Star Crossed Yanderes

You parked the beat-up car, provided by the Hunter’s Association, and hurried to your destination. The building was as gloomy as the weather had been over the past few days, an old building that had once been quite beautiful but years of neglect had turned it into a sad husk of its former glory, but you knew better than to take its appearance at face value. You entered the building and walked down to the bar area. 

The underground auction hummed with activity from the elite patrons scattered around the main hall. The atmosphere thick with the weight of unspoken deals and veiled power. The gathered people toured each display case admiring the rare and even dangerous items. The room itself was a study in contrasts: ornate carvings and velvet drapes disguised the building's grim origins, while the scent of aged whiskey mingled with a faint metallic tang that hinted at hidden weaponry and the musk of the centuries old building. 

You stood behind the bar at the far end of the room, polishing glasses in methodical circles as your eyes scanned the crowd. It was all you had been entrusted to do so far, which was probably for the best as your focus was far away from the menial task in your hand.

Instead, you were watching Sylus Qin take his place among the elite, as effortlessly commanding as ever. His presence filled the space as he entered, capturing everyone’s attention. They couldn’t help their stares, yet no one dared to approach him without an invitation. His tailored black suit hugged his broad shoulders and tapered perfectly down his lean frame. His silver hair framed his sharp features, catching the warm light of the chandeliers and making him look like he’d stepped out of a painting, if paintings could exude danger and power. 

Sylus moved with a predator’s grace, flanked by two men in crow masks, Luke and Kieran you’d discovered from your research. Every step was deliberate and unhurried, as he took note of his surroundings. The unspoken king of the N109 zone. The sight of him was always enough to start your pulse racing, a mix of respect and that simmering desire that haunted you when you were around him. 

You tried to refocus on the bar, on the repetitive motions of your hands as you arranged the bottles and tools, trying to ground yourself. Yet, every few moments, your gaze flickered back to him, taking note of the items he seemed interested in, or who he deemed important enough to give a cursory nod to. He only spoke to his men, their conversation quiet and completely theirs, a faint smirk playing on his lips as the three of them chuckled about something one of them had said. The glint in his crimson eyes was as sharp and calculating as ever - a man who already knew the outcome of the night’s dealings. You felt a twinge of envy for the effortless way he commanded attention, for how he belonged so completely in a world you were only pretending to inhabit.

He was headed right for you, you realised. Well, for the bar that was. His approach left you no room to be caught off guard. You busied yourself arranging glasses, trying to look preoccupied as he closed the distance between you. You looked between the bottles you were fussing with and the other bartender working alongside you as his footsteps came to a halt. He cleared his throat, signalling for attention, completely unnecessarily when he already commanded it so effortlessly. 

His voice, smooth as velvet, broke through the hum of the room. "An old-fashioned," he said. This voice made your stomach turn in somersaults.

“Right away sir,” The other bartender replied, but Sylus cut him off before he could start making his drink. 

“I’d prefer that she be the one to make my drink,” He stated. 

You spun around in shock to find his eyes already firmly locked on you. He was even more handsome up close, if that was even possible. 

“Me?” You said, your words coming out a little more alarmed than you’d intended. 

“Her?” Your colleague exclaimed at the same time, with the same tone of alarm. He must have remembered the negroni you’d made at your interview. “Sir, s-she’s just in training I think it’s b-”

“I don't care what you think,” Sylus snapped, his eyes never leaving your face. “I find my drink always tastes better when it’s been made by someone beautiful.”

You could feel the heat rise in your face. Beautiful. He called you beautiful. Your heart rate raced in your chest, if he was any closer, you were sure he would’ve been able to hear its frantic pumping. Was it too dramatic to pass out?

His smirk deepened further at your reaction, satisfied at having had the chance to throw you off your guard, for being the reason the blood rushed to your face. 

The other bartender sighed before gesturing for you to begin. You nodded at him, then focussed on, keeping your hands steady as you prepared the drink. Each motion felt heightened - the clink of ice against glass, the subtle aroma of bitters and orange peel. You forced yourself to ignore Sylus as you concentrated on your work, pouring your attention into every detail, desperate to make this moment flawless, to impress him. When you slid the finished drink across the counter, your fingers brushed each other on the cool glass as he picked it up. Your hand flexed as you rested it behind you and watched him.

Sylus took a slow sip, his carmine eyes fixed on you. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed the drink you had made for him, the movement drawing your eyes in. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension, before he finally spoke. "Impressive," he said, his voice laced with approval. "That’s the best old-fashioned I’ve had in years.” You could’ve passed out right then and there from the praise that fell from his lips. “Such… talent for someone still training, you’re surely wasted with your current employer miss…"

The comment hit you like a lightning strike, leaving your heart pounding the way he said it felt pointed, almost teasing. You managed a polite smile, when you’d finally encouraged your brain to resume its normal functioning. "Natalie," you said softly.

His eyebrow twitched a little as you said your alias’ name, but it was gone as soon as it happened. Instead, a slight smile graced the corners of his lips as he repeated the name. "Natalie," he said, as though tasting it, testing it. The name on his tongue was disarming, yet undeniably frustrating, you wanted to hear him say your real name, for it to be you he was addressing, not some fabricated identity. He placed a hefty tip on the bar in front of you, nodding as a gesture for you to take it. 

“Enjoy your evening, sir” you said, desperately trying to remain as calm as possible as you took the tip. Was that too much eye contact? You should look away. Are you sweating? 

One of his henchmen let out a slight giggle, only to be swiftly kicked by the other masked man. Sylus tipped his drink at you in a salute and walked away to his table, front and centre. 

The lights dimmed in the room as the auctioneer stepped up to the podium and people hurried to take their seats. Your palms were sweaty and shaking as you watched the beginnings of the proceedings. You turned to the bartender and told him you were going to head to the restroom, desperate to find a quiet place to calm your racing heart and mind. He simply glared at you and nodded, still butthurt by the interaction with Sylus. 

You found solace on the upper balcony, where the noise of the auction floor became a distant murmur. The air was cooler here. Its freshness kissing your skin as you leaned against the railing, trying to collect yourself. Your heart raced, not just from the interaction but from the overwhelming mix of emotions swirling inside you. Desire, frustration, and a gnawing sense of inadequacy warred for dominance. The tip burned from its place in your pocket.

What were you even doing here? Captain Jenna had insisted you take this opportunity to meet him in person, but where had it gotten you? Making his drinks and watching him. So, nowhere. You sighed, rubbing your face as you tried to collect yourself. Everything came back to the uselessness of the Hunters Association. 

Unbeknownst to you, Sylus had noticed your sudden departure and was in fact not pleased to have lost sight of his favourite source of entertainment. He remained seated, but his gaze scanned the room carefully. Where had you gone? His interest had been piqued, and now you’d disappeared. The realization left him unsettled, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar sensation he didn’t care to name.

Lucienne chose that exact moment to approach him, gliding across the room in her burgundy slip dress. The fabric clung to her figure, the sheen of the material catching the light with every step. To anyone else, she looked stunning, but to Sylus, it felt calculated and false. Her confidence faltered slightly under his sharp gaze, but she recovered quickly, smiling as she addressed him.

"Sylus," she said warmly, her voice dripping with familiarity. "I was hoping to run into you again tonight."

He stood out of politeness, offering her a cordial smile. "Lucienne," he said smoothly. "What a surprise." He knew he would regret leading her on like that.

She reached out, resting a hand on his arm as she leaned closer, her tone taking on a flirtatious edge. "I thought we might discuss a partnership," she began, clearly indicating something more than just business. 

His face fell into a look of disinterest and he almost rolled his eyes at her attempt to flirt with him. His eyes flickered briefly to the bar, where he’d last seen you, and a flicker of irritation creeping into his otherwise flawless facade.

Lucienne, noticing his distraction, faltered. Her words stumbling slightly . "I mean, if you’re… interested, of course."

Sylus couldn’t stand her touch for much longer. He gently removed her hand from his arm, stepping back just enough to establish a boundary. "Forgive me, Lucienne, but I’m preoccupied tonight." He replied, his tone polite but detached as he sat back down in his chair. 

The conversation was over, there was no question about it and Lucienne knew that. She had been dismissed. She lingered for a moment, her expression faltering before she excused herself. Sylus’ gaze returned to the room, scanning once more for any sign of you.

Your grip tightened on the balcony railing as you watched the scene below. Fucking Lucienne! Your chest tightened with jealousy. Of course, he was interested in her. She was elegant, poised, and clearly belonged in his world. And yet you couldn’t dismiss your own interaction with him. 

Did you imagine it? The way his eyes softened when he looked at you. The way he seemed… interested in you. No. There was no way you were that delusional. He must have taken a liking to you, that was the only explanation for it. At least, it was the one you were going to go with. The one that gave you some hope that he would be accepting of you once you made your move. 

No. He doesn’t belong to her. He doesn’t belong to anyone, yet.

The door clicked closed as you entered the stillness of your apartment, finally shutting out the chaos of the night. Equal parts of exhaustion and excitement thrumming through your system. Your feet ached from the long shift, but that was nothing compared to the way your emotions raged inside you. 

You took the cash Sylus had given you out of your back pocket, your fingers trembling slightly as you unfolded it. It felt heavier than it should, not because of its physical weight, but because of what it represented. He’d noticed you. The thought sent a dizzying rush through your veins. He hadn’t just noticed you - he’d spoken to you, given you his money, chosen you in that moment. A wild mix of elation and disbelief surged in your chest, leaving you breathless.

The crisp texture of the bills felt surreal under your fingertips, grounding you even as your thoughts spun. Your mind replayed the encounter on an endless loop, picking apart every detail like a cherished relic.

And yet, a thorn of unease pricked at the edges of your joy, the thought of Lucienne tied to him casting a faint shadow. It niggled at the back of your mind, unwelcome and persistent, but it wasn’t enough to pierce through the haze of reverence you felt. The money, his money, sat in your hands like a promise you didn’t fully understand yet.

You’d played the role of Natalie Moore perfectly tonight - dutiful, composed, unremarkable.You leaned back against it for a moment, the cool wood grounding you. His voice, low and deliberate, as he ordered the drink you’d prepared. The faint curve of his lips when he’d complimented your skill. The way his crimson eyes had softened, just for a heartbeat, when they met yours. Your breath hitched at the memory, heat creeping up into your cheeks.

You shrugged off your coat, tossing it onto the back of the couch. Your heels were the next to go, kicked off haphazardly, one landing near the door and the other skidding across the floor to rest beneath the coffee table. The act of discarding them felt almost cathartic, but it did nothing to clear your chaotic thoughts. 

Your apartment was a mess. 

Clothes strewn across furniture; takeout containers littered the room; an enormous pile of dirty dishes. Your eyes swept across the chaos, the clutter pressing down on your chest like a weight that couldn’t be lifted. Each out-of-place object seemed to gnaw at the edges of your mind, a cacophony of silent accusations. You'd let this get out of hand. Your desk - once meticulously organised with your notes and recordings - was now a disheveled mess of papers, empty coffee cups, and half-finished reports.

This wasn’t you. You were methodical, deliberate, and precise. You’d always taken pride in maintaining a perfectly kept space, your cleaning routine serving to clear your mind and set you up for the coming weeks of work, but the last few weeks had been a whirlwind of spiraling thoughts and poorly managed emotions. It showed.

The sheer mess of your life felt like an insult to your obsession with him. How could you imagine yourself by his side when your own space looked like this? Disgusting. 

“God,” you muttered under your breath, the word slicing through the oppressive silence.

Despite the ache in your feet and your exhaustion, you knew you couldn’t leave the mess any longer. Pulling your hair back into a ponytail, you dove in. The rhythmic act of cleaning took over as you scrubbed dishes, tidied up clutter, and vacuumed the floors. Each task felt like a small victory, the chaos slowly giving way to order. Trash bags piled up, requiring three trips to the bins, each one tossed with a satisfying finality. By the time you reached your desk, the rest of the apartment had transformed into the haven it was meant to be. Only a few loads of laundry, your desk and a change of bedding remained before you could finally call it a night.

You started organising your desk. Sorting into piles to be filed, “reports” to be finished and you silently tucked away a few more personal notes. It was there, amidst the organised disarray of your notes and tools, that you spotted something that had your mind pausing its focus. A tracker. Sleek, discreet, and entirely unassuming, it rested on the corner of the desk like a forgotten artifact. Its smooth surface felt cool in your hands as you turned it over to look at it more clearly. The Hunter’s Association had issued it to you as part of the mission - a tool to help you keep tabs on Sylus’ movements. But it had limitations, ones you could no longer afford.

Your mind whirred with the ideas bouncing around but with the state of your exhaustion, you couldn’t properly latch onto any of them. For now, you stored the tracker in one of the draws and decided to reward yourself.

Bath finally drawn, you allowed yourself to strip off the final layers of Natalie, relaxing into the warm, bubble water as just you. The water soothed your sore muscles, overworked from your combined shift and the borderline manic cleaning of your apartment. 

Sinking further down into the bubbles, you sighed as you considered your next moves. You wanted him, wanted him all to yourself, no distractions. How were you going to explain yourself to him? How could you make him understand without scaring him? Your thoughts once again turned to Noah and his rejection of you. Wincing, you tried to push it from your mind, subconsciously cupping the side of your face from the memory of the sting. 

Wait. 

Maybe the problem was that he finally confronted you in public! That’s why Noah was so upset right? He had been caught off guard in public and reacted like that because of how everyone else was staring, right?

So, all you would need to do is get Sylus to someplace private, away from the hustle and bustle of other people. Easy!

Turned out it was not so easy after all. Your first thought had been to bring him here. To your own apartment. The idea had sent a thrill through you until you thought about it for even a little second. Your apartment was out of the question. It was too small, too exposed, and far too close to the Association’s watchful eye. You needed somewhere secure, somewhere they wouldn’t think to look. I mean all of your neighbours were hunters. Having him in your space, would absolutely not work. 

You opened your laptop, setting it on your newly organised desk, and began your search. The listings in Linkon were plentiful, ranging from modest apartments to luxurious penthouses. But each one was vetoed pretty quickly. Too close to the Hunter’s Association. The area was too busy. Near a school? Absolutely not appropriate in your opinion! It all came down to the Association’s jurisdiction covering the entire city. Any property you acquired in Linkon would be far too easily found and traced. Bringing him here would place him in far too much danger. You were not willing to do that. 

Frustration gnawed at you like a relentless itch, leaving you restless in your chair. You sighed, leaning back with a soft thud and dragging your hand through your hair, the strands falling messily back into place. “How do you even find a safe house?” you muttered to the empty room, the edge in your voice sharper than you intended.

The N109 zone. It was your only option now, but finding a property there? That was another beast entirely. There were no real estate agents for the N109 zone - no polished offices with eager professionals offering brochures and coffee. There weren’t even official listings. Just a tangled mess of underground networks, anonymous forums, and shadowy contacts who vanished when pressed for details.

You spent hours scouring message boards and digital scraps of information, each post a breadcrumb promising something useful only to turn to dust when you followed it. Property A? Already occupied by squatters who didn’t just refuse to leave - they sent a heavily veiled warning not to come asking again. Property B? Owned by someone with clear ties to Sylus’ rivals. Even seeing the name had made your pulse quicken, the risk too great to ignore. And Property C? A literal death trap with rotted floors, exposed wiring that sparked in the listing video, and the unsettling promise that it might collapse on you mid-sleep.

You could not embarrass yourself by bringing him to any of those places. 

You closed yet another useless tab, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from screaming. Your patience was fraying like a taut rope, thread by thread. You weren’t naive - you knew the N109 zone wouldn’t just hand you an answer wrapped up in a neat bow. But with every dead end, every link that spiralled into nothing, the reality of it all loomed larger: you were running out of options.

“How does anyone survive in that place?” you muttered bitterly, slumping back in your chair.

The quiet of your apartment enveloped you. That awful kind of stillness that lets thoughts creep in uninvited, pressing against the edges of your already frayed mind.

Your jaw tensed as you fought against the rising doubt, dragging a hand through your hair. The ache in your temples pulsed as your thoughts spiraled, circling the same impossible problem over and over again. 

You wanted to see him. To know where he was right now, but the little menace had been almost going out of his way to lose you recently. There were days when you didn’t get to see him at all and that began to annoy you. What if he was doing it on purpose? 

It would be so much easier if you knew where he was, literally all the time. 

The idea sat there for a moment, harmless and innocent, before unfurling fully in your mind. You sat up straighter, your pulse quickening as it settled in place. Of course. Knowing where Sylus was at all times - his movements, his location - wouldn’t solve everything, but it would give you some form of highground. A sense of control you were sorely lacking right now.

Your fingers tapped against the desk as the thought burrowed deeper. You knew that tracker would come in handy.

It was tucked away in the drawer, exactly where you’d left it the day before, when you cleaned up your workspace. The drawer slid open, and you hesitated briefly before reaching for the sleek, unassuming device. The metal was cool against your fingers, heavier than you remembered.

Staring at the tracker, you placed it carefully on the desk. For a long moment, you just took in your situation, torn between reluctance and temptation. The tracker wasn’t yours - it was theirs, a tool given to you by the Hunter’s Association. Using it felt like crossing another line, breaking yet another rule.

But hadn’t you already done that?

You picked up the tracker, rolling it between your fingers as if testing its weight, its worth. It was a tool from the Association, but it didn’t feel like yours - not yet. That could change. You had the skills to corrupt its programming, to sever its link to their systems and bend it to your own needs. Of course, if they ever caught on, it would be over for you. But the thought of leaving it untouched, of not using it at all, left you feeling even more powerless.

Your chest tightened as you weighed the choice, a part of you thinking this might be too far, but the other part - the louder, hungrier part - had already made up its mind.

You returned your focus to the laptop. The glow of the screen painted your face in cool light as you sat back down, the room filling with the quiet hum of fans and faint clicks of your keyboard. You knew what you had to do. You had to make the tracker yours. 

No links to the Association. Just you, and him. Well, watching him.

You worked with carefully, precisely, your hands steady as you pried the tracker open with a bobby pin. The casing popped apart with a soft snap, revealing a delicate web of circuits inside. A faint hum emanated from its core, and you paused for only a moment before diving in, disconnecting the transmitter. You cut the link that fed its data back to the Association. It was a simple task, but that didn’t stop the thrum of nerves as you severed the tie to their ownership of the tracker.

The next part was trickier. You opened a new program on your laptop, lines of code scrolling and scrolling endlessly, the DNA of the motherboard. Code you, luckily, knew well enough to work with. The Association’s firewalls were formidable, of course they were, you’d helped set them up in your early days as a hunter, but you were better. Where the Association had allowed itself to sit stagnant on advancements in programming, you’d remained informed. Each line of code gave way under your knowledge, firewalls and protections fell as you navigated deeper into their system, ensuring the PCB’s connection was completely severed from the Association, down to the core.When the final line of code executed successfully, a small ping sounded from your laptop. You smiled, feeling very content with yourself. But you weren’t finished. 

You needed to attach your own GPS system, upgrade the transmitter’s coding and finally link all of it to your own personal devices. Each successful execution sent a thrill through you, a mix of relief and triumph. Finally, the tracker’s signal reappeared - this time, on your laptop monitor. A bright dot blinked steadily on the screen, marking its presence in real time. You moved through your apartment with the tracker, seeing the precise location on the screen moving with you. 

You exhaled slowly, a tension you didn’t realise you’d been holding dissipating from your shoulders. You picked up your phone, syncing the device so the dot appeared on the map interface. When you moved the tracker across the desk, the dot followed seamlessly, its connection flawless.

“Perfect,” you murmured, your voice soft, almost reverent.

Another thread of control had slipped neatly into your hands, leaving you with a small, sharp satisfaction curling in your chest.

You sat back, staring at the pulsing dot on your phone screen. Where are you now? The thought came unbidden, edged with curiosity and something darker, something you weren’t ready to name. Knowing you could see him whenever you wanted, that you could follow his movements with just a glance, sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

But the tracker was just the first step. It gave you knowledge - his location, his movements - but that wasn’t enough. What good was knowing where he was when you couldn’t reach him? Couldn’t bring him to you? You needed more.

The words slithered through your mind, making your fingers twitch against the armrest. More control. More certainty. Sylus was untouchable, out of reach in every way that mattered, and the thought gnawed at the edges of your resolve. He wouldn’t come willingly. You’d have to bring him to you - close the distance yourself, force his gaze back to you, where it belonged.

The solution whispered itself to you like a secret: a sedative. That could work.

You pulled your laptop closer, once again motivated enough to solve your problems. Your fingers hesitated for only a moment before typing “effective sedatives” into the search bar. It felt almost ridiculous - wrong, even - and yet the click of the keys was so deliberate, so purposeful. You swallowed hard, watching the results flood the page in long, disjointed lists: blog articles, obscure medical forums, even links to dubious N109 black-market suppliers.

The first few results were absurd: "Ten Sleepy-Time Teas for Your Insomniac Lover!" A soft exhale of a laugh escaped you. As if the Sylus Qin would ever be taken down by a sleepy time tea. You scrolled further, past DIY sleep aids and over-the-counter nonsense, until the real answers started to surface. The research became clinical, factual, with medical terms you had to work hard to decipher. If you could talk to a medical professional, you could probably understand this a lot easier, buuuut you'd also almost certainly end up locked up. So the internet was your only source of information.

Chloroform was an early temptation, of course, you’d seen it used in TV shows and movies for the exact same outcome. Fast-acting, the promise of unconsciousness in only a few minutes - it had an appeal that made your pulse quicken. You clicked through case studies, reading about its use, imagining for just a moment pressing a cloth to his face and holding it there until…

No.

You grimaced, shoving the thought away as quickly as it came. The TV shows had clearly not done their own proper research. The drawbacks were too much: burns from exposure, unpredictable dosage based on weight and metabolism. Could you even reach his face? He was tall - so tall - you’d have to stand on your toes just to hold the rag in place. The mental image was absurd. Worse than that though, it was dangerous. And the thought of leaving a mark, even an unintentional one made you draw back from that line of thinking completely. You’d sooner fail than disfigure him in any way. Sylus was perfect, every sharp edge and flawless line.

With a sigh, you moved on, typing new terms into the search bar. Fast-acting sedatives. Safe sedatives. Substances for unconsciousness with minimal trace.

Pentobarbital caught your eye next. A potent barbiturate with a long and controversial history - it was strong enough to knock him out, yes, but its unpredictability made you hesitate. You skimmed the medical notes, lips pressed into a thin line as the words blurred together. Respiratory depression. Lethal at higher doses. Your pulse skipped at the word lethal. Immediately striking it off the list, that wasn’t an option. You would not hurt him.

The thought came back like a mantra, as if you needed to convince yourself. This isn’t to hurt him. This is to help him. To protect him.

Scrolling further, you found something promising: midazolam. A benzodiazepine with a clean, precise reputation. Fast-acting and reliable, it was commonly used in hospitals to calm patients before procedures. One moment they were awake, and the next… gone. Its effects were temporary, too - enough to ensure that you could get him where you needed to without causing harm. At higher doses, it could completely knock someone out, at lower doses, it could be used to make him easier to manoeuvre into a vehicle or something like that. 

Your eyes traced the screen as you absorbed the information. Minimal taste, odourless in liquid form. Perfect. Your hands trembled slightly as you bookmarked the page, your breathing steadying as the weight of the decision settled over you. You sat back and stared at the text on your screen, imagining it in action.

A drink - just one. He’d tip back the glass, never knowing what you’d slipped into it. It would be easy. He’d close his eyes, his tall frame relaxing as the drug took hold. Then you’d… what? Somehow get him to a safe house. Your thoughts stumbled, and you forced yourself to keep moving forward. The details didn’t matter yet. What mattered was the first step: securing the sedative.

Your search shifted as you began scouring suppliers, looking for underground networks and black-market pharmacies that wouldn’t ask questions. This was the N109 zone’s territory, you realised. There were no rules out there - no ethics, no oversight. Just people like you, willing to pay the price for what they needed. You glanced at your dwindling stack of cash, running numbers in your head. It would be worth it. Every penny, every risk - worth it to have him.

A few days had passed, and the dust had settled. Now in your possession was a small vial of midazolam, a tracker linked to your phone, and a fully formed plan simmering quietly in your mind. The pieces were finally starting to align, each one as dangerous as it was necessary. Yet, the issue of the safe house remained unresolved. 

Slumped at your desk, you opened your laptop with a sigh, half-expecting another fruitless search. Your inbox pinged, startling you slightly. A new message sat there, the subject line calling out to you: Exclusive Properties in the N109 Zone.

Your brow furrowed. Properties? You didn’t remember signing up for anything like this. You frowned, your mind racing. Had you registered your interest in properties accidentally? Maybe you had clicked something in your late-night searches and forgotten. Or maybe someone was tracking your internet history. The thought set you on edge, but you pushed the feeling aside. Your interest had been piqued, you clicked into the email, the sleek formatting and pristine images catching your attention immediately. There were three listings, each stunningly presented with immaculate photos and descriptions. They had flexible term contracts, furnished or unfurnished options; all boasting of being discrete and having excellent security as well.they were, for lack of a better word: perfect.

Number one was sleek and modern, all sharp angles and steel. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sprawling city, though the interior felt cold - almost sterile. It was a fortress, but one without a soul. You could see its appeal to someone with no interest in comfort, just functionality. It would do but it wouldn’t be the most comfortable.

Number two was ostentatious. Crystal chandeliers, plush gold accents, and velvet everything. It reeked of new money trying too hard to be tasteful, every inch designed to be a showpiece rather than a home. It was beautiful, gaudy yes, but still beautiful. 

And then there was, number three. The moment the image loaded, your breath hitched. Dark wood floors, soft amber lighting, and furnishings that struck the perfect balance between luxury and livability. The space was grand yet intimate, the leather sofas arranged around a massive set of windows that let the city lights spill in like a painting. It was elegant without being overdone - rich but warm, like someone had considered every detail carefully.

Your gaze lingered on the images longer than you realized. Something about it felt right. Safe, even. Like a place where you could rest, regroup, and focus - without feeling watched.if you ever had unlimited funds, this is what you would’ve chosen for yourself but alas you did not.

And then you saw the price.

Your heart sank. The numbers glared back at you, cruel and unrelenting. The cheapest penthouse was far beyond your reach, and this one? Laughable. You leaned back, dragging a hand through your hair in frustration.

“What a joke,” you muttered, biting back the sting of disappointment. Closing the tab, you shook your head. It’s just bait. Probably a scam anyway. Still that last property stuck with you, you even went as far as to pin it to your “home inspiration” pinterest board. 

Across the city, Sylus stared at his screen, his crimson eyes narrowing as he watched the moment you dismissed the listing. Through Mephisto’s feed, he saw the flicker of disappointment on your face and something deep within him twisted. He was irritated.

You hadn’t chosen any of them. Hadn’t even looked long enough. His jaw clenched as he brought up your file, flicking through to try and understand why on earth you would dismiss the places he picked out for you. Finally a thought struck him. Finances. Specifically, your finances. He rifled through your baking history and what he saw made his lip curl. Your accounts were nearly empty, savings depleted, seemingly all withdrawn over the course of a single week.He scrolled back further, checking your transaction history and almost sneering at what he saw. The total amount that had been withdrawn was less than he made in a single deal, significantly less actually. Your monthly income, a pitiful amount.

This is what you were living on? A bitter laugh escaped him, though it was more disbelief than amusement. The numbers on the screen - meager remnants of paychecks from the Hunter’s Association - were laughable. You’d been scraping by, sacrificing comfort, and working for them.  Plus the job of a hunter was incredibly dangerous, not to mention completely essential to Linkon city. And this was your wage? Pennies?

“Unbelievable,” he murmured, a dangerous softness in his tone. She’s worth so much more.

Sylus’ fingers hovered over the keys, and with a few precise strokes, he adjusted the listings. He knocked down the prices to amounts you couldn’t ignore, nudging them closer to affordability. Even so, the thought of you paying at all rankled him. You didn’t owe him anything - he didn’t want your money, he just wanted you. He’d make them free but that would be far too suspicious.

“She’d better pick the one she actually wants,” he said to himself, unable to stop the faintest smirk from tugging at his lips.

The second ping of your inbox drew your attention. Frowning, you opened the message - the same one as before, but now with the subject line Updated Listings - Limited Time Offer.

Your brow furrowed, as you looked at the email suspiciously. “No way.”

But still you clicked back on the listings, your heart pounding. Each property was the same, same pictures, same descriptions, same everything. Except for one thing, the price. They were cheaper - dramatically cheaper. The numbers you’d seen initially were slashed down to something that could possibly be achievable. Still steep, but no longer completely impossible.

“What the fuck?” you whispered, your pulse quickening.

Had the system adjusted after picking up on your interest? Was this some kind of algorithm-driven discount? The whole thing screamed ‘too good to be true’, and every rational bone in your body told you to close the screen.

But what if it isn’t too good to be true?

Your gaze drifted back to the third penthouse -the one you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. It was perfect. Too perfect. Your instincts still screamed caution, but something in your chest clenched at the thought of letting it slip away. Well you know what happens when you want something.

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” you muttered to yourself, the words firm. Rationality had, of course, gotten you nowhere. Maybe it was time to take yet another huge risk.

Your cursor hovered for a long moment before you clicked “confirm.” The screen flashed, and your inbox updated with a confirmation and instructions for sending payment. You exhaled sharply, the knot in your chest unraveling into something strange and electric. Relief. Satisfaction. Excitement.

“Finally,” you whispered, a small smile tugging at your lips. 

The seller told you to deposit the cash in a subway locker and they would exchange it for the key, deed and other papers registering the property as yours. It all felt very official for the N109 zone, you didn’t even know that houses had deeds over there. 

Sylus watched in real time as your smile bloomed - wide and radiant, lighting up your entire face. He froze, his fingers stilling mid-motion as he took you in. The way you bit your bottom lip as you checked the details, the small, victorious clap of your hands as you leaned back in your chair - it was intoxicating. His chest ached with something he didn’t want to name, something far more tender than he’d ever felt before.

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice soft, reverent almost. Of course you had picked the one he’d decorated for you - not consciously, perhaps, but with you in mind. The warmth, the comfort, the faint sense of safety it exuded - it was all tailored to what he imagined you would want. And you’d chosen it.

A smirk curled his lips, though there was no malice in it - only pride. It felt like a victory, like you’d stepped closer to where you truly belonged. To him.

“Adorable,” he muttered, watching you scroll through the confirmation screen again, as if afraid it might disappear. He leaned forward, his crimson eyes narrowing slightly as if speaking directly to you through the screen.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice rich and dark, “you should know better than to think anyone else would hand you something so easily. I’m the only one you need.”

Mephisto gave a mechanical twitch, a subtle nod of agreement, and Sylus leaned back, his satisfaction curling through him like a slow-burning ember. The sight of you - humming softly to yourself, your fingers tapping the keys as you admired the penthouse - was intoxicating in ways he couldn’t quite name. You were his, even if you didn’t know it yet.

Thinking of you living in that space, beneath the roof of a building he owned, sent a thrum of delight coursing through his veins. Finally. You’d be safe there - so much more under his protection that nothing in this wretched city could touch you. Not the Hunter’s Association, not the chaos of the N109 zone, and certainly not anyone foolish enough to think they could come between you and him. He’d make sure of it.

But beyond the satisfaction of having you tethered so neatly to his world, there was a deeper pleasure - one he hadn’t anticipated. The joy on your face, the smile that lit up your expression when you thought you’d won, lingered in his mind like a warmth he couldn’t shake, no matter how tightly he buried it beneath his usual resolve. He had put that smile there. He’d made you happy, even if you didn’t yet understand why.

Soon enough, you would. You’d see how far he was willing to go - how much of the world he would bend and break to keep you close. Gods, you were perfect for him. Perfect. And now, you were right where you belonged - under his protection, and his control.

“Enjoy it, kitten,” Sylus murmured, his crimson eyes glinting as he stared at the screen. “I’ll enjoy it too.”

➽──────────────────────────────────❥

I feel Sylus is incredibly hot in this chapter to be honest, but let me know your thoughts haha! Thank you so much for reading!

Please let me know what you think  

You've known Light for years. You didn't think anyone else besides his family knew him as well as you did. After all, you've both been childhood friends since elementary.

Even now you're close... you've been dating since you were highschool juniors.

You remember Light as compassionate with a sense of justice in childhood, no doubt due to his father being a police officer. Through school he's always been the top student... he's always been the most popular. Despite this, he still stuck by you as your best friend and boyfriend later on.

Due to you two being close, you just seemed to know when something was wrong with him. If anyone could read him, it was usually you. You care for him... you love each other...

Which is why you began to grow concerned when Light's attitude changed.

Light began to grow cold towards others. He acts like those around him aren't worthy of his attention, yet you can tell he's hiding it. He's... definitely changed towards others.

Yet Light always seems to be the same compassionate person with you... always sincere despite lying to everyone else.

You're the only one worth his time in his eyes.

This behavior only started when you were both seniors in high school. It was such a... subtle yet sudden change. Just enough for you to notice.

You originally assumed that the stress of high school finals was getting to him. Perhaps that would make him push others away...? He did want to go to that University for Criminal Justice.

But something kept nagging you. You just couldn't forget the glare he kept giving others around you. You couldn't ignore the apathy he held towards the recent Kira murders.

For someone you once knew as compassionate... you could tell he had no concern for anyone except his family and you.

Even in University you two are still attached to the hip. Light insisted on keeping the relationship going as he studies. Despite your worries, you still love him and hope he gets better.

He doesn't... in fact...

He seems worse as time goes on.

You aren't blind when you see how Light acts around you. Sure, he acts very caring and affectionate with you... but you're skeptical of if he's genuine or not. Plus, that's if it's just you two....

Light always seems to stare at his TV screen when the news comes on, the news rambling about the latest set of Kira murders. When you two go on outings to take a break, Light's grip is tight around your waist. When you hang out with friends...

They always seem to disappear and end up on the news.

The moment you noticed your friends going missing and dying on TV... you had your assumptions. It felt too... planned. Even more so when Light would comfort you with rough kisses on your neck while you attempt to grieve.

"It's okay... I'll protect you..." You remember him murmuring to you as he turns you away from the TV, holding you in his arms as he kisses you.

Light's apathetic and arrogant attitude was merely another hint. But the fate of your friends felt like a smoking gun. Such thoughts made you look into the Kira killings...

The answers you found made you dread being around your boyfriend when you put things together.

But you still felt you should confront him to confirm your suspicions

Light should've known you'd catch on. He knew you were clever and smart. He was better... but he should've known you'd be perceptive due to you both knowing each other for years.

Light cursed himself, knowing he should've hid the murders of your friends better. They weren't heart attacks, but you still picked it up. No doubt because it always happened after you hung out with them.

He let his emotions go unchecked. Out of jealousy he had written their names in the Death Note. Now you suspected him as Kira...

Yet... he calms himself... so what if you know?

You can't do anything about it with him around.

The moment you walked up to him in his dorm room, Light knew what you were planning by the glint in your eyes. Like you could with him, he was able to read you as well. He clenched his fists when you stood in front of him... you're nervous...

It's actually quite cute.

"Light... may we talk...?" You ask, your voice betraying you and revealing your nervous attitude.

"Of course, love..." Light grins, pulling you into his arms. He works his charm on you, lightly caressing your back. "What is it you need?"

"Could you be honest with me?" You ask, seeing Light's eyes darken for a moment.

"I'm always honest, baby...." Light murmurs, kissing the top of your head. He's trying to distract you with his affection and you know it.

"Then are you Kira?" You push yourself to say.

There's a long pause after your accusation. Light's silent, the only confirmation that he heard you being his grip tightening around you. His arms remain wrapped around you like snakes.

"Light..." You ask again, watching his glaring gaze. "Did you kill my friends...? Did you kill all those people...? How did-"

"You ask too many questions, love...." Light sighs, tilting your head up. "Why would I do such a thing? Do you think I'm capable of murder?"

You stare at each other, you can tell Light's hiding a smirk. You know he's lying. But Light still thinks he can convince you otherwise.

"Please, Light... I just want answers-" You plead, even if you were going to hate the outcome. "Did you kill them?"

Light doesn't seem like he wants to answer for a moment, frowning deeply before continuing.

"Oh, love... it's nothing to worry your pretty little head about." Light coos, kissing your cheek while keeping a tight grip on your chin. "Regardless of what I did I'll never hurt you...."

"So you did kill them..." You whisper, nervous. "You're Kira-"

"Sure, I'm Kira." Light shrugs. "I don't even care if you know anymore, because I know you won't tell a soul, baby."

"What makes you so sure I won't?" You ask, only for Light to lean down into your ear.

"You love me too much... that or you're scared of me..." Light chuckles, rubbing your back. "You know only trouble will come from reporting me, don't you, love? I could go after your family... or maybe even frame you..."

Light then leans closer, eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Or maybe I'll kill you to keep you to myself?"

His words send a shiver down your spine. Light merely looks amused at your fear. As usual, he read you right, you were scared of him.

"But sweetheart... we can look past this, can't we?" Light hums, rubbing your chin absentmindedly. "You know I only have secrets to keep you safe... we can continue dating..."

Light leans in, breath ghosting over your lips as he chuckles.

"You can continue to be mine... all you have to do is keep your mouth shut and stay by my side...."

"You're a psychopath..." You growl, causing Light to narrow his eyes.

"Really now...? Is me getting rid of criminals psychopathic?" Light frowns, looking you in the eyes. You push him away, but he just moves his grip to your waist.

"You killed my friends... for what!? They didn't do anything wrong!" You point out, only for Light to sigh.

"Baby... they did do something wrong." Light retorts before snaking a hand to the back of your head. You go to fight him but he pulls your face closer.

"They were trying to take you away from me..." Light grumbles, watching your anger with amused irritation. "They had to go, love... They would ruin everything if they knew the truth."

"I wouldn't tell them a thing...!" You try to say before Light kisses your lips, stunning you.

"Doesn't matter, honestly." Light sighs between his kisses. "You're mine all the same..."

His grip feels like a vice around you. You can't struggle against him. The threat of him killing you echoes in your mind... forcing you to play along as his partner.

"You won't tell anyone about Kira, will you?" Light asks, his tone threatening as he pulls away for a moment. There's only one answer...

"I won't tell anyone...." You agree, causing Light to smile.

"It's good to know you know what side you're on..." Light murmurs, "Even if you didn't... you'd always be mine one way or another."

With that, he resumes his kisses...

Bonus:

The cover: smooth, soft, fine leather. It feels nice to run your hand over it and you do it from time to time. Sometimes it feels warm. The corners: gold, darkened with age. They taste slightly salty (yes, you chewed them at some point, let's not talk about that). The paper: rough, thick, slightly yellow, clean pages like muddy water (there should be a bottom somewhere, but it’s not visible). Tom: soothing, gentle, funny, sympathetic, loving, the best, scary, all-knowing, affectionate, scary, witty, did I mention ‘scary’?

“Nothing special happened today,” you wrote and paused, thinking about your next sentence. He will know if you lie, he has proven it too many times. It's better to  switch the topic quickly. “There is a small problem with the task on potions, maybe you can help me?..”.

Sometimes you use ellipses when talking to him. Poke, poke, poke. Writing lacks the timid intonation so you draw it with dots.

Tom doesn't buy it.

“And what was not special that happened today?”

You began to sleep worse and eat less.

‘Y/N, are you okay?’ - asks someone to your right. It takes you a second to realize that you are sitting at a table in the Great Hall and it’s unbearably noisy here. It takes two more seconds to turn your unseeing gaze to the girl on the right (is that Mary? Mary what’shername? Mary MacDonald? Do we know each other? Why is she talking to me? How did I end up here?).

“Yes, everything is great,” you smile weakly. “I’ll just grab something to eat and it will be even better.”

The plate in front of you is empty. Mary's face is distorted by some kind of emotion, and it takes you another three seconds to recognize pity and disgust in it.

“Molly Prewett said I've been weird lately.”

Molly Prewett said she's already seen you in that shirt for several days in a row. Molly Prewett said your eye is twitching. Molly Prewett said you scream at night.

“Molly Prewett? That fat red-haired girl?” - you can almost see his mocking smile through the pages, and you immediately feel better, as if the invisible fingers squeezing your throat have slightly loosened their grip. “Y/N, dear, please don’t say that she actually managed to hurt your feelings. You do realize why she says that, right? You are the most beautiful and the smartest girl in Hogwarts, and this ugly bitch is simply dying of envy. Damn, I'm dying of self-envy. I’m the luckiest bastard ever to know you. It's a pleasure talking with you. You yourself are a pleasure. Of course, she is jealous, the whole of Hogwarts is crazy about you, otherwise they are just blind. Do you have a mirror in your room right now? Come on, look in it. There’s a princess living in your mirror, go check yourself!”

In your mirror lives a princess who has lain in a coffin for a hundred years. Hair tangled, eyes dull, sweater inside out.

You walk along the corridor,  moving your feet mechanically. You won't be able to remember what lesson is next on the schedule even if your life depends on it. Your peripheral vision has gone and all sounds seem to be distant as if there were cotton wool in your ears. Step. Step. Step. Step.

“Tom, this is just wonderful! I struggled over this essay for two hours, and you sorted it out in no time. Wait, don’t remove the solution yet, I’ll copy it…”

“Take your time, honey. I want my best girl to study well.”

Last week, for the first time in your life, you got a Troll in Transfiguration, which you used to love. You simply went to the pulpit and stood there with an absent look for two minutes. After class, professor McGonagall touches your elbow gently.

“Miss L/N, if you feel like you need to talk, I’m always ready to listen to you,” she says almost in a whisper. It's the warmest tone she can muster, but you already have someone always ready to listen.

“y/n sunshine my beloved dear y/n y/n y/n y/n i love you so please don’t go y/n y/n y/n if you have a heart you won’t leave me you're such a kind girl y/n you won't leave me here you'll help me you'll talk to me you'll love me you'll help me i believe y/n y/n y/n you're the best in the world if i find out that you told someone you’re dead dead dead dead dead dead you don’t know what i can do what i’m capable of you can’t escape me you’ll rot in azkaban forever if you tell anyone y/n don’t even think of that y/n you’re my sunshine you open the diary and i can breathe again i breathe you i live by you i will die without you don’t leave me help me i’m begging you i love you so i love you so”.

Choking with sobs, you look at the jumping lines. The pages are wet from your tears.

“What do you want me to do, Tom?”

It’s 3 a.m. You haven't slept for two days. How are you still able to write? How are you still able to think?

A Foreign Yandere that makes sweet love to you when you're a good girl and treats you like trash when you try to escape.

A Foreign Yandere that keeps abusing your pretty pussy with his fingers in the mornings.

A Foreign Yandere that smiles at your adorable confused face when his family and himself speak in their mother tongue. He can't help but want to place you on his lap and feed you.

A Foreign Yandere that keeps you by his side constantly, and when you're not, he has his dogs watching you.

A Foreign Yandere that has three beaucerons or dobermans he's been training to trail his beloved wife and uses your clothes to have them identify you as said wife.

A Foreign Yandere that ends up having to physically remove his own dogs from his own bed to sleep next to his own wife. He's all ready been working all day, and now he has more hard labor to do?! Oh, you better be ready to give him something in return!

A Foreign Yandere that eats you while you sleep, listening to the cute moans that send pleasurable tingles down his spine.

A Foreign Yandere that comes home one day and discovers you getting along with his mother and sisters.

A Foreign Yandere that can't wait to spoil you senseless once knowing you won't run away from him.

A Foreign Yandere that buys you everything you never needed and then some. He even splurges when buying food.

A Foreign Yandere that is very possessive. So much so, it takes your hand on his thigh and a sincere promise of spending quality time in the hot tub to quell his anger.

A Foreign Yandere that reinforces your promise and has you skinny dip instead.

A Foreign Yandere that refuses to stop fucking you, even when his older siblings walk by.

A Foreign Yandere that doesn't take no for an answer when it comes to your pleasure.

A Foreign Yandere that likes watching you play with his nieces and nephews.

A Foreign Yandere that's waiting to see you glow from pregnancy and to see you hold his child in your arms.

A Foreign Yandere that would spoil you and his child silly. He wouldn't just let you have all the fun with your newborn.

A Foreign Yandere that makes a great son, brother, uncle, husband and now father since you and your child have been added to the family.

A Foreign Yandere that smirks in satisfaction when you walk down the aisle, pregnant again, on your wedding day. He just can't take his eyes off you! And how could he when he has you as his beautiful bride and the wonderful mother of his children?

A Foreign Yandere that knows you won't try escaping him any longer when you've had his children and became his wife.

A Foreign Yandere that whispers his dream of having a house full of children that only his lovely little foreign wife can give him.

*sigh*

“Don’t be rude, Finch. This is love in its purest form. One day, you’ll understand.” The older male shrugs his shoulders.

“Now,” Ambrose reloads his gun, repeating his past actions, but this time, he looks straight into the other male’s eyes. “What do you know about Patrick Barton?” “I do not-” Ambrose cuts him off. “ Do not lie to me, young Finch…” His voice becomes lower, mocking, his aura more sinister. “You frequent more gentleman clubs than I; lord knows I hate the people and atmosphere of said clubs– Your mother grumbles enough to mine about the subject.” In goes the gunpowder: “You surround yourself with such…’ vast’ personalities from the elites to the ladies of the night.” The grey-eyed man reaches into his waistcoat for a lead bullet. “Yet you tell me– you don’t know about a mere Lord.” He scoffs.

Finch watches his older cousin's actions. Of course, he only asked to spend time with him for information regarding the apple of his eye’s new ‘suitor.’ The young man knows his current situation, the number of Grey partridge carcasses he holds because of Ambrose, and how far deep he’s in the forest, alone with his turbulent cousin. This was a warning, a show of sorts, that he could join these insignificant birds. He tries to swallow the heavy lump stuck in his throat. Ambrose was always the odd man; his smile never reached his eyes, his charm as real as a disloyal man’s ‘ I love you.’ His older cousin wasn’t above putting his hands on his own blood to get what he wanted– Ambrose’s father’s scar is evidence enough. 

“He partakes in Hell’s, frequents them more than gentleman’s clubs, a gambler of sorts. Loves it! He brags about the thrills of it and his winnings. Folks whisper that he’s a dishonourable shark. But it's not just hell establishments he attends; If there's someplace to gamble away his earnings, he's there,” Finch sputters his confession. 

“And Mills? Does he attend those as well?” “Yes,” The younger lad answers his senior instantly.

Ambrose just hums in return.

Just finishing his task, he aims for his cousin; he wears an inexpressive face, his grey eyes darkened and vacant, with no light, no soul.

“Wait, wait! I told you what you wanted!” Finch pleas. He could run, but in retrospect, how far can he go? Ambrose has a fucking rifle. He’s a good shot, no, an excellent shot. Hell! It’s borderline impossible how he always hits his targets, especially with how hard it is to aim for those things. Finch is panicking; his cousin has already pushed the first trigger. The nervous lad just accepts it; what else could he do? He closes his eyes, expecting his death to come quickly, then he hears a gunshot…

And he's fine…? Another Grey partridge falls from the sky right before him, its dead eye looking at the twenty-year-old.

Ambrose’s gun aims towards the sky. He lowers it. Then he casually approaches the stunned male, who lets out a staggered sigh, relieved he escaped death by a hair. Ambrose looks down at Finch, grabbing his shoulder and leaning in close. “Don’t ever fucking lie to me ever again, especially when the topic concerns my love.” Finch nods rapidly, shaking like a leaf. “Of course, sir, sorry.” Then, the older male releases his shoulders. “Good. Gift those birds to a peasant; perhaps they’ll make dinner with it, oh, and the rabbit, too. Say I have decided to help my community or something along those lines.” He looks at the sky. “I have a woman blessed by aphrodite to court.” His smile is bright, contrasting how he was a mere few seconds ago. He pats his younger cousin’s back and leaves the forest– The lifeless Grey partridge stares back at Finch, and he stares back.

Social calls…How dreadful. Worse is conversing with Lord Barton. He’s a bore, vulgar, and has an underlying inconsiderate, bitter personality. Having your mother as a chaperone does not make the situation any more bearable. 

 “Have you ever pondered about the future?” he inquires.

What kind of wet rag question is that? 

You put on a gentle smile. “Of course I have. Since I was a chit, I would read the local papers with my father-” He cuts you off “Children.” You look at him in confusion. “Pardon?”

The gentleman looks at you like you’re the biggest dunce in the country. “Children, how many children do you wish for? It would be sensible for us to have eight or ten,” “Hah…well…” you lift the tea cup to your mouth.

The man has no decorum…

After that fiasco, you decided to take a stroll downtown, and perhaps you’ll get a book from the local store, some new fabrics from a linen draper, or even some oils. Your pin money given to you by your parents could only cover one item... what a conundrum….

“Do tell me why the viscount’s only daughter is doing without a chaperone?” He leans against the brick wall, arms crossed, his smile beaming.

“Lord Howard, have you dropped your hunting hobby in exchange for stalking?” He chuckles. “Witty as always, but dare I disappoint? I was just strolling about my day and coincidentally saw you– Perhaps fate has decided for us to meet?” He pushes himself off the wall and offers his arm. Was it coincidence or fate…? No, it was none; it was all Ambrose, him asking your fellow lady peers about your whereabouts. Then, wandering near whatever local shops would possibly pique your interest. Memories play in his head, such as when you both were young and would rendezvous at the local forest. You would acquire many hobbies when you were younger– your mother said you would have a higher chance of obtaining a suitor with diverse skills. He would remember them and watch you in amazement when you talked about them. 

You made him feel human. You made him feel alive. His father was never a loving one; he gained the son he wanted, and his heir then wanted nothing more to do with him. The only attention Ambrose earned from The Earl was if he needed reprimanding. Every laugh that was too loud, every fork that he unitized improperly, every action, small or big, was scrutinized. His mother was a vacant husk of a woman at home and a social butterfly in the public eye; she watered herself down to being a wife and a mother. She was neither. He detested both of them and hated that damned empty feeling of his soul and heart that matched his vacated house; he felt nothing. His world was as grey as his eyes.

Till he met the colourful Viscount’s daughter– If he got kicked by a horse and lost his memory, he would still somehow remember the day you two met—the memory ingrained in his bones, body, and soul. On the way to your estate, the stately carriage was soundless and suffocating, as if the air was thick. Ambrose remembers how he bore his eyes into his obsidian-polished boots, wishing for the minutes to pass faster.  

You were a naive hoyden the first time you introduced yourself; you forgot to say his title and yours. Using his common name and giving him an oh-so-sweet genuine smile, he hadn’t ever seen such an authentic smile for him and only him—not for his parents nor his riches. Just him. Your parents scolded you while apologizing profusely for your ‘disrespect.’ Before his parents could utter something backhanded yet elegant, Ambrose smiled. He didn’t know he could do that. For the first time, the young boy speaks up; he feels this protectiveness over you. But, at the moment, Ambrose couldn't care less about his father's punishment that would soon come; the only thing that mattered was you, and soon he’d found out that it would always be you.

An airy laugh escapes you. “Do you wish for us to be caught in a scandal every time we meet?” He raises a faux, worried face and voice. “Me?!? As a future Earl, I am fulfilling my gentlemanly duties by escorting a fine young lady and keeping her from potential dangers. What’s so scandalous about that?” You take his arm. “You’re far from sane, My Lord.”

“For you, My lady? I hope so,” He says proudly with his chest out.

A comfortable silence lulls you as you look at how the sun hits the trees, people, and him. The sun's rays lighten his dark brown hair, blessing it with an orange hue and grey eyes, becoming Iridescent, more akin to a pearl.

“The latest on dit says Lord Barton has called for your company?” He inquires 

Your face grimaces at just the sound of his name. As much as you loathe the man, he is a viable suitor with good money and an excellent reputation, but a suitable suitor does not equate to a good man. “He’s…an interesting individual…” His jaw clenches. You’re not being open as he wants; you’re holding back…he hates that you might be hiding something. Not you per se but that damned rake Patrick. “He’s a rake,” he spits out, and you gaze at him. He’s uncharacteristically serious.

You smile. “He is,” Ambrose turns his head to you, returning your smile.

“Quite the feat to dissect the woman you are trying to woo as well.” The gentleman’s eyebrows furrow. “He did not,” you huff. “Oh, he did!” Ambrose stops in his tracks and mummers your name softly. “If you would only permit it, Allow me to court you,” You raise an eyebrow at the sudden question, “Pardon?” He continues, “That bastard doesn’t deserve you.” “And you do?” he chuckles. “No, but I’ll do everything you ask me to, then maybe one day I'll deserve you; you wish for dresses? I'll buy you the tailor and store. Money is far from an issue. Heavens, ask for the world, and I'll give you it with the stars and beyond as accessories.” He turns his whole body to you, his hands finding yours, his leather gloves causing a barrier between your soft ones.

He hates that 

“Ambrose…” 

“Please…only if you’ll allow me.”  The love-sick man entreated “But what about the other more suitable ladies? I’ve heard-” “I do not care for them,” He interrupts you. “Every second I was apart, I only longed for you. The only reason I kept my studies up was to be the perfect suitor equal to you.” He caresses your knuckles. The butterflies in your stomach flutter more after each word spills out of his mouth. Your relationship with Ambrose was vague at most. You couldn’t put your finger on it; every time you were in his presence, you had this comfort no one else could recreate. You were hesitant to put a label onto it, and maybe you feel this way because he was the only man you truly felt you could be yourself with. 

“If you wish to court me, you must’ve thought to ask my father for permission rather than myself.” 

“I could’ve,” He pauses, “But I'd rather ask you first; I need your permission. I am not marrying your father, am I? I need to hear you wish for me as much as I yearn for you,”  

You amuse the thought. Ambrose is a prick at times, his teasing relentless, but despite that, he’s charming, sincere, soothing, and protective. He’s a good man, indeed. 

“I’ll bite, My lord.” “Please do.” He smirked, masking his nervousness.

You slap his hand lightly, reprimanding him, “Let me continue, you brute…I’ll allow you to court me.” “Truly?” he exclaims, Astonished. “Truly,” You nod meekly. In a haste, he kisses your bare hands, each knuckle, each finger. “I’ve been blessed indeed,” his voice is as blissful as a child receiving a sugary dessert. You yank your hands away from him, flushed from his actions. “You dog, we are in the public,” you scold him. “I shall make it up to you in our next outing; I vow,” You swear you could see a wagging tale behind him. You sigh. 

The day went on, and by sundown, Ambrose had hired a post-chaise for the both of you despite your protests of you living just around the corner. He claimed he had ‘Earl-like duties to attend to’ and you were just on the route back either way. As a gentleman should, he dropped you off promptly; as he left in the carriage, away from your estate, you softly ran your fingers over your knuckles. A smile adorns your face. “What an oaf,” you whisper to yourself. A fond grin decorates Ambrose’s face, a few giggles even, but as euphoric this day was, he did have business to attend to. A certain lord has decided to make his lacklustre presence known, and Ambrose couldn’t celebrate until he exterminated said pest.

Gentleman’s clubs were boisterous, loud, and untrustworthy. The men here are just as vile as the feed that is fed to pigs. The soon-to-be-Earl disliked them and only engaged in them because he needed to build his reputation. He may be judgemental, but he isn’t an idiot. Others may regard him as a friend, but for him, he could care less for it. The males around him start to recognize Ambrose, yelling pleasantries, which he would return and shut down politely or…as politely as he could in his eyes. A booming voice reverberates against the wall of the finely furnished building, only belonging to the one and only Patrick Barton. Unconsciously, a scowl appears on the young man’s face. Ambrose knew more than he led on about Patrick; he heard whispers of Barton’s hobby in the mills, rigging the boxing matches that were bid on by elites and peasants alike. Word says he would pay one of the desperate participants to lose on purpose– word is bound to escape one day or another. It is not a sustainable income source. Yet another reason Lord Barton is not fit for you.

Ambrose walks towards the table where the bastard sits, narrowing his eyes.

Lord Barton and his goons recognize the lord approaching them. Barton speaks first: “Lord Howard! Is it a blue moon? What on earth might’ve convinced you to come out of that dreadful estate?” He laughs, arranging some snuff onto the mahogany to snort. “Perhaps it’s because you plan on courting his woman.” a nameless male inquires. “No, could it be? I don’t blame you, Ambrose; she is a fine woman, isn’t she? She is just in need of training,” another male said, joining in. “So does every woman in this country.” Another chuckle escapes the vulgar lord. 

Ambrose’s leather gloves wrinkle. His fist clenched to prevent him from beating the man in front of him into a pummel. He has a plan, the grey-eyed man repeats in his head. Then he forces a smile on his face. “On the contrary, I've decided to pick up a new gambling hobby; why not ask the man of the hour himself for advice? Or even a game or two.” Ambrose signals a servant and orders drinks for the table. The man in question gets up, slapping Ambrose on his back. “Atta boy, never let a woman come between men; let bygones be bygones, what a joyance plan! Come, come.” The night continues, and Patrick is as drunk as the rest of the men in the club; Ambrose, the gentleman he is, offers him to join his carriage in his words. 'Let’s start this newfound friendship off with a bang.' Cold water hits the once-drunken lord, and he awakens, gasping for air on the cold textured ground. ‘Where am I?’ he thinks, discombobulated, looking around and grasping his situation. The dark forest surrounds him, almost engulfing him; the trees blow along with the wind, and the creatures of the night rustle in the background. A voice comes from the shadows, luring him away from his racing thoughts, “Gunpowder is such a messy substance, but did you know a man invented a gun powered by air? What a time to be alive! How revolutionary!” Patrick looks at the man, most of his body consumed by the darkness of nightfall, the moon only making his grey eyes visible. 

“Ambrose, what the utter fuck-” “Don’t interrupt.” He says sternly. “As I was saying, a gun powered by air,” He continues. “A watchmaker of all things invented it; how preposterous! He eliminated gunpowder entirely and named this new gun  Windbüchse or, I know you only know English, so pardon me, I'll translate, wind gun.”  

“It’s far better than my hunting rifle; the tedious thing is quite a hassle to reload. But this wind gun can load much faster, 20 rounds a minute! Compared to the other, it is much quieter. It's a shame its range is far smaller.” The man standing pouts. “But all is well. The Austrian army decided to order thousands of supplies, and it’s fortunate I even got my hands on one.” Patrick squints, trying to distinguish Ambrose, and it finally sets in. In a forest he doesn’t know of, with a man who has a gun in his hand in the dead of night. Not just any man but a Lord known for his physical fitness and hunting expertise since he was a just a lad. 

Fuck

“If this is about your lady, Ambrose, you can have her! There’s no need to do this!” Patrick tries to reason with the love-sick lord, yet it's no use. The other man scoffs, “I’ve always detested men like you, greedy, hypocritical. Ready to jump boat when things get too tough for your liking– where is your backbone? Where is your spine? Your pride?” Ambrose circles the pain-filled man on the ground. “You never deserved to even be in her presence; you aren’t even entitled to breathe the same air as her,” He then spontaneously kicks Patrick's ribs, causing him to curl up on a ball, yelping. Ambrose looks down at the pathetic man. “But, I am a fair man, unlike you, so I'll give you a chance to run while I read you the note I have written in your writing announcing your hasty departure after news of your rigging in the mills comes to light, your writing was not hard to duplicate as well; who knew mother’s penmanship lessons would come in handy,” He chuckles.

 “Now run, monkey, while you still can.” He sets the trigger and then turns the spindle of his gun clockwise till a clicking sound can be heard, indicating he doesn’t need to turn it anymore. Ambrose opens the barrel, puts in an 8.5 mm bullet, and then shuts it. 

“I’m sure we can talk this out reasonably, money! I have money! Have it all; buy your woman something nice-” Patrick feels his thigh get warmer at first rather than the pulsing pain of a bullet shooting through his thigh that would soon follow shortly after. He screams.“To think you have the naivety to think I couldn’t fund my lover for generations on end,”

Ambrose rolls his eyes. “Scream louder; perhaps you’ll awaken a bear to save you,” yet again, he starts reloading his wind gun, faster at that, “I am not one to repeat himself nor give mercy. Run, rabbit.”

With adrenaline coursing through his body, Patrick runs…or well, attempts to. 

 Ambrose reaches into his waistcoat for the forged letter, clearing his voice to read it while his other hand holds his gun. Though his attention should be on the task at hand, he is utterly distracted by possible outing plans you would adore. Shall he go canoeing with you? Or a picnic? A carriage ride underneath the newly blooming cherry blossoms? Why not all three?  

Oh. how he longs to see you again.