Sweet Awakening

"Let them win it without us! Only love for the immortal gods and my homeland make me happy, not mortals who crave power over everything!" She didn’t even understand why she was so passionately opposed, but she couldn’t hold back her fiery outburst.

"Careful, sister," Caesonia warned, her brow furrowing. "You speak of sacred love, but the fathers of Rome are sacred too. Besides, love comes in many forms. Doesn’t love for your family, your loved ones, mean anything to you?"

Livia flinched, her gray eyes drifting into the distance, her lips trembling.

"I don’t know that kind of love," she replied quietly. "I loved my father, my sisters, but that love doesn’t compare to what I feel for the great teachings of Vesta. My father, my mother, my sister—they’re all gone, gone forever, and the gods are eternal. Immortal."

Caesonia sighed deeply, rising from her seat. She tucked her chestnut curls behind her ears and walked over to Livia, gently taking her hands and looking straight into her eyes.

"You didn’t grieve properly, I understand…"

"I don’t need grief," Livia cut in quickly, though her voice trembled. The older Vestal always said Livia was too emotional and fiery. "I only need repentance and service."

"Then serve! The Emperor is the embodiment of Jupiter, Rome itself. And now we have two of them—twice the work, right?" she giggled. Livia, giving in, smiled in response. "Or should I say, the embodiment of Romulus and Remus?"

They were alike in one thing only—both greedy children, far from the greatness of their famed ancestors. And yet, they’re emperors, which makes them the fathers of all living in Rome.

Livia didn’t love the world of mortals, didn’t like leaving the villa or the temple, just as she didn’t enjoy being in large crowds. Until now, the emperors had cared little for the Vestals. They had always dealt with uprisings and discontent with bloodshed, needing no help from them. But now… everything had changed.

The famous and beloved Lucilla, daughter of the late Emperor Marcus Aurelius, had adopted the current emperors, showing her favor. Why and for what, no one knew, and even if they did, they wouldn’t say, knowing how the emperors dealt with loose tongues.

Lucilla was now their mother, General Acacius was replaced by Fulvius Plautianus, who had served under Septimius Severus and was known for his brutal temper, and the Senate was filled with all kinds of scoundrels and sycophants. Livia, like the other Vestals, did not involve herself in politics, but she knew a lot, listening to the gossip of the wives of high-ranking officials who came to make offerings.

"Offer a prayer to Vesta, to Jupiter, anoint yourself with sacred blood, and the priest will tell them what they so desperately want to hear," Caesonia continued. "Then the games will pass, and we’ll return to the temple. It’s an honor, Livia, not a punishment. You’re young, not even fully trained, and yet you drew the lot!"

She really had drawn the short straw when it came time for her and the other sisters to decide who would make a sacrifice to the gods.

"Rituals should remain sacred," Livia replied, less confidently now, not really expecting an answer.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

The first day of the games marked the start of autumn, right in the midst of the festival season, and the city hummed with excitement. The last games had been only recently, but after a string of executions, deaths, and tortures, people were desperate for something lighter. And really, what’s more entertaining than watching someone else die?

Draped in a flowing, snow-white tunic, Livia walked alongside the other Vestals, surrounded by stern-faced Praetorian guards, as they arrived at the Colosseum just as the sun hit its peak, bathing everything in blinding white light.

The crowd showered them with lilies and narcissus, desperate for a glimpse of the sacred priestesses. There were five of them—the sixth had stayed behind to tend the sacred fire. Usually, that was Livia’s role, but today, her duty was different.

She couldn’t hide her awe at the sight before her—flowers scattered everywhere, a roaring sea of people, thousands of voices merging into one. As they passed through the gates and reached the stands, she noticed the shift. These weren’t the same poor and desperate souls who had thrown flowers at her feet. Here, the crowd was wealthier, brighter, draped in a riot of colors and excessive finery.

To her displeasure, Livia understood that in this sea of bright hues and mixed fashions, there was a lack of respect for Roman customs, a disregard encouraged by the emperors, who, by all accounts, dressed quite unusually themselves.

"Over here, Livia," a priest, old and dry as parchment, took her hand, gently pulling her away from the others as they hurried to their designated seats. She turned her head, watching them go.

From a distance, their small platform gleamed—four pristine white figures, dazzling against the chaos of color. It made her smile.

The priest’s grip was light, his skin thin and fragile. He was the only man allowed to touch the Vestals, for he himself was not a man in the eyes of the people, but a vessel of the divine.

When they led her onto the arena floor, the sun blinded her. A thin white veil covered her face, a flower crown resting on her head, and beyond the sheer fabric, the world was hazy. She barely saw the thousands of faces watching her, barely heard the deafening roar of the crowd. Only the scorching heat of the sand beneath her bare feet felt real.

The drums beat. The noise swelled. The herald called out—she didn’t hear what he said. Instead, she lifted her face toward the sun, whispering a prayer under her breath, over and over.

"It is time, child," the priest said, removing her crown and veil. Her dark hair tumbled down over her shoulders, but her gaze remained fixed on the sky. That’s where her true audience watched.

A primal, animalistic scream made her flinch. She finally lowered her face and looked around. Through the central gates leading to the arena, they brought in a massive white bull. The beast was so enormous that six burly men, their faces hidden behind golden masks, struggled to hold it.

The majestic creature tossed its horned head and bellowed loudly, frightened by the crowd. She was scared too, but she didn’t move. Instead, she took the crown from the priest’s hands, waiting as they led the bull closer.

"Behold our sacrifice, Jupiter!" the priest calls loudly, not in the voice of an old man, raising his hands to the sky. Several young boys are gathered nearby, holding a cup and a crooked bronze dagger.

They lead the bull to the center of the arena, forcing it to bow its head, tightening the thick cords around its neck. The animal freezes. Livia does, too, staring directly into its frightened black eyes. Its horns are coated in gold to honor the gods, so with each turn of its neck, they gleam and shimmer.

Slowly, she takes a few steps forward, and the stands fall silent, the rumble quiets, and the drums cease.

Such beauty, such strength—all for the glory of the gods. They love beauty, and they love when the blood of such magnificent creatures is spilled in their name. Back when human sacrifices were still allowed, beautiful, innocent youths and maidens were offered to the gods. Livia only tilted her head in sympathy, silently thanking the animal.

"In ancient times, I could have been in your place."

Her hands tremble slightly, but not from fear; it’s the solemnity of the moment. She was wrong to resist, wrong to argue with her mentor, because now she is living the best moment of her young life.

The black eyes meet hers, gray, and she could swear that these are not the eyes of an animal, but of a human! The bull no longer struggles; on the contrary, it stands still, bowing its head. Solemnly, she places the crown between its golden horns, kneels before it, bending her hands in prayer and closing her eyes.

The beginning of the ritual is marked by the continuous beat of the drums and the priest’s loud prayer. The emperors want to wage war again, to enslave more and more countries and peoples, and now, armed with a fearsome general, they await the gods’ blessing. That’s why she is here, and that’s why blood will be spilled today.

"What do you ask of the gods, amata?" the priest calls out, raising his hands to the sky.

Not opening her eyes or lowering her hands, she shouts as loud as she can in response:

"For blessing, for victory, for the greatness of Rome!"

The drums pounded like a storm, the bull let out a mournful cry, and she kept whispering her prayer, even as her heart pounded harder, even as a terrible unease settled in her stomach.

A moment. A sound—low and guttural.

And then, warmth. Hot liquid splashed over her, soaking her from head to toe. She knew what it was. This was why she knelt—to be anointed, to receive the gods’ answer, to be purified.

The thick, metallic scent filled her nose. Blood stung her eyes, slid down her face, dripped from her lips. It filled her mouth with every breath, stuck in her throat like a swallowed scream. But she didn’t stop. She whispered through bloodied lips, through the deafening drumbeats, until the very last word of her prayer left her tongue.

A bright flash illuminated her, though her eyes were closed, and she saw light—brilliant, beckoning. A good omen. The gods had accepted the sacrifice.

The priest leans down to her, and she whispers the good news to him, and he hoarsely repeats it to the entire Colosseum. The crowd, frozen in eager anticipation, bursts into cheers.

Livia rises to her feet, wiping her face. The blood has already begun to dry, pulling at her skin uncomfortably. The bull lies lifeless at her feet, its black eyes frozen forever. Part of it will be burned as an offering to the gods, and part will be cooked and eaten at the feast after the games. The thought of how it had looked at her with such intelligent eyes makes her sick. She quickly turns away, facing the imperial box, adorned with vines, flowers, and purple banners.

Both emperors raise their right hands in greeting, and the crowd erupts in cheers. How fickle people are! Not long ago, they wanted to tear their rulers apart, and now they celebrate them like divine saviors.

As she leaves the arena, the last thing she sees is the bull’s body being dragged through the opposite gates, a trail of blood smearing across the burning sand. A strange, uneasy feeling grips her, but she pushes it down, too shaken to dwell on it.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

They let her wash her hands and face, change into a clean tunic, but her dark curls, now stiff and heavy with dried blood, still reek of iron and death. She tucks them beneath her veil and hurries back to her place among the other Vestals.

The row where the Vestals sit stands out as a white line among the dressed-up guests. Their platform is on the left side of the imperial box. Livia sits to the right of the senior vestal and keeps her eyes fixed on the imperial box, even though the first fight has already begun. How could she not stare? She’s never been so close to those who rule the world.

Both of her sisters were married to senators, and she doesn’t know either of their husbands. But the Senate was one thing. This was something else entirely.

The emperors are strikingly young. Livia leaned forward slightly, eager to get a better look. The one sitting closest to her taps nervously on the golden armrest with his thin white fingers. Red-haired and pale, he doesn’t give off an impression of greatness or awe. Painted like a maiden, dressed the same. Livia doesn’t accept long garments on men; she sees it as a sign of effeminacy and a betrayal of traditions. A toga would have been more fitting for a man in her view, but then again, these are not just men.

He sat in profile, so no matter how much Livia strained her neck, she couldn’t make out his face. In another fit of curiosity, she rose slightly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ruler’s face, but immediately found herself facing the mocking gaze of blue eyes. From behind his brother’s shoulder, the second emperor looked at her, leaning in and smiling shamelessly.

Embarrassment floods her, and Livia sits up straight, closes her eyes, cursing herself for her tactlessness and curiosity. She rarely takes an interest in other people, even less often men, so the very fact that she got caught staring, right after having just shown all of Rome the will of the gods, stings her deeply. She liked that the people treated the Vestals with awe and reverence, but in the emperor’s smile, she saw neither respect nor awe, only mockery.

"I’ll introduce you to the emperors later, behave properly," the senior vestal instructs her sternly, and Livia lowers her head in shame.

Today, there weren’t many killings; the festival shouldn’t be tarnished by too many deaths, so the games ended quickly. They were escorted into the halls inside the Colosseum, and as they walked slowly, still surrounded by the Praetorian guards, the crowd parted before them, eyeing them and whispering. The last time the Vestals had appeared at the games was under Marcus Aurelius, so their appearance was truly a momentous event for all of Rome.

"Raise your head, child, here are our rulers," her mentor commanded, and Livia obediently looked ahead.

Their arrival was met with a swell of voices, loud exclamations ringing through the air.

The first of the two, the one she had noticed in the stands, was tall and stately, but no warrior. His features were fine and well-defined, his dark eyes sharp with intelligence, but the set of his full lips betrayed a restless, nervous nature. A golden laurel nestled in the soft waves of his reddish curls, and his slender frame was draped in a black trabea trimmed with deep purple. Beneath it, a long tunic of the same black, embroidered with gold, shimmered in the light. He looked more like an eastern king than a Roman emperor. She didn’t like him.

While she was studying one of the emperors, the other had already been studying her. She could feel his gaze like a touch, sharp and deliberate. Quickly, she turned to face him.

Oh, he was nothing like his brother.

Shorter, narrower in the shoulders, he moved with a slow, fluid grace, completely at ease. Livia tilted her head slightly, and he mirrored the gesture with an amused glint in his eye. Was he teasing her?

Livia knew that fashion required women to whiten their faces and paint their eyelids, and appearing without blush was considered bad taste—but she had never seen a painted man before. The first emperor’s lids were dusted with a soft, ashy gray, subtle but noticeable. The second’s bright blue eyes were rimmed with warm peach, a color so vivid against his pale skin that it caught her off guard. A shade she had never seen on a man.

He wore a short-sleeved tunic of rich purple, cinched at the waist with a wide golden belt. Her gaze caught on the huge gold medallion hanging from his white neck down to his chest. The sign of Fortuna, the goddess of luck. Did he even understand its meaning? Judging by the many rings and bracelets that gleamed along his fingers and wrists, she doubted it.

Finally, the Praetorians parted, and they, along with the other Vestals, stood face to face with the emperors. The tall one bent slightly and extended his hand, as if expecting the senior Vestal to offer her hand for a kiss. Livia couldn’t help but smirk. Vestals were forbidden to be touched by men, even by the emperor himself. Didn’t he know this?

The awkward moment was broken by the mocking laughter of the second emperor. His brother straightened up, pressed his lips together in irritation, and cast a glance first at his brother, then at them.

"We are glad that you honored us with your presence," he said loudly. His voice was deep and low, yet there were still nervous notes, as if he were anxious.

"And we are grateful for the invitation, Emperor Geta," her mentor replied with a respectful nod.

Geta.

Livia turned her gaze back to the other brother. So this was Caracalla.

"This is Livia," the senior Vestal introduced her. Livia stepped forward, her back straight as a blade, chin raised. "She brought good news to the arena today."

"I see," Caracalla finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, starkly contrasting the softness of his features.

Standing beside him, Livia noticed that the powdered skin, which had appeared so flawless from a distance, was marred by tiny wounds, some of which hadn’t healed and were hidden under layers of rouge. The emperor, sensing her gaze, immediately furrowed his pale brows and lifted his chin, wounded by the thought that she had seen his imperfections. It must be difficult to consider oneself a god when one’s earthly vessel is so far from perfect.

"Oh, that was quite a sight," Geta continued warmly, looking directly at her. His hand twitched forward as if he wanted to take her hand, but she immediately pulled away, causing another burst of laughter from Caracalla.

"You’re too kind, Caesar," she answered with measured dignity. "The scale of the spectacle was truly impressive."

"There will be a feast this evening," Geta said, nodding to her and her sisters. "Join us."

"I’m afraid we must serve at the temple, Emperor."

"What is allowed to Jupiter is not allowed to the bull," Geta quoted, hinting that, with their status, they could do much more than the common citizens of Rome.

"What is allowed to the bull, is not allowed to Jupiter," she replied, and his smile faltered. "Had he not turned into an bull, he would never have approached a defenseless maiden, would he?"

Once again, the young emperor looked wounded, unsure of what to say, helplessly turning to his smiling brother. Livia realized who he reminded her of—the sacrificial bull in the arena today. He had the same dark eyes, vivid and strangely sorrowful, but no trace of wisdom, no matter how hard she tried to look. Geta noticed she was studying him and fluttered his long eyelashes in confusion, then smiled again.

"You’re wise, though young," he tried to compliment her, smoothing over the awkward conversation.

To some, he might have seemed charming. Handsome, even. To someone who hadn’t devoted her life to the glory of Vesta.

"Thank you, Caesar."

The little show ends, and the eldest priestess steps up, leading them away with the emperors.

"They’re quite charming, aren’t they?" Caesonia says quietly, glancing at her with a smile.

Livia tensed. Curious gazes followed them from all sides, high-ranking guests watching their every move. A strange feeling crept over her—guilt. As if she had thought too harshly of her emperors. As if she had been unfair.

"Dignified and charming, yes," she answers calmly, suppressing her negative thoughts.

Order in the mind—order in the heart, and that’s how one must serve the gods. She ran her fingers under the veil, letting her dark curls slip through, trying to focus. Her hair was still soaked in blood, dry and tangled. She stared at her hand, pink from the blood stains, the smell of iron in the air.

"I mean them as men, child," the elder priestess smiles slyly.

Livia paled, a crease appeared between her brows, and her lips tightened into a line.

"You know your vows better than I do, sister," her voice rang with tension.

"Look, don’t touch, darling," the elder priestess continued, her tone unchanged. "We can admire them like beautiful trinkets. You wouldn’t scold me if I were to admire an intricately carved box, or…"

"I need to wash my hands," Livia interrupts her, causing Caesonia to laugh.

They weren’t stone, they had feelings, emotions, struggles. And desires too. Other Vestals sometimes spoke of men, but Livia had never joined in those conversations. And she wouldn’t now. Her training was ongoing, and the last thing she wanted to think about was worldly, base desires.

A bowl of water stood by one of the columns, meant for purification. Livia walked toward it, the crowd parting before her, holding their breath. She was flattered by this. Now, surrounded by gazes brimming with admiration, adoration, and quiet awe, she couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. Later, she would ask the Goddess for forgiveness for her vanity, but for now, the young Vestal basked in the attention.

She dipped her hands into the cool water, and it immediately bloomed with pink.

"Smells like blood," a voice said behind her.

A strange sense of anxiety gripped her, and her heart began pounding so strongly that it made breathing hard. On the outside, she tried to remain calm, as always. After finishing washing her hands, she turned toward the speaker.

Emperor Caracalla was grinning wide, showing a gold tooth. It seemed the young ruler was in a great mood.

"It is blood, my Caesar."

"Watching you there, kneeling on the arena’s sand, bathed in blood, was the greatest pleasure of the day. I fear even tonight’s feast will not bring me such…delight," his voice was soft, smooth, flowing like honey, and his eyes gleamed with slyness. He was teasing her in a bold, shameless way!

When she was very young, living with her father and sisters, Cassandra and Claudia used to tease her, taking advantage of the fact that they were older. But in the emperor’s words, there was something different. Caracalla didn’t say anything outright offensive, but something about it felt improper. Was it the way he smiled, the way he stood, nonchalantly leaning his shoulder against a column?

In every movement, she sensed how utterly unserious he was—how he tilted his chin, half-closed his eyes, and stretched his painted lips into a lazy smirk.

He reminded her of a cat. The one that lived in the gardens of the Temple of Vesta, rolling from side to side, stretching out its fluffy body under the sun. That one was ginger too.

"It’s an honor to serve Rome, to serve you," he grinned wider, "And your brother," his smile immediately faded, and Livia was stunned at how quickly his expression changed.

For the first time, she was looked at with such disdain. She blinked, trying to convince herself she hadn’t imagined it. No, Caesar still stood there with a deep furrow between his brows, his nostrils flaring. Livia stepped back, unsure what had triggered his anger.

Almost as if seeking support or comfort, she turned, only to meet the black eyes of Emperor Geta. He stood at a distance, surrounded by a crowd. A beautiful copper-haired girl was speaking to him, but his gaze was fixed elsewhere, cutting through the sea of people—on her.

She faltered, then suddenly realized—this had nothing to do with her. The emperors were watching each other.

She mentally pictured herself from the outside: innocent, chaste, in white garments, she should remain dignified and focused. Livia was a priestess of Vesta, not a cunning and ambitious matron, so the emperors’ quarrels didn’t interest her.

Leaving Caracalla behind, she hurried toward the other Vestals, but was suddenly, shamelessly grabbed by the arms and pulled into an embrace. If this had been a man, they’d have been crucified in the Forum by morning, but…

"Livia, my dear!" she hardly recognizes the face of the girl in front of her.

"Claudia!" The calm mask slips from her face for a moment, and she smiles at her sister, whom she hasn’t seen in ages.

"You’ve grown so much! A real beauty! And you look just like Cassandra! Your nose, your lips, your cheekbones," Claudia’s finger traced her face, and Livia shuddered at the unfamiliar sensation of someone else’s touch. "But your eyes… they’re from our father. Ah, our dear sister was so gentle…" Her voice wavered, and her hand dropped.

A man’s arms wrap around her shoulders, and only now does Livia notice the rounded belly of Claudia, the gaunt look on her face, and how feverishly her cheeks shone.

"Congratulations!" she quickly changes the subject, not wanting to speak of Cassandra.

"Yes, yes, this is my husband, Senator Appius, I don’t think you’ve met him, have you?" Claudia’s smile suddenly fades, but her husband grins broadly.

The exchange of pleasantries drags on for too long, and then her mentor arrives.

"It was good to see you, Livia," her sister whispers one last time. "We live at the palace now, visit me, I get so lonely sometimes…"

Livia nods sincerely, promising to visit, and hurries to join the other Vestals. The grip of her mentor on her arm is tight, and her gaze is nervous.

"What did you do to anger the emperors?"

"Me?" her voice sounds genuinely surprised, but then she remembers Caracalla’s hateful gaze, and she too asks herself the same question. "I don’t know, I’m sorry."

Suddenly, the crowd around her—the murmuring guests, the admiring stares—became unbearable. What had once flattered her now felt suffocating. Hundreds of eyes watched her with reverence, with curiosity, yet only one pair—bright, piercing, burning with something close to fury—ruined her mood completely. She didn’t belong here.

Still, before she could leave the Colosseum and return to the Vestal House, she would have to face them once again.

Caesonia noticed her growing unease and linked arms with her, trying to comfort her.

"Once again, we thank you for the honor you have shown us and hope to see you again," Geta began, locking his hands together.

"We are pleased that the bond between our temple and the emperors has been restored," the senior Vestal responded politely.

"Oh, and one more thing," Geta said, theatrically raising his hands, "Our mother wished to visit your temple…"

"Yes, mother," Caracalla mockingly drawled, cutting off his brother. There was something in his tone that Livia didn’t like again. That’s not how you speak about your parents, even if they’re not by blood. "She can get so lonely, and we’re not always around to entertain her properly."

Her cheeks flushed, and Livia didn’t understand why, but Caracalla noticed her brief pause and grinned, his mouth opening slightly, pleased that he had provoked some emotion from her. She lifted her chin, refusing to seem vulnerable, even though inside she was embarrassed.

The moment of farewell came. She longed to return home as quickly as possible, to forget all these strange glances and words. There, among the other Vestals, she would be safe, and no troubling thoughts would haunt her.

"Until we meet again," Geta said politely, licking his upper lip and adding, "Amata, I hope next time we can do without the bloodshed."

Amata. Beloved.

She only nodded, unwilling to show how much she disliked being addressed that way by a stranger.

Caracalla didn’t say a word, looking away as if he didn’t even notice her.

And just as she exhaled, walking past him, quietly relieved by the absence of his attention, she felt it.

A touch.

A featherlight, teasing touch traced from the tip of her pinky, gliding up the soft curve of her hand—barely noticeable, yet it burned like fire.

She stopped, glancing back over her shoulder, but the emperor wasn’t looking at her; on the contrary, he was leaning toward his brother, speaking to him.

It felt as though she’d been struck. The heat spread across her cheeks, sank lower into her chest, then froze in her stomach. How dare he?! No one had the right to touch them. Neither mortal nor immortal man would ever dare touch a Vestal Virgin. But he… He turned away, pretending nothing had happened, though that single gesture had shaken everything she had believed in for so long.

Trying to suppress her anger and confusion, she hurried toward her sisters, unaware that both emperors were watching her leave.

Without realizing it, Livia had started a new game.

ৡ ৡ ৡ

When Emma entered the parlor, she stopped short. The room was bathed in warm, golden light from a chandelier overhead, the shadows flickering softly in time with the crackling fire in the hearth. Regina stood near the center, dressed in an elegant black blouse and tight skirt, her dark hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. A record player in the corner spun a slow, lilting waltz.

Emma shoved her hands into her pockets, suddenly feeling underdressed in her jeans and flannel shirt. “Wow, this is…fancy.”

Regina arched an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Did you expect anything less?”

“Guess not.” Emma stepped further into the room, eyeing the setup. “So, uh, thanks for doing this. I could’ve asked Snow, but…”

“Snow would have been a terrible choice,” Regina interrupted, her smirk widening. “Charming has two left feet, and your mother is even worse.” She walked toward Emma with a fluid grace, extending a hand. “Come on. Let’s see just how hopeless you are.”

Emma snorted, though her stomach fluttered as she placed her hand in Regina’s. “Don’t sugarcoat it or anything.”

Regina’s fingers were cool and steady against Emma’s as she guided her to the center of the room. “I don’t waste time with platitudes, Miss Swan. If you want to avoid stepping on your husband’s feet during your wedding dance, you’ll listen and follow my lead.”

The mention of Hook sent a brief pang of guilt through Emma, but she shoved it down. “Got it. Lead away, Your Majesty.”

Regina stepped close, her hand resting lightly on Emma’s waist while her other hand held Emma’s in a firm yet gentle grip. Emma stiffened at the sudden proximity, her breath catching as the scent of Regina’s perfume—something rich and floral—washed over her.

“Relax,” Regina murmured, her voice softer now, almost coaxing. “You can’t dance if you’re this tense.”

“Yeah, well, standing this close to you would make anyone tense,” Emma muttered, avoiding Regina’s gaze.

Regina chuckled, low and throaty, and Emma’s cheeks burned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” Emma lied, her voice too quick and sharp.

Regina’s knowing smile only deepened as she began to guide Emma through the first steps of the dance. “One, two, three. One, two, three. Follow my movements. Don’t overthink.”

Easier said than done. Emma stumbled almost immediately, her foot catching Regina’s.

“Sorry!” Emma grimaced, expecting Regina to snap at her, but Regina only tightened her grip slightly, steadying her.

“Stop apologizing. Try again.”

Emma nodded, biting her lip as she focused on Regina’s movements. The music swelled around them, the notes lilting and light. Slowly, Emma began to fall into rhythm, her steps matching Regina’s. They moved together in a gentle circle, the rest of the world melting away until there was only the music and the warmth of Regina’s hand on her waist.

“See?” Regina murmured, her lips curving into a small smile. “You’re not entirely hopeless.”

“Gee, thanks,” Emma said, but there was no bite in her words. Her heart was pounding, though not from the effort of the dance.

The smile lingered on Regina’s face as she glanced down at Emma’s feet, making sure she stayed on time. “You’re better at this than you give yourself credit for. You just need to trust yourself.”

Emma’s breath hitched. There was something about the way Regina said those words, her voice softer than Emma had ever heard it, that sent a shiver down her spine. For a brief moment, their eyes met, and Emma felt an unfamiliar warmth bloom in her chest.

“So,” Emma said, clearing her throat in an attempt to break the tension, “how do you know how to dance like this, anyway? Fancy mayor lessons?”

Regina tilted her head, her expression turning wistful. “I was a Queen long before I became mayor, Miss Swan.” Her voice darkened slightly, the edge of bitterness unmistakable. “One of the few lessons I actually appreciated.”

Emma frowned, the hint of pain in Regina’s voice tugging at her. “Regina…”

Before she could say more, Regina’s grip on her waist tightened, pulling her slightly closer. “Focus, Miss Swan. You’re getting distracted.”

Emma’s cheeks burned, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she let Regina guide her, their movements becoming smoother with every step. For a fleeting moment, Emma allowed herself to get lost in the dance, the closeness, and the way Regina’s eyes softened when they looked at her.

But deep down, she knew this was dangerous territory.

The music shifted, the melody deepening into something slower, richer, as Regina guided Emma through the movements. Their steps were fluid now, the initial awkwardness gone, but with it came a tension Emma wasn’t sure how to handle.

Regina’s hand rested firmly against her waist, her other hand holding Emma’s just tightly enough to ground her. The firelight flickered across Regina’s face, softening the sharp edges of her features. She was breathtaking, and that thought alone made Emma’s chest tighten.

“Better,” Regina said, her voice low and smooth, a hint of approval in her tone. “You’re not tripping over my feet anymore. I’d almost call that progress.”

Emma grinned, trying to keep the mood light even as her pulse raced. “Careful, Regina. If you keep complimenting me, I might start thinking you like me.”

Regina arched an elegant eyebrow, her lips curving into a smirk. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Emma laughed, the sound breaking the tension for a brief moment. But then Regina spun her gently, their hands never losing contact, and when Emma returned to face her, the air between them shifted again. The laughter faded, replaced by something heavier, something that made Emma’s throat dry.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Emma asked, her voice quieter than she intended.

“Like what?” Regina countered, her expression unreadable, though there was a faint softness in her eyes that Emma couldn’t ignore.

“Like…” Emma hesitated, her words catching in her throat. “Never mind.”

Regina tilted her head, her dark eyes searching Emma’s face. “You’re overthinking again,” she said softly, her voice almost teasing, though there was a warmth beneath it. “Relax. Just follow me.”

Emma swallowed hard, nodding as she tried to focus on the steps instead of the way Regina’s hand felt against her waist. She could feel the heat of Regina’s palm through the fabric of her shirt, and it was both comforting and entirely overwhelming.

The dance continued, their movements growing more seamless with each turn. But the tension only grew, threading through the space between them like an unspoken question neither of them was ready to ask.

“You’re surprisingly graceful,” Regina said after a moment, her voice breaking the silence.

“Surprisingly?” Emma shot her a mock glare, grateful for the distraction.

Regina’s lips twitched in amusement. “I suppose I should have more faith in your abilities. You’ve proven me wrong before.”

Emma smiled, though her chest tightened at the way Regina was looking at her—like she wasn’t just talking about the dance. She tried to ignore the heat rising in her cheeks, but it was impossible when Regina’s gaze felt so intent, so piercing.

“Regina…” Emma started, unsure of what she wanted to say.

Regina’s grip on her waist shifted slightly, her fingers brushing against Emma’s side. “Yes?”

The question hung in the air, and Emma suddenly felt like the ground beneath her had disappeared. She wasn’t sure what was happening, but it felt like a line was being crossed, one they could never uncross.

The music slowed, the final notes of the song fading into the silence of the room. Regina didn’t let go, and neither did Emma. They stood there, still locked in the dance, their bodies close enough that Emma could feel the warmth radiating from Regina’s skin.

“You’re staring again,” Regina murmured, her voice soft but filled with something Emma couldn’t quite place.

Emma blinked, realizing too late that she had been. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” Regina interrupted, her tone gentle. She stepped closer, her grip on Emma’s waist tightening just enough to keep her in place. “Not for that.”

Emma’s breath hitched, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure Regina could hear it. “What are we doing?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Regina didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached up with her free hand, brushing a stray strand of hair away from Emma’s face. The touch was featherlight, but it sent a shiver down Emma’s spine.

“Dancing,” Regina said finally, though there was a tremor in her voice now, a vulnerability Emma had never heard before.

“Regina…” Emma’s voice broke, her hands trembling as she clung to Regina’s. She felt like she was standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to step back.

“You’re not thinking about the wedding,” Regina said quietly, her eyes locked on Emma’s. It wasn’t a question.

Emma opened her mouth to argue, to say something—anything—but no words came out. She couldn’t lie, not when Regina was looking at her like that.

“I didn’t think so,” Regina said, her lips curving into a sad smile. “You forget how terrible you are at hiding your emotions.”

Emma huffed out a shaky laugh, though it was tinged with something like panic. “Guess you know me too well, huh?”

Regina’s smile faded, replaced by an intensity that made Emma’s knees weak. “Yes,” she said simply, her voice low and steady. “I do.”

They stood there, frozen in the moment, the fire crackling softly in the background. Emma could feel her resolve slipping, crumbling under the weight of the tension between them. She didn’t know who moved first—maybe it was her, maybe it was Regina—but suddenly their faces were inches apart, their breaths mingling.

“Emma…” Regina’s voice was barely a whisper now, her hand brushing against Emma’s cheek.

Emma closed her eyes, her heart pounding as she leaned in, the space between them disappearing. The kiss, when it came, was soft at first—tentative, hesitant, as if they were both afraid to break the moment. But then it deepened, passion and longing spilling out in a way neither of them could control.

Time seemed to stop as they clung to each other, the world outside the parlor forgotten. The kiss was everything—gentle and desperate, filled with years of unspoken emotions finally given a voice.

The fire crackled softly, the flames casting flickering shadows across the walls, but Emma barely noticed. All she could focus on was Regina—her lips, her eyes, her hand still gently brushing Emma’s cheek. The silence between them was deafening, broken only by the sound of their breaths mingling in the small space left between them.

Emma should have pulled away. She knew it. She should have stepped back, made some awkward joke, and walked out of the room. But she didn’t.

Regina’s thumb traced along Emma’s cheekbone, her touch so soft it sent a shiver down Emma’s spine. “Emma…” Regina whispered, her voice trembling with something Emma couldn’t quite name.

Emma swallowed hard, her heart pounding so loudly it drowned out every rational thought. “Regina, I—”

Before she could finish, before the words could tumble out and ruin whatever this was, she leaned in. The second kiss, sudden and desperate, their lips meeting in a collision of heat and emotion. Emma’s hands flew to Regina’s waist, gripping her like she was afraid she might disappear.

This kiss was different from the first—there was no hesitation, no restraint. It was fierce, raw, and filled with every unspoken word they’d never had the courage to say. Regina responded immediately, her arms winding around Emma’s neck, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.

For a moment, nothing else existed—no wedding, no expectations, no consequences. Just them.

But then reality crept back in, cold and unforgiving. Emma broke the kiss with a sharp gasp, stepping back as if the distance might help her breathe again. “I—I can’t,” she stammered, her voice trembling.

Regina’s lips parted, her breathing uneven as she stared at Emma with wide, vulnerable eyes. “Emma…”

Emma shook her head, her hands trembling as she raked them through her hair. “This isn’t supposed to happen,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m getting married, Regina. I’m supposed to be with him.”

Regina flinched, the words landing like a blow. But she didn’t step back. Instead, she straightened, her shoulders squaring as she took a slow, deliberate step forward. “Then why are you here, Emma?”

“I don’t know,” Emma admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I just—I couldn’t stay away.”

Regina’s gaze softened, and she reached out, her fingers brushing against Emma’s once more. “You couldn’t stay away because this—us—means something. You know it does.”

Emma’s chest ached at the truth in Regina’s words, but she couldn’t bring herself to agree. She wanted to, God, she wanted to, but the weight of her responsibilities—of the life she’d built with Hook—pressed down on her like a leaden weight.

“I can’t just throw everything away,” Emma said, her voice cracking. “People are counting on me. He’s counting on me.”

Regina’s expression shifted, her vulnerability replaced by a fierce determination. “And what about you, Emma? What do you want?”

Emma’s breath hitched, the question hitting her like a physical blow. “I don’t know,” she said again, the words feeling hollow even as she spoke them.

Regina shook her head, a faint, sad smile tugging at her lips. “Yes, you do. You’ve always known. You’re just too scared to admit it.”

“I’m not scared,” Emma said, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

Regina stepped closer, her hand reaching up to cup Emma’s cheek again. Her touch was steady, grounding, and Emma found herself leaning into it despite the storm raging inside her.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” Regina said softly, her voice a whisper that wrapped around Emma like a balm. “Not with me.”

Emma’s resolve crumbled. Before she could think better of it, she surged forward, capturing Regina’s lips in another kiss. This one was slower, more deliberate, but no less passionate. It was filled with everything Emma had been holding back, everything she was too afraid to say aloud.

Regina responded instantly, her hands tangling in Emma’s hair as she kissed her back with equal fervor. For a moment, Emma allowed herself to get lost in it again—the taste of Regina’s lips, the warmth of her body pressed against hers.

But reality was cruel, and it didn’t let her stay in that moment for long. She broke the kiss again, her chest heaving as she took a stumbling step back.

“I can’t,” Emma said, tears welling in her eyes. “I can’t do this, Regina.”

Regina’s expression faltered, her composure slipping as the vulnerability returned. “Why not?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Because it’s easier to settle for something safe? Because you’re afraid to want more?”

“That’s not fair,” Emma snapped, though the words felt hollow even as she said them.

“Isn’t it?” Regina shot back, her voice rising. “You think I don’t know what this is? You think I don’t know what you’re feeling? I see it, Emma. Every time you look at me, I see it.”

Emma shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “I don’t know what I’m feeling, okay? I don’t know how to handle this. But I can’t just… walk away from everything.”

Regina’s gaze softened, her anger fading as she stepped closer once more. “I’m not asking you to walk away, Emma. I’m asking you to choose. Choose me. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s what you want.”

Emma’s throat tightened, her vision blurring with tears. She wanted to say something, to give Regina the answer she deserved, but she couldn’t.

“I—” Emma started, but her voice broke.

Regina nodded, her jaw tightening as she stepped back, giving Emma the space she so clearly needed. “I won’t beg,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “But I won’t let you pretend this doesn’t matter, either.”

Emma didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Instead, she turned and fled, the sound of her boots echoing through the silent mansion.

Regina watched her go, the tears she’d been holding back finally spilling over as the door closed behind Emma.

The wind howled outside the mansion as Emma leaned against the closed door of the parlor, her chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. Her head swam, her heart a tangle of emotions she couldn’t untangle no matter how hard she tried. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to calm down, but the memory of Regina’s kiss—of both kisses—refused to fade.

Regina’s words echoed in her mind like a relentless drumbeat: Choose me.

Emma pressed her palms against her eyes, her heart aching as guilt and longing battled for control. She felt pulled in two directions, torn between the life she’d built with Hook and the life Regina had promised with that single, desperate plea.

She didn’t know how long she stood there, trembling and lost, but the sound of footsteps approaching snapped her out of her thoughts. She turned, half expecting to see Regina standing there, her expression guarded but her eyes full of hope.

But the hallway was empty.

Emma let out a shaky breath, her hands falling to her sides. She couldn’t stay here. Not like this. She needed air, space to think. Without another glance back, she pushed off the door and hurried down the corridor, out of the mansion and into the night.

The docks were quiet, the waves lapping gently against the pier as Emma sat on a crate, staring out at the dark water. Her hands were shoved deep into her jacket pockets, the chill of the night doing little to calm the storm inside her.

She’d thought coming here would help, that the familiar sights and sounds of the harbor would ground her. But the sea breeze only carried more questions, more doubt.

The sound of boots on the wooden planks made her tense, and she turned her head to see Killian—Hook—approaching, his dark coat billowing slightly in the wind. His expression softened when he saw her, his usual swagger tempered by concern.

“There you are, love,” he said, stopping a few feet away. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Emma forced a smile, but it felt hollow even to her. “Sorry. I just… needed some air.”

Hook studied her for a moment, his brow furrowing. “You’ve been distant lately,” he said, his tone careful, as if he were afraid of pushing too hard. “Is everything all right?”

Emma opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. She wanted to tell him the truth, to lay it all out and let him decide what to do with it. But the weight of it all felt too heavy, too messy to put into words.

“I’m fine,” she said instead, the lie leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

Hook’s gaze lingered on her, doubt flickering in his eyes, but he nodded. “If you say so.”

He reached for her hand, his touch warm and steady, but Emma flinched, pulling away before she could stop herself.

Hook’s hand fell to his side, and his expression shifted, hurt flashing across his face before he masked it with a forced smile. “It’s the wedding, isn’t it? You’re nervous.”

Emma nodded quickly, latching onto the excuse like a lifeline. “Yeah. It’s just… a lot.”

Hook stepped closer, his voice softening. “You don’t have to go through this alone, Emma. Whatever’s weighing on you, I’m here. Always.”

Emma’s chest tightened, guilt twisting like a knife in her gut. He meant it—she could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. And yet, it wasn’t enough to quiet the voice in her head, the one that whispered Regina’s name over and over like a prayer.

“I know,” Emma said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I need some time to figure things out. Can you give me that?”

Hook hesitated, his jaw clenching slightly, but he nodded. “Of course,” he said, though his voice was strained. “Take all the time you need.”

Emma offered him a small, grateful smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you.”

As he turned and walked away, Emma felt the ache in her chest deepen. She hated hurting him, hated the way his shoulders slumped as he disappeared into the night. But she couldn’t ignore the truth any longer.

She didn’t belong here, not with him.

***

The mansion was dark when Emma returned, the only light coming from the faint glow of the fire in the parlor. She hesitated in the doorway, her heart pounding as she saw Regina sitting by the hearth, a glass of wine in her hand.

Regina didn’t look up, her gaze fixed on the flames. “Back so soon?” she said, her voice cool but not unkind.

Emma stepped inside, her boots scuffing softly against the floor. “I couldn’t stay away.”

Regina’s lips twitched, a faint, humorless smile crossing her face. “That seems to be a pattern with you.”

Emma took a deep breath, her hands trembling as she stepped closer. “You were right,” she said, her voice breaking.

Regina finally looked up, her eyes guarded but shining with a faint glimmer of hope. “About what?”

“About everything,” Emma admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “About me, about him, about… us.”

Regina set her glass down, standing slowly. “What are you saying, Emma?”

Emma swallowed hard, her heart pounding as she met Regina’s gaze. “I’m saying that I choose you,” she said, her voice trembling. “Not because it’s easy, or because it makes sense, but because it’s what I want.”

Regina’s breath hitched, her eyes wide as she stared at Emma. “Do you mean that?”

Emma nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks as she stepped closer. “I’ve been running from this for so long, and I’m tired of running. I don’t want to live a life that’s safe or expected. I want you.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Then Regina closed the distance between them, her hands cupping Emma’s face as she kissed her deeply, passionately, pouring every ounce of emotion into the kiss.

Emma melted into it, her arms wrapping around Regina as the world faded away. This was where she belonged—here, in Regina’s arms, in this moment that felt more real than anything she’d ever known.

When they finally broke apart, Regina rested her forehead against Emma’s, her breath coming in soft, uneven gasps. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” she whispered.

Emma smiled through her tears, her heart full for the first time in what felt like forever. “I think I do,” she said softly.