#ron2

Control over their family’s “High Council,” his father dead, and an heir that can carry on not only his genetic makeup but the power of the Danforth name. He wanted all of it, and before Ursula could get it first. That all began with the ritualistic Hunt that was taking place weeks from now. The first in two solar eclipses, this one signifying a sort of champion’s game. Those who had been surviving for years, killing since they were old enough to hold the weight of a weapon, carved out of stone and darkness. The last one standing sure to be promised the most influence and power among the High Council. And this year Titus would win—there was no other option. Kill or be killed, and he promised that as soon as it was decided, he would be the one seated at the forefront of that table come dawn. 

The only thing that stood between him, that title, and from killing the other ten high council heirs was you. Belonging to one of the newer elite families that hadn’t been around as long as all the rest—those who still needed to prove themselves—and you were their youngest. Far younger than him, decades younger, with soft, unmarked skin and a certain naive spark that intrigued him more than he would ever admit. Which is why he didn’t, not when Ursula would never let him hear the end of it for going after a young thing like you.

But some things are inevitable, written out in the stars, promised by the hands of Satan, sure to be sealed by the spillage of blood. Whether that meant you lived or died, he didn’t know yet, but he was sure he’d have it figured out by the time of the Hunt—when dusk finally fell, leaving the acres of land into a playground of darkness for the monsters to come out and play.

And so as weeks passed, social events being shoved down his throat by his father and the other high elite parents, he took the time to take in his opponents, to take in you. Among the glinting chandeliers and flutes of champagne as black market investors looked on, seeing which of the elite hunters they wished to invest their money into, he watched you. 

In weeks, he came to understand your routines, mannerisms, expressions—claiming he was looking for weaknesses to use during the Hunt, but a selfish part of him was trying to find the right moment to approach you. An opportunity that never came until one night, a week before their game of hide and seek, at a gala no less, where parents spent the night speaking highly of their children in anticipation of the slaughter, and those participating in it drank.

Drank in celebration. 

Some in grief. 

He found you late into the evening, tucked away in a corner, an emerald dress fitting you in all the right places, hair pulled up, revealing the smooth skin of your neck. Titus was unable to look away, couldn’t stop himself from devouring you while you remained oblivious. With two or three flutes of champagne having been washed down, your cheeks held a gentle rosy hue to them, the alcohol taking shape and form in your body. You stood talking to a server, a man who Titus killed later that evening with the man’s own serving tray, just because of the sight of you blinking up through the thick wisps of your lashes, smiling in such a way that he knew he was entirely fucked. If it wasn’t his brain that had made the realization, his dick definitely did in how it twitched, hardening slightly as you rolled your eyes.

Hours later, while sandwiched between Ursula and Tobias, another heir they had known since their childhood, he watched you slip out in between dances down the hallway. How he stared even when you were no longer in sight, only brought back by the cool touch of Ursula’s fingers slinking around his wrist, nails digging into his skin lightly. She raised a menacing brow, a warning—don’t even think about it. 

She noticed more than he had given her credit for. Titus pulled his arm free, downed his fourth flute of champagne, and sent his sister a tantalizing smile, one she was quite familiar with in all their years growing up with one another—one that said I don’t give a fuck. Tipping his head to Tobias, he excused himself and walked in the direction you had disappeared, with the sound of his sister spitting insults following him.

He found you on a balcony, sitting in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, dress blowing in the wind. Stray pieces of hair blew into your eyes as you peered down, picking at your fingernails, deep enough to draw blood. 

Your doe-like eyes looked up through the shadows at the sound of the door opening, shoulders stiffening at the sight of him—all broad and serious—so Danforth-like, intimidating you to a point that you felt you couldn’t move. As he stepped outside, his silver curls caught in the moonlight, and his deep gaze traced you up and down silently. You had never seen him like this—so close, so intimately—and you couldn’t help but just stare and keep picking at the torn skin around your fingernails. Blood smeared around your thumb, and he watched the crimson bead from the wound.

With his hands tucked behind his back, there was a certain curiosity laced between his wandering gaze and the tilt of his head. “Not having a good time?” 

“What makes you think that?” you asked, voice steady, steadier than either of you would’ve expected. “Have you been watching me, Mr. Danforth?”

God, he hated the way his surname sounded coming from your parted lips—the way his cock twitched again—realizing that you played into the innocence card, molded yourself into exactly what everyone else saw you as. The youngest elite heir—lucky, inexperienced, too pure to survive all of this.

“Mr. Danforth?” He chuckled, the sound deep, honest. “You must think you’re speaking to my father.” 

“As if you don’t like it.” You mused, raising an arched brow up at him. 

He cleared his throat. “Titus, is fine.”

You sighed, looking away, over your shoulder, over the estate—one that was beautiful, but far too small for the Hunt. One that you knew better than the Danforth’s, having spent more time here than there. 

Your mind turned on itself then, as you thought about it with the eldest and future board member of the high council standing there—you, the outlier, the youngest, least experienced, having only participated in two hunts before this one. Everyone was expecting your death. 

Even you. 

“I heard you won your last two hunts. Quiet on the ground, like a cat, experienced with a bow and arrow. You killed Senator Calcius’s son at the last hunt, right? He was what? 6 '3? And roughly 210? And you took him down one shot, one arrow, right to his heart.” 

You picked at another piece of skin, feeling it give away, blood forming immediately as you refused to look back at him. Your shoulders were raised and the images from that hunt came back, clearer than ever despite it having been over a year ago—a hunt that had taken the lives of your cousin and brother, each with a 3 inch hole in their skulls from another elite who had turned on the rest of the party. You had killed him right after you had taken care of the senator’s son. 

“That’s impressive,” Titus admitted, his voice warm, pooling in your stomach. “You know, for someone who’s twelve.”

Your head snapped towards him then, glaring in a way he found neither intimidating or serious. But your lips curled in on themselves and while he hoped for you to say something back, insult him, you only sighed and turned back to the garden below.

“You’re not excited for the Hunt?” he asked, the sound of his steps loud in your ears. 

You hummed softly standing and brushing your hands across the bottom of your dress, a few droplets of blood staining the silk material. Titus’s eyes dropped to the action before drifting back up your body, past your lips, and to your eyes. 

“How can you tell?” You crossed your arms, tone becoming snappy with him faster than he anticipated. 

He gestured to the balcony as if you escaping outside wasn’t telling enough but your expression did not shift, if anything it deepend further. Looking once over his shoulder, Titus stepped closer and then again when you didn’t move back. He moved until the tip of his shoe was touching yours. 

His hands were still behind him, not even tempted with the idea of touching, but he leaned forward, enough that his chest brushed up against your arms. Then your last name was falling off his tongue sweeter than you had ever heard it.

“You’re the youngest,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting so softly, just for you. 

Your walls fell just a little bit, your head tilting in a way that he was eating up—so innocent, naive, so enticing. Your tongue slipped out to wet your lips, and his eyes followed it. 

“Yes,” you admitted softly. 

Another step forward. This one coaxing you to take one backwards, your pulse rising, and you hating how he was able to catch it. Your back met the cool metal of the balcony railing, hand suddenly darting out to meet his chest, anything to keep some space between the two of you. His lips curled up further into a smirk, a dark look evolving across his face.

“So pretty,” he whispered. 

A gasp slipped from your lips, eyes narrowing up at him as the warm tip of his finger trailed up the side of your thigh, so gently, you weren’t sure if it was even real, until his palm grabbed the railing, caging you in entirely. 

“So young,” he continued, breath suddenly colliding with your lips. “A waste of a life to have in the Hunt. But it’s never fair is it? Hm, I am sure your blood will be pretty too, especially drenched across my hands.”

Titus was used to people cowering, the air shifting in a room at his mere presence, those groveling if he threatened their life. But you didn’t shudder or react, and it annoyed him that you were as lock and key as ever—hidden away from him—your humanity not there for the taking. You merely stared at him, just as intensely, not a lick of fear within you, not prey-like one. Single. Bit. 

But this wasn’t the first time you had been threatened by one of the large men of the elite family heirs. Your family hadn’t been around as long as the others, but around long enough to have a knife pressed to your jugular once or twice, and wandering hands trying to reach up your skirt. This life you were familiar with, and it had become a part of you at this point, your first hunt being when you were sixteen, and then the second when you were twenty. 

And you were still alive. 

So you smiled, instead. “I guess that all depends on if you can find me, Titus.”

“You mean when I find you?” 

You tutted softly up at him, your expression cracking only when you felt his knee wedging itself between your thighs. “I am sorry, but am I forgetting a time when you and I have been a part of the same hunt? Oh, right. We haven’t.” 

“You think that means I can’t hunt you down?” 

You shrugged. “I don’t know, Titus. I tend to pick the best hiding spots. It’s done me well so far.” 

His dick was completely hard at this point. The way you were saying his name over and over again, creating a response out of him that he couldn’t control.

Leaning forward, his mouth hovered over yours, his stare so dark now as they flickered between your mouth and eyes. “Except that I know every inch and crevice of the Danforth estate. You’re right, we haven’t been a part of the same hunt before, but you also have never done one on my property. So tell me, what’s going to happen when I find you?”

You thought about it for a second, heart beating loudly in your chest. Then you jutted your chin out, planning to defy him every second you could while alive. “We settle up and strike a deal.”

Chuckling, he smiled down at you softly, a new challenge forming in his eyes as he took a step back, body peeling away from you altogether. 

“I’ll see you at the Hunt, little lamb. I wish you luck. Rest assured, I will find you, and when I do, prepare to beg for your life.”

Then, as if the great Danforth’s eldest son had never been there at all, he slipped back inside, the glass door shutting softly, hinges creaking in a call and response. He disappeared down the hall, not looking back once, as he retreated into the boring party, to the lies that had beseeched everyone into a life of death and murder, but with more money than anyone could ever fucking imagine. His black suit reflected across the walls like a loose shadow, one begging you to run—run so far that the big bad wolf couldn’t get you. 

You knew what kind of hunter Titus Danforth was—he was intense in everything he did, ruthless, and most importantly, he didn’t fear death. He dances around, waiting for the day his blood will return to the earth, all of the darkness within him going back to where it came from. It was what made him the scariest contender out there. And although you were fairly certain he would catch you eventually—hopefully not before dawn, before the light can bargain for your life—you’d die trying to kill him before he could kill you.

The night of the hunt, you got ready, ate with your parents and your older brother, the last one of the two, as clouds billowed and moved through the area. The wind was picking up, and the air was humid, water droplets bubbling on your skin from the increase in temperature. 

“Great hunting weather,” you said, standing on the back porch of the estate, the screen windows revealing the shadows that loomed outside. “Easier to hide in. Covers up scents, tracks… won’t have to do as much to conceal my presence.” 

Your brother stood in the room, taking in the side of your face as you stared out at the dark green fields, already dressed in a dark long-sleeved shirt and black pants that hugged your body tightly. Eyes glassy, your fingertip traced over the scar at your collarbone, the first one you had ever gotten during your first hunt. 

Elias wasn’t chosen for the hunt this time around—it was a plus when families had lost multiple children and were running low on who could keep the lineage alive. He had tried to have them pick him over you, but Le Bali wouldn’t permit it.

You were mumbling now under bated breaths, feeling yourself spiral the closer to the witching hour it got, the closer you got to the start of the Hunt and the promise that Titus had made you. He wanted your blood, and what a Danforth wants, a Danforth gets. 

Elias whispered your name, it deep, drawing your attention back to him and the table full of weapons. Guns, knives, crossbows, an axe—anything you can imagine on one table. Your brother gestured towards the bow and the bag of arrows. It had been your chosen weapon for the first two hunts—the thing that had ultimately kept you alive. 

But this wasn’t just any other hunt. 

You walked around the table, fingers tracing handles, blades, the way triggers felt under your touch. Suddenly, as the first raindrop fell, your hand stopped near a five-inch hunting knife, the handle wooden and engraved with your family emblem. 

Picking it up, you tested its weight before slipping it into the guard at your thigh. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Thinking of switching it up this year." You shrugged, trying to dissociate as the clock got closer. 

“Are you crazy, sister? Take the bow.” Elias reached for the knife at your hip, but you stopped him. 

“This isn’t any other fucking hunt. Risking the bow would be risking my life.” 

“And you think the knife is any better? Look, I know you’re stronger now, but you should stick to what you know. That bow got you through your first two hunts.” 

You smiled sadly, running your palms over his shoulders. “When have you ever believed in superstitions?” 

He pleaded then, in a way you would’ve never expected from him—you knew what kind of life you guys were getting into when your parents were picked to be an elite family. Death would be a commonality, murder even more so. He even used to enjoy the hunt, enjoy how it felt to end someone’s life. No one had ever been innocent—not even you. But when Leo was killed by Titus’s cousin, something in Elias changed that day. Something shifted how he felt about the hunts.

“Elias, this is the champion’s hunt. Everyone here is either older than me, stronger, or has more kills than I probably ever will. The bow can’t save me if I get caught in close combat.”

He paused, frame relaxing under your touch, a few seconds passed, only to drift away at the sound of your father entering the room. The car was here. 

Squeezing Elias’s shoulder, you parted, only for him to call out your name as you reached the threshold of the doorway. 

Turning over your shoulder, you met his melancholy gaze. “Go for the throat, ribs, and the base of the skull. The hunting triad. I remember.”

You didn’t look back again and followed your father down the stairs of the estate, taking in the smell, the way it looked under dim canary lights, the staff who had been nothing but loyal for almost ten years—all just in case you wouldn’t come back. With one squeeze to your shoulder from your father—signaling that he didn’t even believe you’d live—you stepped out into the stormy dark abyss of the night, the light diminishing behind rolling clouds. Slipping into the black, sleek car sent for you, you leaned back into the seat, head rolling to the side, and you watched your home until it disappeared completely from view. 

Ready or not, you would be participating in a hunt tonight.

One weapon, one night, survive until dawn…again—how hard could it be?  

The first crack of thunder came a few mere minutes after the sky erupted in a bright light. It rolled across the Danforth estate like something alive. The trees shook against the windows, the darkness of the sky matching what darkness would commence on the ground. Clutching your knife against your thigh, you listened as the grandfather clock ticked away—the rest of the heirs standing around you with their weapons of choice. 

Chester Danforth was more than a member of the high council; he was the greatest—cold, detached, lacking an ounce of empathy that would stall his order on the world. He stood at the top of the entryway steps, a dark suit buttoned up with a bright maroon tie—hair white, he sneered down at the competitors, at the children of his most trusted associates, sure to have their blood spilled. 

His eyes flickered over you, the youngest of the heirs, having already survived two of your own; it didn’t create any more favorable odds the third time around. You knew he would beam, maybe even laugh at the sight of you dead, especially if at the hands of his eldest son. 

Titus stood next to him, leaning up against his axe, grinning as if he were a kid who had just stumbled across a carnival. Like a predator stalking his prey, he scanned the crowd, the cusps of his teeth chewing on his lip as every dark fantasy flew in and out of his mind—blood, so much blood, god, he wanted to be drenched in it by the end of it all. There was no smell, no feeling better than it. 

Something in you stiffened as Titus’s pupils locked onto you, dark and unblinking. His smirk widened, slow and predatory, as his gaze dragged down your frame, pausing at the hunting knife strapped to your thigh. Mr. Danforth’s voice droned through the hall—rules, warnings, the same ritualistic speech you’d heard twice before—but Titus didn't look away. Not once. His stare was ruthless, hungry in a way that made your pulse stumble. The words went in one ear and out the other, only appearing in shortened phrases.

…One weapon.

Dawn or until there’s only one…

Different release points onto the estate.

…Bell sounds, hunt begins.

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and you couldn’t look away. Not until a staff member brushed your elbow, drawing your attention from Titus. They were to guide you to your release point on the far side of the estate. You nodded and followed, not missing the small wink Titus sent your way as you passed him—a silent promise, or a threat, you couldn’t tell—deeper into the Danforths’ world that you were sure was about to swallow you whole.

And then Ursula’s voice cut through the marble hall like a blade, echoing off the high walls as she gagged in disgust. “Really, Titus? We’re minutes from the bell, and you’re already hunting the wrong thing.”

You didn’t hear his reply. 

And you didn’t want to.

The staff member led you through a side door and out into the storm. The air hit you hard. Thunder rolled across the estate grounds as the Danforth mansion loomed behind you, its windows glowing like the watchful eyes of Chester Danforth.

The older staff stopped at the edge of the treeline. 

“Here,” they said. “Wait for the bell.”

You peered up at the sky and slipped back into the shadows of the forest, rain soaking through your clothes in seconds. Your breath fogged in the cold air as you waited, trying to hear past the storm. The first thing that came to your mind was what always had, it getting you through the first two hunts—hide, wait, survive. Let the others kill one another while you disappear deeper into the dark. 

The bell tolled somewhere from the direction that you came—low, resonant, like one that you used to hear at church. It vibrated in your ribs, your teeth, in the wet air around you. For a moment, everything went still.

And you ran. 

The storm swallowed you within seconds. Rain soaked into you and blurred the world around you. Your boots tore across the lawn, the mansion shrinking behind you with every stride. Thunder clapped overhead, close enough to make you jump. 

You ran and ran, not stopping until the shapes of the estate garden rose out of the dark. The old stone fountain was overflowing with stormwater, the row of greenhouses standing like glass skeletons under the stormy sky. You slowed there, hands meeting your knees, lungs burning. 

But then the lightning split the sky again—a white, violent flash—and in that instant you saw them. Another one of the hunters could be Vance’s son, aged thirty-eight. He wasn’t far. Back turned and scanning the dark for threats that weren’t you. 

Your breath stalled, and then your fingers were curling around the hilt of your knife. Clutching it tightly, you felt your pulse quicken, and for a moment you hesitated. That childlike old instinct tugging at you, the one that said run, don’t stop, let them kill each other first. 

But something in you was stalling. It could’ve been the storm, the exertion, or the fear that hiding wouldn’t save you anymore. It was a Champion’s Hunt—they would find you. 

It could’ve been the realization that this was your third hunt, two since Leo was murdered. But whatever it was, it had you moving forward, timing your steps with the storm, moving when the sky spoke, holding your breath when it was silent. The rain masked your approach, suddenly becoming so close you could see the rise and fall of their shoulders, close enough to smell the wet fabric of their jacket.

When the next crack of thunder tore through the sky, you struck. It was quick, clean, up through the back of their skull, finding that sweet spot like it wasn’t the first time. The hunter collapsed into the mud, and the storm covered the evidence. Standing over them, rain running down your face, your knife slick in your hand, for the first time in any hunt, you felt no remorse. 

You didn’t shake, and you didn’t feel the guilt. 

Only a cold understanding. 

Eliminate them one by one. The more you killed, the sooner it'd all be over.

Wiping the blade on the grass, you began to move around the perimeter of the estate, moving close to the trees, you let the shadows of the night swallow you whole. The storm worsened after your first kill; it was more grueling, coming down like soft pellets. As you passed along the garden path and toward the old orchard, somewhere in the distance, someone screamed. 

The Hunt was already eating people alive. 

You kept moving. The ground was slick, the mud sucking at your boots. You slowed for a second time and listened, trying to steady your breath. There, a few feet away, you see another figure crouched by a tree, the lightning revealing their position to you, and you followed it like a beam. Waiting for the thunder, you reached around without any hesitation and slit the person’s throat, angling it to hit their carotid. 

It was quick, instinct, and gravity brought them down. You stood there, chest heaving, rain dripping from your hair, staring down at the body. This one felt messy. Desperate.

Your hands were shaking slightly now.

Two kills—two people suddenly unalive and no longer breathing. 

After that, you didn’t make it much further, just passed the orchard towards where the trees thinned when the ground suddenly sloped upward. Your energy was waning, but still strong, but that’s when you heard it. 

The voice deep, taunting, and cruel—a Danforth through and through. 

“Look at you,” he called, stepping out from behind a twisted apple tree. Lightning flashed, illuminating his smirk. “Didn’t think you’d make it this far.” 

Your ears perked up, chest stalling for a moment.

Titus’s cousin.

He stalked closer, looking you up and down and lingering on the cut on your arm and the blood that covered your clothes. He laughed; it was sharp, loud, and absolutely terrifying.  “Looks like someone got you there.” 

You tightened your grip on the knife, jaw clenched because there was no way you were going to die at the hands of this asshole. Tilting your head ever so slightly, your tone came out threatening, “Move out of my way, Arlo.” 

He grinned wider. “You know I can’t do that.” 

He lunged first, and you barely dodged him, slipping in the mud. At the same time, his blade came up and grazed your cheek, a hot sting that made your vision spark. He laughed again. Then he went for you, this time taking a hold of both your hips and slamming you down on the ground. You slipped, boots flying out from under you, your back hitting the ground, knocking the air out of you. The knife fell from your hand, and Arlo’s hands found a place around your throat.

You kicked and struggled, but he only squeezed harder, his fingertips pressing into your windpipe. He exhaled heavily, his weight crushing you. Your lungs burned, and you flailed your arms, trying to free yourself, trying to find something, anything that you could use to get him off of you. But as seconds passed, the air filling your lungs slowed, and with the feeling of a nearly crushed windpipe, the only thing you could think in that moment was I’m going to die.

It was then you saw it out of the corner of your eye. Your hunting knife. It was too far for you to reach, but still close enough if you were just able to move. As you struggled to get the air in, Arlo’s face was red above, his hands tightening again and again. You thrashed against him, hands clawing at his hands, moving from side to side so frantically that you managed to get your knee free from under him. You thrust it hard into his groin.

His hold loosened and fell away altogether, only for a few seconds, but enough for you to slip out slightly from underneath him, palm meeting the handle of the knife. The next thing you knew, it was twisted underneath Arlo’s ribcage, up and towards his chest cavity. 

He gasped, surprised as you drove him into the mud. He tried to grab your wrist, but you were already moving, pulling the knife from his chest and going in again and again. 

 He tried to push you off of him, but you were stronger in this moment than you had ever been in your entire life. And you didn’t stop, until his body had crumpled beneath you, until his breathing ceased, and the rain was washing over you both—like a cleansing of your sin. You sat there for a long second after that, chest heaving, hair plastered to your face, hands trembling. 

Your throat screamed as you still struggled to get air into your lungs.

But you were alive.

And you had managed to kill three of them.

But that’s when you heard it, the wind shifting, settling just for a moment, and the sound of ground moving under a footstep. You turned, and then you saw him. 

Titus. 

Standing at the edge of the orchard, soaked, blood-splattered, his axe resting casually on his shoulder. His eyes flickered from the body at your feet to the cut on your cheek, to the knife trembling in your hand. His brow arched up like he was almost impressed.

Almost. 

Light flashed behind him, turning him into a silhouette of death.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, a certain darkness in his eye that told you he had killed too. 

You sighed. You were exhausted. Your muscles were trembling, and the energy that carried you through the first few hours of the hunt and through three kills was running out. Still, you stood, wiping the blood from your cheek with the back of your hand. Reaching down, you pulled the knife from the body of Titus’s cousin at your feet, and you met his gaze. 

He smiled. Slow. Cruel

It was a smile that was meant to unravel you. Scare you into submission. 

“How many have you killed?” he asked. 

You didn’t hesitate.

“Three.” Your voice cracked, and your throat ached.

He nodded, stepping closer, his eyes never leaving yours. You raised your knife, something in your chest hardening at the playful glint in his expression. He was such a mind fuck. 

“You?” you asked. 

His grin widened, “Four.” 

The number caused a shiver to run down your back.

You tried to shift right but he lunged—moving faster than you—and his hand closed around your wrist before you could react. The world tilted as he yanked you off balance, the storm even louder in your ears now as your boots slid in the mud. Titus’s weight crashed into you, his broad body sending you down to the ground.

The knife dropped from your hand. 

And you fell on your back, hard, breath knocked from your lungs. Before you could scramble away, Titus was already on you, hips pinning yours and one knee braced in the mud. One hand held your wrist to the ground, pressing down hard enough to keep you from escaping. 

His other hand wrapped around your jaw, holding it steady, forcing your gaze up to his.

Rain dripped from his hair onto your cheeks as you struggled underneath him. His breath was uneven, eyes dark and searching. His hand was around your jaw, causing you to whimper out in pain. Keeping you still, his pointer finger found your lower lip. He brushed it so gently, his eyes boring down into yours, something in him softening just a little bit.

His grip tightened around you, but he didn’t rush. 

He wasn’t angry. 

Merely waiting.

“Just fucking do it, Titus,” you snapped, breath shaking, voice hoarse. “S-Stop dragging it out.”

He pinned your arms harder into the ground, but he didn’t say anything. Not one word, not a shift in his expression either. His eyes narrowed in a way that would’ve made you listen if you weren’t dying either way. “Be quiet.”

“No, no, Titus,” you cried out against him, lip trembling in a way that had his chest tightening ever so slightly. 

“Shut up,” he groaned, feeling a subtle shift in the air. 

“Just... just kill me.” 

But something changed in his posture then. His body pressed down harder, pinning you completely. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” 

Your mouth parted but no sound came as he clamped his hand over your mouth. He lowered his head and you could feel the hardness of him poking into you. It made you stiffen, the pressure of him, the heat of him becoming too much to bear quickly. His hand stayed over your mouth, his grip unyielding, as he looked out at the darkness around you.

There were footsteps. And they were close.

You felt his breath against your temple.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you hoped in that moment he would make it quick, but it was a feeling that never came. The footsteps lingered only for a moment before moving and fading up near the back of the estate.

You exhaled but still refused to open your eyes. If death were to come, you didn’t want to look at Titus as it did. But as a strike of lightning illuminated behind your eyelids, you never felt the blade come; the feeling of coolness, his touch remained where it had been before. Slowly, you peeled one eye open and then the other. He stared, eyes suddenly black as his chest heaved up and down, rain sliding down his face and his neck, curls matted to his head. 

He managed to reach your knife, and suddenly it was pressed into your side. You felt his hardening shaft poke harder, even harder than the hunting knife, only for a moment before he was loosening his hold. With his hands still tightly holding your wrists, he managed to haul you up onto your feet. The blade returned to your side, poking into the last intercostal space of your ribs. 

“You’re going to move, and you’re not going to make a fucking sound,” he whispered against your ear, his breath hot. 

He pushed you deeper into the forest, the land going back so much further than you thought it did. Over rough terrain, creeks, you felt all patience dying on your tongue—he was making his own little game out of this, and it was fucking cruel. Whereas he could end this, he could win this. But he let it stretch out, counted the minutes with you pressed up against him, the way you were so close as the storm raged on. 

But then he hauled you to a stop—in the distance the bell rang once, then twice, and finally a third time—signalling that there were only three of you left now. You were sure the third being was Ursula. She never missed out on a hunt. 

Releasing your arms, he pushed you forward, and you cringed at the soreness that you felt from how long and how tight he’d had your arms bound behind your back. He gestured with the knife towards the ground in front of the two of you. 

“There’s a hatch, open it!” 

You crouched down, fear taking hold of you now. The hours had long since passed from the start of the Hunt, but you had no way of knowing just how much, or if dawn was close. You also had no way of knowing what Titus was up to, but you were so tired, so hopeless. Your fingers matted into the soft ground, hands sinking into the mud. Pushing back soft ground, twigs, and branches, your heart stuttered as your skin felt the coolness of metal. 

You scrambled to move the branches, and you could hear Titus behind you tapping his foot impatiently. The rain was only getting worse as time went on, blurring your vision into shadows of silver and black. Managing to clear off the hatch, you pulled at it, but it didn’t budge. 

You tried again, but Titus stepped forward, gave you a look that had you staying put as he grabbed the handle, managing to open the hatch door away from the ground, the sound a soft creak amongst the storm. He motioned you forward, and you hesitated for a moment, peering down into the tunnel of darkness. 

He sighed, your name falling off his tongue menacingly, your knife still clenched tightly in his fist. “Go.” 

You listened because what else were you going to do? Running didn’t feel like an option. He was more likely to kill you sooner the less you cooperated. If you played into his little game, the closer you could get to morning. And if you had to decide between which of the Danforth twins to encounter, you’d pick Titus. 

You saw the way he looked at you, how attentive he was; with him, you could buy yourself time. Ursula would’ve struck as soon as she could—with him, you at least had a chance of survival, no matter how slim. 

As your feet found the hard ground beneath, you shivered as you stared into the dark tunnel. The latch fell shut above you. Titus locked it and dropped down behind you. A ringing echoed in your ears, the storm above still loud and deadly, and for a moment, you wondered if you were already dead, confined in the darkness now forever. 

But then the sound of a click filled your ears, once and then twice. A small light birthing through the blackness illuminated Titus’s face, a smile twitching as he took in the sight of you, soaked through and with fear flickering at the edges of your irises.

He looked like a lion through and through on his final hunt, having discovered his last prey. Stepping closer, the tip of your knife poked into your back, his other arm with the lighter winding around your shoulders, illuminating only a few feet in front of you. His hard, wet chest pressed into your back, his breath falling short along your ear as he urged you forward, slowly, one step at a time.

“Titus.” His name slipped past your lips in a soft whimper. 

“Shh, pretty. Just keep walking,” he replied, the knife kissing your skin a little closer. 

The further into the lion's den you crept, the more sure you were he was going to kill you—in what way you weren’t sure, but if you knew anything about Titus, he liked blood. The dark tunnel walls opened up, the air cooling with every step. The storm faded from above, replaced by the low hum of generators buried somewhere in the stone. When he finally pushed open the heavy steel door, the room inside suddenly felt like another world entirely.

Titus pushed you forward into the dark, the knife leaving your side. You tripped slightly but caught yourself as the light began to spread, forming across the walls and the floor. 

He lit a lantern while you struggled to gather your bearings. Silence echoed, confining you as the concrete walls were smooth to perfection. A cot with a thick mattress, crisp sheets, and a wool blanket was tucked into the corner. Metal shelves lining the other side of the room were stocked with water, food, and a Danforth jacket hanging up on one of the nails. A map of the whole estate was pinned up on the wall, and the most unsettling thing of all was a drain centered in the floor. You wondered if that’s where your blood would end up, under the Danforth estate, soaking back into the ground.

You turned to see Titus still near the door. He leaned his axe up against the wall, then dropped your knife down onto a metal table. His stare never left yours, not as he shrugged off his jacket, water droplets dripping onto the concrete floor below. 

He wore a black shirt, which stuck to his body, revealing even in the shadows, hard lines underneath. You wondered then if everything about Titus was sharp. 

You inhaled deeply, pressing yourself back against the cool concrete wall, stare darting back and forth from him to your knife. But then he was too close, as close as he had been the last time you saw him, his toes meeting yours. The only sound filling the room was the two of you breathing.

Hair stuck to your face and neck, your arm still bleeding, beads of red mixing with the water to become a muted pink. Despite the goosebumps that arose on his arms, you could feel the heat radiating off of him, feel the tension that was threatening to snap.

“Titus, this is cruel,” you said, finally speaking, the exhaustion in your voice palpable.

He tilted his head at you, taunting in more ways than one. 

“You’re being fucking cruel.” 

“Am I?” he teased. 

Your stare hardened then, chin tilting up defiantly. “What are you doing? Just why won’t you kill me?” 

He didn’t respond but only moved even closer, a gasp falling from your lips at the way his wet chest pressed against yours. Titus’s eyes were glazed over with a lens of darkness that softened ever so slightly. His hands hovered as if unsure of where to touch you. Seconds passed, and they remained raised at his sides, weaponless. He could feel your heart beating, meeting his, and he wondered if there was ever a way to have them, without all the mess, all the blood, conjoining into one.

“Entertain me,” he mused, his nose nearly bumping into yours. His finger reached up and traced the cut along your cheek, collecting the dried blood there. “You’re young, but I know you’re smart enough to connect the dots.”

Bringing his thumb to his mouth, he sucked it clean. You gasped, every part of you equally afraid and intrigued. He was close enough now that you could see a scar peeking out from the collar of his shirt, specks of blood staining his skin, as a certain sort of reverence settled in his eyes. Your head pressed back into the stone wall, as far as you could, looking up at him so honestly, every raw part of you showing. He could see it all—your fear, your humanity, your soul. 

It was laid out bare. 

This was his favorite part of killing—you knew it was. And yet he didn’t strike, didn’t reach for your throat, your skull. He just stood staring, hands still hovering, and you realized then that if Titus was really going to kill you, if he wanted to as much as he did, he would’ve done it—out in the open without shame, showcasing his prize if it meant getting the recognition he always craved. 

“You’re not going to kill me.” 

The words scraped out of you, thin and uneven, like they’d been dragged across broken glass. You hated how afraid you sounded. You hated that he heard it. 

Titus didn’t answer at first. His hand lifted to your jaw, thumb tracing the line of it with a focus that made you stutter. Not gentle—just deliberate. Assessing. Studying you the way a predator studies something it hasn’t decided the fate of yet. 

“This,” he murmured, tilting your chin up, “is why you think I couldn’t.”

Your breath caught.

He smirked then, slow and sharp, brows lifting. 

“I could kill you,” he admitted, voice low, matter-of-fact. “You know that. And I won’t pretend I wouldn’t take satisfaction in it.” 

Your stomach twisted. He wasn’t bluffing. He never did.

“But,” he continued, “I need an heir. And you’re more useful to me alive than dead.”

Your lips parted, the feeling of him pressing into you mixed with his confession, had heat pooling at the bottom of your stomach. 

The merging of families—the merging of power—the idea of you becoming Mrs. Danforth, both delightful and delicious. The Lawyer advised you before, at one of the galas, of a loophole—if you were to offer up marriage, offer up a union between two of the high power families, your survival was almost imminent. The elite families were addicted to the smell of blood, feeling someone wither under their touch, but there was something they would always crave more… power. 

“You said you wanted to strike up a deal. This is me offering you one.” 

It seemed Titus had beaten you to the punch.

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh—sharp, disbelieving, exhausted—your patience having completely thinned after this hellish night. “A deal? You want me to…what? Become some kind of vessel for your legacy.”

He actually chuckled. “Not just that. No.” 

His eyes flickered over your face, reading every reaction. 

“I would’ve thought you knew me better.” 

Your pulse hammered. 

You didn’t know him at all. 

That was the problem.

“You’d be more,” he said. “Much more. Mrs. Danforth.” 

The title hit you like a blow. It was heavy, suffocating, impossible.

You swallowed hard then. “And if I say no?” 

He didn’t hesitate, tilting his head, a glint forming at the mere thought of it. “Then death is still on the table.”

The words landed with a cold, heavy finality. But there was something else beneath them—something he wasn’t saying out loud. He could kill you, but he didn’t necessarily want to. Not anymore. Not after everything that has been revealed tonight. 

Your gaze dropped for a moment, it all becoming too much too fast, as if this hadn’t been building between the two of you. You forced your stare back up to meet his. 

And you couldn’t deny it then—how handsome Titus was, even a few decades your senior. His authority, while terrifying, was doing something to you now, and you knew that if the heir of the Danforth name and estate was offering up everything under the sky, you’d be an idiot to say no.

“I don’t trust you,” you admitted instead.

It wasn’t a refusal. 

It wasn’t an acceptance of any kind but it was honest. 

His mouth curved—not a smile, not quite. It was more like an acknowledgement. His thumb pulled at your bottom lip, humming at the way it snapped back into place. “You don’t have to trust me. You just have to survive. And with me, you will.”

Titus didn’t move, letting his hands mold around your body. He didn’t blink, just watched you, the way he always did. Your breath hitched, thinking about the options as you had them, a life as Mrs. Danforth, a life with power, money, with Titus as your husband…or no life at all. 

He could see them weighing on you. 

“You’re afraid of me,” he said softly. “You should be.”

Your pulse stuttered at his words, the way his hips hitched forward, meeting yours, pulling out a gasp with ease. His eyes narrowed slightly, doing it again to get another reaction out of you. “But I know there’s more you’re hiding in there. A want, a desire.” 

Your chest tightened. 

Heat rose up your neck. You looked away again—instinct, maybe self-protection—but he guided your face back towards his with some force. 

“Look at me,” he said.

You did, unable not to. And it all hit you in that moment, after all this time denying, refusing that any of this could be true, it shifted deep into your chest. It wasn’t because he touched you, not because he leaned in, but because you finally understood what had been weighing so heavily all this time. 

You weren’t just afraid of him.

You were drawn to him.

You always have been.

Your breath trembled and his did too. For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke—the hunt was nearly complete above you, but down here, it felt as if it was just beginning. 

It was then his knee wedged between your thighs, pressing up in a way that you had you leaning into his warm touch. You bit down on your bottom lip to conceal the whimper, and Titus grinned at the sight of it. 

“So, what do you say, pretty?” he asked, voice lowering, reaching down into places you didn’t think he had access to. “‘Til death do us part.” 

His lips brushed along your jaw, his knee pressing up further against your center, the pressure making your head spin. Holding your breath, your chest was rising and falling quicker than before. As his knee met the spot where you wanted him most, a small moan fell, and you were nodding then. Nodding, you bit down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. 

His thumb hooked the side of your mouth, stare blown out, and cock twitching within his pants. “Words, I need words.” 

His knee pressed against your clit again. 

“Y-Yes…fuck,” you sputtered. “Yes.”

Something in him broke then, his hand fisted your hair and pulled you forward, your chest pressing further into his. His lips fell messily on yours, consuming you in just the way that was so Titus, it had your head spinning.

You kissed back, mouth falling open, teeth colliding as if this wasn’t the first time. And he took you within seconds, his tongue slipping into your mouth. He groaned at the taste of blood that bloomed on your lower lip, mixing so well with the sweetness that was you and only you. He pulled back, just enough to suck on your lower lip.

It felt like sin, having him touch you like this. But you knew in the way you sighed, and you arched into him, that all your defenses were falling away. Hands wandering like loose canons, they slipped up under your shirt, finding bare, damp skin underneath. Your head was reeling, body flooding with every ounce of energy and feeling you had left—all of it suddenly screaming for Titus. 

Secretly, this had crossed your mind for years, starting after your second hunt. You had caught sight of Titus after the other heirs came to admire the winners. He had less grey in his hair then, but he was still just as beautiful as he was now. He was deadly, a name that held more power than you would ever touch, and it became a dying thought when you thought he wouldn’t go for you because of the age gap or that he would have more interest in killing you than fucking you. 

You were pulled back by the feeling of him groping at your hips, your sides, any skin he could grab—nails leaving crescents as his lips continued to kiss bruises into your lips.

“You smell like blood,” he mumbled as his lips found your jaw.

“I thought you liked that,” you teased, and as he chuckled, you felt it in your chest—almost as if the sound came from you instead. 

He didn’t respond. Instead, he reached down, hooking his hands under your thighs and lifting you as if you weighed nothing. Resting you on top of his hips, your feet hooked around his waist, and you smiled down at him—a real smile. 

The side of his mouth twitched as he lay you down on the cot, his thigh once again parting your legs. He kissed you again. This one slower, deeper, wetter. 

His hands dove under your shirt again, kneading, his lips moving across your jaw and down your neck, hesitating once they met the raw skin of your throat, two red handprints glinting back at him under the low light. 

Arlo’s hands. 

He glanced down at your shirt stil matted and damp from rain water and blood. 

Arlo’s blood.

He had only gotten there as you had managed to free yourself, hand wrapping desperately around the handle of the hunting knife. It was your kill, and he’d let you claim it. Instead, Titus stood back, watching with satisfaction as you thrusted the knife up and under Arlo’s ribs, gasping for this earth’s sweet, sweet air as you did. 

He had never liked Arlo anyway. 

Didn’t like how his touch was left on your skin. 

Titus moved slowly as he stared down at the marks. Hand hovering for a mere moment, his fingers traced them. You stiffened first under his touch, his hand so close to your throat, you cringed second at the feeling. A part of it excited him, how wide your eyes got, the spark of fear that appeared in them. 

His hand drifted up higher, finding the side of your head instead, brushing hair behind your ear. 

“Sh, it’s okay,” he lowered his voice, hips pressed against yours, his hardness pressing through his pants into your thigh. “What kind of husband would I be if I hurt my wife?”

You met his steady gaze, the way it traced over your features, hand resting at the side of your head. Wife. The word was so foreign, so thick, so enigmatic. Was this the right thing? Marry a man who proposed with ‘will you marry me, but if you don’t say yes, I will kill you.’ But you’d be a Danforth, married to the very man who had fantasized about your death. 

And yet you got it. 

Completely.

After all, you had thought about his death, too. The Hunt made you envision everyone’s death. How would you do it, for every possible scenario you could think of. You had wanted to kill him, too. 

But not now. Not as he reached up, hands grabbing at the back of his wet shirt. Not as he pulled it up and over his head in one swift motion, leaving him bare underneath. Your eyes dropped to the expanse of skin—broad-shouldered, freckle-coated chest, taut muscles under scars and wounds both old and new. 

You traced your fingers over the scar that was peeking out of his shirt before. It was so much larger now, extending from the top of his shoulder, along his collarbone, ending where the bone met sternum. He shivered, and it only made you want to push further. Dragging your pointer finger down his chest, you moved lower and lower. His stomach clenched as you found the waistband of his pants. 

“Fuck,” he swore, head dipping to meet yours. 

“What was that?” you teased. 

Titus shook his head, brows furrowed.  “You’re wearing too many clothes.” 

His hands pushed your shirt up and over your chest.

“So fix it,” you smirked, leaning up and nearly kissing him. 

He grinned then, pulling the shirt the rest of the way up and over your head. Titus’s stare dipped at the new expanse of skin, at the blood that stained through your clothes, your own scars, your own stories of near encounters with death. He took you in slowly, then, slower than he ever had, orbs taking you one inch at a time. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered, fingers thumbing at the button of your pants. He popped them, and you involuntarily arched into his touch. 

“All I’ve ever wanted.”

Titus chuckled, and you lifted your hips just enough for him to get the material under your butt before pulling them the rest of the way down, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. His fingers twisted in the material, and you rubbed your thighs together. He noticed it, took in the sight of the wetness gathering at the center of your grey panties. 

Pulling his fingers free, he stared down at you, pupils blown, chest heaving, and with a look that made you realize he was about to ruin you—ruin you for anyone else. He reached for the front of his own pants, the zipper, and then the button. 

“You know,” he paused, eyes tracing the skin and bones of you, following them with his lips. “There's nothing I want more than to devour you.” 

His lips found the space right above your underwear. Your breath stalled, hands fisting around the sheets. He moved up further, placing another one below your navel. 

“What I would give to taste you, over and over. Stretch you out with my fingers until your legs are shaking.” 

Then, between the valley of your breasts, just above the band of your bra. He pushed his pants over his hips and down his knees. He kicked them off just as his lips met one of your nipples, your bra dampening under the hot wetness of his mouth. 

You whimpered, hips pressing up into his. 

His smile widened further. “There’s nothing more you deserve after tonight than to cum—” 

“Titus,” you moaned. 

“And, I haven’t even done anything yet,” he quipped, fingers dancing up your thigh to the front of your underwear. “Also, you shouldn’t interrupt. What kind of manners did your parents raise you with? Well, I can just fix that, can't I?”

His finger moved up along your lips, finding your clit with ease even over the cotton material.

“If you’re going to be my wife, I'm gonna need to teach you a few things.” 

He pressed down, and you arched into him again, palms wrapping around his arms, nails digging into his biceps. 

“So number one, if I'm talking, you're not, got it? Wives shouldn't interrupt their husbands,” he ordered, his finger beginning to move in steady circles.

As seconds passed, he circled faster, harder—head tilting as he took in the way your face moved, eyes squeezed shut, fingers digging into his arms that he hoped you drew blood. 

“Fuck, what I would give to see you like this all night, face twisted up, chest heaving, body slick just because I'm touching you. I'd make you cum again and again,” he whispered against the shell of your ear, pushing you further and further towards the edge. “But wouldn’t it be more interesting to leave that for the wedding night…”

Just as the coil in your stomach began to tighten, maybe even close to snapping, he pulled his fingers away. You gasped and swore, nails digging in deep then. He groaned at the pain, his lips falling down onto yours, saliva finding your tongue as he took everything that he could give. 

“Titus, I swear to—” 

Your words died at the feeling of his fingers tangling back into the sides of your underwear, this time pulling so hard, it dug into your skin before ripping altogether. The relief from the pain and the garment breaking away made you whimper. 

“You were saying?” he smirked, his hands leaving yours to push down the only thing left between you. 

His hard cock twitched as it slapped against his stomach. Leaking pre-cum onto your thigh, your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head, until his hand was back around your jaw, thumb pressing firmly into the divot of your chin. 

“Lose your voice, pretty?” His voice was condescending, dick warm and eliciting your walls to flutter, as if they could suck him inside of you. 

He didn’t move, content in that moment to take you just how he had you—your nipples peeking through the fabric of your bra, chest rising and falling, lips slick with his saliva and your own blood. 

You were getting impatient, and as the hours had waned into the early morning, you were desperate to seal this deal with him before the hunt was over. Before the blood dried and the storm ceased. 

His lips parted, and you knew he was about to make another remark, anything to make you suffer—because you could tell that Titus was the kind of guy who liked his partner like he liked his kills: desperate and begging. 

But you had lost your patience, body shaking, energy slipping out of your pores from the extent of everything you had been through. So before he could tease you further, you leaned back and spit in his face—pink and bubbly, it splattered along his cheek and at the corner of his lips. 

Titus’s hand tightened around your jaw, and you whined. His eyes darkened, but with his lips curled in satisfaction, he licked the side of his mouth clean. 

“Titus Danforth, if you’re not inside of me in the next few seconds, don’t think I won’t find a way to cut it off. Forget your heir—” 

Your words died suddenly at the feeling of his cock slamming up against your clit, then down through your folds. He thrusted inside, everything all at once, basking in how you clenched around him, jaw falling as a cry ripped free from your throat. 

The tip of him met your cervix, and you arched into him just at the rawness and the fullness alone—the heat from his body making you melt into a momentary bliss. His breath was heavy, meeting yours in a tangled mess of tension and near confessions.

“Forget my heir, huh? I guess then I can pull out right now, then.” 

Almost as if you were afraid he actually would, your legs tightened around his waist, keeping him sheathed tightly inside. His smirk widened at the response you gave him, so desperate, so wet, so completely his.

“That's what I fucking thought,” he grunted against your lips.

Titus then pulled back all the way before thrusting right back in, his tip hitting the same spot he was just resting. So like him to take in that moment, and you would let him. His fingers laced into your hair and pulled your lips up to meet his. He hummed then, setting a rough pace that already had you seeing stars. 

“You’re already taking to the role so nicely, Mrs. Danforth,” he grunted and then hissed as you clenched just as the name slipped off his tongue. 

His other hand slipped down to find your clit. Your fingers found his shoulders and dug in nicely. “You like that, don’t you? Mrs. Danforth.” 

You nodded, nails leaving creases close to breaking skin.

“It’s got a nice ring to it,” he continued, hips snapping forward, meeting yours with a soft chorus of skin meeting skin. “Fuck, there were so many things I thought about before tonight’s hunt—your smooth skin, the way it could slit open with the sharpest blade. How your body would feel going limp in my arms, my name the last thing you’d say on bated breath. I thought about killing you in every possible way.” 

You moaned, head thrown back as your nails finally broke skin—blood seeping under your nailbeds. Earlier, you would’ve cowarded, spat at him in disgust for this admission, and now it was bringing you to the point of an orgasm. 

His index finger pressed harder on your clit, cock twitching inside of you as your gummy walls pulsed and shook, desperate to suck him in as deep as he could—desperate for his seed, his DNA, him in any form you could get. 

“But I would also be lying if I hadn’t thought about this—if I hadn’t been thinking about this for months. You under me, taking my cock so well. So deep… after a hunt, during a hunt, covered in someone else’s blood—claiming you as mine and only mine.” 

Your head was spinning at this point, stomach clenching, that coil in you tightening further and further—the pressure building in a way you had never been able to get with your own fingers. 

His pelvis met yours rougher than before, and you knew you were both close—bruised, panting, bleeding. “Mine. You're all mine and don't ever forget that.” 

Just as he whispered that promise across your tongue, his finger circling your clit one more time, that feeling in you snapped. Your body tensed, legs quivering as your walls fluttered, the euphoria pulsing through you in a way you had never experienced.  

Titus didn’t stop but only thrusted hard into you over and over, your slick on his cock propping him forward, walls clenching him once and then twice as he tried to drive his own orgasm into you. “What do you say, we get ahead, put an heir in your womb right here, right now… getting you pregnant before the wedding, god that’d drive them all crazy.” 

Your bloody fingers laced into his hair, and you pulled him down as close as you could. Your eyes were lidded, your fucked-out expression paired with your pouting lips, had him tiptoeing across that edge. You pressed an open-mouth kiss against his, tongue rolling over his before the words left you with ease, with so much certainty, it had him. 

“Come inside of me, Titus. Fill me up—you, I only want you.”

That was all he needed to hear. Paired with your wet mouth, it had him stalling above you, his warm release shooting inside of you, mixing with your own. His head collapsed into your neck, his body crushing yours into the mattress. Silence filled the room then, both of you trying to catch your breath as the evidence of what the two of you had done, agreed on, began to slip out of you. 

It felt almost like a binding contract—as if you had already been at the altar, already cut your hand and released your blood into the golden chalice—as if you were already connected to him both body and soul. 

As he grew soft in you, he lifted his head, dark gaze meeting yours still somehow just as full of lust as before. Your stomach turned as the reality of it all washed over you slowly and then all at once—how had you gone from being the hunted, the one he wished to cut open, to being the one pinned underneath him who so willingly offered herself up to a life full of killing and devil worship?

"Baby, wait, it's not what it looks like," Titus reasoned.

Ursula was nearby when she heard the commotion and followed it. She saw the assistant looking flustered with embarrassment and pieced it together. Storming over, Ursula grips the assistant's wrist so tightly that it makes the woman gasp. "If you know what's best for you, you'll leave and never come back, or I will kill you myself," Ursula threatened her, tightening her grip on the woman's wrist as the fury in her eyes darkened.

"Okay," the assistant whimpers in pain.

"Go," Ursula ordered, releasing her wrist.

She quickly scrambles off, cradling her wrist as her heels click against the marble floor until she's out of sight. "Slut," Ursula venomously muttered under her breath, her gaze flicking to the balcony where Titus and you were arguing. Ursula leaves, knowing that her twin has everything under control and would never intentionally break your trust.

Meanwhile, Titus had dragged you back to his office and to the balcony, which is where you were attempting to leave, and Titus refused.

"I swear to god, baby, I didn't kiss her. She came onto me, and I pushed her away. I would never cheat on you," Titus begged. You were unconvinced. So, he knelt in front of you, keeping a firm hold on your hips. "Darling, look at me. What can I do to prove to you that I'm loyal to you? Name it, and it's done."

"You know what I want," you replied.

"Done, I'll kill her," Titus affirmed.

"No, you'll get her here, and I will kill her," you corrected.

Titus raised a brow at your declaration. You kill someone? It was only days ago that the two of you were arguing about your outward denial of participating in one of their annual hunts. It surprised him because he knew it wasn't like you to volunteer.

"Deal," Titus agrees. He gets off his knees and cups your face, pulling you in for a kiss. Despite everything, your anger melts away, and you kiss him back. Sliding your hands up his chest, your fingers curl around the fabric of his coat. so you could pull him closer. He hums into the kiss with a low chuckle, his hands sliding down your body to palm your ass.

You instinctively moan, and he uses the opportunity to slide his tongue into the kiss.

Titus pulls you inside the office and kicks the door shut, lifting you up to sit on the end of the desk while fumbling with his belt. His sex drive never ceases to amaze you, and as much as you loved him, you were still mad and decided to punish him. You grab his wrists, stopping him. "Nope, you don't get to fuck me until she's dead."

"Come on, baby, that's not fair," Titus groaned.

"Awe, well that's too bad," you mocked, playfully shoving his chest before hopping off his desk and walking out, much to his dismay.

Later that night, you sat in the guest bedroom reading a book, soaking up the rare moment of being alone, something you haven't been able to do since getting engaged to Titus, or rather, were forced to. Despite having built a relationship with Titus in your six-month engagement, you never had a choice in the matter. The Danforths needed to secure their lineage, and with Ursula unable to have children naturally, that responsibility rightfully fell to Titus, the heir. So, naturally, the high council lawyer betrothed you and Titus.

The match was fairly easy.

You both were the heirs of your families. He needed a wife to produce an heir, and you needed a husband. The two of you couldn't be more different. He was dark, constantly cursed with murderous tendencies that he struggled to control on a daily basis, an unfortunate effect of being raised by his cruel father, whose only goal was to instill in his children that failure was not acceptable.

A knock breaks you from your thoughts; it was firm yet distinct.

"Come in, Sully," you softly called.

The door opens, and Ursula steps in. "You skipped dinner," she states, closing the bedroom door behind her and taking a seat at the edge of the bed. "And you are not attached to Titus's hip like usual. You're still upset with him about earlier, aren't you?"

"Come to defend his honor?" you inquired.

"He is my twin; his honor is as much as my own, and while Titus may be many things, a cheater is not one of them. I can assure you, sister, he only has eyes for you. He would not be so stupid as to jeopardize his relationship with you," Ursula explained.

"He said she kissed him," you sighed, setting the book aside.

"And you do not believe him?" Ursula questioned.

"I don't know what to believe," you admitted.

Ursula hums, reaching out and taking your hand, offering a small yet firm squeeze. "He loves you. I see it every day. You are one of the few people he's allowed himself to care for, but if there's one thing I know about my brother, it's that he's loyal to the core. He and I have had our differences, but he's always been there for me, and at the end of the day, he always ends up standing by his family. He would never betray your trust," Ursula said gently, using a rare tone she's developed solely for you.

"You sound so sure, as if you know something I don't," you pointed out.

She smirks, pulling out her phone. "Always the observant one, little bird," she purred, pulling up footage from earlier in the day. "I was reminded that cameras cover every inch of our estate. So, if your mind is still conflicted, feel free to look for yourself."

You hesitate for a moment, obviously conflicted.

Do you trust Titus for his word?

Or is it always going to linger in the back of your mind?

Curiosity overwhelmed you, and you took the phone, playing the footage, which revealed the assistant clearly failing at her attempts to flirt with Titus before getting bold and deciding to kiss him. Titus pushes her away the first time, but she tries a second time, which is when you walked in.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in. He didn't cheat, thank God, or, well, as the Danforths say, thank Satan. "See, my brother is loyal to you. So, you can sit here or sulk, or you can meet Titus in the cellar. He has a surprise for you," Ursula stated.

"You always know how to make me feel better, Sully. If you weren't already married, I'd marry you instead," you softly teased, earning a chuckle from her.

"You're such a flirt," Ursula teased back.

"I learned from the best," you joked, standing up and leaving the room.

Unfortunately, the cellar was on the other side of the compound. The walk was seven minutes, and you made it to the guarded cellar and descended down the stairs. "Ty?" you called out, pausing when you found the girl hanging from her bound wrist as Titus sharpened his blades.

"Ah, you're just in time, my love. Our guest here just woke up," Titus stated, setting down his blade and crossing the room. His rough hands wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I'm sure," you affirmed.

"Okay, I've got tools set up for you. Have fun." He replied, pecking your lips before taking a seat in the corner, crossing his legs, and resting his hand under his chin. He motioned to the woman as if silently giving you permission.

You walk over to the table and look at the assortment of weapons laid out. Ultimately, you decide on the crowbar. There were different styles and weights, so you tested out the weight of each one in your hand. "Please, I'm sorry. I don't want to die," the former assistant begged. You choose the gooseneck wrecking crowbar that weighed about 13 lbs, a little light for what you wanted, but it'll do.

"You should've thought about that before kissing my fiancé like a whore," you chided, walking over to where she was chained up. "No hard feelings, right?"

With that, you swung the bar at her ribs.

One hit turned into two, and before you knew it, you didn't know when to stop, so drunk on anger that finally, after the fog of rage cooled, there was blood everywhere. You couldn't tell if she was dead or alive but didn't care; you released the hold of the chains, and she crumbled to the floor without a sound.

You drop the crowbar to the floor and wipe the blood from your hands on a rag. Titus had been watching the entire time, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, with an undeniable look of lust that made his eyes gleam even in the dim light. You cross the room and gently peck his lips. "You're forgiven, but if you ever think about cheating on me, I'll pop your nuts like balloons," you replied. His lips twitch up into a smirk at your matter-of-fact tone, and he wraps his arms around your waist.

"Do we have an understanding?" you told him.

"We do," he replied.

"Good," you hummed in satisfaction.

Titus firmly tugs you to him until you're pressed against his body. "I like this side of you. It's quite refreshing," he said smugly, trailing light kisses down your neck. "However, I did not appreciate my honor being questioned. Especially by my girl, so I think you are long overdue for a refresher, don't you think?"

A shiver runs down your spine, and you feel as if all air had been sucked from your lungs. Excitement buzzes throughout your body, making your skin tingle. "I thought so. Turn around, hands on the wall, no moving, and if you make a sound, we add an extra round."

You quickly move to obey his command, raising your arms to rest on the wall while biting your lip to hold back any noise that could potentially escape. Titus lets out a hum of approval, his hands trailing down your body, unbuttoning your pants. Slowly, his hands trail down your body, dragging the fabric off your legs.

"You understand why I have to correct your behavior, don't you?" he asked.

You nod.

"Atta girl," he praised.

Titus hooks his fingers into your panties and drags the fabric down your legs before kicking your legs open wider and kneeling behind you. His left hand slides under your shirt, lifting it up, keeping his palm flat against your back, while his right hand finds your soaked core. "Soaked for me already? Baby, I've barely even touched you," he taunts.

"Titus ple—" you began.

"Ah. Ah. Ah. Did I say you could speak?" he firmly corrects.

"No, sir," you whimpered.

"Exactly, now keep that pretty mouth shut until I decide to put it to good use. That's another round for your disobedience," Titus stated. He removes his fingers away from your core, causing you to softly whine at the loss of contact. "Such misbehavior. I've been too lax with you, kitten. Another round," he muttered, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

He gets off his knees and turns you around, tilting your chin up so he can claim your lips in a rough kiss. You don't kiss back, allowing him to remain in control. He taps your hip, a silent hint that you could kiss him back, which you do.

Without warning he lifts you against the wall by your hips, causing you to let out a noise of surprise. He presses a kiss to your throat with a low chuckle. "What did I say about making noise? It's like you don't ever listen to me," he mocks.

"That's not fair—" you feebly defended.

"Oh, baby, life isn't fair," he corrects.

To silence you from any potential protests, he claims your lips in a passionate kiss. You felt Titus press you firmer against the wall, his hands abandoning your hips so he could rip your shirt open, sending buttons flying. "Awe man, that was my favorite shirt," you thought to yourself, but give Titus a pout to show your disappointment.

"I'll buy you a new one, baby," he promised.

His hands wrap around your waist again, and he carries you away from the wall, laying you down on the floor, the assistant's body lying a few feet away, her blood creating a pool that only stretched by the minute. "No speaking or making noise during the first round. Afterward you can be as loud as you want. Nod if you understand," Titus instructed.

You nod.

While Titus worked on your pants, you quickly worked on unbuttoning his shirt. It doesn't take long for clothes to become scattered in the room and for Titus to slide into your soaking cunt. He doesn't waste time being gentle.

Instead, he's rough, each thrust a testament to how much he needs you. Each kiss is a gentle proof of his love for you, a stark contrast to his rough fucking. His hands wander your body, as if engraving every curve, freckle, and scar into his mind. He's everywhere all at once, his right hand on your hip while his left hand is intertwined with both of yours, pinning them above your hands as his lips trail your neck, leaving all sorts of marks as evidence that you are completely and irrevocably his in every way.

As true to his command, you were silent the first round, which seems impossible because he always knew how to drive you insane, making you see the light and pulling you back to reality only to do it again and again until you were a mess, feeling as if your skin was on fire as you trembled and whimpered with every light touch and kiss, breaking you down again and again until the only thing on your mind was him.

How much you loved him.

How you would never question his loyalty again.

Finally he stayed there, his lips pressing featherlight kisses to your heated skin, sweat covering both of your bodies as you returned to reality and realized you were lying in a pool of the assistant's blood, but neither of you cared. Instead, you both smiled about it, with Titus making a flirty remark about how crimson was always your color.

You rolled your eyes, and Titus slipped out of you to grab a blanket to cover you both with. His cum dripped from you, a reminder of your duty to bear him a child. Which he always reminded you while deep in you. "Come on, love, let's get cleaned up and head to bed," Titus said, his tone surprisingly gentle after the roughness you've just received, not that you minded. In fact, you loved seeing him frustrated and worked up. It always made the sex better.

_____________________________

Your heels clack against the floors as you follow Titus through his home and towards the front door, "-and they already have some suits picked out for you to try on when we arrive."

Titus walks, well, more like swaggers, out the door and towards the waiting car. A hand in his pocket and sunglasses on while he scrolls through his phone, "Have them pull out some dresses for you too."

"Huh?" you stop, looking at him confused, "This fitting is for the gala-"

"Yes and you're my plus one," he states nonchalantly, eyes still focused on his phone.

"Since when?"

"Since now. I need a buffer between rubbing elbows with the rich pricks there," he murmurs as he stops at the car. The driver opens the door for him.

Your lips twitch into a little amused smirk, "Need I remind you that you are also a rich prick, Mister Danforth?"

He looks over his shoulder with a grin, "Yeah and you never let me forget it."

Titus gestures for you to go in first. You do so and Titus takes the moment to check out your ass.

"Eyes up, cowboy," you immediately quip over your shoulder before you settle into your seat.

He chuckles as he slides in beside you, "You know what people always say, 'Save a horse, ride a cowboy'," the door closes behind him and the car gets moving. You ignore his comment and take out your laptop. You use your phone's hotspot to connect to WiFi and you continue to work out skimming through various contracts and signing them on behalf of Titus. After years of working for him, you've become one of the very few people he trusts with his personal and business affairs.

When you arrive to Bergdorf's, you walk in-step with Titus. Your laptop bag in hand since you planned to continue your work while Titus tries on various tuxes.

Once you get to the men's department, a stylist approaches you two, "Mister Danforth, welcome again. I've already have some options set aside for you. Your assistant was very thorough about what you were looking for."

Titus looks to you and gives you an approving nod, "Good girl," he rasps and you give a shrug. He then follows the stylist to the dressing rooms, you in tow.

"While I try these on, you should start thinking about what kind of dress you want."

You shake your head, "Mister Danforth, I can't. I shouldn't. I'm sure I have a dress at home-"

"You can and you should. I already put you down as my plus one. You're expected there. You're a reflection of me. You need to look the part."

You frown at him, "But I was the one that made the reservation."

"I called and made them accommodate for you."

You cock a brow at him, "Seriously?"

He shrugs, his mischievous smirk on his lips, "I'm capable of doing things myself. Just don't prefer to," he winks and slowly starts walking into the dressing room. He points at you, "Dresses."

You lower yourself onto the velvet couches in the dressing area, "Unbelievable."

Yet very much so believable considering who you work for.

______________________

Titus steps out of the dressing room every fifteen to twenty minutes or so in a different suit, asking your opinion about how he looks.

To be quite honest, he looked really good in all of them, but you wouldn't give him the satisfaction of him knowing that. So you gave feedback:

"Texture is weird"

"Color doesn't look right."

"Going all black is so boring!"

Each critique Titus actually took seriously because he did value your opinion. Also after all these years, you know probably know him best, aside from his twin sister, of course.

Eventually he settled on a navy blue Tom Ford suit with black lapels, white dress shirt, and no tie. A tailor will make adjustments to it so it'll fit him better and will be sent to his house.

"Well?"

You sigh, closing your laptop, "I thought of some styles. Told the stylist that I'd like something that works well with your suit."

"You wanted to match?"

You snort, "Well I certainly didn't want to stand out!"

He shrugs, placing his hands in his pockets, "You could if you wanted to, stand out that is."

You shake your head, "Absolutely not. I'm already going to feel weird since I've never gone to an event this big before."

Titus waves you off, "You'll do fine, angel. Now come on. Let's go see what dresses they picked out for you."

________________________

Titus is lounging on the velvet couch this time. He's scrolling through his phone while you speak with the stylist. She has Titus' suit for reference in regards to how each dress would look with it.

The first dress you try is one shoulder dress. It's white but has a blue ombre down the skirt that goes from light blue to navy.

Titus looks up and his breath hitches. You look at yourself in the mirror, turning side to side. He immediately sets his phone aside, his focus soley on you.

"Beautiful," he says just loud enough for you to hear, "Get it."

You snort and turn to him, "It's the first dress I'm trying on."

"And I'm saying you should get it."

You roll your eyes at him and he holds in a groan. You turn to the stylist, "I'll pass on this one. Thank you." You step back into the dressing room and Titus leans back in the couch.

His leg bouncing for you to come out again. He doesn't want to admit it, but he likes this. Watching you play dress up for him, him being able to spoil you. He always enjoys spending his money on you, even if you scold him for doing so.

He knows you can afford more luxuries now. He pays you well enough to do so. But the thought of him providing for you, well, makes him puff his chest out a little more.

"Dress number two!" the stylist exclaims as you step out.

It's a navy blue ballroom dress with a boat neck neckline. There's black embellishments sewn into the skirt that matches his suit well.

"It's pretty, but it's so...poofy." You play with the skirt, the fabric and tulle rustling as you do so, "Too poofy, right, sir?"

"Definitely, but it does match my suit."

You nod and murmur to the stylist before heading inside once more.

The last dress you try on makes his breath hitch and heart stutter. It's a black velvet drop waist dress. It's sleeveless with a sweetheart neckline. You look...delectable.

You look at yourself in the mirror, completely unaware of Titus feeling his length harden at the sight. The way the dress clings to you, the neckline pushing your chest up. You look so elegant, so...perfect.

It takes everything in him to not go up to you, to touch you, to claim you.

He clears his throat, trying to subtly adjust himself in his pants, "I think that's the one."

"Really?" you look at him through the reflection of the mirrors.

"It's perfect. It makes you look elegant and classy without being so in your face about it."

You hum, turning side to side, "Yeah. I think so too. I'll take this one," you sat to the stylist and she exclaims glee.

She proceeds to write down your measurements and any other adjustments you'd need on the dress, but Titus drowns at that noise because now his head is taking him somewhere else.

Underground. An altar. A sacrifice. And how beautiful you'd look standing before him in an all-black dress.

"Sir? Mister Danforth. Titus!" you say his name a little louder and he's brought back from his thoughts.

"Fuck, what?" he acts annoyed, more at himself than you.

"Was there anything else you needed? Shoes, cuff links, et cetera?" you ask him.

"No. Hurry up and change. I'm fucking starving," he grumbles, now putting up that rich prick front, a way to deflect his fantasizing. He turns and walks out of the dressing area, creating some distance from you. He hears your faint apologies to the stylist, your voice fading the further he retreats.

For years, you've been his assistant and for that same amount of time, Titus has pined for you. He's desired you. And it's fucking irritating because he can't have you. You won't let him, steady on keeping your relationship strictly professional.

There have been some...close calls. Late nights where you became a little more vulnerable, a little more forgiving. An almost kiss that he still thinks about to this day.

he couldn't help himself. his lips pressed against yours with an unequivocal hunger, a hum leaving his throat and vibrating into the kiss. it was a hunger he probably wouldn't ever be able to fully satiate. well, maybe for a few hours a day, until he needed you again.

now, after weeks of dating, the man has agreed to let you give him a blowjob. you can only imagine how much the poor thing’s brain was turning to mush.

with every swipe of your tongue against his heavy length, you could feel him lose his composure. his breaths coming out as pants. "desperate, needy old man," you mutter at him with a small smirk. in the dim light of the bedroom, you see his cheeks flush and feel his cock twitch in your hand.

was he into this? into being humiliated?

“wonder what all your business partners would say if they saw you like this, hm? would they believe it? the great titus danforth at the mercy of his girl only cause she’s suckin his cock?”

he looks at you, his chest heaving. the practical, logical man who manages a family empire is gone, replaced by someone overwhelmed. “fuck baby” he says in return, his voice strained as your hand on his base tightens, the stroking motion slowing and then quickening. he begins leaking precum. lots of it. you’d almost think he’s cum if you didn’t know better.

but you knew better. and you knew you wanted to make him cry tonight. your mouth wraps around his red tip. suckling on his head feeling the vein on his underside twitch against your tongue.

you hum as you take him deeper into your mouth. the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. you gag and then relax your jaw. taking him deeper. titus was going to come soon. you could feel him tense up, where your hands were curled around his base. his body rising a little, whines spilling out of his lips as his hand tightens in your hair.

the painful satisfying pull when he’s close.

“oh, baby,” he whimpers. “i’m gonna cum. i’m gonna cum,” he repeats above you, his eyes shut as he focus on the feeling of your warm mouth enveloping him. you manage to take him deeper until your nose pressed against little tufts of dark brown hair neatly trimmed by his base.

you feel him cum down your throat. the white liquid flowing in thick spurts as he’s lost in releasing sounds a mix between whines and whimpers of your name. his hand loosens its hold on your hair but tightens just as fast when you keep sucking on the sensitive head of his cock. he couldn’t take anymore he thinks. he tries to push your head away but you swat his hand away.

“be good titus,” you command him and he listens. the usually so commanding and dominant titus turns putty into your hands.

you keep up the motion, intent on draining him dry. “don’t. stop,” he tries to say but the words falls on deaf ears. you had a mission and you needed to see it through.

“can’t. do more.” he huffs, chest heaving. his knuckles turn white as he grips the sheets, his body going rigid as he nears the edge.

fuck. how are you doing this to him?

the pleasure is too much. overwhelming. it makes his whole body shudder. he’s ready to come again but you pull back just at the last possible second. a frustrated whimper escapes him.

“thought you said you can’t do more?” you tilt your head,your voice dripping with feigned innocence. but you just wanted to hear him beg. which he does so instantly.

“why…why are you stopping?” he asks breathlessly.

“please. baby. please let me cum and i’ll let you ride my thigh,” he bargains, an offer so tempting you couldn’t say no.

your return your attention to his tip, your tongue swirling around his head in an agonising pace, it was bordering on torture. you trace the shape of him once, twice before you go back to suckling him until he can’t take it.

he hums in relief at the feeling of your mouth taking him in. the pressure building in his balls as he comes once again. his body shuddering lightly you look up at see tears roll down his cheek.

he lets out a low, shaky hum of relief as he feels your mouth take him back in. you can feel the pressure coiling tight until he finally breaks, cumming for you once again. as the last of the tremors move through his body, you look up and catch the sight of tears silently rolling down his cheeks.

You were fucked. You were so totally fucked.

Not only was your father marrying you off like some cattle to repay a debt, but he was marrying you off to Titus Danforth no less.

Titus Danforth, who around the high council and other members of the cult was known as a notorious psychopath. Okay well everyone in the high council was a psychopath, but there was something else about Titus.

But that night you stood in front of him, in a blood red dress. As red as the blood oath you took tying you to a man twice your age. A man you hardly knew, all so your father didn't explode. Literally.

Now he sits on the bed of his room, you stood almost as far away from him as possible as his eyes watch you. You aren't sure if he's contemplating his next move or watching to make sure you're not going to run.

"You don't have to be scared, you know." He finally speaks. You don't respond, only scoff at his statement.

"You don't." He reaffirms.

At that you turn, finally looking at him. His hands are sitting in his lap, turning into each other as if he was anxious. Your eyebrows furrow at his movements, but he doesn't notice, or at least he doesn't react.

"We both grew up with all of this, Titus, you know that isn't true. Safety is a falsehood."

"It isn't a falsehood, I can keep you safe." Another scoff.

"You can't even keep yourself safe, not really." He wants to fight your words, but he knows you are right.

He stands, moving slowly towards you. As if you would cower from him if he moved any faster.

"We don't have to do this, though." You shock him by speaking, motioning between the two of you as you do.

"Do what? Talk?"

"No, we don't have to create all this tension between us. I know that both of us didn't want this union but-"

Titus cuts you off, "I wanted this union."

Your jaw almost drops open. "What?"

"I wanted this." His voice is so monotone, almost clinical. Almost scary. "I asked for this."

"You what?"

"I suggested we wed. Your father owed us some debts and I wanted you."

You don't answer, you don't know how. So you just blink at him.

He steps closer.

"And now that I have you, we will come to an understanding."

"What understanding?" You look up at him, trying to analyze what he is thinking.

He licks his lips before speaking again, "I do not wish to force you to do anything or be something you are not. But I do have a few expectations, if not now then when you are comfortable."

"Expectations?"

"Maybe expectations is a poor choice of words. Let's say requests."

You hold back the sigh bubbling in your throat, "Okay, what are your requests?"

"I will share them all with you in time but for tonight I only have one. If you are willing." Your eyebrows raise at his words.

Titus does not let you respond, "I wish for us to have sex, I would like to know if I enjoy it."

If he would enjoy it? His choice of words is strange. It almost makes it sound as though he has never had sex before. Then you think back to the kiss at the wedding, how rough he was. How aggressive and long the whole display was. You thought it was some feral claiming thing, but now as Titus stands in front of you in the dim light of his ornate room you know the true intensity behind it. Titus Danforth is a virgin.

You do not laugh, you would never not with the reputation Titus has. Instead you form your words carefully, "You have never done it before?"

"No." That's it, just a flat out simple no.

A darkness sparks behind your eyes at his response. It is not like you wish to take Titus Danforth's virginity, but this? This is something to hold over his head.

"Alright." This quickness of your submission has Titus tilting his head at you. He knows it would never be that simple.

"But I have some requests as well then." There it is.

Titus's eyes darken as well, "Yes, Mrs. Danforth." He stands completely over you now, towering. His large body shields you from the light, encapsulating you in his darkness.

"I'm in charge tonight."

"I cannot promise that I will obey."

"I do not care. You will." Titus's Adams apple bobs. He does not speak again, only drops his head down to your level and takes your lips with his. This time the kiss is nothing like the one on the alter. It's slower, as if he is really tasting you.

When he pulls away he tries to read your face, searching for approval.

You do not give it, "Unzip my dress."

Titus listens instantly and unzips the back almost too flawlessly. He starts to push the fabric down your shoulders but you grab his hand, tutting warningly.

"I only said unzip it. Get on the bed."

He does. You saunter towards him slowly. Swaying your hips a bit more than usual, teasing him with every movement. Stopping at the edge of the bed you cock your head at him, the noticeable bulge in his pants finally catching your attention.

"Titus, honey I've barely even touched you." You talk to him as if he is a child and yet it doesn't make him angry, just want you more. What are you doing to the almighty Titus Danforth? And so easily too.

"Do you wish for me to?"

"Yes." He breathes out.

"Prove it. Touch yourself in front of me."

Again, he follows your orders all too easily. Unbuttoning his pants and pushing them down his legs eagerly along with his underwear. His member springs to life, bouncing against his stomach.

"What a shame, you have all this and never shared it with anyone." You tut at him again, running one nail down the underside of his hard cock. Titus shivers at the feeling, he swears he could finish right then and there.

"Go on." You nod your head at him. Slowly, almost tentatively, he wraps his fingers around his dick. Gripping it completely he starts to move his hand up and down his shaft. His eyes never leave yours as he continues his motions.

He swallows, hard, sucking in a breath. You are not watching him, not like that, you are watching his face as it twists slightly in pleasure. Then you reach down under your skirts and pull your panties down your thighs. The teeny tiny black lacey piece of barely there fabric that your mom insisted you wear that morning.

They dangle from your index finger as if taunting Titus. He licks his lips at the sight, but never stops working his hand on his member. You toss them at him and they land perfectly onto his chest. He grabs them and lifts them to his nose and inhales deeply. He groans.

You bite your lip, your dominant demeanor almost dropping as you watch him slip into the intoxication of your scent.

"That's enough." You stop him. Hand stops moving instantly, he's a deer in the headlights as you slap his hand away from his dick. You lift your dress up your hips and straddle him. "My turn."

He nods quickly, desperately. His hands reach out to grab your hips to help you settle on top of him. Reaching in between the two of you, you grab his cock. You run the tip across your wet core, teasing the both of you.

Then without warning you sink onto his rock hard member and he whimpers, actually whimpers at the feeling. It just urges you forward, slowly grind your hips into his.

"Do you want to see all of me?" You ask, you were still in your stuffy dress and if you were honest you would love to feel him fully in this moment.

He nods and grabs the tulle, all but ripping it from your body. Now you are left with nothing but his shirt between the two of you. His eyes lock onto your boobs. Titus reaches forward and grabs one of them carefully, kneading it.

"You can manhandle me, you know?" You say.

"I thought you were in charge?" He asks.

"I am and I want you to use me." His eyes turn black at the permission and he sits up, teeth locking onto your neck. He bites hard, you know what he wants, to mark you.

"You're that possessive?" You want to giggle, but you bite it back.

"You have no idea." He bites again in another spot, then again. This time you gasp and look down at him. And as he looks back up at you, a drop of blood falls down his lips. He smiles at you and licks his lips clean, he moans.

"I want to fuck you." He says, no he whines.

"I already gave you permission."

So he does, he fucks up into you roughly. The thrusts continue as his face stays in your neck. He groans as he enters you particularly deeply.

Titus knows he's not going to last long, but at least he wants to make you feel good before he finishes. It's as if you can sense it as well because you grab his shoulder and push him back down onto the bed. You hover your body over his, kissing him deeply while grinding your hips into his.

Your clit grinds into his pelvis adding to your pleasure, as you use your husband below you. A hand stays on his chest to hold him down. You may have given the minute to be in charge, but there was no way that was ever going to last that long.

"You gonna cum for me Titus? Huh, wanna fill me up nice?" He gulps again and moans at your words.

"Tell me how much you wanna fill me up."

"I want to fill you up with my seed. I want to cum so that you-" And he stutters on his words, hips stuttering at the same time as his orgasm overcomes him.

He fills you with rope after rope of his cum. You would've thought he had never came before in his life. It doesn't send you over your edge, but the warmth that spreads across your body as he looses himself under you is worth it. Besides you have all night right?

Finally Titus starts to come down from his high, but you are unrelenting as you continue to work his softening dick inside of you. His fingers grip your hips tightly, leaving bruises in their wake. He whines at the feeling as a tear falls down his cheek at the pleasure.

You finally slow down your movements, but do not remove him from inside of you. Instead you lean down, face to face. You grab his chin and turn his head to the side. You run your tongue up his cheek taking the salty tear with you, blinking down at him below you. All he can do is stare back at you.

Titus Danforth was so fucked.

In all his years, Titus had met every form of dying person—those already dead, dying, shot, those who don’t believe they’re dead yet, those who know they will die but they fight against it regardless and even those who think they have a chance of survival. 

            But never has he met anyone who wanted to die. 

            He has met the people who want to survive more than anything, who know there is no way out but at least they didn’t go willingly to their death, they fight and bite and claw. They make it fun.              He has met those who do not want to die but accept it with dignity, knowing that at least they can die knowing they still had their pride. 

            He has met those become shrivelling messes, pleading and begging and crying, asking him to have mercy. 

            He has met all these kinds of people, but until you, he had never realized that there were people who wanted to die. 

            Who tried to choose it. 

            And then, he met you. 

***

            He can smell the desperation that trails behind the man, the prey. It’s an easy trail to follow, the man so scared when he was told his wedding night would either end him with dead or alive, not in a bed fucking the girl he married. Titus could see that the poor boy had thought it was a joke before the realization of the truth sunk in and then he ran like hell. 

            But he’s slow and scared and reckless. 

            That makes for easy prey. 

            Which is why Titus isn’t running, instead walking leisurely, shotgun dangling from his one hand, the other holding a dagger, ready for whatever will occur. He’s always ready, always ready, especially when he hears the noise off to the side, the hushed breath, jagged sob. The sound of someone crying. 

            Honestly, Titus thought the man had more class than that. Crying! What an idiot. He turns, lifting his shotgun, pressing it against his shoulder, finger straying to the finger, just gently touching the thin curve of metal, the press grated and firm against the pad. 

            “Come out, little boy,” he says, his tone mocking and cold, cruel in a way and he hears the crying stop, the breath hush and fall and then begin again, quieter, more even. Someone who has stopped crying, is able to stop emotions, turn them off. He understands that, but the boy is still pathetic. 

            “Not a little boy,” a voice calls out, the sound carrying through the woods and Titus follows, ducking through the trees, down towards the sound, glancing around, gaze snagging on you. He doesn’t know you, this woman holding onto low-hanging branches of a tree, face swollen and tear-stained, eyes blank. Devoid of feeling. 

            “Why are you in my woods?” he asks you, finger pressing harder on the trigger, not yet pulling it, but waiting. Waiting for some sign of something from you. 

            “Your woods?” you ask him and he hears that your voice is raw, as if you’ve been screaming, crying. Like you’ve been trying to escape from something. “I ran from the bridge off into the forest, didn’t know anyone owned it.”

            “Why’d you run?” he asks, curiosity heavy in him even as he ducks his head, making sure the shotgun shell will discharge the full force of the buckshot in your body—not the kill he was after, but still a kill after all.  

            “Cause the cops don’t exactly like it when people try to drive off the bridge. They don’t understand that I just love my car and want to die in it.” Your face is flat, devoid of emotion, but in the words, Titus hears something he’s never heard before. Want to die. Everyone he’s ever met has wanted to live. “Anyway,” you continue, eyes darting between him and his gun and the knife in his hand, “I don’t know the situation with you and this little boy, but I see a gun and a knife, so…could you give me one of those? I’m not exactly looking to hurl myself out of a tree cause there’s no guarantee…”

            “You…want to die?” Titus asks you, his eyes narrowing, brows knitting in confusion. He doesn’t understand it, this drive for oblivion when living…when living is power. 

            “Yeah,” you tell him, dropping to your feet from the tree, approaching him, steps silent as if you’re a predator too. A predator trying to take itself off the chain. “Deal or no deal?”

            “No deal,” he rasps and he doesn’t know if he’s entranced by the idea that you want to die or the way that you walk towards him, your body moving in a way he hasn’t seen before. In a way that he wants to see forever, in a way that wants to make him sink to his knees, bury his teeth in the skin of your hip, taste you, your skin. Everything. 

            “Ooooh, are you like a serial killer or something? Would you rather kill me yourself? Cause that’s fine too. As long as I die, we’re cool. And if the cops come and see my body and ask questions, you can just use the Castle Doctrine and say you were protecting your property.” Your eyes gleam and the way you speak betrays intelligence and thoughtfulness and he cannot understand why you do not want to live. Why you do not want to breathe in the air. Why you want nothing over everything.

            “Why do you want to die?” he asks you, your body stopping just before him, face devoid of emotion yet stained with tears, evidence of despair. 

            “None of your fucking business,” you hiss and then he can hear emotion, no toying or teasing, no evasion, just truth. It is not his business, but he’s making it his business. 

            “No deal unless you tell me,” he whispers, voice soft, hunt forgotten. As much as he would love to win, to see the blood splatter, feel that taste of victory, you are so much more interesting. 

            “Then no fucking deal,” you reply and then you turn, steps fast as you jump, lunging for a branch and catching it in both hands, hauling yourself up and onto the tree’s limb with dexterity and strength and flexibility, something that Titus wants to push. Find just how far it lasts—wonders just how much you could bend on a bed. 

            “You really gonna hurl yourself out of a tree and hope death sticks?” he yells out to you and you glance down at him, eyebrows raised to your hairline and you nod once, lips pressed thin. 

            “Better than being alive, my friend,” you call out to him, saluting him while you climb up another branch. “Better than being alive.” And it’s those words that Titus doesn’t like, this idea that you can just decide to be done. To die. 

            You can’t just decide that. Death belongs to forces larger than yourself, people like him, like the families. Not to some normal person with entrancing eyes and a body that he wants to know every inch of. 

            No, if you want to die, then he shall ensure that you live. 

            Which is why he lifts his shotgun, aiming carefully above you, the shot embedding in the tree and the branch above you, the wood cracking and falling, the sound of the shot ringing through the forest, footsteps echoing in a fast pace towards the sound. 

            “What the fuck?!” you cry, hands slowly lowering from your ears. “You’re a horrible shot!”

            “I wasn’t aiming for you, darling,” he drawls as the figure of the groom bursts into the clearing, a sound leaving his throat at the sight of Titus, one entirely undignified that has Titus lifting his shotgun and shooting again, this time, the shell embedding in a human body, the man stuttering, hands clutching at his stomach before falling to the ground dead. 

            “You end him but not me?” you call out, standing on the branch now, hands on your hips in righteous fury. “Not fair.”

            “You don’t get to die,” he hisses at you, lopping his shotgun over his shoulder and hopping up and onto the tree, climbing until he’s on the branch with you, fear for the first time shining in your death-seeking eyes. 

            “Don’t fucking touch me if you’re not gonna kill me,” you whisper, voice cracking as his hands come to yours, the palms flat against the bark of the trunk, holding you upright as he takes them and a zip tie from his pocket, handcuffing you and pulling you to him by the cuffs. 

            “I won’t touch you,” he breathes out, “until you ask me too.” He can see you preparing for a retort, but he doesn’t let you answer, instead pulling the syringe from his pocket, the one full of sedative, jabbing it into your neck, depressing the syringe, watching as you look at him with wide wet eyes, hiding a multitude of pain and loss, those eyes fluttering shut and your body falling against him, his arms encircling you as he jumps from the branch, his sister standing, arms crossed and face beyond irritated. 

            “You get the kill and somehow manage to get a fucking prize out of it,” she hisses, one perfectly lip-sticked lip drawing up into a sneer. 

            “Not a prize,” he tells her, walking with you held tightly in his arms, mind on the way you feel against him. “Meet my future wife.”

            “Uh-huh,” Ursula says, lip drawing up in disgust as she looks at Titus and you in his arms. “I was around to hear that your little toy is suicidal. She’ll welcome a hunt like this because then she’ll die. You just want her to live because she wants to die and you’re sadistic.”

                         “If that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black,” Titus replies, attention torn from his sister as you mumble something, shifting in his arms, something that makes his blood run cold before pumping with anger at the thought of what he’s heard. Of what you’ve experienced. 

            “Just stop…I’m not her. Please stop!”

            “What are you even going to do with her?” Ursula asks him, drawing him back from the thoughts in his mind. 

            “I’m going to break her,” he whispers, lips curving up of their own accord. “Until she wants to live.”

            “And then?”

            “And then she’ll be my Mrs. Danforth.”

***

            The world is fuzzy at the edges, slipping by strangely, images of your past and your present intermixing. You remember the searing touch of a man who didn’t listen, you remember running from him. You remember the taunts and the feeling of a slap against your cheek, the torments of your peers. But you also remember a strange man with a terrible gleam in his eye. You remember the feeling of his eyes on you and the strange way they made you feel. 

            And you are partially aware of the feeling of your body strapped down to a bed, staff coming to dress you and clean you. The sounds of construction outside your room, sawing and banging and nailing, yelling. You see those searing eyes with a dangerous gleam. 

            You hear whispers of Mrs. Danforth. 

            You hear your name falling from a voice that sounds like danger. 

            You feel half-dead but half-dead is too much alive for you.

            You remember that you don’t want to be here, you remember being in your car, crying so hard as you gripped the wheel, attempting to drive off the bridge, but swerving to avoid the dog that ran in front of you, car crashing into the supports instead. You remember running from the cops into woods, preparing to climb a tree before hearing a man call out little boy. The man with the strange gleam. 

            You remember him, a falling body, shotgun shots and buckshot scattering above your head, so close yet not close enough. 

            You remember him whispering, I won’t touch you until you ask me too. 

            And then you wake up. 

***

            It’s dark, night, but not so dark that you can’t make out the world around you, the padded walls and lack of furniture, the restraints on your limbs, the way you’re bound to a bed, strapped. You’re surprised you aren’t gagged. 

            You don’t know the kinds of strange things the man you met in the woods might be into, do. You just don’t know and yet by running from the cops, you’ve ended up ensnared in this fucked up web. 

            All you wanted to do was finally find peace. To just let water sink into your lungs, return to that which you came from and stop feeling this…this pain. Stop feeling disgusting and worthless. 

            Stop feeling numb. Because that’s the truth. It’s like his touch seared all feeling from your skin, left you empty and erased all the possibility for happiness and real emotions. All you can feel is empty, sad and broken. Utterly used and destroyed living in skin that feels like rubber, skin that doesn’t feel real. 

            You just wanted to end it. 

            You just wanted peace. 

            And somehow, you’ve ended up in a world that will destroy you even more. You just don’t know how. 

            “You’re up,” that voice calls out, the one that whispered Mrs. Danforth when you drugged out of your mind, the voice that taunted you in the forest, the one that called out little boy. The one you wish you had said nothing too. Never asked for help in dying. 

            A light switch flicks and bright white light shines down, the white so bright it’s painful, burning your eyes, making you blink them closed, squeezing them shut against the intrusion, instead only seeing the backs of your eyelids, the way the light hits your skin. Conscious of yourself and his stare. 

            “I guess the drugs finally wore off,” you reply, eyes still closed and tone far too sardonic for whatever game you’ve entered, yet you just can’t stop it. It’s who you are, it’s all you have left. “So, now what are you gonna do? Kill me? Skin me? Pull some Buffalo Bill shit and tell me to put lotion on so you can make a suit out of me? Or are you one of those freaks that wants to eat me?”

            “You have quite a mouth,” he calls out and you open your eyes, looking out at him, the way his lips are curved up in a smirk, one that speaks of sadism and delight and trouble. “I find that I like it.”

            “Seriously,” you say, fighting against the restraints, pulling at them, feeling the woven belt pull taut against your bare arms. And that’s when you look down, noticing that your clothes are changed, comfortable loungewear on your body that looks so carefully neutral and plain that you know it probably cost more than the car you smashed on the bridge. “What are you going to do to me?”

            He walks to you, his steps languid as he reaches where you are on the bed, his hands reaching for the restraints, slowly, tortuously removing them, replacing the belts over your hands with his wrists, holding you down as he looks down at you, eyes glimmering with that dangerous look as his tongue darts out to lick his lips before they pull back in that smirk, sharp canines showing as he bends down until his lips are just inches from yours. 

            “I’m going to make sure you live,” he whispers, eyes so focused on yours that you want to squirm, break away from him. 

            “Why?”

            “Because I want you for my wife,” he replies, letting go of your wrists, undoing the belts on your ankles, taking the straps with him as he walks to the padded door with a lock no doubt on the outside. “And a wife needs to want to live, after all.”

            And then he disappears, pulling the door shut behind him, sliding a heavy bolt into place, the sound echoing in the small, padded room. Reverberating through you, the sound travelling down every node. The sound that of being captive. 

            And when you look around the room, at the padded walls, the lack of furniture aside from the bed you’re lying on, one without covers or anything that could be used to hang yourself. There are no places on the walls where anything could be rooted or stayed or held. 

            Nothing in this room allows for you to end yourself. 

            It’s an anti-suicide chamber. 

            Fuck. 

***

            Titus doesn’t know why he’s keeping you, not really. He doesn’t know why he didn’t slap you for the mouth you have on you, not really. But he knew that he liked it, you. He liked you for some odd reason. 

            Maybe it’s because you didn’t look afraid of him when you stood on that tree. Maybe it’s the way you yelled at him. Maybe it’s the way that you know nothing about the Families, the Council, Le Bail. Maybe it’s your innocence. 

            Or maybe it’s that you fought for the one thing he loves to deal in. 

            Maybe it’s that you fought for death where everyone else fights for life. Maybe it’s that you fought him for something he did not want to give, simply because it is what you wanted. And you do what you want. 

            You get what you want. 

            And he’s never seen anyone like that before in the face of him. Only his sister and she doesn’t count having been raised the same as him. She’s the same as him—you are not. 

            You are an anomaly. 

            One strong enough to do what the title of Mrs. Danforth entails. 

            He just has to break you first. 

***

            He visits every day, sometimes for hours, bringing in a chair and just sitting and watching. Saying nothing. Sometimes he brings things with him, books that he gives you, but takes before he leaves, electronics with games and puzzles and streaming services, a jigsaw puzzle that he helps you with, despite the way you slap his hands away. 

            He visits and when he speaks, he brings news of the world—sometimes world news about wars and fights and taxes and sometimes just things of celebrities, stupid things or wholesome things. 

            He visits and brings a TV with him on occasion, staff setting it up and you sit on the bed, watching what you want while he sits on a chair by your side, never touching. Always waiting and watching. Listening. 

            He visits and every time, just before he leaves, even on the days he doesn’t talk, he asks every time why do you want to die and every time, you answer him let me die and I’ll tell you just before I go. 

            You know that he’s waiting for you to break, watching for those cracks in you, the ones where he can start to change you, seed his ideas and watch them grow in all your cracks, replacing what once was. 

            But he should know from watching you by now: you’re already broken, your pieces simply dust, nothing left of you but ashes burned by someone else’s touch. 

            “What is it today?” he calls out, the lock clicking open, servants stepping in and readying a TV, some outlet shifted in a way that you have no access too, everything readied and the remote set in your hand as you sit cross-legged on the bed, Titus beside you in a chair, his hands resting on the edge of the bed, far from you but not far enough. 

            “Whatever I feel like,” you tell him, contrary to the bitter end. You know he tells you that he wants to marry you, make you his wife, but a part of you knows deep down that he’s trying to break you to live just to kill you. 

            Make the prey fight for what it can never have. 

            Just like you do now. 

            “I suppose I could guess,” he says, his eyes sear into you and you hate that he is partially right about what he’s doing. Because when he looks at you, you don’t feel his hands or his gaze and you don’t feel like rubber stretched over bone, a gruesome amalgamation of a girl from sick fuck’s twisted head. 

            When he looks at you, you feel like a girl. Desirous and different. 

            You hate it. 

            All you wanted was to die and this fucker isn’t letting you out of some sick twisted reason. 

            “You couldn’t guess if I have no idea in mind,” you reply, flipping through movie after movie before settling on a horror, one bound to appeal to you as the girls escape, overcome everything thrown at them and rise above it. 

            You wish you had been able to, but his touch still lingers on your skin. 

            “I was anticipating a rom-com, something steamy, not…this,” he says and he shifts in the chair, your eyes going to him, straying from the movie to him, the way he removes his hands, shifting in his chair, getting comfortable as he kicks his feet up and onto the bed, a casual pose as his hands interlace behind his back. “But I like this.”

            “Of course you would,” you say, a sardonic lilt to your words. “Bunch of pretty girls having to kill a bunch of people to survive. Sounds just about twisted enough for you.”

            “You got me,” he replies, glancing at you in a way designed to look like an after-thought but you know that it’s not. “I like corrupting girls in blood.”

            “Makes me think you got a bunch of us locked up in here, planning to just let us out one night and fight to death. Whoever survives…well, welcome to the new Mrs. Danforth, everyone!” You can’t seem to look away from him and you hate it, hate this strange feeling. You swore when it happened that you’d never look at a man with desire. Anyone really because what does it get you?

            Nothing. 

            All it would do is bring up the memory, of his mouth, his hands, his penetration. All it would do is suck you back there, back to the darkness and the pain and you don’t want that. Can’t have it. 

            How can you move on and live when everything seems to bring you back there? Everywhere and everyone except this place and Titus. 

            And you know that’s his plan, this breaking of you so you rely on him and this place for safety. You know that he’s manufacturing Stockholm Syndrome. 

            And you hate that it’s fucking working. 

            “No,” he whispers, voice soft, soft enough to draw you back, back to the here and now. To him rather than him. “There is only you. Only you.” He says the words like a revelation, a curse and a prayer rolled into one. 

            “Why?” you ask. “Why me? Why didn’t you just let me fucking die?!” You can’t help it, can’t help the tears because this man seems to make you feel things, feel everything. Every little thing that you’ve ever shoved down and you hate it. Hate him. 

            “Because you wanted to,” he says, his face twisting in both anger and confusion. “And I didn’t want you too. Lookat you. You’re beautiful and young and vibrant. Why would you want to? I have met every form of dying person and they always fight to live. You fought me to die. So, you don’t get to die.”

            “So this is a fucking power trip, you fucking psycho!” you yell, scrambling away from him on the bed, scrambling so far back that you fall off the edge, landing on your ass on the padded floor, tailbone reminding you it exists. 

            “No,” he says, standing and walking over to you, just standing in front of you, not reaching to help you up becauseyou haven’t asked. He’s standing by that statement he made. He doesn’t touch you because you haven’t asked him too. “This is me deciding you’re too strong to die.” Meanwhile, screams emanate through the room along with the sound of blood and knives and death from the TV. 

            “What do you want from me?” you ask him as you push yourself to standing, stepping towards him until you’re level, even, eyes on eyes, slim distance, his pupils flaring and expanding. 

            “I want you,” he whispers, voice dropping lower as if the next part is a confession he doesn’t really want to say, “to want to live.”

            “So you can kill me after? Get your kicks out of finally having me fight to live?” 

            “No,” he whispers, jaw tightening at the admission, his hand flexing, twitching as if he means to reach out and hold you, place his hand on your cheek. Not surprising, but what is, is that you want him too. 

            You want to know what his hand on your skin would feel like—if it would sear the way his stare does or if it would curdle you inside like him. 

            “I want you to want to live…to be with me,” he says and then his jaw flexes, tightens and he’s gone. 

            But no servants come later that day for the TV. 

            It stays. 

***

            Titus stares at the ring and the gown, the sight of them so perfect for you that he wants to bring you up and show you. Show you the stone with your birthstone and his. Show you the gown in the exact style that you had saved on your Pinterest board, the one your mother told him about. 

            He reached out to your family, telling them of your attempt, the way he found you and saved you, the way the two of you are growing close. The way he loves you. 

            He’s not lying, just concealing most of the truth. But your mother believed him, just happy you survived and happy that you found love. After it. No amount of asking has given him the answer for what happened to you, only that your mother was not surprised you tried to end it. 

            She gave her blessing for the proposal, the marriage. 

            She gave it so easily, believing the lies she was fed. But why wouldn’t she?

            She is not you, so easily suspicious and uneasy. She is not you, ever searching for an exit, an escape route. She is not you, sitting numb, not feeling anything really. 

            She is not you. 

            Because no one is like you. 

***

            “What’s with the gifts that stay?” you ask Titus as he steps into the room. The no longer bare room. Instead, it has a TV and books and a desk with pen and paper. Things you could use to end it all and yet you haven’t. 

            Impulsivity never was your thing. You like plans, you like water. You’d like to drown, feel something cold on your skin, something not his hands. Something not your blood. 

            “I trust you,” is all he says and you hate those words because they linger long after he leaves. Living on in your heart which seems to beat those words I trust you. 

            You don’t understand how he could. 

            But you’re not disappointed that he does.

***

            “Tell me about you,” you say to him, cross-legged on your bed, him on his chair, long fingers crossed and resting on the knee he has propped up.

            “What do you want to know?”

            “Anything. I’m kind of bored. I want something real, something that’s not fiction,” you tell him, watching as that smirk grows on his face. 

            “You won’t believe anything I tell you.” You cross your arms over your chest and arch one brow. 

            “Try me.”

***

            “Why do you want to die?” he asks you, his hands coming to rest on your bed, fingers interlaced, head bent like a supplicant at prayer. 

            “Because…” you pause and look away, tears lining your eyes and pain welling in you, the only feeling you still really have. “Because I was raped…and I get the…the feeling of him off of my skin. Because I…j-just can’t get…out of that moment. Because everything except you and this place seem to trigger…something. Because I’m numb. Because I feel like rubber stretched over bone. Because I feel like Frankenstein’s Creature, searching for something good…something mine when I can’t fucking feel anything.” You can’t even feel the tears, but you know they must be falling because the room is blurring around you. 

            “Because he took me and I don’t want him to be able to again. Because I hate feeling him on and in me. I hate that…that I can’t love. I hate the way it’s fucked me up. And I want peace. I want something different. I want to not thinkanymore.”

            “No one will touch you without your permission again,” he whispers and you look over at him, blinking away the tears until you can see him properly. 

            “How can you guarantee that?”             “Because I’ll kill them if they do. I’ll kill whoever did this to you to. Just give me a name.”

            And you do.

***

            “Do you still feel numb?” he asks you, the two of you sitting on the floor, backs against the wall, legs stretched out ahead of you, close but not close enough to touch. 

            “No,” you tell him and you can feel him looking at you, his gaze a tender caress. “Not when I’m with you.”

            “Do I make you feel something?” he asks and there is a teasing note to his tone that makes you turn to him, fixing him with a stare dark and dangerous and wanting. 

            “Somehow,” you tell him, “you make me feel everything even things I never thought I’d feel again.” He looks at you with pupil-blown eyes and damn his fucking plan because it’s worked. You want him to touch you. 

            You want to know what his lips on your skin would feel like. 

            “Kiss me,” you tell him and he doesn’t hesitate, simply closing the gap between you two, pressing his lips open-mouthed to yours, teeth biting into your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Blood that he sucks into his mouth, sucking your bottom lip with it, your mouth opening in a gasp, but not of pain, but of pleasure. 

            And he takes the opening, his tongue breaching the distance. It’s a kiss of teeth and tongue and blood and desire. One finally being created and another given fuel, enough to make it endless. 

            Titus kisses you like he will never stop, claiming and owning. Devouring. 

            Maybe he really did break you, destroy you and make you want to live because all you want is him and for the first time, since he touched you, you feel normal. You feel like someone hurting and healing. 

            And you want and you want and you want.

            But then you feel Titus pull back, a line of saliva still connecting his lips to yours, his lips puffy and a deep red, his tongue darting out to lick the last of your blood away, the sight making that hot, honeyed coil in your belly grow, coiling tighter. 

            “Was that…not what you wanted?” You hate the insecurity running through your voice but you can’t help it. You’re relieved when he shakes his head, a desirous and dangerous smile creeping onto his face. 

            “It most definitely was,” he whispers, tone dark and languid. “But you’re not ready for what I want to do to you. Because I can be gentle here when we talk, but if I take you to bed…I will utterly destroy you and I can’t trust you not to break.”

            “But I want you,” you whine, hating the sound of your own voice, the neediness in it, yet you’re rewarded by the groan he emits, the sight of how much he wants you pressing against his pressed slacks. 

            “You’re not ready yet,” he says and then he’s gone. And you let out a strangled groan-cry mix, head falling between your knees, breaths jagged and sharp like all the pieces of you. 

            “Damn you, Titus,” you hiss. “Damn you.”

***

            “Am I ready yet?” you ask him now, three weeks later. Three weeks of kissing and touching, his teeth sinking into the skin of your neck, his hands on your body, but never there where you want them. 

            “Answer two questions and they’ll tell me if you are,” he counters and you roll your eyes but nod. 

            “Go ahead.”

            “One: do you want to live?” He looks at you with desperate eyes, touch-starved eyes. Eyes that want you now and are begging you to tell him the answers that he wants so that he can fuck you into oblivion, teeth sinking into the skin of your hip like he’s wanted so many times before. 

            “Annoyingly,” you grit out, “yes. Mainly because I saw those pictures of his unfortunate end and so…I trust you that no one will touch me again if I don’t want it. And I want to live because I…feel again and it’s not all pretty but it is fucking real so…” you shrug, casting your eyes down and away from him, but you can hear the rumble of his approval. 

            “Two: will you…marry me?” You look at him, away from your interlaced hands to look at the ring, the one that is perfect and dark, a black diamond set in a black gold band accompanied by purple sapphires around it, the cut angular and sharp. A weapon in a ring—how very Titus. 

            “The wedding dress has to be black doesn’t it?” you ask him and he sighs, nodding his head once. You sigh and roll your eyes, holding out your hand to him. “I’m saying yes, but let it be noted that, you Stockholmed me into this, you asshole.” He slips the ring onto your finger. A perfect fit. 

            “I know,” he whispers and then his lips on yours, his hands roaming, finding your breasts, twisting your nipples to the point of pain, causing you to unleash a pained gasp, his tongue sliding into your mouth, sucking yours into his. 

            He climbs over you on the bed, his knees bracketed on either side of you, one hand still twisting a nipple, the feeling turning from pain to pleasure as he bites on your bottom lip, one hand slipping lower and lower, teasing the waistband of your pants, fingers sliding along your body, sliding down and closer to your pussy. The part of you growing slick at the feeling of his lips against yours, slipping from your lips to your neck, teeth sinking into your skin. 

            You buck against his hand as he reaches your clit, his finger pressing on it hard, hard enough for it to be painful pleasure as his other hand comes to rest on the bed, his fingers toying with your clit, rubbing and pinching. It’s so much and yet not enough, that coil in your stomach growing tighter. 

            You arch your back when he bites your pulse point, pulse fluttering against the hardness of his teeth (his fangs as he calls them affectionately), his groan of desire rattling through you, vibrations that echo down your vertebrae, heightening the pleasure that he’s unleashing as he sinks fingers inside of you, thumb still pressing on your clit, two fingers knuckle deep inside of you, pumping and coated in your wetness, the feeling that only he has ever managed to cause in you. 

            “Are you ready to be my good girl?” he asks you, looking up at you, lips puffy and eyes so pupil-blown that they’re black. “Let me fuck you senseless?”

            “Do you—think I am?” you rasp out just as his fingers hit that one spot inside of you that has you half-gasping, half-moaning, completely shattering around him when he applies more pressure to your clit from his thumb. 

            “I think so, sweetheart,” he says and then he pulls his hand from your pussy, out of your pants, bringing his fingers to his mouth and sucking them off before he strips you, efficiently, your hands chasing his body, helping him strip before he stands bare before you, cock hard and leaking. 

            And then he flips you over, one hand knotting in your hair, torso against the bed, ass in the air at the end of the bed. His other hand finds your clit again, circling it gently before he pulls back and slaps his hand against your pussy, the force and the action causing you to cry out both in pain and pleasure, arousal growing. 

            If he’s fucked up for doing that, you must be more fucked up for enjoying it. 

            “Do you like that, huh?” he asks you, voice nothing but a growl. “Like it when I slap you?” And then he does it again, the sound that results lewd with the skin against wet skin. “Such a good girl,” he purrs and then you feel him, sliding between your folds, the tip of his cock dragging from entrance to clit. 

            “Does my good girl want me to fuck her?” he calls out, voice husky and gritty and all you can do is nod, words difficult, but you are still you and you lift one hand, holding up a thumbs-up, the gesture causing him to chuckle despite the act going on, despite the fact that he’s an ass during sex. Which is hotter than it should be. 

            And then you feel him push in, groaning at the feel as he inches his way in, slowly, inch by careful inch, rough in style but not in action. And you know it’s because he knows what happened to you. 

            He wants this to be enjoyable for the both of you. 

            “So tight!” he groans, thrusting all the way in, sheathed to the hilt, his groans practically vibrating into you, like his sounds are connected to your spine. “So perfect,” he moans and then he’s thrusting in and out, the rhythm harsh and fast and rough, but not too much. Rather, just enough. 

            “All mine,” he groans, slamming his hips forwards, pulling on your hair, drawing your head up, causing you to glance back at him. “This pussy is all mine, right—sweetheart?” His other hand, the one that has been gripping your hip for stability now slaps your ass, a red mark welling in the shape of his palm, the flesh giving and then returning. “Say it!” he demands, drawing back and slamming into you again, cock going deep and hitting your G-spot, so close to making you fall apart again. 

            “All yours,” you cry out as he draws back again. “All yours, Titus!” And then he slams forwards again, hand straying from your hip to your clit, applying just enough pressure to have you shattering around him. 

            He cums inside of you not long after that, letting go of you and falling beside you in the bed, pulling you against him, his touch soothing and gentle. 

            “Did it break you, love?” he asks, his voice hushed and worried. 

            “No,” you whisper, turning in his arms to press a soft kiss to his lips, one that deepens as he pushes his way into your mouth, grip tightening on you. “I think you fixed something inside of me.”

***

            The wedding was strange, dark and full of people you didn’t know, people who scream power from the very lines of their body and the cuts of their clothes. The vows were strange, your dress black but it wasn’t unexpected. 

            He had told you of his family long ago. Told you the truth and you accepted it, believing it and it didn’t scare you. If anything, it made you feel safer because here was a man who would prevent every other demon from ever touching you. 

            A man forged in murder. 

            A man forged with a twisted sense of honour. 

            But now, the cards before you and the one in your hand looking up at you, you can’t help but hate him just a little bit. 

            You knew when this began that he was going to make you want to live, just to have you die in the end—The Hunt. 

            “You have to survive until dawn,” the Lawyer tells you. “You have a five-minute head start so…go!” 

            “Damn you, Titus,” you hiss. “Damn you.” And then you run. 

            You run from the house, straight through to the forest, holding your skirts up, darting as fast as you can, running, running, running far from the house and the sadistic freaks. You don’t know how much more time you have left in your head start, but you stop, bending and ripping your skirt up, leaving the strands of tulle behind, running in the leggings you had him install in the dress—just in case. 

            And then you run, veering left and darting through the woods, towards the edge, towards the shotgun shot tree, jumping and climbing up the tree, climbing up and up and up. You can hear the people unleashed, howling and laughing as you climb, hand over hand, foot over foot, until you reach the top level, leaf cover both below and above. 

            And then you settle back, leaning against the trunk and resting your head as you watch the forest floor through the gaps in the leaves. You watch as Ursula walks into view, gun raised as her head swivels up and down and side to side, but she still misses you. Still doesn’t see you and then she’s darting off. 

            They hunt you and yet you wait. You wonder how you’ll die. If it’ll be a bullet into the heart or if it’ll be an arrow. Or if someone will climb the tree to embed a blade in you. You’d prefer the bullet. 

            Cleaner death. 

            You don’t realize how tired you are until your eyelids begin to close, your mind drifting off and then you hear the sound. The sound that signals you survived, the sound of a victory. 

            But you’re not dumb enough to fall for that. And so you stay in your tree, stay leaning against the trunk, feeling like Katniss when she watched the careers underneath her, waiting for her to drop. 

            “Sweetheart,” Titus calls out and you peer around the cover of leaves, not seeing him, but hearing him. “Sweetheart, I don’t know where you are, but it’s dawn.” You peer up, at the sky, noting the edge of the sky, the sun rising steadily, but you just. Don’t. Trust it. 

            “You’ve won,” says a voice you have to believe. The voice of the Lawyer. “Mrs. Danforth, it is safe to appear. You’ve won.” And so you climb down slowly, noticing the Lawyer, Ursula and Titus below. You hop down onto the leaf-strewn grass and smile, a strange smile, one that says fucked up. So fucked up.

            “Fuck you, Titus,” you tell him and you notice the tears lining his eyes, the worry on his brow and then he’s there, holding you to him, holding you close. 

            “I was so worried,” he whispers into your hair and then you hear a crack, a sharp sound in the air, like that of a shotgun, but higher. You feel your body pushed against Titus, broken and pain-filled.

            Like something has destroyed you. 

            You stumble back from Titus, your hands drifting to your stomach, pressing against your side, fingers coming away stained in red and you look up at him with a sad smile, one tinged with grief and anger and at the same time, relief. 

            “Guess I didn’t win,” you whisper, taking the blade from Titus’s waist and turning, feeling ever weaker, yet powered by anger, taking in the sight of the man with the gun. And then you hurl the knife, the blade embedding in his forehead and he collapses to the ground, shortly before he bursts into pink mist—he broke the rules. 

            He paid the price. 

            But so did you. 

            And you fall to your knees, your body giving way as you fall into his arms, Titus’s hands pressing against the blood flow, trying to staunch it to no avail. 

            “You know,” you whisper as the sounds of help draw closer but the darkness on the edges of your vision crowds in, “I really did want to live. For you.”

            “And you will,” he hisses but you don’t believe him as the black swallows you whole. And the rest of the world fails to exist. 

            You fail to exist.

***

            “Is this hell and you’re the devil or am I alive and you’re my husband?” you call out, voice dry as you open your eyes, wincing at the brightness of the lights, but delighting in the sight of your husband, of the man who made you live when you wanted to die. 

            Of the man who gave you love—fucked up though it may be. 

            “The second,” he says, his face cracking into relief and he helps you sit up into a sitting position, the skin in your torso drawing tight and you glance down, your shit ridden up to reveal stitches, your torso destroyed. 

            “Damn,” you whisper, noticing the feeling in both front and back. “Bullet went right through, didn’t it?”

            “Wedged in my Kevlar,” he tells you and you lift one hand to slap him, right across the face, the gesture making him laugh, that husky laugh. 

            “You didn’t think to put any Kevlar in my wedding dress, you jackass?” He climbs onto the bed beside you, drawing you tightly against him, the room around you, his—your—bedroom. 

            “I forgot,” he whispers, pressing his lips against your neck, but not in a kiss, rather his teeth sink into your neck, biting down, hard but not too hard. Enough to leave marks that will last for days, but not enough to draw blood. 

            “You’re lucky I’m tough,” you tell him and he removes his teeth from your skin to press a kiss against your cheek.

            “I’m lucky that you’re tough enough to bend into the shape I wanted and cement that way,” he whispers and you know what he’s talking about and you sigh, snuggling back against him, wincing just slightly at the pull in your stitches. 

            “I want to live,” you tell him and his body relaxes against you, arms tightening in a gentle, tender way. “And I want to live for you because…because you saved me, in a way. And, I mean, you made sure that he will never be a threat again and you make sex something I can…I can want again. You Stockholmed me for sure, but you fixed a bit that I’d left broken too. So…you know.”

            And he does. 

            Because he understands and that’s enough. Because you want to live. 

            Just like he wanted when he took you. 

***

Epilogue

            “Please tell me you learned from your mistake and put Kevlar in his shirt,” you tell Titus as you climb into the bed, drawing the covers up and over your body as you watch him climb in beside you. 

            “I can neither confirm nor deny what may or may not be within our son’s clothing,” he tells you, drawing you close, pulling you against him. 

            “So, that’s a yes. And you did make sure that he’s a good shot, right?” you ask and you can feel him sigh against you, the sigh ruffling your hair as you snuggle into his arms, your face level with his, the only way the two of you can fall asleep, even years later. 

            “Almost better than I am,” he tells you and you sigh, relieved, nodding once, before pressing a kiss to his lips, one that tastes of first desire, no matter how many years it’s been. 

            “Just checking.”

            “Felt like an interrogation,” he mutters and you let out a small chuckle, one eyebrow arching. 

            “If it were an interrogation, you’d know.” And then he’s drawing your closer, your head coming to rest on his chest as he rolls onto his back. 

            “Can you say it?” he asks you. “Just so I can fall asleep tonight?”

            “Yeah,” you whisper, the sound of his heartbeat calming you. “I want to live, Titus. I want to live…for you.”

            Even all these years later, he still needs to hear it. 

            Because he needs to make sure you’re still real, still here.