the sound itself pulled him back in. This kiss was slower. Dangerously slow. The kind that made your knees feel weak.

When he finally forced himself to step away this time, he dragged both hands down his face dramatically. “Okay. I have to leave.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You do?”

“Yes.” He pointed toward the door while still looking directly at you. “Because I’m trying to behave like a respectable person.”

Still muttering under his breath, Holland grabbed his jacket and headed for the door before he could apparently change his mind again. You followed him, arms crossed loosely over your chest, unable to stop smiling now. At the door, he paused and looked back at you. For one terrifying second, it genuinely seemed like he was considering kissing you again.

Instead, he gave you a look somewhere between dazed and deeply offended by his own feelings.

“Dinner,” he repeated firmly. “Tonight. Seven.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Holland nodded.

Then he left. But you barely had time to close the door before it suddenly swung open again. Holland leaned back inside, slightly out of breath like he’d rushed back immediately.

“One question.”

You bit back a smile. “What?”

He pointed at you very seriously. “Is there gonna be more kissing later?”

You laughed. And the completely lovestruck look on Holland’s face told you that asking that question had probably been a terrible mistake for him emotionally.

“That depends,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “Are you planning on getting completely drunk?”

Holland looked mildly offended. “I’ll have you know I can be extremely charming while sober.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Okay, first of all, rude.”

“Okay. And second?”

“And second,” he continued, pointing at you accusingly, “you attacked me with a purse less than a day ago. I feel like we should focus on your violent tendencies before judging my drinking habits.”

You gasped softly. “You deserved that, March.”

“I absolutely did,” he admitted immediately.

That caught you off guard enough to laugh again. Holland smiled the second he heard it. God, he really liked making you laugh.

“So?” he asked after a moment, softer now. “More kissing?”

You pretended to think about it. “Hm. Fine.”

His eyebrows lifted hopefully.

“But only if,” you continued, trying not to smile too much, “you don’t get blackout drunk and forget my name halfway through dinner.”

Holland pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “Wow. You think very little of me.”

“I know exactly who you are.”

And strangely enough, that answer seemed to affect him more than anything else had all morning. You did know him, not the version he showed strangers. Not the loud-talking, constantly flirting private investigator pretending he had everything under control.

You knew the real Holland. The exhausted single father,  who tried harder than people realized, who made pancakes for Holly on Sundays and fell asleep on his couch with paperwork on his chest. The one who checked if you got home safe even before any of this happened, and somehow, unbelievably, you still liked him.

“You know,” Holland said quietly, “that might actually be my favorite thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Your heart softened instantly. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Absolutely,” he agreed.

You smiled, stepping a little closer to him again. “Seven o’clock?” you asked.

Holland looked at you like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “Seven.”

Then, unable to help himself, he leaned down and kissed you one last time. Gentle and warm. The kind of kiss that promised this wasn’t ending anytime soon. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead briefly against yours and sighed.

“I’m definitely gonna ruin this by saying something stupid later.”

“Probably.”

“You’ll still go out with me anyway?”

You smiled softly. “Probably.”

And judging by the helplessly happy look on Holland March’s face, that answer was more than enough.

holly was reteaching him how to drive a car by spewing unsolicited advice at every street sign. they were cruising by yet another beach. a particularly bad investigation hit him and healy last weekend, and it left him bruised up like a dropped mango. he had a black eye and a trickle of purple dots from the neck to the chest. doctors also suspected his ankle might have been sprained, but so far there had been no clear signs, which was enough for him to pop a few pain pills and call it a day. his hands were good too. at least, his left hand was. the knuckles on his right were wrapped in gauze that would not stop staining. no matter. he kept that hand on his lap as he drove with his left. but the suckiest part was that they didn't even solve the case. a man named mr. watkins was still missing and they had ran out of clues.

"i don't think jess is gonna notice one cookie out of a dozen missing," he was telling holly, ignoring her backseat driving.

"it's called a dozen for a reason, dad. it's a number. and i baked enough cookies specifically for me and her family."

"ah! it's actually 'her family and i,'" he corrected and beckoned his hand again. still, nothing dropped.

"no, it's 'me and her family.' the choice between 'me' or 'i' depends on how the sentence would sound without the additional object."

holland readjusted in his seat. "... you and her family," he muttered.

if his memory served him right, jess' place would be two streets down to the left, then another three streets until they got to a two story house on the slope of mitchell drive. he turned down his music to focus a little more, but suddenly two hands grabbed his shoulders from behind. "w-wait, that's her house!"

holland screamed and his head whipped to check all surroundings, then followed holly's pointed finger to see a different two story house, five streets before the expected destination. his daughter's grip was so tight, he pulled over regardless and turned into a calmer street to park by the sidewalk. "you sure? i could have sworn it was a little farther down."

but holly was adamant. "nope, this is it," and she jumped out of the car like a bat out of hell. holland looked around again.

"but we saw that motorcycle accident by the four-way stop," he said, half to holly and half to himself. weird. normally, he didn't doubt holly on these things, but the motorcycle was a pretty vivid memory. they saw it together two weeks ago, right after healy told him the story of his worst crash. it made holland want to puke.

just like that, holly was gone with the bag of cookies in her hand. he settled into the driver's seat and watched her carefully tread up to the stairs, but still keeping her head high. he thought to say hello to the parents. surprisingly, he hit it off with them last time. maybe he should go after holly, he thought. he rested his arm on the outside of the car and saw the door open after three polite knocks.

jess' parents didn't greet her at the door, though, unless jess' mom got a new haircut, hair color, style, and shoes. from afar, he couldn't see much. the woman was young, maybe his age (jess' parents waited a long while before kids), and dressed casually. she spoke to holly with a calm expression, but guarded in a way. did they get jess a babysitter? no, holly baked for their family. and he wasn't even sure this was the right house. but again, it was hard to doubt holly when she was usually right about everything.

you were the one actually at the door. you were trying to do your own research on your latest case, but someone knocked, not like you were expecting visitors. your new air freshener already got delivered yesterday. still, you opened it and were met with a sweet, blonde teenage girl.

"excuse me," she said politely, and asked if this was the house of a person with the same name as yours. naturally, you said she had the right person, and she nodded, pleased with herself. "my name is holly march and i'm looking to ask you a couple questions about a man named mr. watkins."

you huffed out a laugh, intrigued but incredibly confused. the girl was well spoken, but she couldn't have been older than twelve, and what was her involvement with mr. watkins? "i'm sorry, i'm not too sure i follow," you said politely.

she seemed to grow irritated and covered the reaction poorly with a deep breath. "mr. watkins was an insurance agent on the edge of california that went missing approximately a week ago. i'm trying to find information about his most recent whereabouts and what occurred before his disappearance, and i was told you might have some intel."

you smiled at the bizarre nature of this conversation. she was talking about a real case that you were very well aware of, but she sounded like a spy in a children's television show. "i don't think i have any information you would want," you replied, still trying to figure out how in the world this girl got your address. "barely learned anything about the guy when i was involved with his family."

"miss, if you would cooperate, i promise this will be both quicker and easier for the both of us," she insisted, and you bit back the bigger smile that threatened to appear on your face. this girl was half a foot shorter than you, not to mention with a bag of cookies in her hands.

you pointed at them, unable to resist. "you gonna bribe me with these next?"

she didn’t find it funny. you did, though. and luckily, you didn’t have to answer to whatever scripted lecture she was going to put you through, because holland finally figured, ‘yeah, there’s no way this is where jess lives. i commented on the front yard ‘cause of their dog statue outside and they said it was the shining star of their decor—so where the hell is it?’ and he walked over.

his footsteps grew closer, which caused holly’s shoulders to tense and refuse to turn. something was definitely wrong. he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride. this was why he was a detective. he reached the stoop of the house and invitied himself onto it. he placed his hands upon holly’s shoulders in claiment. “deepest apologies, this is my daughter, i don’t know what she’s—!”

and he froze. quite possibly the most gorgeous woman in the world was standing in the door way, smiling, and looking directly at him. your hair framing your face, your clothes fitting you in all the right ways, the twitch of your nose as you smiled a second longer. you had a way of making casual wear look worthy of a editorial. he didn’t even know if you put on makeup today. maybe it was just your natural glow. was he crazy for already thinking about what to wear for a proposal? holland had a specific type. it wasn’t rare, but he knew what got his attention. and you seemed to had hit the jackpot without even knowing you were on a game show, called “can we kill march with just a look?” he had yet to say anything. but the importance of talking in a conversation hadn’t hit him yet, and instead, he just grasped holly’s shoulders even tighter to ground himself.

your smile never faltered, even as he gaped at you so obviously. instead, you leaned against the door frame and said, “hello.”

“hi,” he squeaked. a beat passed of the two of you just looking at each other, but holly seemed to have other plans that revolved around the logistics of the situation.

she squirmed out of her dad’s touch and announced your name with a tinge of defeat. “she’s another detective in LA looking into mr. watkins' disappearance,” she sighed.

holland was about to cum in his pants. he wiped any possible crumbs that were left on his mustache from breakfast and let out a hiccup of a laugh, nervous and completely out of his depth. “detective! what do you know, a chance to… network, it’s such a pleasure to meet you.” you didn’t miss the way he breathed out those last words. he did, though. he was too caught up in how pleasurable it was.

you crossed your arms and nodded. "nice to meet you too, detective...?"

"march! detective march!" he then felt his suit pockets, knowing damn well he had the flyer healy gave him. "uh, i work with my buddy, healy, we're new on the scene. or, not new, we were just—! we both did our own thing, and now we're together, heh! er, not together, i'm not—! not like there's anything wrong with that." he found his saving grace in his inside pocket, pulling out the small yellow sheet and unfolded it. "we're called the nice guys. it's funny, 'cause!" he cleared his throat. "we can do it the nice way or the... you get it. i thought it was cool. when i first heard it, i mean, i didn't make it up. just in case you didn't... think it was cool." and he finally held it out for you to inspect. "in which case, i can be swayed to think the same."

in his peripherals, he could spot holly visibly upset. he just hadn't had a lot of time recently on the playing field, that's all. he watched you carefully as you checked the paper front and back, then looked back up at him. "i like the graphic. you wanna trade?"

"trade? what do you mean, trade?" he stammered.

you pulled out your wallet and, from that, a business card. white, sleek, semi-matte, with your name and contact information. "i don't have a cool picture of myself on it, but since we're meeting," you offered, then held it out.

he took it with both hands and bowed in thanks. "great! contacts!" he then shook his head. get on track, holland, jesus. "um, again, sorry for bothering you. my daughter's very independent, and my partner and i have been struggling with a watkins case for a while now. she could be a detective someday, not like i recommend it," he said.

you held up a hand and replied, "it's no problem, really. i actually had a mrs. watkins reach out to me and i looked into it for a while, but i had to decline further investigation. i'm just too busy."

"ah, me too. everyone's dying in LA," he replied, leaving out the important fact that this was the first case he and healy have had in a while. they accounted it to a dry spell, or so they thought. "but um, how far did you get with your investigation?"

"i was talking to watkins' ex-wife."

holland paused. "he has an ex-wife?"

you smiled. his somewhat pathetic nature was unknown to him, but you still couldn't help it. there was a level of charm that his stammering held. "how about this: come inside for a drink, i'll tell you what i know, and i'll even throw in a little check-up 'cause those bruises aren't looking great."

holly's eyes lit up for her plan, albeit taking a turn or two, worked out. meanwhile, holland touched his eye unconsciously with his gauzed hand and looked down at his unbuttoned collar, the other bruises on full display. how badly did he look standing next to you? "that's... great. that'd be really great. i hope we wouldn't be disturbing your boyfriend or anything."

"i don't have a boyfriend."

a tiny, passable, desperate noise slipped out of his mouth, which he then stuffed with his gauzed knuckles until he bit down too hard and agitated the wounds; he pulled his hand out after. "that's... wow. me neither."

it took him a second for him to realize it, a second you willingly gave him. when he exclaimed, you just opened the door and said, "come in, detective march."

still recovering from his fumble, he walked in and his daughter followed. "you can call me holland, i don't mind." he turned around and began to walk backwards to keep his eyes on you. "but would you like me to keep formalities with you?"

"you can call me by my first name," you assured, and gently nudged him to turn back around. the brush of your hand made him squirm, but hopefully he hid it well (he didn't). "take a seat. make yourself at home."

your house was nice. extremely comfortable and stylish, but personal. he didn't have the time to look closely at any framed photos, but he spotted a few pictures of family and friends, vacations and award ceremonies. blankets were folded neatly across the couch, shoes were in line at the door, and was that an oil diffuser in the corner? "lovely place you got," he called out, tracing the edges of his gauze with his free hand.

you busied yourself going through your bathroom and office, collecting journals, notes, and your first aid kit that was under the sink. you replied, throwing your voice down the hall, "thank you! i paid it off a year ago." you balanced the items on top of each other, then walked back with the stack of items and placed them on the kitchen island. "want a drink?"

"oh—!" he raised his hand but soon pulled it back. did he really want to drink around you? one drink would turn to two, and then he'd be begging for you to drink his third with him. "i'll just have water," he corrected. he adjusted his hips and leaned back, his arm behind him, and zoned out watching you gather your things.

matter of fact, all he did was watch you. when you replaced his bandages, when you reported what you knew on the watkins. more so whenever you brushed your hair away from your face or laughed at a note you couldn't make out in your books. you were probably telling him really important stuff, but he decided quickly that since holly would remember everything, why bother paying attention? they were on a first-name basis now, he didn't have to be overly professional.

in the midst of you rewrapping his gauze and explaining the last conversation watkins had with his ex-wife, holland blurted out, "so no boyfriend." you raised your brow at him.

"no boyfriend. not for a while," you replied. "the last one didn't like my work hours. said i was putting myself in danger. i think he just didn't like that i came back unharmed from the danger all the time. made it look like i had my shit together. how horrible."

"you really do," he breathed out and held back the urge to look you up and down. no biggie, he could just stare into your eyes. "you got a good job, comfortable life, great house."

"where do you live?"

"not too far from here. got a nice place myself. this is kind of my area. which is why i was so confused when my daughter here tried to trick me into thinking this was her friend's house for me to drop her off at. i know all of LA like the back of my head." he tapped his temple, but in doing so, unraveled the gauze yet to be secured. he panicked, little oh, oh no's leaving his lips, but you grabbed them calmly and rewrapped the losses.

"back of your head, huh? here i thought the saying was back of your hand," you teased. the tiny, little gears in holland's head clicked about, but you continued speaking. "well, mr. march, after i wrap this up, you can take my notes with you back to mrs. march and enjoy a lovely early dinner."

he jumped on the opportunity you gave him, spurting out, "oh, there's no mrs. march." you raised your brows again, this time in acknowledgement. "she died. house fire."

after a quick pause, you dutifully focused on the gauze. you really shouldn't have entertained the flirting, now, huh? you replied with a solemn tone you quickly mustered. "that's horrible, i'm so sorry."

but he shook his head. "no, no, no! it's alright! it was a long time ago. and truth be told, i think she would've taken me down with her if i was home when it happened." he looked up in thought. "both of us knew the relationship would only end if one of us died. we would've done anything to keep arguing with each other."

"huh." you took in this information as you finished securing the gauze. when it was done, you gave it a gentle pat and said, "well, at least you both made peace with it?"

"of course. if it was me that went down, i wouldn't have been too bitter, so i'm sure she was alright going down." a beat passed and he turned his head back to you with a sudden, sweetie-pie smile. "thank you for the check up."

he was a real character, wasn't he? "anytime." this reply caused many scenarios to flash through holland's mind: him appearing at your door, bloodied and bruised, saying in a deep, gravelling voice that he had nowhere else to go. you taking care of him in the bathroom. a steamy make out session in the tub. but he blinked and was back in reality.

"so, if i have any questions or if i can't make out a word or two in your notes?"

"you can call me."

"i'd be happy to come over—i mean, call you," he corrected. you stood up and packed the books and printed packets into a box for him, then escorted him to the front door where you said your goodbyes, not like holland wanted to leave. he had the thought of pretending to faint so you had to take care of him more, maybe bring him to a bedroom, but holly was too excited about the new information.

"been great meeting you. uh, parting gift!" he looked to his daughter and whispered, "the cookies, holly."

she clutched them to her chest. "but they were just a decoy. i was gonna bring them to maxine's tomorrow."

"yeah, you should've thought about that before bringing us to this lovely woman who really helped us out, now give her the cookies."

it wasn't like you couldn't hear, but it felt like familial matters that you shouldn't be intruding on. holly sighed and held out the bag, which you took with a sincere thanks and an additional vague apology, to which holland just waved his hand in dismissal. "you did more than enough," he told you.

you took one final look at him. he wasn't all that bad looking. the mustache, the suit, the slicked back hair that had easily fallen down in the past hour you've been together. again, the messy, pathetic nature of it all was a little endearing. he definitely noticed you looking too, because he gave you some eyes of his own, looking you up and down and smiling with a little more flirt. "get home safe," you said.

The stench of the alley — rot, piss, and the thick, cloying copper of fresh blood — clung to the humid night air. A wet, rattling groan rose from the cobblestones, followed by the sound of someone choking on their own teeth.

Your back was pressed against the cold, weeping brick. The rough surface snagged the silk of your torn dress, a ruined scrap of finery that mirrored the jagged remains of your dignity. The chill of the stone didn't compare to the ice crystallizing in your veins.

In front of you, the wreckage lay strewn. One of them, the dark-haired lordling whose charming smirk had curdled into a rictus of agony, was trying to push himself up with a shattered arm, whimpering like a kicked dog. The other was little more than a silhouette in a spreading pool of black, his face an unrecognizable ruin of bone and gristle.

And in the center of the carnage stood Ser Duncan the Tall.

He was heaving, his massive chest rising and falling like a forge bellows. Blood was splattered across his features. A dark, crimson mask that dripped from the hard line of his jaw. He hadn't even drawn his sword. He had done this with his bare hands.

"Look at them," he rasped. His voice, usually a steady mixture of gravel and honey, was now a broken blade. He took a heavy step toward you, his shadow swallowing you whole in the flickering torchlight from the street beyond. He gestured sharply with a gore-stained hand at the filth on the ground. "Look at them. Go on. Look close."

You flinched as he loomed nearer, the damp silk of your gown clinging to your thighs like a shroud.

"See what they are," he growled, the words torn from a throat tight with fury. "See what they meant to do to you. Or are you still pretending they were just being charming?"

Your breath hitched. A small, pathetic sound that tasted like bile. You wanted to scream, to strike him, to rail against a world that had sent this brute to save you, but all that escaped was a strangled sob.

"I said look!" he roared. The sound cracked through the alley like a whip. His hand shot out, not to strike, but to clamp around your upper arm like a smith’s vise. He jerked you forward, forcing your eyes down toward the dying lordling, who was now bubbling blood through his lips.

"Look what they tried! Filth. Dregs. And you? you were going to let them?" His eyes flashed with a terrifying, righteous heat. "I heard you through the walls. Heard you telling them to stop. Heard you begging."

His lip curled in a snarl of pure disgust toward the men at his feet. "And they laughed."

His face was inches from yours now. You could feel the radiant heat of his body, smell the iron and the sweat. His blue eyes were blazing; no trace of their usual, slow-witted warmth remained. They were hard and unforgiving.

Something in you snapped. The terror and the bone-deep humiliation coalesced into a white-hot spike of vitriol, and you aimed it directly at the man holding you.

"I despise you," you spat, the words tearing from your throat like raw meat. You wrenched at his  arm, but it was like trying to break a mountain. "I loathe the very ground you trudge upon, you lumbering, witless oaf! This is your doing! Your failure!"

"My failure?" he snarled, though a flicker of a wound showed in his eyes. "You think I enjoy trailing you like a kennel dog while you wander into every rat-hole in this cursed city?"

You were beyond reason now. You wanted to see him bleed. 

"Yes! You and your pathetic, flea-bottom honor! You're nothing but a lowborn bastard, aren't you? A stray they took in out of pity! They gave you a sword and a title and you think it makes you a man? It doesn't! You're still just gutter-trash who got lucky!"

You were heaving for air, tears of rage stinging your eyes. You hated the smell of him, the size of him, and most of all, the sickening shame that he was the one who had seen you like this. Broken. Handled. Helpless.

"And your precious knightly honor," you continued, your voice dropping to a venomous, trembling whisper. "I’d piss on it if I could. I’d piss on your shield, on your sword, and on the memory of the dead man who gave you a name! You’re a joke, Duncan. A Great Lout in rusty armor, and I’d sooner be dead than owe my breath to a hedge-knight with delusions of grandeur!"

Every syllable was a poisoned dart. You didn't mean them, not truly, but the parasite of your pride demanded he suffer for the indignity of your rescue.

"Do you know what’s truly humiliating?" you hissed, your lip curling. "Knowing that you were the one who saw me. Gods, Duncan, I would rather those pigs had finished the job than be dragged out of it by you."

He didn't flinch. He didn't roar back. The fire in his eyes simply went out, leaving behind something vast, dark, and hollow. He let go of your arm slowly, and the sudden loss of his grip made you sway. He stood there, a blood-matted statue, accepting your blows with a stoic, unyielding silence that made you want to shriek.

"If that's what you need to believe," he said, his voice flat and empty. "Go on then. Say it again. If it makes you feel better."

He looked at the bodies, then back at your tear-streaked face. Something in him seemed to finally break. "Alright."

"That’s all?" you shrieked, lunging forward to shove at his chest with both hands. He didn't even budge. "That’s all you have to say? Alright?"

He caught your wrists in one massive, blood-slicked hand. "What else is there?" His blue eyes held yours with a terrifying honesty. "You're safe. That's all that matters."

"Safe?" You let out a bitter, ugly laugh. "I’ll never be safe! Not because of them, but because of you! Because I’m now some poor, pathetic creature who had to be fetched from the dirt by Ser Duncan the Tall!"

"You are not pathetic," he growled, a spark of the old fire returning. "You are the strongest woman I have ever known. And the most foolish."

"I am not-"

"Yes," he cut you off, his grip tightening. "You are. You walk through this city like the monsters are all tucked away in songs. Well, they're not. They're right here. They wear silk doublets and use pretty words and they want to fuck you into the dirt until you're broken."

The crude, brutal truth hit you harder than any fist. A single tear escaped, carving a path through the grime on your cheek.

"Don't you cry," he commanded, his thumb coming up to roughly brush the tear away. "Don't you dare give them the satisfaction. And don't you dare give me the satisfaction of thinking you need me."

"I don't," you whispered, but the lie tasted like ash.

"Then prove it," he murmured, his face impossibly close.

With a raw cry that was half-sob, half-scream, you ripped your wrists free and swung. Your closed fist, heavy with gold rings, connected with his jaw. It was a dull, wet thud. Your knuckles screamed in protest.

He didn't flinch. He just took it. He turned his head slowly back to you, his gaze dropping to the stones. He was standing there like a whipped dog, absorbing your shame into his own body.

You struck him again, this time with an open-handed slap that echoed through the alley. Then your hands became claws, raking at the worn leather of his doublet, trying to tear the fabric, to get at the flesh. You wanted to mark him. To brand him with your ruin.

"I wish you were dead!" you choked out. "Do you hear me? I wish you'd lain down in a ditch and died, you worthless, honor-bound bastard!"

You were sobbing in earnest now, your vision blurred, your blows growing weaker as you beat your fists against the solid wall of him.

"You ruin everything," you gasped, your forehead dropping against his chest. "My life... my peace... I hate you for it. Gods, how I hate you."

But the fight was draining away, leaving only a hollow, aching void. You were surrounded by him. Leather, sweat, blood, and the intoxicating, maddening scent of the man himself. He wasn't supposed to be this. He was supposed to be a tool. A shield. Not this infuriating, stubborn man who had just beaten two lords to a pulp and was now standing here, letting you break yourself against him.

Slowly, his massive hands covered yours, stilling their frantic motion. He didn't push you away. He just held your hands there, a gentle, imprisoning warmth.

"I know," he said softly. "I know you hate me, m’lady."

And then he did the one thing you were not prepared for. He pulled you. Not with force, but with an inexorable tenderness that was more devastating than any violence. He pulled you flush against him, your face buried in the crook of his neck, against the blood-stiffened leather. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head.

It was an embrace meant to shield you from the world. It shattered you completely.

A full-body tremor wracked you. The sobs you had been fighting broke free, fueled by a bone-deep grief you couldn't name. You hated him for being the one to hold you while you fell apart. 

Your hands, which had been trying to claw him, now clutched at his doublet, bunching the leather in your fists as if he were the only thing keeping the world from swallowing you.

"I've got you," he murmured against your hair. "I've got you, m’lady. Just breathe. That's it. Just breathe."

You could feel the steady, tectonic beat of his heart against your cheek, a rhythm that anchored you in an alley that smelled of death. And just like that, you didn't know how long you stood there, a weeping mess in the arms of the man you swore you despised.

The journey back to your family's townhouse was a blur of shadowed streets and a silent, strained companionship. Duncan had wrapped his cloak around you. The heavy wool smelled of him and the copper stench of the alley, a constant and suffocating reminder. He supported you with a steady arm around your waist while you stumbled along, your mind almost entirely numb.

The guards at the gate stared at you with wide eyes. They saw their master's daughter, disheveled and blood-splattered, being half-carried by a sworn shield whose own face was a mess of swelling flesh.

Inside, the familiar scent of beeswax and herbs did nothing to calm your tremors. A serving woman gasped and reached for her mouth, but a single cold look from Duncan sent her scurrying away. He guided you up the grand staircase and down the carpeted hallway until you reached the door of your chambers.

"Here," he said, his voice still rough. He let you lean against the door as he unlocked it.

You straightened your back and forced your spine to be steel. You pulled his cloak tighter around your ruined dress and looked at him in the warm lamplight. The blood on his face was a dark, crusty mask. The side of his jaw where you had struck him was already turning purple. He looked weary, yet when he met your gaze, his blue eyes were steady and clear.

"No one," you said, your voice thin but sharp as ice. "You will tell no one. Not my father, not the captain of the guard, not even a scullery maid. Do you understand me, Ser Duncan?"

His jaw worked and a muscle ticked in his cheek. For a moment, you thought he would just nod like a big, obedient dog. Instead, he took a half-step forward and crowded you into your own doorway. His sheer size blocked out the light.

"No," he said, the word clipped and hard. "No, I don't understand you. And it is time you started understanding me."

He wasn't yelling, but his voice was a low rumble of warning that vibrated through the floorboards. It was more terrifying than a shout.

"You walk into the bowels of this city dressed like you are going to a feast with no guard and no sense. What did you expect? Did you think the filth would bow and scrape? Did you think they would admire your spirit while they imagined what it was like to spread your legs?"

The crudeness of his words made you flinch, but he didn't let you speak.

"Do you have any idea what I saw? What I heard?" The gravel in his voice ground into shards of glass. "They were talking about passing you around. They talked about how tight you would be. One was going to hold you down while the other... by the gods, I should have killed them. I should have finished it."

You shrank back against the door. His rage was a physical thing. It felt like a suffocating blanket.

"And then I find you," he continued. He took another step until you could feel the heat radiating from him. "And you have the fucking gall to tell me you hate me. To spit on my honor. To wish I was dead."

He leaned in so close that his lips nearly brushed your ear when he spoke next.

"Let me be clear about something, my lady," he sneered the title, turning it into a direct insult. "I am sworn to your father. I am sworn to protect this house. But what happened tonight does not stay between us. Your father will hear of this. I will ride to meet him tomorrow and tell him everything. How you sneaked out. What you wore. Where you went. And exactly what almost happened because of your insufferable pride and your reckless stupidity."

Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through you. "You wouldn't dare," you breathed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you with a humorless, broken smile. "Watch me."

Your fear curdled into a venomous, frantic fury.

"You do that, you son of a whore," you whispered, your voice trembling with rage. "You tell my father. And do you know what will happen? He will have those two strung up. And then he will have you dismissed. Cast out. He will strip you of that title and send you back to whatever Flea Bottom gutter you crawled out of. You will be nothing. You will die nameless in a ditch, just like I wished."

You saw a flicker of something in his eyes. It wasn't fear. It was a deep, profound hurt that you had aimed at him with surgical precision. It was almost satisfying.

"You will do no such thing," he said, his voice dropping back to that low, dangerous register. "Because if you even think of threatening me again, of holding my station over my head like something to be snatched away, I won't just tell your father about the alley. I will tell him everything."

The unspoken threat hung in the air between you. His meaning was terrifyingly clear. Everything.

"Get out," you commanded, your voice shaking. "Get out of my sight."

"As you wish, my lady," he said. The title felt like a final, bitter insult. He turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing on the stone flags until they faded down the hall.

The dining hall was a cavern of oppressive wood and flickering candlelight that seemed to dim with every passing second. You sat at the long table, a porcelain mask of composure plastered on your face, though underneath, the skin felt like it was ready to peel away. You pushed the food around your plate, watching the grease congeal on the meat, feeling a deep, oily revulsion rise in your throat.

For three days, you had seen neither hide nor hair of Ser Duncan. Three days of suffocating silence. Three days of watching the servants scurry past you with their heads bowed, their eyes darting away as if you were a ghost haunting your own halls. 

His seat at the high table was a gaping wound in the room, an empty space that screamed louder than any conversation. You had told yourself you were glad. You had lied to your own reflection, claiming you were finally free of his heavy, judgmental shadow. But the lie was rotting.

The laughter from the far end of the table sounded brittle, like breaking glass. You caught snippets of hushed, hurried whispers from the servants near the walls; words like courtyard and blood and justice. A knot of dread, cold and jagged, began to tighten in the pit of your stomach, winding itself around your ribs until it was hard to draw a full breath.

You turned to the young page refilling your wine. You tried to keep your voice casual, but it came out paper-thin. "Ser Duncan," you said, your eyes fixed on the dark liquid swirling in your glass. "Where is he? His absence has become... tedious."

The boy flinched so violently the silver pitcher clattered against your cup, sloshing wine across the white cloth like a fresh bloodstain. His face went the color of curdled milk.

"M-my lady," he stammered, his voice cracking. "I... I was told... I cannot say."

The dread in your gut solidified into a block of ice. It wasn't just worry; it was the realization that a wall had been built around you. You reached out and gripped the boy’s wrist, your nails digging into the soft flesh of his arm until he winced.

"Who told you that? Why are you looking at me like this?" Your voice rose, losing its edge of refinement. "You will tell me what you know. Now. Or I will have you whipped for your insolence."

The boy began to shake, tears welling in his wide, terrified eyes as he looked around the room for an escape. "Please, my lady... the captain... he said the family wasn't to be disturbed. He said it was handled."

"Handled?" The word tasted like bile. You jerked him closer, your knuckles white. "What was handled? Speak, you little coward!"

"It’s Ser Duncan, my lady," he whispered, a sob breaking through. "He's... they say he's gone. The captain's men... they took him to the courtyard three nights ago. They said he insulted the house. They said he had to be taught."

The world tilted on its axis. The candlelight blurred into long, stinging streaks of yellow. "Gone? What do you mean, gone? Where did they take him?"

"He’s in the barracks room, my lady. But they say... they say the maester stopped coming because there was nothing left to do. They say he wasn't breathing when they carried him in. They beat him for hours, my lady. I heard it. Everyone heard it.”

The revelation hit you like a physical blow to the chest. Everyone heard it but you. They had kept it from you. They had let you sit here for three days, eating and drinking, while he was broken in the dirt just yards away. And the worst part, the part that made the room spin, was that they had done it because of you. Your words. Your "I wish you were dead."

You let go of the boy as if his skin had turned to fire. A jagged, strangled sound escaped your throat. Your chair scraped backward with a screech that silenced the entire hall, the wood groaning against the stone. You didn't run; you tore through the room like a gale. You bunched your heavy skirts in your fists, your feet thundering down the corridors, your heart a frantic, wild bird battering itself to death against your ribs.

I told him to die. I told him I wished he was never born. The words played on a loop, a sickening rhythm to your footsteps.

You reached the barracks, your breath coming in scorched gasps. The heavy oak door to the small room where the guards were kept was blocked by two of the captain’s men. They were giants in leather and steel, their faces set in grim, unmoving lines.

"Move," you snarled, lunging at them. You fisted your hands in their jerkins, trying to yank them aside. "Get out of my way! Let me in!"

The guards didn't budge. "Apologies, my lady," one said, his voice flat and robotic. "The captain’s orders are absolute. No one enters. It's for your own protection. The sight... it isn't for a lady."

"A lady?" you shrieked, the sound raw and ugly, stripped of all grace. "You useless, pathetic dogs! I will have your eyes for this! I will have you flayed and fed to the hounds piece by piece! I’ll make sure you’re screaming for a week before you die! Get away from that door!"

You were a creature of undiluted madness. You clawed at their faces, your nails raking across skin until you felt the wet warmth of blood. You kicked at their shins and beat your fists against their chest-pieces, the metal bruising your hands, but you didn't care. The pain was the only thing that felt real.

The guilt was a living parasite in your stomach, curling and biting, surging up your throat. I killed him. My pride killed him.

"Move! Let me see him! Move!" you screamed, your vision swimming in a red haze of tears and fury.

"Enough!"

The command was a thunderclap. Your father was striding down the hall, his face a mask of cold, aristocratic fury. He looked at you — wild-eyed, blood on your fingernails, your hair coming undone and for the first time in your life, you saw him look at you with genuine horror.

"What is this disgraceful display?" he boomed.

"Father!" You threw yourself toward him, grabbing the fine velvet of his doublet with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. You weren't a daughter of a noble house anymore; you were a terrified animal, shivering and broken. "Father, please... tell me they’re lying. Tell me he’s alive. Duncan... my Duncan. Is he alive? Please, Daddy, tell me he’s breathing. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean any of it!"

Your voice was a high, thin wail, the sound of someone who had walked off a cliff and was still waiting to hit the ground. You were sobbing so hard you could barely form the words, your body wracked by violent, rhythmic tremors.

"They said they beat him... they said he stopped breathing... why didn't you tell me? How could you let them do it?" You were hysterical, your grip tightening on his clothes as if you were trying to climb him. "I have to see him. I have to tell him... oh gods, I have to tell him I was lying! Please, let me in! Is he alive? Is he alive?"

The world began to dissolve. The stone walls, the flickering torches, your father's stern face… it all became a chaotic, swirling mess of grey and orange. The suffocating band around your chest tightened until you couldn't get a single spark of air.

The acid that had been burning in your throat finally won. You heaved violently, the contents of your stomach splashing onto the polished boots and steel greaves of the guard you had been fighting. He swore and jumped back, but you didn't even feel the shame.

The shock of the physical sickness was the final thread snapping. The roar in your ears became a dull, hollow hum. The light in the corridor flickered and died, turning to a deep, merciful black. You felt your knees turn to water, felt your father’s strong arms catch you as the floor rose up to meet you. And then, finally, everything went silent.

The world returned in jagged pieces. First there was the scratchy feel of wool against your cheek. Then the familiar scent of lavender and clean linen. You were in your own bed. There was a cool, damp cloth on your forehead and the murmur of voices nearby. One was deep and rumbling while the other sounded higher and more agitated.

"She fainted from the shock, my lord," the maester was saying. "She is distressed. It is understandable."

"Distressed? By the gods, man, she was a wild animal. She was threatening to have my guards flayed and vomiting on their boots. What is this madness that has taken my household? First Duncan gets into a drunken brawl so grievous he is nearly beaten to death by my own men, and now my daughter behaves like a madwoman."

The words "drunken brawl" cut through your returning consciousness like a shard of glass. He had lied. That stupid, honorable, magnificent fool had lied to protect you even after everything you said. He had taken the blame for the violence to keep your reputation clean.

 It made your stomach turn. The fact that he was still protecting you, even as a broken heap of meat, felt like a fresh insult to your pride.

"Your daughter is awake," the maester said carefully.

You forced your eyes open. Your father was standing by your bed with a face like a thundercloud. The worry in his eyes was poorly concealed by his anger. Beside him the maester watched you with concern, smelling of antiseptic herbs.

You sat bolt upright and ignored the way the room began to spin. "Is he alive?" you croaked. Your throat felt raw and scorched. "Is Duncan alive?"

Your father's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "The maester says yes. The fools broke three of his ribs and split his spleen. They did their best to turn his face to pulp. But he is a stubborn bastard, that one. He will live."

A breath you didn't know you were holding escaped your lips in a ragged sob. Relief, pure and overwhelming, crashed over you so potent that it left you trembling. He was alive. Duncan was alive.

But the relief was immediately followed by a wave of sick, hot shame. You hated that you cared. You hated that the mere thought of his heart stopping had brought you to your knees like a servant. The memory of your cruel words and your fists striking his face played over and over in your mind. You remembered the contempt in your voice. You still felt that contempt, but now it was directed inward. He had taken a beating that could have killed him to protect you after you had spat on his honor. His goodness was a cage. His sacrifice was a chain he had wrapped around your neck.

The days that followed were a blur of tears and visceral self-loathing. You locked yourself in your chambers and refused to eat. You ignored the concerned whispers of your handmaidens. You were a walking contradiction. You didn't want him dead, but you hated him for being alive. You hated that you were bound to him by this terrible, bloody debt.

You replayed that night in the alley constantly. You remembered the way he had held you and the solid, reassuring beat of his heart against your cheek. You remembered the scent of him: leather, sweat, and copper. It disgusted you how clearly you could still feel his hands on your skin. All the desire you had suppressed and all the want you had tried to drown in disdain came flooding back like a tidal wave. You wanted him. You wanted to reach out and touch the very bruises you had caused. The thought was a physical, grinding pain. You felt like a traitor to your own blood.

On the fifth day you could bear the isolation no longer. From your balcony you watched him like a hawk. He was leaning heavily against a wooden post in the practice yard and attempting to straighten up. Even from a distance you could see the way he moved with a stiffness that was not his own. There was a carefulness in every motion that spoke of deep, aching pain.

You loathed yourself for watching. You were obsessed with the ruin of him. You cataloged every wince and every slow, agonizing breath he took. Duncan was not even armed. He was just trying to stand. He was trying to be a man again. You wanted to scream at him for being so weak, and in the same breath, you wanted to run down there and sink your fingers into his shoulders just to feel his heat.

You ducked back behind the heavy curtains with your heart pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird. You watched from the shadows as he pushed himself away from the post with a face full of determination. He took a single, shuffling step and then another. His knuckles were white where he gripped the wood for support. You could see the mottled purple and yellow bruises that still colored his jaw. You felt a sick thrill of horror and attraction at the sight of his brokenness. He was alive. He was walking. And you, watching from your tower, felt like a cowardly, predatory creature.

The inevitable meeting came a week later. You were walking through the gardens because you needed the air. You needed something that was not the stifling confines of your own head. The afternoon sun was warm and the scent of roses was heavy. Then you saw him coming down the gravel path toward you.

He was walking without a limp now, though he moved with a deliberate slowness. He was freshly shaved and his dark hair was clean, but the remnants of the beating were still there like a shadow on his features. The bruising had faded to a sickly yellow-green around his jaw and high cheekbone. A thin, pink scar ran through his left eyebrow.

Your breath hitched and your feet felt rooted to the spot. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to run, but the obsession held you there. You wanted to see him up close. You wanted to see what the guards had done to the man who thought he was your shield.

As he drew nearer you saw the full extent of the damage. The bridge of his nose was slightly swollen and a faint purple still clung to the skin beneath one eye. He looked like a man who had been put through a wringer. But his blue eyes were the same. They were clear and steady. As they met yours they held no trace of anger or resentment. There was only a deep, weary quiet.

His lack of anger was the worst part. If he had hated you, you could have handled it. But his kindness was a knife.

He stopped a few feet before you. In a movement that sent a dagger of agony through your heart, he executed a perfect and respectful bow. It was fluid and formal. It was the gesture of a knight to his lady. The slight wince as he straightened was almost imperceptible, but you saw it. You saw the way his ribs must have burned under his shirt.

"M’lady," he said. His voice was the same warm gravel and honey, though it was a little rougher now and frayed at the edges.

You could not speak. Your throat was a knot of unshed tears and unspoken apologies that you refused to give. You wanted to throw yourself at his feet and you wanted to slap his face again just to see if he would finally break. You were drowning in the immensity of your own shame and the terrifying, unwanted pull you felt toward him. All you could do was give a short, jerky nod of your head. It was a pathetic, inadequate response.

"Ser Duncan," you managed. Your own voice was a thin, reedy thing. You held your chin high, clinging to your pride like a shield, even as it crumbled into ash.

He seemed to take your stiffness as a sign that he should move on. He gave another slight bow and prepared to step aside to let you pass. The silence between you was a living thing, heavy and suffocating. You hated him for his silence. You hated him for his loyalty. But most of all, you hated that as he stepped past you, all you wanted to do was reach out and grab his hand.

A dam broke inside you, but you kept the flood behind your teeth. Every ounce of your being screamed at you to collapse right there on the gravel. You wanted to fall at his feet and press your face against his boots. You wanted to sob until the shame was washed away and beg him to hold you with the same iron grip he used in the alley.

But you stood your ground. You forced your hands to remain still at your sides even as your nails bit into your palms. 

You swore to yourself in that moment that he would never know the truth. He would never see the jagged, obsessive shape of what was in your heart. You would let him believe you were still the cold, untouchable lady who despised him. It was the only way to survive the sight of him. 

You watched him walk away, hating the way your eyes lingered on the breadth of his shoulders, and hating the fact that you were already counting the seconds until you could see him again.

For a week, you were the perfect daughter, the perfect lady. You attended dinners, made polite conversation, oversaw the household. But beneath the surface, you were a seething, miserable wreck. You hated him again. You hated his stoic silence, hated the careful way he walked, hated the easy way he spoke with the other men of the guard. You hated that he never looked at you with anything but distant, professional courtesy. It was a mask of hatred you wore to cover the gaping wound of your guilt, and it was exhausting.

At night, you became a ghost in your own home. You would slip from your rooms, a hooded shadow, and follow him. You watched him train in the yard, the controlled power in his movements a fascinating, painful dance. You watched him sit by the fire in the barracks, cleaning his sword with meticulous care, sharing a laugh with a fellow guardsman. 

Once, you saw him in the kitchen late at night, getting a piece of bread from the cook, and he gave her one of his rare, genuine smiles, a smile that reached his blue eyes and made something deep inside you twist with a longing so intense it was almost a sickness. After each of these forays, you would return to your room, disgusted with yourself, sick with want and shame. 

This became your new, wretched habit: a performance of disdain by day, a pilgrimage of penance by night.

A new routine emerged, one you both loathed and craved. With your father away on business, you required an escort for your rare trips into the city, and who else but your sworn shield? 

The market was a riot of color and sound on a beautiful morning, the sun warm on your face. You walked a few paces behind Duncan, as was proper, but your attention was entirely on him. You hadn't thanked him. You hadn't spoken of the alley, or the beating, or any of it. The silence between you was a heavy thing, full of everything you couldn't say.

And then you saw it. At a stall selling silks and spices, he had stopped. 

Not to check the perimeter, not to scan for threats, but to talk. To the merchant woman. She was pretty, with a wide, laughing mouth and expressive eyes, and she was leaning over her counter, her breasts practically spilling out of her bodice, smiling up at him. And he was smiling back. Not just a polite smile, but a real, Duncan smile, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was leaning in, listening to her with an expression of rapt attention, saying something that made her throw her head back and laugh.

A hot, sharp pang of something nasty and possessive lanced through you. You saw the way her eyes roamed over the breadth of his shoulders, the way she touched his arm as she gestured. And you saw the way he didn't pull away. 

Heat flooded your face, your hands clenching into fists in the folds of your skirts. He was smiling at her. Flirting with her. In front of you.

The world narrowed to the sight of her fingers on his arm, the sound of her laughter. Something primal roared to life inside you. Without a conscious thought, you were moving, pushing through the crowd. 

Your hand shot out, your fingers wrapping around his bicep, digging in hard. The muscle beneath your grip was like solid rock.

"We're leaving," you bit out, your voice low and venomous. You didn't look at the merchant woman, didn't grant her the courtesy of a glance. You just pulled, using all your weight, trying to drag your giant of a knight away.

Duncan stumbled, surprise registering on his face as he turned from the woman.

 "My lady? What is it? We just arrived."

"Did you not hear me?" you snarled, your grip tightening. "I said. We. Are. Leaving." You started walking, pulling him with you.

He followed, his long legs easily keeping pace, but you could feel the tension in him. He didn't speak until you'd dragged him into a relatively quiet side street, the sounds of the market muffled by the high brick walls.

"What in the seven hells was that about?" he asked, his voice now edged with frustration. He gently but firmly pried your fingers from his arm. "You were tearing the skin off me."

You spun on him, your eyes flashing, the hot, irrational anger coursing through your veins. 

"What was that about? What was that about? Have you no shame? You were practically fucking her with your eyes in the middle of the market!"

Duncan blinked, a genuinely bewildered expression on his face. "Fucking... what? I was buying spices. For your kitchen. That was Lora, she's been selling there for years."

"Don't you dare lie to me," you shrieked, your voice echoing in the narrow alley. A few passersby gave you curious looks, which only fueled your humiliation and rage. "I saw the way she was looking at you. And you! Smiling at her, like some half-wit pup who's just seen a tit for the first time! Did you think I wouldn't notice? Did you think I'm blind?"

"Notice what?" he asked, his confusion giving way to a dawning comprehension, and with it, a dangerous stillness. He took a step back, putting a sliver of space between you. "My lady, you are mistaken."

"Oh, I'm mistaken, am I?" you laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "You stand there, letting that common whore paw at you, and I'm the one who's mistaken? Did you enjoy it, Duncan? Did you enjoy humiliating me like that? After everything...I see what it is now. You're just like them. You're just a dog who'll fuck any bitch in heat, aren't you?"

The words were out before you could stop them, a torrent of poison born from jealousy, insecurity, and the suffocating weight of unspoken feelings. You watched as the color drained from Duncan's face, as the last vestiges of warmth left his blue eyes, replaced by a cold, hard light you'd never seen before.

"You will watch your tongue," he said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal register that was far more terrifying than any shout. "You will not speak of me or what I am in such a way."

"Or what?" you taunted, pushing, needing to see him break. “You'll growl? You'll bare your teeth?" You stepped closer, invading his space, your head tilted back to meet his gaze. "You have needs, don't you? All that muscle, all that... presence. A man like you must get hard just from the wind blowing. Do you think about it? About spreading some tavern wench's legs and just... fucking? Do you imagine them on their knees for you, their mouths wet and willing?"

He flinched, a subtle tensing of his jaw, but you were on a roll, a self-destructive spiral of humiliation and arousal. Your own words were making your body heat, a flush rising on your chest.

"Answer me, Duncan," you demanded, your voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Or does the great, honorable Ser Duncan the Tall not have such base desires? Do you just lie in your cot at night, your cock heavy and aching, and think about... duty? Do you fist it, imagining some faceless woman, or do you just suffer in silence like the martyr you are?"

You could see a vein pulsing in his temple, the way his hands had curled into fists at his sides. He was fighting it, fighting you, fighting the truth.

"Stop," he gritted out, the word ground from between clenched teeth. "Just stop."

"Why?" you pushed, leaning even closer until your breasts were almost brushing against the hard plane of his chest. You could feel the heat radiating from him. "Does the truth embarrass you? Or does it excite you? Does my talking about your cock, about you fucking, make you hard right now, here in this dirty alley?"

You reached out then, a calculated, reckless risk, and let your fingertips brush against the front of his breeches, right over the swell of his cock.

He sucked in a sharp breath, a hiss of pure, unadulterated shock.

"Answer me," you whispered, your own breath coming in shallow gasps. The game had turned deadly serious. The arousal and jealousy were a maelstrom inside you, a dizzying, destructive cocktail. "Tell me you don't want it. Tell me you don't think about bending some woman over and burying yourself inside her until she screams."

His hands shot out, not to strike you, but to slam against the brick wall on either side of your head, caging you in. His face was a mask of tortured conflict, the scars on it stark in the dim light. He was breathing heavily, the exhalations hot against your cheek.

"Yes," he finally ground out, the word a raw confession torn from his throat. "Gods help me, yes. I have needs. I'm a man, not a fucking statue. I think about it. I think about it all the fucking time."

The admission hit you like a physical blow, and a wave of something hot and electric shot through you. It was exactly what you wanted to hear, and exactly what you couldn't bear to hear.

"I think about it in the dead of night when I'm in my cot," he continued, his voice low, rough, each word a stone laid in the foundation of your shared damnation. "I think about it when I'm training, when I'm eating, when I'm supposed to be watching the gates. I think about wet heat and tight skin and the sounds a woman makes when she's lost to it."

His blue eyes bored into yours. There was no escape from the raw, naked hunger you saw there. "And yes, sometimes I'm so hard it hurts. Sometimes I have to touch myself, right there in the dark, imagining a faceless woman who wants me just as much as I want her. Because that's what men do, my lady. We want. We ache. We burn."

You felt a dizzying rush of power and a simultaneous, crushing sense of exclusion. He had needs, desires, a whole world of carnality that had nothing to do with you. The thought was unbearable.

"And Lora at the market?" you pressed, your voice trembling with a venomous cocktail of jealousy and arousal. "Did you imagine her beneath you? Did you think about spreading those merchant's legs and fucking her until she forgot her own name?"

His jaw tightened. "No," he ground out, the single word a force of will. "I did not, m’lady."

"Liar," you hissed, but the accusation lacked conviction. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, to the raw honesty of it.

"I am not a liar," he said, his voice dropping even lower, until it was a vibration you felt in your bones. "I think about wet heat, yes. But it's not the market woman. It's not a tavern wench. And it's sure as seven hells not some faceless cunt I can forget by morning."

Your breath hitched. You were trapped, pinned against the wall by his body and his words. You could feel the heat of him, smell the leather and the sweat, the lingering scent of him that haunted your nights. "Then who?" you whispered, the question tearing from you, a desperate plea you couldn't contain.

A muscle in his cheek jumped.

His hands dropped from the wall. He took a deliberate step back, creating a sliver of space that felt like a chasm. The sudden loss of his proximity was a physical shock, a cold void where his heat had been.

"Stop this, my lady," he said, his voice devoid of the passion that had moments ago vibrated through you. "Just... stop." He turned away, running a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of utter exhaustion. "This game you play. It's cruel."

You felt the flush rise from your chest to your cheeks, a hot, prickling wave of shame and something dark and thrilling. He saw. He understood. He knew the malicious, self-hating nature of your taunts, the way you were trying to poke at a wound just to see it bleed. 

And the knowledge that he saw right through you only made the wet heat gathering between your thighs more pronounced, a slick, damning evidence of your own twisted desire. It was a self-mocking thing, your body's response to the thought of him with other women, a desire born of jealousy and a possessiveness you had no right to claim.

You lifted your chin, forcing a sneer onto your face. "A game? I don't play games, Ser Duncan. I speak the truth. And the truth is, I despise you. I despise your presence in my home, your constant, looming shadow, your... existence."

But even as the words left your lips, you knew they were hollow. From this moment, from this raw, painful confession in a dirty alley, you were lost. You were obsessed. The thought of him in his cot at night, fisting his cock, thinking of someone (not you, never you) was a brand on your soul. You would think of it constantly. You would torture yourself with it. Every woman you saw him speak to would become a rival in your mind. You would scrutinize his every smile, every glance, searching for evidence of this "wet heat" he desired.

"I see," he said, his voice weary, defeated. He gave you one last, long look, a look that held not anger, but a deep, profound sadness that was far more painful. "Then the feeling is mutual, my lady. I despise this... dance... we do. I despise the cruelty in your words and the sickness in my heart that still aches to please you. Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe we have both had enough of the market for one day."

He turned and walked away. He left you leaning against the cold brick with your body thrumming with unfulfilled need. You watched his broad shoulders and the powerful stride that was still marred by the ghost of a limp. He was a monument to your shame and your desire. You knew with a certainty that chilled you that you would never be free of him. You had sworn to yourself that he would never know the truth, but standing in that alley, you wanted to fall at his feet and beg him to never look at another woman again.

***

The carriage ride back to the townhouse was suffocating. The small, enclosed space was plush with velvet and silk, but it felt like a cage designed to crush the air from your lungs. You sat on one bench and he sat on the other. The space between you was a chasm of unspoken words and jagged tension. You did not look at him directly, but you watched him in your periphery. You tracked the way the passing light shifted across the hard planes of his face and the way his hands rested on his knees. They were big, capable, and terrifyingly still.

Those were the hands that had saved you. They were the hands that had beaten men into the dirt for your sake. And now, they were the hands he had admitted to using on himself in the dark of his cot. Your face burned with a cruel, hot shame at the thought. You pressed your thighs together to hide the slickness there, a damning and secret betrayal of your own body. The scent of him—leather, old wool, and the faint metallic tang of his armor—filled the small carriage until you felt like you were drowning in it.

Later, you sought refuge in the familiar chaos of the kitchens, but you found no peace there. The cooks moved with practiced grace. Their hands were a blur of motion as they were chopping, kneading, stirring, and plucking. But you were cursed. All you could see were hands. You saw hands in the dark fisting a hard cock. You saw hands spreading legs and touching wet heat. The rhythmic, steady slap of a knife against a cutting board sounded like the slap of skin against skin. The squelch of heavy dough being kneaded was a wet, carnal noise that made your stomach flip. 

You were surrounded by the ghosts of your own lust. There was no escape from the images your mind was conjuring out of the steam and the noise.

That night the silence of the house was a physical presence. It pressed in on you and amplified the chaos in your own mind. Your father was still away. 

That freedom should have been a relief, but instead it was an invitation to madness. A reckless and self-destructive impulse took root and bloomed in the dark. You needed to see him break. You needed to push him past his legendary control and see that raw, untamed hunger he had confessed to in the alley. You wanted that hunger aimed at you and only at you. You wanted to punish him for wanting someone else, and you wanted to punish yourself for wanting a man you were supposed to despise.

You shed your nightgown and pulled on a slip of silk the color of moonlight. It was a scandalous thing meant to be hidden under heavy skirts, not worn alone. It clung to every curve of your body. The thin fabric did nothing to hide the dark points of your nipples or the shadow between your legs. You left your feet bare. The cool flagstones were a shock against your soles as you slipped from your chambers like a thief.

You told yourself you were going to the river to see the moon on the water, but that was a lie. You knew with a sick certainty that you were walking toward him. You padded silently down the grand staircase and through the empty, echoing halls. You were a ghost of silk and pale skin. You were a target moving through the darkness.

You were halfway across the main courtyard when a shadow detached itself from the wall near the barracks. The cool night air raised goosebumps on your arms, making the silk of your shift chafe against your skin. He moved with an economy of motion that was both fluid and utterly silent. He was a wraith in steel and leather.

"And where do you think you are going?"

His voice was a low rumble in the night. It cut through your reckless spell like a blade. He stood between you and the gate, a wall of muscle and absolute disapproval. The moonlight glinted off the silver pauldrons on his shoulders and caught the hard line of his mouth.

"For a walk," you said. Your voice was a deliberate challenge. It was a silken thread of provocation designed to snag on his nerves. You stopped but you did not retreat. 

You stood your ground in the center of the courtyard, letting the moonlight turn your shift into a beacon of pale skin in the darkness. You wanted him to look. You wanted him to see exactly what he was missing in the dark of his cot.

He took a step forward, his heavy boots making no sound on the flagstones. His gaze swept over you, from the top of your head to your bare toes, and the scrutiny was a stroke of fire that made your skin tighten. He didn't linger, didn't leer, but he saw everything. He saw the scandalous nature of your attire. He saw the deliberate provocation.

"A walk," he repeated, the words flat. "Dressed like that. Barefoot. To the river, I presume?"

"You presume correctly, Ser Duncan," you retorted, lifting your chin. "Is there an order against it? Am I your prisoner in my own home?"

"You are my charge," he countered, taking another step. He was close now, close enough that you could see the faint scars around his eyes, the way the moonlight made the bruises still lingering on his face appear purple and ghostly.

"Mad," he breathed, the word a curse. "You are utterly, completely mad. You walk through this house, this city, with your head so far up your own arse you can't see the danger you're inviting. You think this is a game?You think this," he gestured with a disgusted flick of his wrist at your near-naked form, "is some clever trick to make me notice you? I fucking see you. I see you every godsdamned moment of every godsdamned day. I see you when I'm awake and I see you in my nightmares. You are the most infuriating, reckless, selfish little fool I have ever had the misfortune to be sworn to protect."

His words were a torrent of ice and fire, and you felt yourself flush with a combination of shame and anger.

"You're a bastard," you spat back, emboldened by the break in his composure. "A flea-bottom lowborn with no right to speak to me like this. You're nothing but a hired sword, a dog my father keeps on a leash!"

He didn't roar. He didn't rage. He just moved. One of those massive hands of his shot out to close around your throat. It wasn't a killing grip, but it was absolute.

The air stopped. The pressure was a hot band, a point of terrifying control that made your blood sing a frantic song. Your hands flew up, clawing at his wrist, your nails scrabbling uselessly against the scarred leather of his vambrace. It was like trying to tear down a fortress with your bare hands.

“Stop, you fucking—”

"No more," he growled. The words rattled against your palm. "I have tried. Gods know I have fucking tried to be the good knight. The loyal dog. I have taken your insults. I have taken your disgust. I have taken a beating that cracked my ribs for the sake of your pride. And what for? For this? For you to parade your naked skin in the moonlight like a common whore and dare me to look?"

He looked stone cold, but his blue eyes were burning coals. 

You stilled. He didn’t pull you in right away. Didn’t need to. He just stood there, close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the quiet, controlled weight of his presence pressing into the space between you. 

Your eyes flickered to his mouth and away again, too quick, like it hadn’t happened, but it had, and he saw it. Of course he did. 

Your chest rose, slow, uneven, betraying you inch by inch, and for a second — just a second — you thought he might stop. Let you go. Let this dissolve back into something you could pretend you understood.

 But he didn’t move. And neither did you.

And then, he finally leaned in. His hot mouth crashed down on yours. There was no gentleness. He bit your lower lip, a sharp, coppery sting of blood, and then his tongue was forcing its way inside your mouth. He was hot, possessive and tasted of rage and something darker, something desperate. You fought him, your body bucking, your muffled screams swallowed and tasted by him.

You hated him. You hated how your body responded. You hated how your core clenched in a slick, molten wave of surrender that soaked the silk of your shift.

He felt you fighting. He felt the weak, frantic thrash of your limbs, and it only fueled his fire. With a raw groan of resentment, he lifted you. He just straightened his massive arm and hauled you off the flagstones. Your feet dangled, kicking uselessly in the night air. 

The shift rode up your thighs. You were suspended, completely at his mercy, held only by the grip on your throat and the savage pressure of his mouth. The world swam in a dizzying rush of moonlight and adrenaline.

When he finally pulled back, you were gasping. A thin, pathetic wheeze sucked past the constriction of his fingers. A string of spittle and blood connected your lips. You saw your own hate reflected in the raw, burning depths of his eyes.

"There," he snarled. “That is better. That is more honest." He shook you slightly, making you feel like a puppet on a string. "This is what you wanted, isn't it, you little slut? To be treated like the whore you pretend to be?"

"You... bastard. Put me down right now!” Your words were a choked, wet whisper. Your hands scrabbled at his wrist, but your nails did nothing against the leather.

"Say it again," he commanded. His thumb began to stroke the delicate skin over your pulse point. The casual, possessive gesture was more terrifying than the pressure itself. "Call me a bastard again. Spit your hate at me. See where it gets you."

"Fuck-hating..." you gasped. The words were torn from your throat. "Lowborn... gutter... bastard..." You hated him, and you hated the way your cunt clenched — aching, empty, and slick with a desire that felt like a betrayal of your blood.

His grip on your throat tightened in a clear, unmistakable warning. "Careful, my lady," he breathed, the title a venomous insult. "You keep talking like that, and I might start to believe you want me to do something about it."

But then you did the unthinkable. You surged up against the constricting pressure, a frantic, desperate movement, and slammed your mouth against his again. You poured all your self-loathing and want into it. You bit at his lips, tasting your own blood mingling with the raw, masculine taste of him. 

You were kissing him with all the hate you possessed, which was exactly the same as kissing him with all the love you refused to admit.

He stumbled back, caught off guard by the ferocity of your mouth. The momentum carried you both in a staggering, graceless dance of violence and lust until your back slammed hard against the heavy oak door of the barracks. The wood groaned. The impact knocked the air from your lungs…

Duncan’s other hand came up to slam flat against the door beside your head, caging you. His body was a wall of heat and hard muscle, pinning you, suffocating you. He finally broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to see the naked truth in your eyes.

He saw the want. He saw the desperate, pleading need behind the mask of your aristocratic pride. He saw that this was not a game anymore. And he saw the tears gathering in your eyes. You were broken, and you were begging him to break the pieces that were left.

"Shh, shh," he soothed. The sound was a dark mockery of comfort. His thumb continued to stroke the pulse in your neck, a slow touch that made you want to scream. "Don’t cry, m’lady. Not yet. We’re not done. I haven't even begun to punish you for the filth you spit."

"Let me go," you choked out, the command a pathetic whimper. You bucked against him, but he was an unmovable force. The fight in you was a dying ember, and all that was left was the exhilarating horror of surrender.

He reached down with his free hand and hoisted you onto his shoulder as easily as if you weighed nothing. The world tilted. 

The stars became smears of liquid light above. The courtyard became a distant, detached thing, a dream painted in black and gray. The heavy oak door creaked as he pushed through into the barracks beyond. 

The interior was warm after the night air, a cocoon of darkness scented with the musky smells of leather, smoke, and something darkly metallic. It wasn't fear that had your heart pounding in your chest; it was a twisted kind of excitement.

He stalked across the dimly lit room and tossed you down on his bed. The mattress was rough, covered with a bear pelt blanket. It smelled like sweat and animal musk. A wild, masculine scent that made your head spin. 

He stood before you against the flickering firelight, holding you down with one knee. One arm still clasped his vambrace and gauntlet, dropping them carelessly to the floor. Metal met stone in a heavy thud. His other arm rose to unbuckle his pauldron. Another piece dropped, and then the one beneath it. He shed the metal plating like scales from a snake.

With every piece of armor he removed, you felt yourself unravel. The sheer power of his body was a brutal statement. His presence dominated the space, pressing down on you like a tangible weight. And the worst part was how helpless you were in the face of that power. As each piece fell, you felt a matching defense within you crumble. 

When his hands moved to the buckles that held his gambeson, you found the strength to protest.

"Ser Duncan, please," you begged, your voice barely more than a whisper. "This is... this is madness. It can end here. Please.”

His eyes snapped to you, cold blue flaring with a furious fire. Without a word, without releasing his gaze from yours, he sat on the bed and pulled you over his knees. Your head hung down near his boots, your hair spilling like a pool of moonlight. With his left arm, he pinned you in place, a band of thick muscle across your shoulders and upper back.

"Do you know," he said, his voice calm, almost casual, but there was a cruel undercurrent to it that made you tremble, "how much it hurt?"

"I don't understand..." you tried to reply, but he ignored you.

"How I stood there and took it. Because I, unlike you, understand what real responsibility means." With his right hand, he lifted up your shift, revealing your bare, vulnerable ass. The fabric gathered around your waist, leaving you exposed and helpless.

"Every blow, every insult," he growled, the veneer of his calm cracking, replaced by the visceral anger you'd sensed simmering just below the surface. "Did you ever stop to think about what that meant?”

"Please, Ser Duncan..."

"Enough of your pleas, little bitch." His large hand landed on your naked rear with a sharp slap. Pain bloomed, spreading across your skin. You squealed, the sound muffled against the mattress. Before you could draw breath, he hit you again. And again. The sound of his palm against your flesh echoed through the barracks.

"You wanted my attention, my lady" he continued, his tone savage but controlled. Each word punctuated by another spank. "Now you have it."

Each hit sent shockwaves through you. The pain was a sharp sting at first, radiating outward, followed by a warm, throbbing heat that seemed to sink deeper with every spank. The intensity varied; some slaps were light, teasing, leaving a gentle burn in their wake. Others were firm and deliberate, designed to push your limits.

At first, you fought it. You resisted the sensation, the shame, the utter degradation of being treated like this. But Duncan was relentless, driving past your defiance with his unyielding will. Every hit chipped away at your composure until there was nothing left but primal emotion.

“Please, Ser Duncan… I… please… ahh”

But your cries gradually transformed into something else. The pain blurred with pleasure. Your shouts became moans, your struggle turning into an undulation, grinding your sex against the rough fabric of his trousers.

Duncan noticed the change in your sounds and movements immediately. It fueled him. His hand began to grab and knead the flesh he had spanked. Thick fingers dug into your buttocks, squeezing the reddened globes together. They spread you apart, exposing your most intimate places. 

“Yeah... just like that,” he whispered, the vibration of his voice rattling through your bones. “Yeah... whimper again. I like the way it feels against my palm.”

And then, those rough, calloused pads of his fingertips brushed against the tiny knot of your asshole.

"No!" you yelped, trying to squirm away, but he kept you pinned. Your cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment at the mere touch. You couldn't comprehend the intimacy or vulnerability you were feeling. It was wrong, taboo, and yet your body reacted to it with an undeniable warmth that pooled in your belly.

As he manipulated you, teased you with light strokes and prodding circles, something gave way inside. 

The realization dawned that you were grinding your soaking cunt against the rough fabric of his pants, leaving a wet smear of your humiliation plain for him to see. The friction caused shocks of illicit pleasure to arc up your spine.

"What's this, Lady, umm?" Duncan hissed, rubbing harder against your puckered entrance.

A hot, wet glob of spit landed directly on the sensitive skin of your anus. You jumped, a squeal caught in your throat at the shocking heat and wetness. 

His rough thumb smeared it around, circling the tight furl of muscle, using his own spit as a filthy, intimate lubricant. The pressure was deliberate, a claim of ownership that made your mind go blank with shame. You were a knot of raw nerves, a creature of pure sensation.

"Good girl," he grunted, the praise a dark rumble that vibrated through his chest and into your body. He worked the slickness into your skin, pressing slightly, testing the resistance. "Look at you. So fucking greedy for it."

You couldn't stop it. Your hips began to move, a slow, shameful grind against his hard thigh. The rough wool of his trousers chafed your aching clit, and the friction was a delicious agony. You rubbed yourself against him like a bitch in heat, chasing the pleasure, desperate for more. His other hand, the one not playing with your ass, came down in a sharp spank that made you gasp.

"Don't stop," he commanded. "Rub that greedy little cunt on me. Show me how much you need this."

You whined, a broken, needy sound, and obeyed. The movement was frantic now, desperate. Your world had narrowed to the feeling of his thumb on your asshole, the scratch of fabric on your clit, and the hard muscle beneath you. He made a low, satisfied sound in his chest, a "Mmm," of pure, masculine approval at your degradation. It was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard.

He shifted, and with a flick of his wrist, he tore the thin, soaked scrap of your smallclothes from your hips. The fabric gave way with a sharp rip, leaving you completely bare to him. Cool air hit your dripping slit, and you clenched in anticipation.

Then you felt it. A single, thick finger traced the length of your soaked folds, from your throbbing clit to the wet entrance of your cunt. He didn't enter you, just teased, gathering your slickness on his calloused skin. You whimpered, trying to push back, to impale yourself on that digit, but his hand on your head held you firm. You couldn't see anything. You could only feel.

"Stay still," he grunted. His other hand came to rest on the small of your back, a heavy weight of command. "I'll tell you when you can move."

You stilled, trembling with the effort, every nerve screaming for more. His fingers parted your folds, exposing your clenching hole to the cool air. You could feel your own heartbeat pulsing in your cunt. He rubbed circles around your entrance, smearing your arousal, coating your most sensitive skin with your own shame.

"So wet," he murmured, his voice a low, possessive growl. "You’ve made such a mess on me

His finger slid inside you, a slow intrusion that made you gasp. He pumped in and out, curling the digit to stroke the sensitive ridges inside you. His thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing in slow, maddening circles. You were a mess of sensation, lost in the overwhelming pleasure of his touch.

"Don't you dare come," he warned, his voice a low growl against your ear. "Not until I say so."

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the orgasm building inside you, a tidal wave of pleasure threatening to break. You could feel it coiling in your belly, a tight, hot knot of need.

"Nngh… Please. Please, Ser Duncan."

His finger stilled. He pulled it out, leaving you feeling empty and aching. You almost sobbed with the loss.

"Please, what?" he asked, his voice cold. "Please stop? Or please fuck you, m’lady?"

Your mind was a war. The proud lady versus the wanton slut. Your blood pounded in your ears, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out everything but the sensation of his hands on you. You couldn't hide. Not anymore. Not from him, not from yourself. 

A thin line of drool escaped the corner of your mouth, dripping onto the rough fabric of his gambeson. It was a disgusting, animalistic detail that sent a wave of heat through your veins.

His fingers drove back into you, harder this time. Two of them. They plunged knuckles deep, scissoring inside your dripping cunt. The wet sounds were obscene, a sloppy, squelching rhythm that filled the small room.

"Ah, Dunk... oh god," the moan was loud, a broken sound of complete surrender that made you burn with shame. Then, he stopped again.

The sudden emptiness was a physical pain. You heard a soft, wet sound, a slick suction. You knew what it was. He was tasting you. He was tasting your filth on his fingers, and the thought was so vile, so intimate, that you nearly came right then and there.

"Fuck," he growled, the word a low, guttural sound of disbelief. "So fucking sweet. You're so fucking sweet for me, aren't you?"

Before you could recover, his fingers were back inside you, pumping faster, rougher. His other hand came down to slap your reddened ass, a sharp, stinging blow that sent a jolt straight to your clit.

"Nngh! Please!" The cry that tore from your throat was unrestrained. It echoed in the small, dark room, a sound of pure, unabashed pleasure. Your cunt made wet, sloppy sounds as he finger-fucked you, each thrust a punctuation mark to your shame. Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. The room smelled of sex and sweat and your own desperate arousal.

"Yeah, let me hear it," he rumbled, the bed creaking under his weight. "Keep making those pretty noises for me. My best, loudest girl."

He pulled his fingers out again, and this time, he brought them to your lips. They were slick with your juices, glistening in the faint firelight.

"Open up," he commanded, his voice dark and final. "Clean them off. Show me how much you want it. Taste what a filthy little slut you are."

You opened your mouth without hesitation. He shoved his fingers inside, practically fucking your mouth with them. You could taste yourself, the tang of your own cunt on his skin. You swirled your tongue around them, licking and sucking, cleaning him of your mess. It was a disgusting, humiliating act, and it made you burn with a desire so intense it was painful.

"Good girl," he grunted. "Such a greedy little whore."

He finally allowed you to raise your head. You looked up at him, your vision blurred with tears of pleasure and humiliation. You saw the raw, possessive lust in his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched with the effort of controlling himself. And you put on a show for him.

You took his fingers in both of your hands, holding them like a holy relic. You brought them to your lips and kissed them, your tongue darting out to taste the last lingering drops of your arousal. You licked them clean, your eyes locked on his, a silent promise of your complete and utter submission.

"Please, Duncan," you begged, the name a raw, desperate plea. "Please fuck me. Please." Your voice was a hoarse whisper, a prayer to a god you had never believed in.

He growled, a low, animalistic sound of pure possession. His eyes were burning coals in the dim light. He shoved you off his lap, and you landed on the stone floor in a graceless heap. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs, and you looked up at him from your hands and knees.

"You made a fucking mess," he snarled, gesturing to the dark, wet patch on the thigh of his breeches. "Clean it."

You didn't hesitate. You crawled to him, the stones cold against your knees. You lowered your head and pressed your tongue against the rough wool. You could taste yourself, the tang of your arousal a heady, intoxicating flavor. You licked the fabric clean, your tongue tracing the outline of the wet patch, your submission a tangible thing in the small room.

You could feel the hard ridge of his cock straining against the fabric, a hot, heavy weight that promised a world of pain and pleasure. You couldn't resist. You nuzzled against it, your tongue darting out to trace the outline through the damp wool. It was so thick, so fat, so fucking big. You had never seen anything like it. The sheer size of it was intimidating, but it only made you want it more.

You started to tease him, your tongue and teeth working at the fabric, trying to get closer to the prize beneath. He was hard as steel, and the heat of him was a brand against your skin. You could hear the ragged sound of his breathing, the way his control was starting to fray.

He noticed. Of course, he noticed. He noticed that you weren't fighting anymore, that you weren't trying to escape. He noticed that you were completely and utterly captivated by him. He didn't need to hold you down anymore. You weren't going anywhere.

"Are you going to swear at me anymore?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl.

You shook your head frantically, your tongue still busy with his cock. "No," you mumbled, the word muffled by the fabric. "No, never again."

"Are you going to disobey me again?" he pressed.

"No," you repeated, your voice a desperate, earnest plea. "Never. I swear."

He reached down and tangled his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, a mask of cold, hard stone. "Then prove it," he snarled.

He reached down with his other hand and ripped open the laces of his breeches. His cock sprang free, and you gasped. It was even bigger than you had imagined. It was a thick, heavy shaft of flesh, a monument to raw, masculine power. The head was a dark, angry purple, beaded with pre-come. A thick, prominent vein ran along the underside, a pulsing river of life.

You stared at it, mesmerized. You had never seen anything so beautiful, so terrifying, so utterly perfect. You wanted it. You wanted it inside you, filling you, stretching you, breaking you.

He guided it to your lips, and you opened your mouth without hesitation. He pushed inside, and you moaned as he filled your mouth. The taste of him was a heady, intoxicating rush, a drug that you were instantly addicted to.

"Suck," he commanded.

You obeyed, your tongue swirling around the head, your lips stretched tight around his girth. You took him as deep as you could, your throat constricting around him. He groaned, a low, guttural sound of pleasure that made your cunt clench with need.

"Fuck," he growled. “Ohhh seven… fuck…”

His fingers, still tangled in your hair, didn't force you. They just held you, a possessive anchor in a sea of sensation. He let you set the pace, a slow, reverent exploration. You pulled back, your lips slick with saliva, to look at it. It was a monster of a thing, a weapon of flesh that made your cunt ache with a deep, hollow need.

"Gods," you breathed, the word a puff of hot air against his wet skin. "It's... it's so big."

You looked up at him, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe. "I've never... I've never seen anything like this."

A low groan rumbled in his chest. The raw, unfiltered admiration in your voice seemed to hit him harder than any insult. "Yeah?" he grunted, his voice a rough, guttural sound of pure male pride. "You like that, don't you, little slut? You like my big, bastard cock."

You didn't answer with words. You leaned forward and pressed a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the head. You let your tongue dart out, swirling around the sensitive ridge, tasting the salty, slightly bitter flavor of his pre-come. Your lips were swollen and red, stretched tight around his girth as you slowly took him back into your mouth.

You let your drool coat him, your saliva a slick, messy offering. It dripped down your chin, onto your breasts, a dirty, intimate marker of your submission. The sight of your red, swollen lips stretched around his thick cock, the way you were drooling on him like a hungry animal, seemed to drive him wild.

The taste was a revelation. A salty, musky, purely masculine flavor that was more intoxicating than any wine you'd ever tasted. It was a taste of power and you were addicted. You made wet, sloppy sounds as you took him deeper, your throat working to accommodate his impressive size. The obscene gagging and sucking noises filled the room, a symphony of your own degradation.

His grip on your hair tightened, and he began to move his hips, a slow, deliberate rhythm that matched the bobbing of your head. He was fucking your face, and the realization sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure through you. This was it. This was what you had been craving, what you had been seeking with your childish games and cruel taunts.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and pleading, a silent apology for all the pain you had caused him. He saw the look in your eyes, and a slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

"What's that?" he grunted, his hips still moving in a slow, steady rhythm. "Are you trying to tell me something, my little slut?"

You couldn't speak with your mouth full, but you tried to communicate your remorse with your actions. You took him deeper, your throat constricting around him, your tongue working to please him. You were a mess of saliva and tears, beautiful and fucked up. 

"I'm... sorry," you mumbled, the words muffled by the thick shaft of his cock. "I'm sorry... for everything."

The apology was a jumble of words and spit, a desperate, garbled plea for forgiveness that was muffled by the sheer size of him. He stilled for a moment, the rhythm broken by your raw, choked confession.

"Sorry?" he repeated, the word a low, dangerous growl. He pulled out just enough for you to draw a breath, a ragged, wet gasp. "Sorry for what? Sorry for being a spoiled, arrogant little cunt? Sorry for treating me like dirt under your heel? Or sorry for wanting this all along, you fucking tease?"

His hand tightened in your hair, a clear warning. “Nnn-hn”, you whined, a high, pathetic sound, and shook your head as much as you could with your hair held in his iron grip.

"No," you choked out. "I... I was wrong. I'm... sorry."

"Good," he snarled, a cruel, triumphant glint in his eyes. "Now, are you going to be a good girl from now on?"

"Y-yes," you whimpered, the word a desperate, earnest plea. "Yes, I'll be good. I promise."

He seemed to accept your answer, or perhaps he was just too lost in the heat of the moment to care. He pushed back into your mouth, and you took him eagerly, your throat relaxing to accommodate his size. You were a perfect, pliant little slut, for him. Only ever for him, but you were still too spoiled to admit.

He fucked your face with a renewed vigor, his hips pumping in a fast, hard rhythm that left you breathless and dizzy. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles were ready to snap. You knew he was close. You could taste it in the salty, slightly bitter flavor of his pre-come, feel it in the desperate way he moved.

He pulled out of your mouth with a wet, obscene pop. A string of saliva connected your swollen, red lips to the head of his cock. You looked up at him, your face a mess of tears and drool, your eyes wide with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

"You will only tell the truth to me tonight. He yanked your head back by the hair. The sharp pain at your scalp made you gasp. "Understood?"

You nodded, your eyes wide and obedient.

"Good," he grunted. He leaned down, and you thought he was going to kiss you. Instead, he spat directly into your open mouth. It was hot, wet, a claim of ownership that made your cunt clench. 

Then he kissed you, a messy, demanding, spit-filled kiss that was the most intimate, disgusting thing you had ever experienced. You moaned into his mouth, your tongue tangling with his, tasting the musky, masculine flavor of him, the salty tang of yourself, and the heady, addictive taste of his spit. It was the best thing you had ever tasted.

He lifted you as if you weighed nothing and tossed you onto the bed. You landed on the rough bear pelt with a soft thud, the air knocked from your lungs. Before you could move, he was on you, flipping you over, positioning you so you were kneeling over his face. His rough hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place, forcing your dripping cunt down onto his mouth.

"This is what I dream of," he growled against your wet skin, the vibration rattling your bones. "This is what I think about when I'm standing guard like a dog outside your door. Every time you looked down your nose at me, I imagined doing exactly this."

You could only moan. His tongue was a hot, rough, insistent force against your clit, licking, sucking, probing. He ate you like a starving man, his face buried in your cunt, his stubble a delicious, abrasive friction against your sensitive skin.

"Tell me," he demanded, his words muffled by your flesh. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you've been wanting a lowborn bastard to put his face in you since the first day I arrived, you fucking tease."

His hands, rough and calloused from years of wielding a sword, closed around the soft flesh of your ass. They squeezed, a possessive, claiming grip that made you gasp. He pulled you down, forcing you to put your full weight on his face. You hesitated, a flicker of fear in your pleasure-fogged mind. You were going to smother him. You were going to break him.

"Don't you fucking dare hold back," he growled, the command a hot vibration against your cunt. "Sit on my face. Suffocate me with your cunt. Take what you need."

You obeyed, a wave of relief washing over you. You lowered your full weight onto him, and he took it without a moment's hesitation. He was a beast, a powerful, unyielding force, and he could take anything you gave him. His tongue was a relentless, insistent pressure against your clit, and you could feel the tension building in your body, a tight, hot knot of need.

"Don't you dare come," he warned, his voice dropping into a dangerous, dark register. "Not until I say."

You whined, a high, pathetic sound of protest. You were so close, so fucking close, and his command was a form of exquisite torture. "Please, Dunk... I'm dying... I'm right there..."

"Tell me," he demanded. "Tell me the truth. Why did you do it? Why did you push me?"

"I... I was jealous!" you admitted, the words a raw, desperate confession. "I saw the other girls looking at you. The serving girls. The... the whores in the village. They all wanted you. And I... I couldn't stand it. I wanted you to only look at me, even if it was with hate."

"Greedy little slut," he grunted, but there was a note of triumph in his voice. "You wanted me all to yourself. Well, you've got me. Move. Ride my face. Take your pleasure."

You obeyed, your hips beginning to move in a slow, deliberate rhythm. You ground your cunt against his face, your movements growing more and more frantic as the pleasure built. You were a desperate, shameless whore, and you didn't care. All that mattered was the pleasure, the exquisite, mind-blowing pleasure of his tongue on your clit.

"Is this what you needed?" he growled, the words a hot, wet vibration against your flesh. "Did you need to be eaten by a bastard from Flea Bottom to finally shut your fucking mouth?"

"Yes!" you sobbed, your fingers clawing at the pelt. "Yes, that's what I needed! I'm your bitch, Dunk... please... please don't stop!"

You were close. So close. The pleasure was a force of nature that threatened to sweep you away. You could feel your orgasm building, a tight, hot knot in your belly that was about to snap.

He felt the tremor start in your thighs, the tell-tale tightening of your muscles that screamed of impending release. He stopped. Just like that. The hot, rough tongue that had been your god, your salvation, your entire world, was gone. He pulled back slightly, leaving your dripping, desperate cunt hovering over his mouth, denied and pulsing.

"What did I fucking tell you?" he roared, the vibration of his words a physical shock against your aching flesh.

"Ser Duncan... please, gods, please let me cum! I’ll be so good, I’ll be your best girl, just let me have it!"

He held you there. Suspended. Your thighs burned with the strain, but it was nothing, nothing at all compared to the hollow, aching emptiness in your cunt. His strength was an insult. You were a doll, a plaything, and he was showing you how little effort it took to control your every breath, your every heartbeat, every desperate pulse between your legs. Your juices dripped onto his face, a slow, steady trickle of your shame, and he just lay there, letting you fall apart above him.

You were going to die. You were sure of it. Your body was a taut wire, humming with a need that was so sharp it was a form of agony. You could feel the ghost of your orgasm, a phantom limb that throbbed with a phantom pleasure. You needed it. You needed it more than you had ever needed air, or water, or food.

"Please," you sobbed, the word a ragged, desperate plea. "Please, Ser Duncan. I'll do anything. Anything you want. I’ll never speak back again, I’ll be your quiet little pet, just please..."

He just looked up at you, his eyes dark, unreadable pools in the dim light. There was no mercy in them. No pity. Only a cold, hard, possessive lust that made your blood run hot.

"Anything?" he asked, the word a low, dangerous growl.

"Anything," you repeated, your voice a desperate, earnest promise.

He lowered you slightly, just enough for your cunt to brush against his lips. The contact was a jolt of pure electricity, a spark that nearly set you ablaze.

"Say it again," he commanded. "Say you're my little slut."

"I'm... your little slut," you whimpered, the words a raw, desperate confession. "I'm your whore. I'm your... your bitch. Use me, Dunk. Just use me."

He seemed satisfied with your answer. He lowered you again, and this time, he let you take a little more of his weight. His tongue darted out, a quick, teasing flick against your clit. You gasped, your back arching in pleasure.

"Please," you begged, your hips bucking against his face. "Please, don't stop. I need you."

He rewarded you with a long, slow lick that sent shivers down your spine. His tongue was a hot, rough, insistent force against your clit, and you could feel the tension building in your body again. This was it. This was what you had been craving, what you had been seeking with your childish games and cruel taunts. This was the raw, unfiltered pleasure that only he could give you.

He let you ride his face, your movements growing more and more frantic as the pleasure built. You were a desperate, shameless whore, and you didn't care.

He took it all. Every desperate, rhythmic grind, every slick, hot smear of your arousal. He let you use his face like a tool, a thing for your pleasure, and the sheer debasement of it was a heady rush. You could feel your juices on his chin, dripping down the corded muscle of his neck, marking him as yours even as he claimed you with every possessive growl.

You were losing your mind, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, harder against you. You didn't care about the pride of your house or the silk of your gown—you only cared about the rough, wet friction of his tongue.

"More... Dunk, please... harder," you gasped, your voice a fractured, ruined thing. "Eat me... eat your little whore... I'm yours... I'm all yours..."

He secretly loved it, you knew. The way he devoured you, the way he couldn't seem to get enough of your taste, was a dead giveaway. He would never admit it, never tell you how good you tasted, how ripe and ready and perfect your little cunt was, how it fit against his mouth like it was made for him. But you could feel it in the way he ate you, the way his fingers bruised your hips, the way he seemed to want to drown in you.

He could feel it again. The tell-tale, violent trembling in your thighs, the way your breath hitched and broke in your throat. This time, he didn't deny you.

"Cum," he commanded, the word a hot, wet vibration directly against your clit. "Cum for me, you little slut. Soak my fucking face. Now!"

It was a detonation. A wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure crashed over you, drowning you in its intensity. You screamed, a raw, ragged sound that was part pleasure, part pain, part pure, unadulterated release. “Dunk—! Oh, gods, please please yes—! Take it! Take all of me!” Your body convulsed, your back arching, your hips bucking frantically against his mouth as your orgasm ripped through you. You weren't a lady anymore; you were a creature of pure, shaking need.

He held you through it, his strong hands anchoring your hips, forcing you to stay pressed against him as you rode out the waves of your pleasure. He let you make a mess. He let you soak him in your arousal, a wet, sticky offering that he eagerly accepted. His face was slick and glistening with your juices, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, but he didn't care. All that mattered was you, and the way you were falling apart because of him.

When the tremors finally subsided, you collapsed onto the bed, a boneless, spent heap of limbs. You were crying, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming weight of finally being broken.

He moved, a slow, deliberate shift of heavy muscle. He propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. He reached out and brushed a stray, damp strand of hair from your face, his touch both a caress and a claim.

"You're welcome, my lady," he said, the title a venomous, low-voiced insult—a cruel reminder of the pride you’d traded for this.

You looked up at him, your vision blurred, and saw the raw, possessive lust in his eyes. You didn't look away. Instead, you reached out, your hand shaking as you traced the line of your own slickness on his jaw.

“Do it again,” you whispered, your voice a hoarse, unhinged plea. “I don't want to be a lady. I want to be yours. I want you to ruin me, Dunk. Please... I'm so fucking hungry for you.”

He leaned in, his shadow swallowing you whole. “I’m going to do more than just this,” he rumbled, his voice dark with masculine pride. “You’re my best, wettest girl, and you’re never going back.”

You looked up at him, your vision blurred with tears, and saw the raw, possessive lust in his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched with the effort of controlling himself. And you knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that this was only the beginning. He had claimed you, body and soul, and he was never going to let you go.

He rolled you over with one arm, the movement lazy but absolute. You ended up on your back, gasping as your sweat-slicked skin hit the cool air of the barracks. He didn't say a word. He just took your ankles in his huge, calloused hands and folded you back, pushing your knees toward your shoulders until you were bent nearly in half.

The position was obscene—completely vulnerable, your dripping cunt and the tight, sensitive pucker of your ass spread wide for his inspection. A flash of shame, hot and sharp, was immediately swallowed by a dark, thrilling pride. You were a feast laid out on a table of rough fur.

Then, a thought struck you—a bizarre, clinical observation in the middle of your raw, emotional haze. He wouldn't fit. Looking at the thick, heavy shaft of him, then back at your own small, trembling frame, the math didn't work. But then you realized: the way he had eaten you, the way he had savaged you with his tongue until you were sobbing and slick—it hadn't just been for your pleasure. It was a service. The bastard had been meticulously preparing your body for the sheer, punishing size of him. He was taking care of you, even while he was destroying you.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that rattled through the floorboards.

You obeyed, your eyes wet and blown wide. He was a mountain of muscle and shadow, his gaze a hot, possessive brand. Something in you snapped—a mad, desperate impulse to touch the thing that was about to claim you. With a frustrated cry, you ripped at the laces of his tunic. Your hands were all over his chest, your nails scraping against his skin, leaving faint red trails.

“Easy, little slut,” he grunted, his hands holding your legs steady, keeping you open.

Your hands slid down, your fingers tangling in the coarse, dark hair at the base of his cock. “Gods... you’re so big,” you sobbed, a low, guttural sound of pure lust escaping you. “Dunk, please... I’m so small... I don't think I can take it all.”

“You can,” he rumbled, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your entrance, spreading your own juices to make the path as easy as possible. “I’ve made sure you can. Just breathe for me. Stay open.”

He shifted his hips, and you felt the blunt, heavy head of his cock press against you. Even with all the preparation, the sheer girth of him was a shock that made your breath hitch in a sharp “Ah!”

He pushed inside. It was a slow, relentless invasion. He wasn't rushing; he was deliberate, giving your body time to stretch, to accommodate the impossible bulk of him. He made a low, pained grunt of pleasure as he felt your tight walls fighting to let him in.

“Nnn-gh! Dunk—! Oh, gods, it’s... it’s so much...” You cried out, a ragged, desperate sound. Your walls clenched around him, pulsing in a frantic attempt to hold him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered harshly, his face contorting as he forced himself to stay slow, his knuckles white where he gripped your thighs. “I’m right here. Just take it... take all of me, my best girl.”

He buried himself to the hilt, a deep, invasive pressure that made you feel completely possessed. He stayed there for a moment, letting you adjust to the weight of him, his breath hot and ragged against your neck. He grunted again, a deep, masculine sound of pure satisfaction as he felt how perfectly you were stretched around him.

“You’re so full of me,” he growled, a dark, triumphant note in his voice. “Look at you. So small, and you’re taking every bit of your bastard knight. Does that feel good? To finally be filled?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, your head thrashing against the furs. “Yes, please... don't ever move. Just stay... stay inside me forever.”

You could feel him everywhere, a thick, heavy presence that filled you completely, a bulge in your stomach that was a physical proof of his possession. 

The sound was what finally broke your sanity—the heavy, rhythmic slap of his thick thighs against yours, and the messy, wet squelch of your own juices being churned into a froth by the relentless drive of his hips. You were stretched so wide it felt like you were being split, every pulse of the thick vein along his shaft a hot, invasive throb that you felt deep in your chest.

"Seven," he grunted, the word a jagged, breathless rasp against your ear. "You're... you're so goddamn small. Like a doll. I'm gonna break you if I don't watch it."

"Don't watch it," you sobbed, your head thrashing against the cold stone as he hammered into you. "I want it, Dunk. I want all of you... every bit of your bastard self. Fill me up... I've never felt anything like this. I’m never going back. I can’t... I only want you."

He didn't give you a poetic answer. He just growled, a deep, animalistic sound that started in his gut and vibrated through your entire body. He shifted his grip, his massive, calloused hands bunching the flesh of your ass, lifting you higher so he could drive even deeper. With every brutal, bottoming thrust, your cunt clenched and swallowed him, the red, swollen lips of your sex snapping back around his base with a wet, suctioning seal.

"You're mine now," he rasped, his knuckles white as he gripped your hair, tilting your head back to see your glazed eyes. "No other man's ever gonna fit after me. I've stretched you out too good. You're my girl now. My dirty little highborn girl."

"Yes! Yours!" you wailed, your voice cracking as he hit your cervix again—a blunt, electric shock that made your toes curl. "I don't want to be a Lady! I just want to be yours! I love you, Dunk! I love you so much it hurts! Just keep fucking me! Please!"

The "love" hit him harder than a mace to the chest. He went unhinged. The pace became a frantic, blurring violence, his hips slamming against yours with a messy, rhythmic thud-squelch that echoed off the barracks walls. He wasn't a knight in that moment; he was the boy from the gutters, taking what he wanted with a terrifying, primal strength.

"Say it again," he commanded, his breath hot and smelling of raw desire. "Say you're mine. Say you want to be fucked by Dunk of Flea Bottom."

"I'm yours!" you screamed, the sound raw and inhuman, your nails drawing red furrows down his back as you pulled him closer, desperate to merge your skin with his. "I want you! Only you! Fuck me, Dunk! My Dunk of Flea Bottom. Fuck your girl!"

"Mine," he roared, his pace reaching a fever pitch, his entire body coiling like a spring. "All mine."

You were vibrating, your entire body humming like a struck wire. You were so full of him — so heavy with the weight of his cock and the heat of his skin — that there was no room left for pride or the world outside. You felt the pressure building, a tidal wave of overstimulation that threatened to shatter your mind.

"Dunk! Oh gods, I'm... I'm going to—!"

"Hold it," he grunted, his voice thick and desperate as his own rhythm became shaky. "Don't you go yet. Take it. Take every bit of me. Be a good girl and take it all."

The air in the room was thick with the scent of salt and sex, the only sound the rhythmic, violent slap of his heavy thighs against yours and the obscene, wet squelch of your own heat being beaten into a froth. He was a relentless, driving force, a storm of pure, unadulterated lust, and you were the shore he was crashing against. You were a ragdoll in his massive arms, a toy for his pleasure, and you loved every second of the ruin. Every time his hips slammed home, you felt the air leave your lungs in a broken, high-pitched cry. "Dunk! Oh gods! Fuck, Dunk!"

He bit you. His teeth sank into the soft, pale flesh of your shoulder, a sharp, possessive claim that sent a jolt of pure, electric heat straight to your core. You cried out, a raw, ragged sound that was half pain and half delirious ecstasy.

"Remember this," he snarled, his voice a hot, wet vibration against your mangled skin. "Remember whose fucking pussy this is."

"Yours," you sobbed, the word a desperate, frantic promise. "It's yours. All yours. Dunk, I can feel every bit of you inside me. God, it feels so good."

You knew. With a terrifying, soul-crushing certainty, you knew you could never go back. The silk sheets, the feigned indifference, the hollow little games—they were all ashes in your mouth now. 

This. This brutal, filthy truth against a cold stone wall was the only thing that was real. You were so full of him it felt like you were being split in two, a deep, invasive pressure that made your vision swim. You had never felt so heavy, so completely occupied by another person. It was a thick, blunt ache that made your inner muscles clench in a frantic attempt to hold every inch of him.

Your hand snaked down between your sweat-slick bodies. Your fingers found your clit, a hard, throbbing nub of desperate need. You circled it, matching the punishing, rhythmic thud of his hips.

The dual sensation was a symphony of agony and bliss. Your inner muscles clamped around the thick shaft impaling you, a tight, desperate suction that tried to pull every drop of him inside. You felt the first internal spasm, a violent, honeyed contraction that rippled through your walls and squeezed him until he groaned.

"Dunk! Oh gods, I'm coming! I'm coming on your cock!" you wailed, your head thrashing against the stone.

He let out a raw, guttural moan as he felt you seize around him, his own control finally shattering. 

"Seven, girl... you're fucking milking me," he rasped, his pace becoming a frantic, blurring violence as he hammered into your heat. "You're so tight... drowning me in it... feels so fucking good, you little slut."

That was it. That broke him.

A raw, guttural roar tore from his throat, a sound of pure, unhinged surrender. He pulled out of you so fast you were left empty and reeling. He fisted your hair, yanking your head back so your throat was bared.

"Look at me," he panted, his face a dark, angry mask of pure, masculine triumph.

His other hand fisted around his cock, pumping it with three rough, desperate strokes. Hot, thick jets of cum splashed across your face, painting your lips, your cheeks, and your eyelids in heavy, white streaks. You opened your mouth, greedy and unhinged, catching the salty, sharp taste of his climax on your tongue.

He dropped you. Just let go.

You crumpled to the stone floor in a graceless, shaking heap. Your body was a mass of thrumming aches, a ruined, beautiful mess dripping with his salt and your own spent arousal.

"Your fault," he panted, the words a raw, ragged accusation. He stood over you, a monster of muscle and shadow, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. "This is all your fucking fault."

You looked up at him, your vision blurred by the cum and tears in your eyes. You saw the raw, possessive lust in his gaze, the way his jaw was firmed with the effort of controlling himself.

"I won't be able to have you just once," he admitted, the words a low, dangerous growl. "This is wrong. So fucking wrong. You're my charge. The daughter of my liege lord."

You didn't care. You didn't care about the rules, about the consequences, about the world outside this small, dark room. All that mattered was him. You scrambled to your feet and knelt before him, your head bowed in a gesture of complete and utter submission. You pressed your lips to the hard, corded muscles of his hamstrings, a desperate, worshipful kiss.

"I don't want any other men," you whispered, your words a raw, desperate plea. "I only want you. I'll be your good girl. I promise. I’ll be your dirty secret.”

Duncan let out a long, shuddering breath—a sound that was half agony, half relief. He leaned down, his body a wall of radiating heat, and kissed you. It was a slow, deep pull, a stark contrast to the brutal, punishing mouth from before. His tongue explored yours in a gentle, possessive dance that felt like both a promise and a threat.

You were a beautiful, broken thing, covered in his sticky, drying seed. It was in your hair, on your face, smeared across your breasts—the tangible proof of your submission. You were his girl. His property. And you wouldn't have it any other way.

He pulled back, his blue eyes dark and unreadable. He reached out and wiped a stray glob of cum from your cheek with his thumb. He brought it to your lips, and you opened your mouth without hesitation, your tongue darting out to clean him of the mess he had made. He didn't respond with words; he just watched you, studying the details of your face, the way the firelight glinted in your tear-streaked eyes, and the way your lips stayed swollen and red from his kisses.

Then, he stood up, a slow shift of bone and heavy muscle. He was a magnificent creature, a god of war and lust, and you were the devoted follower. You watched him, your eyes wide and adoring, as he walked over to the small table in the corner. He poured a cup of water from a pitcher and brought it back to you.

"Drink," he commanded, his voice a low rumble.

You took the cup, your hands trembling so badly the water sloshed against the rim. You drank, the cool liquid a balm to your parched, sore throat. When you were done, you handed the cup back. "Thank you," you whispered.

He just grunted, a noncommittal sound of acknowledgement. He set the cup on the floor, his naked body a display of raw power in the shadows. His hands were on you again, not with the violence of before, but with a strength that was just as absolute. One arm hooked behind your knees, the other around your back. He scooped you up from the cold stone floor as if you were nothing; a doll, a prize. Your head fell back against his shoulder, your limbs loose and useless.

"You should go back to your room," he said, the words rough, but the vibration in his chest was a comfort against your cheek.

You clung to him, your arms wrapping around his thick neck, your face burying in the warm, sweaty skin of his shoulder. You inhaled. He smelled of leather, steel, and the sharp, metallic tang of your own sex on him. It was the best thing you had ever smelled.

You thought of the courtyard—of the way he had knelt in the mud and taken the weight of the other guards' boots against his ribs just to keep them away from you. You’d never admit it, but when you saw him fall, you felt your own life end.

"Don't send me away," you whimpered, your voice a small, broken thing. "Please, Duncan."

"I’ll give you my..." he started, his voice a gruff, reluctant offer. "I’ll give you my cloak. Something to wear. You can sneak through the kitchens before the guards rotate. You can’t be seen like this."

You shook your head, your hair brushing against his jaw. "No," you whispered, your lips moving against his skin. "I don’t want a cloak. I don't want to hide what you did to me."

He didn’t answer. He just started to walk, carrying you to the bed. He laid you down on the rough bear-pelt, a gentle, deliberate movement. He lay down beside you, but he left a space—a carefully constructed gap between your bodies.

You moved. You closed the distance, pressing your naked, sticky body against his side, your head pillowed on his chest. His skin was a living furnace. You could feel the steady, tectonic beat of his heart under your ear.

"I want to stay here with you," you whispered, a raw, desperate confession. "I want to be yours."

His arm came around you, a slow movement that was both a possessive claim and a gesture of comfort. He hauled you close until there was no air between you. "You are," he grunted, the word a low sound of pure satisfaction. "You're mine now."

He just held you, a silent, possessive presence in the dark. The drying cum on your skin felt like a visible sign that you belonged to him. Every shift of your body was a reminder of his possession. You didn't want to wash it off.

You looked up at him, your vision blurred by the sticky fluid on your eyelashes. You could see the dark shadow of his jaw, the faint glint of the firelight in his eyes. He was watching you, his expression unreadable.

"Will you... will you still be my knight?" you whispered. "Will you still protect me?"

He didn't answer for a long moment. He just held you, his arm a heavy weight around your shoulders.

"I'll always be your knight," he said, the words a low, rough sound of absolute certainty. "But things are different now. You can't go back to the way they were.”

"I don't want to go back," you said, a fierce declaration. "I want to stay here. With you."

He pulled the heavy pelt over both of you. The fur was coarse, smelling of old winter and the oil he used on his blade. You pressed your face into the hollow of his neck, your tongue darting out to taste the salt of his sweat. You were small against him, a scrap of pale silk vanished against the mountain of his chest.

He reached up, his hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip, which was still swollen and stained from his mouth.

"You realize what this is," he rasped, his blue eyes turning dark as the sea at night. "There’s no honor in this bed. No songs for what we just did. If I keep you here, I’m not your protector anymore. I’m the man who ruins you every time the sun goes down."

"Then ruin me," you breathed, pressing a kiss into his palm. "Every night. Until there's nothing left for my father to recognize."

A low, possessive growl started deep in his chest. He didn't speak again. He simply rolled, pinning you beneath the heavy heat of his body one last time. He didn't enter you again, not yet. He just buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your combined spent lust as if it were the only air left in the world.

Outside, the first grey light of dawn began to bleed into the courtyard, but inside the barracks, the shadows were absolute. You closed your eyes, listening to the steady, tectonic thud of his heart against your own. 

You would have traded your crown for a collar, your pride for his touch, and as his rough hands began to wander over your hips again, you knew you had never been more powerful than you were right now: broken, filthy, and entirely his.

“You are no sister of mine, look at you! Your eyes are dull, and your hair duller. You are no true Targaryen!” One of your brothers, Aerion, then a cruel boy of ten and two, had told you. It was after a fight the two of you had over who would hatch their dragon's egg first, and though your brother was an irritable creature, at the time he had yet to say anything about your lack of noble lineage. You, being no older than seven, went running to your mother who scooped you up in her arms and hushed your sullen cries.

“You are my daughter, sweet girl, and your fathers as well. You have the right to the name Targaryen as much as all of your siblings.” Dyanna kissed your forehead, “The gods gave you back to us out of all the families in the seven kingdoms, never forget that.”

You held onto those words to this day, even after a visiting delegate helped you conform to what you thought would legitimize you in the eyes of your family. When you were ten and four a delegate-lord of Tyrosh was hosted at Kingslanding, a peacekeeping effort on behalf of your grandfather King Daeron II. This visit naturally led to a great gathering of nobles within the Red Keep, and when you rose from your seat to greet the lord you couldn't help but gawk at his unusual fashion. He was covered in jewels, fine silks and linens adorning his body in smooth drapery that shimmered with designs you had never seen before. The delegate's hair was bright blue all over, though his beard was manicured with his natural shade of black, and when you spoke with him at the feast you asked how it was possible for his hair to be such a colour when his beard was not.

“In my home we have dyes that stain your hair for weeks, in all colours. This month I am blue, but next I will be golden.” He grinned, one tooth winking-diamond, and your eyes sparkled at the possibility of silver hair.

“Do you have silver dye? I would be eternally happy to dye my hair silvery-gold, like my fathers.” You sighed dreamily, imagining yourself also with the bright lilac eyes of your mother—perhaps even the burning violet of your father. 

“But of course, my Lady. I will send you the gift of enough dye to colour the Narrow Sea.” The delegate bowed, and you had never been more excited a day in your life. That was until the afternoon that the dyes arrived, along with the extra gift of a dwarf elephant calf, pale as snow who came with a small letter about how you ‘simply enchanted’ the Tyroshi lord. You named your elephant Whitestar for your mothers house, and dyed your h/c locks with the help of her that same day. Since then you had kept a consistent schedule of oils and dye, making sure the faux silver-gold never dimmed past rusty gray.

“Done, M’lady.” Your handmaiden curtsied, stepping back to pull your chair out, waiting behind you as you shimmied from your vanity.

“Thank you, Lysa.” You smiled, as you always did when Lysa attended to you. Lysa was a stout and fat woman, with ample cheeks red as tomatoes and freckled like a fieldworker during harvest. Her hair was once a fiery red, the colour a distant childhood memory now that grey and white had begun to seep from her roots, dulling the loose braid she always wore. She had been your mothers handmaiden since Maekar and her wed, then transitioned to yours when Lady Dyanna passed on. She was a constant in your life, someone you trusted with all your secrets and scandals, though you did not have many.

“How long until we leave for Ashford?” You dabbed a Lyseni oil behind your ears, then put a few drops on your wrists and rubbed them together. You wore the same perfumes since you were a girl of six and ten, when your mysterious great aunt—Shiera Seastar—made a rare debut at your nameday celebration. She gifted you the Lyseni scents with the promise that with your flowering, they would bring men to heel, and women to beg.

“Within the hour, M’lady. I would recommend that we make haste to the courtyard.” Lysa answered, glancing at the level of the sun outside. It would take just under a week to reach Ashford Meadow for a tourney your brother was to participate in, an event dedicated to Lord Ashford’s daughter. She was turning thirteen, if you recalled correctly.

“As you say.” You hummed, letting Lysa open the door for you before you made your way to where a procession of guards and servants bustled about in the lower courtyard, fastening horses and securing trunks to wheelhouses. They bowed when you passed by, drawing the attention of your uncle and father who stood by their stallions. When you saw your uncle your eyes lit up, and he already had his arms open for you by the time you picked up your skirts and ran to him, embracing him in a tight hug.

“Uncle Baelor!” You squealed, and he twirled you in his grasp. You could always tell him apart in a crowd, olive skin and strapping shoulders putting him a head above others, along with his Dornish chestnut hair. Your uncle laughed, twinkling eyes looking down at you. They were two different shades, your uncle's eyes, one a deep brown for his mother and the other a striking lavender for his father.

“My dearest Starlily,” Baelor sighed contentedly. He gave you that nickname not long after Dyanna told him where she found you placed by the gods, crying among her garden of Dornish Starlily’s. 

“I did not expect to see you until we arrived at Ashford!” You breathed, “Is it not out of your way to come here beforehand?”

“It is, but we spared the time.” Baelor cupped your cheeks in his calloused hands, pressing a soft kiss to your hairline, before your father interrupted.

“She never fucking runs to me like that.” Maekar grumbled, and you shot him a careful glare while Baelor only laughed more.

“Father.” You broke away from your uncle, steadying your hands on your fathers shoulders before you leaned to kiss his cheek, avoiding the scruff of his beard.

“I see you everyday, Uncle Baelor does not frequent Summerhall.” You gazed into his violet eyes, and they narrowed for a moment before he let out a resigned huff.

“Even amongst my children you are favoured, brother.” Maekar bemoaned, and you opened your mouth to comfort him until a familiar voice caught your attention.

“Cousin!” You gasped at that, turning on your heels to see your elder cousin, Valarr, approaching with a wide smile. 

“Valarr, your hair!” You pointed, slightly undignified, as he pulled you into a hug. Valarr was ever your uncle's son, with the same chestnut hair and big eyes and penchant for laughter. He differed in that though his eyes were as loving and held the same double-colour, they were shaded one blue like his mothers and one brown like his fathers, and his hair—though chestnut—held a single streak of silver that you loved to play with growing up. You encouraged him to keep his hair long, as you had a fondness for braiding the silver strand into the brown, but before you now his hair was cropped.

“What have you done to your beautiful hair?” You whined, examining the damage as you ran your fingers through the short strands. It was barely past the top of his ear, and the last time you saw him, it was flowing past his waist. He swatted your hand away gently, linking his arm with yours as the two of you dismissed yourselves from your fathers’ presence.

“It is better for battle, and for tourneys…and my lady-wife complained.” Valarr whispered, and you couldn't help the pout that formed on your lips.

“Lady Kiera would never do such a thing, she and I are too alike in countenance.” You jokingly refused, and Valarr shook his head once more.

“I told her you would be distraught, but she claims it was simply too long.” Valarr reasoned, and you looked around, trying to spot your good-cousin. She too was almost as easy to spot as your uncle, thanks to her deep brown skin contrasting her soft pink curls. You did not know if she realized that your hair was dyed with Tyroshi colours as hers was, many in the seven kingdoms had forgotten what your hair used to be. Most who whispered when you were first found were older now, and they did not want their children to be tried for treason against the Crown by mocking a lady of House Targaryen.

“Where is my good-cousin?” You asked, and Valarr pointed to a distant wheelhouse, its horses nickering as they waited to be freed from the courtyard.

“She is resting, and I do not wish to disturb her. I’m sure the two of you will reacquaint when we arrive at Ashford.” He answered, eyes floating to your own hair.

“Besides, I no longer complain about your grooming habits, you should not complain about mine.” Valarr raised his brows, and you looked at the ground to keep yourself from rolling your eyes. Valarr did not like when you first started to dye your hair, he felt that it took away from your ‘natural beauty’, but to you no beauty was greater than that of Valyrian’s. True Vayrian’s.

“I suppose you are right. A rare occurrence.” You teased, and he held a hand over his heart in playful hurt.

“Valarr.” A cold voice came from behind you, and you turned to see your brother, Aerion, walking towards you. He was true Valyrian beauty, ghostly skin and silver-gold hair, with piercing violet eyes like your fathers. It was a shame that his sirenic beauty did not reflect within.

“I’ve heard a rumor that you intend to fight in the tourney, is that true?” Aerion smirked, giving you a brief once over as he arrived.

“That it is. I intend to represent my father and our House with honour, as a true knight does.” Valarr’s smile was tight, and Aerion simply hummed as a response, shouldering past your cousin to where his horse was lapping at the trough.

“Do you intend to fight for my honour at Ashford Meadow?” You teased, and Valarr lowered his head with a grin, the tension of Aerion’s visit dissipating. He was still there, in the corner of your eye and within earshot, but he was too proud and preoccupied to continue the conversation.

“Your honour has never been in question, dear cousin, but I will fight for you if you wish it.” Valarr bowed deeply, almost mockingly, but from him you knew it to be sincere.

“There is no knight I would wish for more in all of the seven kingdoms.” You giggled, and Aerion’s shoulders tensed. You smirked, and for the third time a voice called out to you. This time you did not hesitate to turn, running towards the person with open arms.

“Y/n, Y/n!” Aegon, your youngest brother of ten, ran into your waist, burying his head at your naval. Your brother Aegon, or ‘Egg’ as you were used to calling him, was the apple of your eye. Your mother passed away when he was barely six, and you took it upon yourself to rear him the same way in which she reared you. You did it with all your younger siblings after your mother died, since your father did not have the gentlest touch and your elder brothers were too set in their ways to care. Only your older brother Aemon ever took the time to help, but he was a Maester now with little time for family.

“Father says I must squire for Daeron, I don’t want to.” Egg spoke into your stomach, so it came out more akin to, “Faduh shaysh I musht shquire foh Daerum, I don’ wan’ to.”

“But you want to be a great warrior, do you not? You want to grow into a strong knight one day—perhaps my sworn shield?” You stroked his back slowly, and he raised his head so he was looking up at you, chin resting on your ribcage.

“Yes…” He said, blowing a stray silver-gold hair from his face.

“Then you must squire first. ‘Tis the way of things, Egg.” You stated matter-of-factly, and Aegon turned to your cousin.

“May I be your squire instead?” He pleaded, big indigo eyes blinking up at Valarr.

“I’m afraid I already have a squire, Aegon. Perhaps when he becomes a knight himself you may squire for me.” Valarr clapped Aegon’s shoulder, and he detached from you, rubbing the nape of his neck.

“Daeron does not even want to enter the lists. He hates jousting, all he wants to do is drink and make me fetch him more wine.” Egg grumbled, and you thinned your lips. For reasons unknown to you, your father was intent on shaping Daeron into the perfect foil to Valarr. The urge to best his brother was perhaps your fathers greatest flaw, always grinding his teeth around Baelor though he would never admit it aloud. It stemmed from something deep within him, something that had been rooted in his soul before you were a thought in the heavens.

“I’m certain he will warm to the idea on the journey there.” You assured, leaning down to grab Aegon’s face and plant a flurry of kisses over his red cheeks. He pushed you away with little success, squirming in your grasp until you planted one final kiss to the crown of his head.

“What do we always say, hm?” You raised your brow expectantly

“Iā zaldrīzes gaomas daor pryjagon, iā qēlos gaomas daor obūljarion.” A dragon does not break, a star does not surrender. Aegon parroted the words your own mother had taught you when you were younger, a phrase meant to give you strength and confidence during hardship. You had repeated that phrase nearly a hundred times by her sickbed.

“And?” You prodded.

“And what?” Egg snapped, though there was no bite behind his tone.

“Don’t be shy because Valarr is here, and?” You encouraged cheekily, watching as he rolled his eyes and mumbled the next words.

“And…Avy jorrāelan.” And…I love you. Aegon said, and you squeezed his shoulders.

“Go on, I’m sure Daeron will be in need of his squire for the weeks ahead. If he becomes too much, dilute his wine with warm grape juice. He does not have the insight to tell the difference.” You shooed, sending Egg off with a comforting grin.

“Gods be good to that boy.” Valarr breathed out, placing his hand resolutely on the hilt of his blade. 

“He is smart, I have faith in him.” You hummed, clasping your hands together. 

“Mmm…your sworn shield, really?” Valarr cracked a sly smile.

“He is eager to prove himself, but who has not had childhood fantasies? I once wished to be your wife, if only to find myself as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” You chuckled, remembering when you played with your dolls and acted as if you were hosting luncheon with your courtly ladies.

“I think you would make a fine Queen,” Valarr kissed your cheek, “but not a fine wife.”

Your mouth became slack, and before you could respond Valarr was turning heel and walking to his stallion, flashing you one last playful smirk while you stood agape. You puttered to your wheelhouse, settling in with Lysa across from you, and not ten minutes later the procession departed Summerhall. You gazed steadily out the window, watching the horses of your fathers guard as well as the Kingsguard saunter beside you, occasionally whipping their tails to deter flies.

Your gaze shifted up to the sky, past the armor and flesh of man, to the freedom the clouds provided. When you were a girl you promised yourself that you would claim a dragon of your own, and through the bond prove you were a Targaryen as much as any of your siblings. Prove that the gods did send you for a purpose rather than as a cruel jape. You had hoped to claim the beautiful dragon Morning, previous mount to Rhaena of Pentos, but that hope was dashed when your father crudely informed you Morning disappeared across the Narrow Sea nearly five decades ago. She was rumored to have nested and subsequently died in the ruins of Old Valyria after Rhaena’s death, her sullen cries carried across the distant tide. You understood her, despite your disappointment, you too wished to have burrowed yourself under rock and earth after your mother passed, and you concluded Morning must have felt the same way for Rhaena.

You often thought about Morning, on early sunrises when the horizon was painted in shades of purples and orange, how beautiful her pale-pink scales and black detailings must have been soaring amongst the clouds. You thought of her so much that when you did choose to wear your fathers colours, you more often draped yourself in hues of pink and black to emulate her long dead image.

“I’ve heard whispers,” Lysa began from across from you, stitching up one of your riding dresses, “that one of Lord Stark’s sons is in need of a wife.”

You looked at her, raising a brow, “Is that so?”

“Mmh. His middle son, the one they say is most honourable and kind out of all his siblings.” Lysa smiled, threading her needle with practiced form.

“Northmen are seldom cowards and wretches.” You huffed, adjusting yourself in your seat.

“Indeed, Milady, indeed.” Lysa nodded, and you fell back into a comfortable silence. You knew your time to wed was nigh, with talks of strengthening alliances in peace times being of paramount importance to the realm. Your father had yet to speak to you about such things, but you were not naïve. You had hoped to stay south, though, stay close to Egg and your sisters.

The days of travel after that were uneventful, a restless sort of quiet that you knew would not last once you arrived at the tourney. You considered how your sisters would have fared, the two being too young to accompany your family on the brief trip. You considered how your sister Daella would have clung to your skirts, and how little Rhae would swoon over the valiant knights and pageantry. On the day before you were set to arrive at Ashford, Lysa completed the repairs on your riding dress, presenting it to you with a proud puff in her chest. Your procession had stopped for the day, when Aerion had declared himself sick of riding and refused to move forward unless the trip was delayed so that he may rest his feet.

“Good as new, Milady.” She patted it for dust that was not there, and you took it with a grateful smile. The dress was a sturdier material than you were used to, coarse fibers built to keep you warm against the winds that thrashed at you on horseback or the weather that could change in the blink of an eye. It was a dulled lilac, with pink trims and a leather girdle that held your fathers sigil, though it was covered most of the time by the matching cloak you wore.

“This is magnificent, thank you Lysa. Call for a horse to be prepared, I wish to ride.” You stated, already rushing to your trunk by the bed in search of your mother’s riding headscarf.

“Of course, M’lady.” She obliged, calling in another handmaid to help you change. After the handmaiden helped you secure the headscarf, you looked at yourself in the reflection of the small hand-mirror you brought with you. Your hair was bundled underneath the thick plum-coloured scarf, its silken fabric draped along your shoulders as well as tasseled with white diamond. You remembered the days when your mother would take you riding to get away from it all, to spend time alone with you amongst the Red Mountains, and how she always chose that scarf to keep her long hair protected. When you emerged from your tent you saw Lysa in the distance, petting a horse by the snout and calming it with handfuls of oats. You made your way over, but not without being stopped by your father who sat by the firepit in front of his tent, sipping on wine with Baelor.

“Where are you going?” He barked, standing up from his seat. You jumped, not expecting such a volatile reaction, and held your hand to your chest to calm your heart.

“Riding! I do not wish to stay in my tent all day.” You breathed, watching as he approached with stern steps.

“Where exactly do you plan to ride to?” Maekar questioned, scowling at the idea of you leaving camp.

“I know not, but I won’t be far. I’ll be back in time for supper.” You gave him a pleading smile, looking behind him at your uncle for support.

“I don’t think—” Maekar began, but he was interrupted by his brother.

“Let her go, Maekar. She is a good child. Send her with an escort, one of my guards if need be.” Baelor sighed, taking a long sip from his goblet.

“Thank you, uncle.” You said, turning back to Maekar, “Please father?”

“Fine, but you’d best tell Yorkle to join you.” Maekar sniffed, eyes darting between you and Baelor.

“I promise I will not run off, if that is your implication.” You joked, but you did not miss the discomfort that crossed your fathers face.

“Where is Aegon? He mustn’t be practicing with Daeron at this hour, surely.” You asked, looking around to see if you could spot his tiny head of silver hair. He enjoyed riding with you, and the two of you found great enjoyment from pretending to ride Balerion the Black Dread across fields and mountains. Over the past four days of travel, however, he had always been off with Daeron squiring or asleep in his tent.

“He is…they are practicing. Daeron has begun to finally take things seriously, gods be good.” Your father cleared his throat, waving his hand in the air as he sulked back to his chair.

“Go on, but I expect to see you returned before sunset.” He dismissed you, and you turned away from him before you allowed yourself to roll your eyes. 

You heard his last complaint as you walked to Lysa and your horse, “May the fucking seven bless me and my runaway children.”

“Milady!” Lysa greeted, holding onto the reins as a footman helped you onto the stallion.

“Lysa, will you tell Yorkle I am making my way towards the road and that if he wishes to join me, he should depart with haste?” You asked as you secured your cloak around you, being sure to check that your skirts had not ridden up too far on your thighs.

“If it pleases Milady.” Lysa flashed you a mischievous grin, smacking your horse's rump and sending it on its way as you galloped past the campsite. You veered onto the nearby road, the path narrow and small enough that you doubted your procession would fit within it. However, the trees that lined the dirt-path were beautiful enough you wanted them to try.

“Aderī!” Quickly! You laughed, leaning into the neck of the horse as it pummeled its way through the underbrush, hooves pounding the ground in a rhythmic power. You closed your eyes for the briefest time, imagining instead you were commanding Morning under your hand and soaring high above Westeros. Your eyes opened when you rounded a corner, met with a man and his three horses walking at a leisurely pace. He walked between them, head whipping around to see you as he realized what was about to happen. You screamed, pulling back so hard on the reins you thought you might hurt the stallion’s bite, before he reared up and flung you from his back, toppling over the side of the path to avoid running into the other horses. You braced for pain, for feeling your bones twist or break, but you were instead met with the soft muscles of a man.

“Are—are you alright?” The man who was leading the three horses asked, presently lying under you with his hands wrapped around your body, splayed so wide you thought he might have four. You scrambled away, disoriented and concerned for your stallion whose thunderous footsteps seemed to get farther and farther away.

“I-I apologize, I was not, my stallion he is—” You held your head, closing your eyes for a moment, and when you opened them a palm was extended to you. You took it, steadying yourself with the help of the man, and looked up to give him your thanks.

“Gods be good.” You breathed, faced with a chest thick as a pillar. You looked up once more, but still you were met only with broad shoulders rather than a face, and so you were forced to crane your neck further up and up and up.

“M-Milady! I did not mean to—” The young man began when you locked eyes, stuttering over his words as he tried to form the right sentence. He was a healthy sort of pale, the type you find with rosy cheeks—cheeks made redder by his current situation. Although, his face was covered in a thin layer of dirt and grime, allowing you to conclude that this man was not of noble descent nor of the merchant class. His hair was straw-blonde and cropped in a ruggedly handsome way, no doubt done by himself without the use of a mirror, and his eyebrows were a thick ashy-blonde. They were drawn together in concern, framing his large blue eyes in a way that stole your breath from your chest.

“Do not apologize, you have saved me from immeasurable harm.” You interrupted, watching the way his strong squared jaw blubbered up and down as he tried once more to search for words. You curtsied deeply, and his eyes widened in shock.

“I’ve never had a lady curtsy to me b’fore.” He blurted out, his rough fleabottom accent thick, and you shot him a small smile.

“It is common that you might bow in return.” You whispered, and he instead dropped to one knee, kneeling before you with his head hung low. From where he knelt, however, his head still nearly met your chest.

“I beg your humblest uh, forgiveness for being in yer way, M’lady. It was no bother anyhow, I’m big enough to handle a little fall.” He coughed out, clearly inexperienced in the department of courtly courtesy and manners.

“Rise please, ser.” You commanded, and he hesitantly did so.

“What may I call you?” You asked, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Dunk—n-no, Ser Dunk.” He answered, and you giggled before you could stop yourself.

“Dunk?” You held your hand to your mouth, hiding your smile.

“Yes, M’lady.” He sighed, clearly embarrassed.

“I did not mean to offend. Dunk is a fine name, for a fine man. I owe you a great debt, Ser Dunk.” You hummed, looking to your left to where his horses stood, shaken but still there. You looked behind you, to where you expected to find your stallion, only to see an empty field going on for leagues.

“Shit.” You cursed, and your hand once again smacked itself to your mouth as you turned back to face Dunk, eyes wide.

“I apologize for my brazen tongue,” You said, mortified, “It is only that my stallion has gone and I cannot get back to my family otherwise. My father will…oh gods my father…”

You started to spiral, to think of the lecture you would get if Yorkle found you or the even bigger lecture you would get if you were forced to walk back to camp, assuredly arriving well after sunset.

“Your family is nearby? A-are you headed to the tourney at Ashford Meadow, by any chance?” Dunk questioned, and you nodded.

“Yes on all accounts, though I doubt I will be able to show my face. My father will have me locked away within our lodgings.” You bit the ends of your nails, and Dunk thinned his lips.

“I have no need for three horses. Take one, and if we meet again at Ashford, I will take him back.” Dunk offered, walking over to one of his horses. He brought over a stallion from what you saw, a stot with a brown coat and shabby saddle.

“I cannot ask such a kindness from you, ser.” You rejected, yet he insisted. 

“It would be dishonorable for me to leave a lady such as yourself stranded as night draws near.” He said it as if it were that simple, as if giving away what was surely one of his most valuable assets was a small favour.

“I…I will return him to you, ser. Find me at Ashford and he is yours again, I swear it by the old gods and the new.” You said, and he smiled for the first time. His smile was like the sun, all slightly crooked teeth and earnest light as he helped you onto the horse. It was easy, he had said, you practically weighed nothing to the giant.

“What—what name shall I call if I see you again?” Dunk asked when you dug your heel gently into the horse. Chestnut, the stot was named. You looked back at the kind man, considering your answer for a moment. 

“Starlily!” You laughed, and you were off, whipping the reins and sending Chestnut into a steady canter back to camp.

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A/N: ignore the fact I accidentally spelt Yorkel like Yorkle the whole time LMFAO I won’t do it in future chapters 😘🙏